Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [93]
“Is that really how you see us?” she said at last. “Pretty much the same as the Germans invading Belgium!”
“I think you see it from your own point of view, as we all do,” he replied. “You make rather a holy crusade of it, passionate and self-righteous, as if you were the only ones who loved your land, which is a bit of a bore.” It was the most honest answer he had ever given her. But today was different. It would be the last time he would see her. The arrests would be made today and the sabotage ended. Perhaps she knew it also. Their ability to use each other was drawing to a close. The pretense was so thin it was almost broken.
She paused a step ahead of him, forcing him to stop as well.
“Have you thought that all this time?” she asked. “Is that what has bred your calm, English tolerance? Your idea of being fair!”
“I suppose so,” he agreed. “You think that’s cold, don’t you?”
She looked away and started walking again. “I used to.”
He refused to ask if she had changed, still less why.
“I don’t mind fairness,” she added.
It would be dusk in an hour. The air was still warm and the park was full of people, more soldiers on leave, more girls returning from work, two middle-aged ladies, a handful of children. Whoever had been making the music seemed to have packed up and gone home.
“In fact, I admire fair play,” Detta added, still keeping her face half turned away. “ ‘Play up and play the game,’ ” she went on. “That’s what we love, and hate, in you. You’re impossible to understand.”
They were at the end of the grass and crossed the path, then followed it to the gates. The shadows of the trees were long and the light had a muted tone. The traffic was a mixture of engines and the rattle of horses’ hooves.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. They had said all they had to; they had shared time and laughter and pain. She had wanted to know if the code was safe. He had deceived her that it was unbroken, and therefore British Intelligence could continue to use the information it gave them.
He looked at her. Her face was gold in the sun, a lock of hair straggling over her brow, and there was dust on her shoes. Could there possibly be any way not to let her go without betraying all those who trusted him?
“I’m thirsty,” she answered. She turned to him quickly, then away again. He knew with a tightening of the throat that she did not want to end it any more than he did. They were spinning it out, like a thread of gossamer, bright and fragile.
The traffic stopped and they crossed the road and walked in the close heat of the footpath, bumping into others, weaving their way. They crossed another street and came to a café, where they had tea and hard-boiled-egg sandwiches with cress. They talked about books, and ended up arguing over the virtues of Irish playwrights as opposed to English. She said all the best English ones were Irish anyway.
He asked how she would know, since she only read the Irish ones. She won the argument, then they moved to poets. She lost that argument, but she did it graciously, because the magic of the words enraptured her.
It was almost dark when they went out into the street again. The traffic had lessened a little, and the lamps were lit, but there were still people out walking. The breeze that ruffled the leaves at the edge of the park was warm on the skin.
There was nothing else to cling to, no more to say. Detta started to walk and Matthew lengthened his stride to keep up with her. Each was waiting for the other deliberately to make the break.
Then suddenly she stopped. “Lights!” she said hoarsely. “Look!”
He followed her gaze and saw them, searchlights probing the sky, first a couple, then more, long fingers poking into the vastness of the night.
She drew in her breath in a gasp, her body rigid. There was a silver tube, soundless, floating so high up it looked small, like a fat insect drifting on the wind. He knew it was a dirigible; the Germans called them zeppelins. There was