Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [96]
A piece of burning debris landed fifty yards away.
People were passing them in the street, cars and wagons, everyone trying to get out of the way, but there was no time. What was left of the balloon with its gondola crashed on a row of houses and shops and another wave of fire billowed up.
Matthew started forward. He had no idea what on earth he could do, but it was instinctive to try. It was Detta who held him back.
“No,” she shouted, her voice harsh. “There’s nothing. No one will get out of that. Come. They need trained people now. We’ve done what we can. We’ll only be in the way.”
It was true, but it seemed a kind of defeat. He was exhausted. His whole body ached. He realized only now that he was also cut and burned. But infinitely more painful was the knowledge that they had said all there was to say, all the lies about England and Ireland, the half-truths about America, the evasions about Germany. Tonight they had seen a moment from the reality of war in the broken houses and shattered lives, the grief and the blood. And in attempting to help, they had seen the best in each other—but with nothing to add to it. This was a clean place to break.
They each thought they had been true to their cause, and deceived the other. Time would show who was right, and who was wrong would pay. It hurt almost beyond bearing that if he could, he had to make it her.
They walked slowly. The first available cab that passed would mean the time to say goodbye. She would not want him to know where she went home to. For minutes he did not look at the stream of traffic passing. The glare of fire made everything red. There were sirens behind them and the sound of other explosions—probably roofs caving in; slate, timbers, and glass bursting in the heat; gas mains exploding.
Was it going to go on like this, war from the air? No one safe anywhere?
He looked at the street and saw a cab moving slowly. It was time to put an end to the waiting. He put up his arm and the cab drew in to the curb.
“Where to, guv?” the driver asked. “You ’urt, sir? Yer din’t get caught in that bombing, did yer? ’Orspital?”
“No, we’re not hurt. Just tried to help a bit,” he replied. “Please take the lady wherever she wants to go.” He handed the driver half a crown, and opened the door for her.
She stood for a moment, the gleam from the fires red on the sides of her face, her dark eyes wide. There was no laughter in her at all, none of the old daring and imagination, only sadness. She looked very young.
“You’re wrong, Matthew,” she said quietly, a catch in her voice. “I don’t always like fighting. Sometimes it’s a rotten way to do things. Don’t change—that’s a battle I wouldn’t like to win.” She reached up and kissed him quickly on the mouth, then got into the cab and closed the door.
It pulled away from the curb, and he watched it until he could no longer distinguish it from the others in the darkness, then he started to walk. He walked all the way back to his flat. It took him an hour and a half, but it seemed like all night.
Joseph was getting considerably stronger. It still hurt him to walk, but far less now and he wore only a light sling on his arm. The bone was knitting well, and as long as he did not jar it he could ignore the occasional twinge.
He had been to see Gwen Neave. He was returning now across the fields, his footsteps soundless on the grass. He had meant to find out how she was, to offer any help, however slight, in the practical duties she would have to perform, although he thought she was probably extremely capable. And so it had proved. It was company she needed, and someone with whom she could speak in confidence about mounting tension in the village. Suspicion was cutting like acid into old friendships, leaving scars it might take years to heal. The Nunns and the Tevershams were whispering about each other. Someone had seen Mrs. Bateman with a foreign letter. One of Doughy Ward’s sisters had been accused of loose talk, or worse. There were fights at school. Children had broken old Billy Hoxton’s windows.