Lights Over London

“Madam, you should come below.”

Elizabeth took a long drag on the cigarette tucked neatly in the ornate silver holder. She ashed it in the ivory tray sitting beside an untouched glass of brandy. “You know Dickie, I still remember the fireworks at old Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. Sat right in this spot. I was sixteen, fresh from New York. Archie and his father lined the streets that day, and god knows what they did once the fireworks started,” She watched the horizon alight with activity while the tendrils of discarded cigarette ash swirled into the night through the open sitting room window. It was odd to see her London street all alive yet silently empty at the same time.

Dickie stood in the entryway, silent as the street below, offering no further urging. They both knew it was futile. They both knew it was his duty anyway. They made for a stubborn pair. Her mother in law had been the same way, Dickie remembered.

“I had a cousin on the Titanic. One of Archie’s cousins, obviously. I find it ironic. She gave everything to get to the place I gave everything to leave, only to die in a steel tube in the middle of the ocean. Then the war came, I hate to think about Archie… He didn’t need to go. He…” Her voice trailed off as the sky lit up somewhere over near Westminster.

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Dickie knew if he went into Archie’s old study, the Admiralty cable would be right there on his desk beside his diary, a single stain at the beginning of the line presumed lost with all hands. Two months later, the guns across France silenced. Two short months. Elizabeth never let Dickie clean that study. She never went in there herself.

Elizabeth continued, “it’s funny in a way. Not that I bear any ill will toward New York, but I did everything I could to leave there. But she…Cousin Evelyn—yes, that was her name—she was so, so excited. I remember Archie telling me before we left for her party that I could not say a bad word about New York, not a single ill word,” She took a drag from the cigarette and watched another rush of fireworks over the horizon. ”I wonder if one bad word that night and she’d at least be here with me.”

She paused and looked out over the London skyline. ”I’m sorry, Dickie. I won’t go down there. I won’t go…”

”It’s alright, Madame. Just doing my job,” he turned to leave.

“And Dickie… Thank you. Thank you for everything. You’ve been a good friend to a lonely old woman.”

”As I said, just doing my job, Ma’am. Get some sleep.”

”I will,” Elizabeth said and finished her brandy. As she set the empty glass on the table, the rolling air raid klaxon reached its crescendo.

***

The soot from the Underground covered his hands, not even the ash erasing the smell of tunnel grime. Down below, the bombs above seemed little more than rumours. His hands shook and he wiped them on his trousers in a vain attempt to steady them.

To the left stood Number Five, not a single chip in its brick. To the right, Number Seven stood a little worse for wear with its windows busted out, but still proud and defiant.

Pulling himself together, Dickie stooped down in front of the pile of rubble that was Number Six, and pulled out of all things a leather bound diary, somehow intact while the world around it burned. He almost laughed, the force of the blast had almost blown all the dust off Archie’s diary. Almost. He stood there in front of the pile all alone until the sun began to set, and the night’s sirens roared to life once more. Diary tucked against his heart, Dickie disappeared back into the tunnels once more.

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A/N:

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