Shoulder the Sky_ A Novel - Anne Perry [87]
She arrived in the early afternoon. It was a quiet time when most of the drivers were doing small maintenance and repair jobs on their vehicles. She found Wil Sloan standing over the engine of the ambulance she used to share with him, looking ruefully at the filthy commutator. His face lit when he saw her and he put the oilcan down and threw his arms around her.
“Hey, sugar! Where’ve you been?” He pushed her away from him, holding her by the shoulders and looking earnestly into her face.
“All around,” she answered. “Then home to London for a couple of days.”
“What’s wrong?” They had shared too many experiences, good and bad, for him to be blind to her feelings. They had laughed together, told awful jokes, split the last piece of chocolate, read each other’s letters from home.
“I went to see Mrs. Prentice, the mother of the war correspondent who was killed,” she replied. “I had dinner with my brother, then I went home to St. Giles for a couple of nights. That’s about all. I guess what really matters is, I had three hot baths. Let’s get our priorities right!”
“And dinner in a restaurant where you couldn’t hear guns?” he added. “What did you have?”
“I know I had ice cream for pudding!”
“Torturer!”
She smiled. In spite of driving Cullingford, she had missed Wil. “Yes,” she agreed with a smile.
“So what’s wrong?” he persisted.
“Are you going to clean that?” She indicated the commutator with a jerk of her head. “You won’t get far with it as it is!”
He understood and handed her the oilcan, then bent his attention to cleaning the grit out of the commutator. They worked together for several minutes, put it back, then lubed the spindle bolts on the tie rods and oiled the steering post bracket. Finally the whole job was accomplished, polished and clean, and they were correspondingly filthy.
“So what are you doing back here?” he said at last, looking at her so directly she could not avoid his eyes.
“Driving ambulances, I expect,” she answered, wiping her hands ineffectively on one of the discarded rags.
“Is that what’s wrong?” he persisted.
“I suppose so. He’s got a new driver, practically straight out of school, from what I hear. But I was only ever a short-term replacement anyway.”
He looked at her, an oil smudge on his cheek. “You’re sure burned about it. Why? That your pride speaking?”
She looked away. “No . . .” Then she did not know how to finish. She was afraid Wil knew her well enough to guess without words, but it was still something she would prefer not to make so honest between them. There were some things you did not discuss, even with your best friends.
With innate tact he assumed the truth, and evaded it. “You like the job, don’t you. You’re probably better at it than this guy anyway. What does he know?”
“Everything about cars, apparently,” she replied.
A wide grin split his face. “That all? Well, we can fix his wagon any time! This is Ypres, not Piccadilly Circus.”
“You’ve never been to Piccadilly Circus!” she pointed out. She was familiar with his adventures all the way from his hometown in Missouri where his explosive temper had lashed out one too many times, albeit in defense of someone smaller and weaker. But the ensuing fight had left two other young men hurt, one of them quite seriously. Wil had been advised he would be very foolish to remain around to face the unpleasantness that would undoubtedly follow. He should give people at least a year or two to forget.
The uncle who had given him the advice had also given him his sea fare to France, but Wil had had to make his own way to New England, and then New York itself. He had ridden the railways, worked where he could, and seen more of his own country than most of his fellows. But to serve in the war had been his goal, and although it had taken him nearly three months he had finally made it to Calais, and then north to Ypres.
Judith had listened with fascination to his stories of a vast land, of wonderfully varied people full of compassion and ingenuity. She had cried over their