Page 56 of These Old Lies

Why was he even denying it? Of course he was going to that damned unveiling.

Charlie pulled himself up and went to the sideboard, where Betty kept a pencil and some paper. Sitting at their dining table, he started to write. “Dear Andrew…”

He was going to fucking regret this.

Charlie put down the pencil and returned to the same sideboard. He yanked out the cork on his gin, poured himself a small glass, and took a long sip. Once the burn had hit his stomach, he returned to the paper.

“I’m going to take you up on this offer to go to France, after all…”

20 Blitz Spirit

London, May 1941 / Ned

Ned stared at the familiar door, still painted black, and raised his left hand just above the plain brass knocker.

With more of a steadying breath than he should require, Ned put his hand to the knocker.

Almost immediately the door swung open. “As I live and breathe, Ned Pinsent?! What a sight for sore eyes.” Ned barely had time to register Betty before she pulled him into a tight hug. She was softer than the last time he had seen her, but there was no doubt that motherhood and marriage suited her.

Ned awkwardly returned Betty’s embrace. “My apologies for running a bit late, my dear, but duty called. I hope this will make up for it.” He extracted a box of chocolates from his coat.

“Unnecessary, but we won’t say no.” There was movement in the hall and Betty called out, “Ellie dear, come meet your father’s friend.”

The gangly twelve-year-old waved shyly to him; her features were Betty’s, but her chestnut hair and the smattering of freckles on her pale skin were all Charlie. Apparently the Villierses had had enough of being separated from their daughter. Ned personally thought it was perhaps a touch too optimistic to assume the recent pause in bombings meant it was safe to bring children back to London, but what did he know? He’d grown up in boarding schools.

Ned managed not to trip over mechanical bits and pieces as they madetheir way through the shopfront. Ellie led him into what had been the large workroom. Gone were the long tables, stools, and bins overflowing with fabrics. They were replaced with a dining table and chairs, a chesterfield, and a kitchen in the corner. A solid and practical space, but there were winks of whimsy—bright cushions, a set of birds painted on the wall by the stairs—which Ned couldn’t help but suspect were Charlie’s additions to the room.

Charlie and his son were busy laying the cutlery around the table. The two were almost carbon copies of one another, same stocky silhouettes, same curly brown hair.

A broad grin spread across Charlie’s face at Ned’s appearance, and he pulled him into a hug. “Finally here at last!”

The warmth from Charlie sunk into all of Ned’s nooks and crannies that never seemed to get warm.

God, when had he started to find hugs overwhelming?

But Charlie had already stepped back and gestured for his son. “Frank, you remember me speaking of Ned Pinsent. Best man I served with in the trenches.”

Frank shook his hand with the awkwardness only an adolescent can truly manage.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Betty asked, her smile warm and welcoming. “Dinner will be ready soon enough.”

Betty, the children, even this goddamn room, it was all so wonderfully domestic and respectable. Exactly what Charlie deserved. What Ned could never have given him.

Ned tried to relax into the chesterfield. “I feel like a horrible imposition to come for dinner in the current circumstances.”

“My wife views rationing as a challenge to be overcome.” Charlie reached into a sideboard. “No burgundy to offer, but how about some gin?”

Had Charlie just made a reference to their past, and the intimacies exchanged over good wine? Or was Ned reading into things? Ned’s mind was flying to pieces, and Charlie was politely smiling at him, gin bottle in hand.

“A gin would be lovely,” he croaked out.

Ellie plunked herself down on the other end of the chesterfield, eyes wide as if he was a foreign creature. “Dad says you know the Prime Minister.”

Ned considered bragging about one’s position unconscionably uncouth, but faced with the piercing eyes of bright adolescence, he took his victories where he found them. “I saw him today, in fact.”

“What’s Mr Churchill like?” For an instant, Ned thought Charlie had spoken rather than Frank. The boy’s voice had settled into the same rough, deep timbre as his father’s.

“Don’t ask Ned for gossip,” Charlie sharply cut across from where he was pouring drinks.