Lovely War(18)

“Impressive, my Man About Town,” said Hazel.

“None of that, now.” Dimples again.

They reached the station, bought tickets, boarded the train, then collapsed into seats. The train pulled out, and London slid by. James watched the skyline. It was the more gentlemanly option than staring at Hazel.

“You notice every grand building, don’t you?”

“Do I?”

“What sorts of buildings do you favor?”

No one had asked him that before. He looked to see if she was merely struggling to make polite conversation, but she watched his face with open curiosity. She really wanted to know.

“Of course I like the grand old buildings. The guildhalls and churches and government palaces.” He turned toward her. “But what really interests me is less, oh, showy, and more useful. Take hospitals. Ever since the war, we haven’t had near enough. They could be bigger, too, and more modern. Better plumbing and wiring. I’ve been reading about it.”

“Will we need such hospitals after the war ends?” asked Hazel.

“You mean, if it ever does.” He immediately regretted it.

She laid her hand on his arm. “Don’t say that. It must.”

He risked a look into her eyes. “I was a kid when it began,” he said. “I have to remind myself life was normal once. Cousins gathering over Easter holidays. Summer visits to my gran on the coast. Playing at the beach. Making castles in the sand.”

Hazel, with neither siblings nor young cousins, saw this rosy picture wistfully.

“One older cousin died in the fighting at the Somme,” he said. “The other lost a leg.”

Hazel leaned against his shoulder. “What were they like?”

He stared out the window. “Footballers.” He smiled sadly. “Will was light on his feet. Mike was quick. You should’ve seen them.”

“The war must end before long,” said Hazel. “They can’t be insane enough to let it last forever. Besides, the Americans are coming. I expect the Germans are terrified of them.”

He laughed ruefully. “I suppose a German’s at least as tough as an American. But the Americans will have the numbers on their side, once enough of them get here.” He sighed. “I wish a couple million would arrive this week. If the war ended Saturday, I wouldn’t have to go.”

Hazel threaded her arm through his elbow.

“Let’s hope they will come,” she said. “Millions on Monday. Millions on Tuesday. Extra millions on Wednesday.”

He smiled, but his eyes were sad. “I’m a coward, aren’t I?” he said. “Now you know.”

She reached up and pulled his chin to face her. “Not a coward,” she said firmly. “You’d like to live, and who wouldn’t?” She smiled. “I’d like you to live, too.”

Her face was so near, and her eyes so warm. It took all of James’s self-command not to kiss her, there on the train. Not like this, he told himself. Not here.

“All right, then.” He managed a smile. “For your sake, I will live. Since you want me to.”

Why wouldn’t he kiss her? Hazel tried not to mind. Her gaze kept sliding down to his inescapable lips.

“I do want you to live,” she said. “Hurry on back, and build those hospitals.”

“Not only hospitals,” he said. “Factories. Warehouses. Apartments. With the train lines expanding, there’ll be a need for more homes, schools, more communities along the routes. The building magazines all say so. If, after the war, I could study architecture . . .” He caught himself. Surely he was putting the piano girl into a coma of boredom. “Sorry. Listen to me nattering on!”

“I am listening,” she said. “I think it’s marvelous. You should have an ambition.” She frowned. “I wish I had a clearer one myself.” She gazed out the window at drab buildings abutting the tracks. “In Poplar there are awful slums, down near the docks. St. Matthias’s runs charities for dockworkers’ families. But I suppose selling jam at bazaars and old books at jumble sales won’t fix anything, will it?”

“Not unless you’ve got an awful lot of books and jam.”

They only just barely caught the conductor’s announcement that they’d reached Gloucester Road. After changing for the Piccadilly Line, they got off at Kensington High Street and followed the press of bodies into the slanting afternoon light. Grayish, wintry-green Hyde Park led them to the Royal Albert Hall, which loomed like an ocean voyager. They joined streaming throngs of concertgoers at the entry doors, then climbed flight after flight of stairs, to the level just below the gallery at the very top.

Hazel marveled at the drop beneath them, past two tiers of balconies, to the stage below.

“I’m sorry these were the best seats I could get,” James said.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “This is breathtaking.” She peeped over the rail. She swallowed. “How high up are we?”

“Best not to think of it.”

James helped Hazel out of her coat, then eased out of his and sat. Spectators up at this level were fewer and scattered, so they were, for all intents, alone. With four thousand other people. He felt all arms and hands, with no place to put them, and a terrible dread that he might wrap them around Hazel and not let go. He jammed his hands under his thighs.