Shoulder the Sky_ A Novel - Anne Perry [92]
Another half hour passed slowly, then the door opened again and finally Cullingford came out. He was alone. She recognized him instantly, even though she saw only his silhouette against the light. The way he stood, the angle of his shoulders was unlike anyone else.
She thought of speaking to him: She could now, alone. But it would be absurdly undignified, as if she were running after him. The thought made her cringe.
He walked away, unaware that anyone saw him, and the moment was past. When he was around the corner, presumably to his lodging for the night, she went into the Seven Piglets again. It was far less crowded now and immediately she saw Wil sitting next to the new driver, both of them with glasses in their hands.
She hesitated, not knowing whether to interrupt them or not. Then Wil looked up and saw her. His face lit with pleasure and he waved enthusiastically. The driver turned to see who had drawn his attention.
Judith walked over.
“Of course she’ll help you,” Wil said encouragingly. “Judith, this is Corporal Stallabrass. He’s an excellent driver. He knows everything there is to know about engines, but he doesn’t know a damn thing about Flanders, at least not so far. Sit down.” He pulled a chair out for her.
“I really don’t expect . . .” Stallabrass began.
“We all help each other out here, Corporal,” Judith told him, seeing from the corner of her eye, out of Stallabrass’s sight, that Wil was topping up his glass with Pernod and very little water. It was lethal stuff. She had no idea what Wil was leading to, but she did her best to follow. “Share and share alike,” she added.
“I could tell you stories. . . .” Wil embarked on a long and rambling account of a journey to Armentières. It was entirely fictitious, and incorporated just about everything that could go wrong with a vehicle, and several that couldn’t.
“But . . .” Stallabrass started to argue several times, trying to assert his deeply studied knowledge. His face was earnest, and it apparently did not occur to him that Wil was deliberately embroidering the tale.
Judith got up quietly and went to the bar counter. She bought the rest of the bottle of Pernod and, with a jug of water, went back to the table. She would make her own mostly water, and surreptitiously refill Stallabrass’s glass every time he was not looking.
Wil’s account was growing wilder, and funnier every moment, and they were joined by a couple of other soldiers who were definitely a trifle happy for having imbibed generously most of the evening.
“I don’t believe that!” Stallabrass said haltingly when Wil finished a particularly lurid tale of greasing an ambulance hubcap with ripe Brie cheese and ending up stuck in a field surrounded by a herd of cows.
One of the other soldiers, named Dick, tried to keep a straight face, but the tears were running down his cheeks.
“I like cows,” his friend said sentimentally. “Beautiful eyes, cows have. Don’t you think so, Corporal Stallabrass? Ever noticed the eyelashes they ’ave?”
But Stallabrass was staring into the distance, his mind locked in some dream of his own. “Beautiful,” he repeated.
Wil glanced at Judith, then back at Stallabrass. “Is she?” he said with interest.
“Not everybody sees it,” Stallabrass shook his head very slowly, as if he were nervous it might wobble and slide off. “They only see her as an ordinary woman, stamps and letters and money, and things.” He sniffed and gave a genteel hiccup.
“Stamps and letters,” Wil said, obviously no idea what he was talking about. “But she’s not?”
“No,” Stallabrass said with deep emotion. “She has ideas, dreams . . . she has passion!” He sighed. “She has the most beautiful . . .” He stopped, his hands clasping his Pernod glass, expression wistful.
Everyone waited with breath held for what he was going to say.
Judith was faintly embarrassed, in case it turned out to be too intimate.
Wil grinned. “Eyes?” he suggested to Stallabrass. “What about the letters? Does she write to you often?”
Stallabrass looked startled. “Oh no! Letters are part of her profession!