#assortedseaglass

The crying had stopped.

Bess checked the watch attached to her apron. Ten thirty. By midnight she’d be back at the flat, listening to the wireless in bed with Tom. For now, she listened.

The ward was quiet. Long after the groans of pain and bawdy jokes died, it was always the quiet sobs of war-shattered men that remained. Now, the green-tiled halls of the infirmary were silent but for the clack of heels in a distant corridor and the soft snores of the patients around her.

She was stationed at the bedside of a soldier from St Helen’s. He was 22, the same age as Albie, were he alive. That might have been the reason she was sat beside him at the late hour. Bess could have been folding linens for the next rotation, or having a cup of hot cocoa and a cigarette with Helen and Joan while gossiping about the matron or the boarding mistress. But no, she was sat in the silent ward, the coppery smell of blood and stringent antiseptic filling her nostrils as she fixed the edge of the poor soldier’s handkerchief.  

She’d washed the bloodstains out as best she could, and darned the hole that the bullet went through, but it was a tatty old thing. Still, the moment the soldier heard she could sew, he insisted that Bess fix it.

In the low light of the paraffin lamp, Bess tied off her thread and admired her handiwork. Good as new. Sort of. She ran her hands of the darning and along the hem, checking her needlework, then traced the red initials embroidered in one corner. F.E.

“Florence,” his soft voice didn’t make Bess jump. With the city being bombed all around them it would take more to make any Mancunian jump these days.  

Bess looked up from the cotton to the man’s face. He was gazing at the letters she traced. “She your sweetheart?” She placed the handkerchief in his lap, and he too ran a finger over the initials.

“Yeah,” he said bashfully. “Went to school together. Only got the courage to ask her when I got my papers.” Bess thought of her and Tom, the boyish looks he used to give her in the school corridor when he thought no-one was watching. “What about you, miss? Got a sweetheart?”

Bess smiled wryly. “I do, though I wouldn’t call him a sweetheart. More of a heartbreaker.”

“Jack the lad, is he?”

“Ay,” Bess inadvertently touched her apron pocket. The pocket wherein a photograph of Tom lay. “But he’s a good man, deep down.”

The solider smiled and the two sat in silence for a while. When Bess checked her watch and saw her shift was ending, she stood and beckoned the soldier lean forward so that she may lay down his pillows.

“Get some rest, now. Sleep’s the best healer.”

“If I get home,” the soldier spoke as though he hadn’t heard her. “I’m gonna ask her to marry me. I’ll not be sent back like this.” He gestured to the sling that wrapped about the remainder of his arm.

“When you get home.” Bess corrected him. He smiled and settled in his cot as Bess turned down the lamp and wished him goodnight.

Were it the old days, before the war, the clock on the infirmary tower would have chimed eleven. Now, the outside world was muffled by the dark blackouts. It could have been dawn, for all she knew.  

Bess walked the lonely corridors, only occasionally passing a fellow nurse or doctor; taking odd hours at the factory meant that very few others worked the same hours at the hospital as she and, knowing that she wouldn’t likely see them for the next few days, Bess made her way towards the nurse’s lounge, and Helen and Joan.

Joan, constantly at loggerheads with Sister Stern, asked for a rotation on the convalescence ward two weeks ago. Now she spent her time welcoming soldiers to the hospital and treating them as soon as they came through the infirmary doors. With her dark hair always neatly set and lips rouged, the soldiers loved her. She looked like one of the girls from their cigarette cards. Helen, on the other hand, was now working on what remained of the labour ward. The oldest of nine siblings, Sister Stern saw her expertise fit best with the soon-to-be mothers. The ward had decreased drastically since the war began, its east wing turned into a ward for the returning wounded, but they still had their fare share of pregnancies. It seemed to come in bouts. Bess, Helen and Joan liked to guess which boat the lady’s husbands belonged to. Tracing back nine months, the three nurses could pinpoint the exact ship that had fathered the entire labour unit.

When Bess found Helen, she was sat by the cot of a small babe, knitting some blue socks.

“He was a little early, poor dear,” Helen said, looking at the small baby. “Told his mam I’d make him some woollens. So tiny, it’ll only take me the best part of an hour to make a whole set.” She held up the little mittens she’d already completed and Bess smiled.

“I’m off,” she whispered. “Got time to see Joan?”

“Always,” Helen placed her knitting in her apron pocket and indicated to another nurse that she was leaving. Looping her arm through Bess’ and leading her from the ward, she whispered slyly in her ear; “Joan’s got a Yank in her wing. Gorgeous, he is. Wouldn’t mind a quick peak, you know, for morale.”

The convalescence wing was quiet when they arrived, just like the rest of the hospital. A doctor was moving between the beds, checking the notes of each patient and speaking to a matron and nurse. It was when he moved out of the way that Bess saw it was Joan and Sister Stern. When Helen caught Joan’s eye, she rolled them and excused herself from the others.

“Moved wards to get away from the old bat, and she’s been put on the same rotation.” All three girls looked at the matron. She was looking at the young doctor with disdain, her hooked nose raised as if avoiding a bad smell.

“Bess is off and I’m almost finished,” Helen said. “Where’s the Yank?”

Joan tutted. “Robert,” she corrected. “He’s by the window-” Helen rushed over before Joan could finish. Bess giggled as Joan rolled her eyes once more, and the pair followed quietly behind their friend. She was gazing down at the sleeping man, fiddling with the knitted socks in her pocket.

“See? Isn’t he beautiful?” Helen whispered to Bess. She looked down at him, and supposed beautiful was the right word. A curl of brown hair fell across his brow, his thick eyelashes fluttering slightly in his sleep. His mouth moved too, dark pink lips pouting as he set his broad jaw.

“He’s been having a nightmares,” Joan whispered. “They all have.” The three girls were silent a while, watching the man sadly. “Now come way, stop being a creep.”

“I wonder if he has a sweetheart?” Helen said hopefully.

“A man like that is sure to have hundreds,” Joan nudged her light-heartedly. Helen took the socks from her pocket and gazed at them.

“And if he doesn’t,” Bess teased. “You can knit some baby clothes of your ow-”

She stopped with a gasp.

Pain, unlike any she had known, ripped through her stomach like lightning. Doubled over, Bess cried out, hurriedly stifling the sound with her mouth. The American stirred in his bed as she sank to her knees, gripping the metal bedframe. Joan was beside her in an instant.

“Bess?”

“What is it, Bess?”

She couldn’t speak. Someone had taken a hot poker and twisted it through her. Over and over, the searing pain exploded. White lights burst in front of Bess’ eyes and she screwed them shut.

“What on earth is going on here?” Sister Stern hissed, storming across the ward to where Helen and Joan were crouched on the ground. She looked down at Bess struggling on the floor, her hands clutching digging into her stomach. Bess was a good girl, quiet and stoic. If something reduced her to writhing like a wounded beast, it was serious.

“Girls, fetch a bed.” Stern ordered, and Joan and Helen hurried away. “Doctor,” the young man approached. “She needs to be seen at once.”  

Bess curled onto her side, knees pulled up to her chest and reached out for Sister Stern. “I can’t see,” she whispered weakly, staring ahead, wide-eyed. The pain was blinding, creeping up her back and turning her spine rigid. Sister Stern watched with horror as the uniform by Bess’ bottom turned dark. Scooping her into her arms, the matron attempted to right Bess, but it was as if a film had jammed in the reel. She wouldn’t move. “I can’t,” Bess said again.

“Yes you can,” Sister Stern said firmly. It was at this moment that Joan and Helen burst through the doors with an empty trolley. Soldiers were beginning to wake at the commotion, nurses bustling about trying to settle them back into bed. With great effort, Joan, Helen, Sister Stern and the doctor dragged Bess onto the trolley and raced from the ward.

Everything stilled. The soldiers went back to sleep. Beyond the ward doors, the squeak of the trolley and Bess’ faint groans faded in the corridor. The nurses retreated. One made her way towards the American soldier’s bed with a mop and began clearing the small puddle of blood that remained on the green-tiled floor.

It was the kind of morning Tom loved as a child. The kind of day when his parents would send him out the front door with a spam sandwich wrapped in brown paper, an apple in his pocket and the promise that he would be back by teatime. A light wind futtered through the yew tree and somewhere, Tom could hear the scrape, scrape, scrape of Father Michael’s rake. It couldn’t be more starkly different to the day before.

He'd left Bess in bed the previous morning and gone to the victualling office to collect his papers smelling of tobacco and sex. After their argument about Queenie, his display at the dance and everything in between, Tom had been determined to put into practice Lois’ advice: “actions, not words.”

His lack of sleep that night had not been due to nightmares, or the threat of torpedoes. It was the sound of Bess’ rapturous moans and mewling that had kept him awake. Once he’d dragged himself down the length of her body and seen the slick of anticipation between her plush legs, not even Hitler himself could have torn him away.

Stubborn, arrogant and never one to do anything by halves, Tom didn’t stop until Bess was a quivering mess beneath him. He’d lapped at her sex, feasting on her swollen lips until she shook. Worked his fingers within her deftly and attentively until she pushed him away. He’d taken her on the bed, watching from below as he forced her hips down onto him with violent abandon. Tom even took her in the kitchen, legs braced against the counter as he brought hers about his shoulders. When at last he released her, watching the way he spilled out of her as she slumped against the bedroom floor, he’d lit a cigarette, picked her up by the waist in a one-armed lift and deposited her on the bed. He could see the lust light in her eyes once more as she looked at him stood before her; naked, cock still stood proud, cigarette dangling roguishly from his lips.

“You want more, my girl?” he flashed her a wicked smile and watched as she swooned.

“Yes,” Bess laughed breathily. “But I think I’ll break.”

Tom all but skipped towards the port master when he arrived at the dockyard. If there was a ship ready for him to board, and his luck finally ran out, it would be with images of Bess fucking him that saw him into whatever world awaited beyond the war.

A day later, having not seen Bess since he left her in bed, Tom was hunched in front of his mother’s grave, placing the remaining belongings of his father to rest. Something stirred behind him. The turning of wheels on the gravel and sad sniffle gave away who it was. Lois. Vera in the pram.

Tom sighed. In his hands, he held a picture frame. Through the shattered glass, his father looked back up at him. His eyes, so like his own. His quiet sadness, so like Lois’. Tenderly, Tom wrapped the photograph with his father’s glasses, pocket watch and wedding ring within a handkerchief. The sight of the wedding ring made a lump form in his throat and he swallowed thickly.

“Next leave I get,” he began, knowing Lois was listening behind him. “We’ll get a stonemason to put dad’s name under mum’s.” He waited for his sister to speak, but she said nothing. “‘Marie Bennett and Douglas Bennet’. Second billing.”

“‘S’what he would have wanted,” Lois said at last and he smiled sadly.

Tom placed his last offering, a bottle of sherry, next to the grave alongside the flowers left for their mother and the bundle of broken belongings. “They you are dad. Happy now? Pacifist proves his point by getting killed by Hitler. Beauty.” He kissed his teeth sarcastically and stood, wiping dirt from the knees of his uniform. Lois watched him but still she barely moved. The bandage from her adventures with ambulances was still wrapped about her head, and still, Tom tried not to laugh at it.

“I’ve got to go,” Lois said, looking at neither him nor her daughter.

“Me too. Got a date with a battleship,” Tom shouldered his kit bag wearily. “Bess is meeting me at the dock-”

“I mean I’ve got to get away. From here,” Lois shuffled on her feet agitatedly and Tom looked down at her.

“You- you can’t do that, Lois.” Panic was creeping up his spine. Like Bess when he arrived home, and Douglas when he left, Lois’s prematurely aged face wore a look of despondence. “You’re all I’ve got. We’re all we’ve got now-” Tom’s voice trembled and at once his fierce older sister returned.

“That’s not true,” she continued quickly before he could interrupt. “You’ve got Bess, the rest of the Vaughns. Vera, Jan-”

“You know what I mean, Lois.” Tom said hotly. You’re the only family I’ve got. What if I come back and you’re gone too. Who will I be without you?

“I wanted to die in that house.” The bluntness with which she said these words stopped Tom dead. He stared at her and sensing his fear, Lois carried on. “When it started coming down, I didn’t run. I waited. I just wanted it to kill me.”

As his sister spoke, Tom looked back at his parents’ graves. What if he came back needing to bury Lois too? He’d have to carve the names into the stone himself.

“I need to get out of Longsight, Tom. Just like you.” And with that, she flung her arms around his shoulders, whispered that she would write to Bess in the case she needed to relay any messages, and marched the pram from the graveyard.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Mrs Chase,” Bess hurried through the large door of the country house, shedding her raincoat and umbrella.

Robina eyed her appraisingly. “Not on your bike today, Ms Vaughn?” She watched as Bess tidied her frizzy hair and, deciding Bess’ appearance would do, trotted towards the drawing room.

Bess hurried after her, tailoring kit tucked under one arm. “Not today.” She pulled self-consciously at her wide slacks and followed Mrs Chase into the cosy room. In truth, she was still store from the previous night and could have done with the day off but, having skipped her morning shift at the factory and needing the money, Bess had raced to Mrs Chase’s house with Kasia’s freshly made trousers and an old coat of Albie’s for Jan.

The overhead lights of the hospital blurred into one. Someone was talking frantically, issuing orders to somebody she couldn’t see. A faint squeak echoed off the tiled walls. In between fevered consciousness, Bess recognised the sound as the wheels of the hospital trolleys.

Without knowing she had done so, Bess found herself already kneeling on the carpeted floor, eye level with Kasia’s feet as she took her place on the platform. Somewhere between arriving and setting up, she must have given Kasia the slacks she promised to make her, for here she was looking down expectantly, waiting for Bess to check them.

Bess coughed awkwardly. “Sorry, Kasia,” Her voice trailed away, and she set about measuring the trouser legs and assessing their fit.

Mrs Chase’s shouting to Jan somewhere in the house did just enough to keep memories of last night at bay, but when Kasia’s hand stroked Bess’ hair and she whispered “Your mind is somewhere else,” Bess was transported to a sterile room, the smell of bleach and turpentine stinging her nose.

Helen’s beautiful face looked down on her and stroked her forehead. Her blonde hair was illuminated by the ceiling lights, and for a moment Bess thought she had died and was being greeted by an angel.   

A cold hand grasping her shin told her this was real. It moved to spread her legs and the cold pinch of metal shot through the soles of her feet. Looking down, Bess saw the worried face of Joan putting her feet into stirrups.   

“Long shift,” Bess replied, not looking up. Instead, she focused on the movement of her tape measure along Kasia’s thigh. “How do they feel?”

From behind them, Mrs Chase clucked like a fussing hen, but the girls ignored her. “Good,” Kasia said, admiring herself in the mirror. “Comfortable.”

Mrs Chase huffed again. “Trousers,” she muttered with indignation as she left the drawing room, the heels of her Mary Janes carrying through the house as she went to find Jan.

Bess knew it was Sister Stern before she spoke; her hard gait gave her away as she walked across the tiles.

“Miss Bates, has Miss Vaughn been ill at all today?” From the little Bess could make out over the throbbing pain in her abdomen, the matron was making her away around the room gathering equipment.

“No, sister,” Helen’s voice shook a little, and again Bess tried to glance down. Helen caressed her face once more and turned Bess’ face back to her own.

“Helen?”

“It’s ok.” She stroked Bess’ hair soothingly. “Looks worse than it is-” Bess felt the room spin. If it weren’t for Helen remaining in one place, she’d have thought someone had knocked into the trolley she was on. “-Stern and Joan are tidying you up, then all you’ll need is a bit of rest.”

“‘Miss’?”

The voice was male. The doctor who had been doing rounds with Joan. Only he wasn’t addressing her, but one of the others.

“That’s right,” Joan’s voice was defiant when she replied, and Bess felt her gently stroke her calf as a soothing warmth spread across her thigh. A warm towel, in held in Joan’s other hand, was attending to whatever Helen had said needed ‘tidying up’.

“I take it, then, she isn’t married?” The doctor, again.

Silence.

Turning her head to one side, Bess caught the doctor and Sister Stern exchanging a glance. While the man’s face was turned away from her, Sister Stern’s was visible over his shoulder. Almost imperceptibly, the matron glared at the doctor, who sighed deeply and straddled a small stool at the foot of the trolley.

“Now then, Miss Vaughn,” he said, adopting a sombre bedside manner. “I’m just going to have a look at you now the bleeding has subsided.” Bess tried to sit up, a flush of terror rising to the top of her cheeks, but Helen held her shoulders. “Tell me, when was your last monthly?”

“What’s the matter, really?” Kasia whispered.

Bess looked up at her lovely face, blonde hair glowing in the afternoon light. An angel, just like Helen had been. Kasia had already been through so much, little did she need a burden of Bess’.

“Nothing, really,” Bess smiled as she copied Kasia. “I’m just tired.”

Kasia hopped off the tailor’s podium, watching astutely as Bess tidied away. She hummed in a devil-may-care sort of way. “So, this is to be our first secret.” It was a statement, not a question, and Bess felt a pang of guilt. Exhaustion flooded through her and, as if working in cahoots with gravity, caused her to slump forward where she stood.

“I will tell you, Kasia. I promise.” She sighed. “Just not now.”

There was silence a few moments, but for the tick of the grandfather clock, and Mrs Chase and Jan somewhere in the house. Then, Kasia took a few steps forward and wrapped her arms around Bess’ shoulders. “Ok,” was all she said.

She could feel Kasia’s heart beating against her back and she closed her eyes. A swell of emotion rose up in her and she swayed a little. When was the last time someone offered her this much of themselves, without expecting anything in return? As the war continued, Cora and Dot had begun their work for the war effort. On the occasion Bess saw them now, they were too busy, too tired and too terrified to focus all their love on their sister. Albie was gone, and while Fergal remained, his mind was far away with his son, or else imagining evenings in the pub with Douglas, Marie and Etta.

Then there was Tom. Each time he returned from the war, Bess could see that another piece of him had chipped away, left behind somewhere on the battlelines. And each time he returned from war, his Mancunian home shrank. First his best friend, then his father and his childhood home. As war changed him from a reckless boy to a tenacious young man, he grew beyond the small world they shared together. And with the events of last night, it was only a matter of time before he left Bess behind too.

“You have, I suspect, what we call a sepate uterus-”

It was just the doctor now. Joan and Helen had long since gone home, swearing to Bess that they’d feed and care for her once she too made it back to Carver Mills boarding house. Sister Stern, seeing that Bess’ pain had subsided, resumed her rounds on the ward.

“Of course, we’ll need to double check. Are you on shift tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir,”

“Pop in for an x-ray before you begin. We’ve only the one machine now but I’m sure we can get you in. At that time of night we won’t need it, not unless another raid begins.” He spoke so matter of factly that Bess found it hard to concentrate. He could just as well have been reading his shopping lost.

She hastily wiped a tear from her eyes and turned to face Kasia. “I’m glad you’re happy with the slacks,” she said through a forced smile.

“How much do you charge?”

Bess shook her head. “I offered, I insist.” Kasia open her mouth to protest, but just as she did, Mrs Chase appeared in the doorway.

“All done girls?” Before either could reply, she continued. “Perhaps you could make Kasia a nice tea dress next time? Speaking of tea-” Mrs Chase said, grabbing Jan by the arm as he ran past. He waved at Bess and she winked, mouthing “it suits you,” at seeing him in Albie’s old coat.

“-are you staying for supper, Bess? Lois will be over with the baby in a little while.”

“Erm,” Bess floundered. Robina raised her eyebrows in expectation. The baby. “No, I’m, er, I’m actually back on shift this evening so I need to be getting back.” She coughed awkwardly. “Thank you, though.” Without another word, she packed away her things and hurried from the room, promising to visit Kasia again soon and ruffling Jan’s hair on her way out.

Reaching the hallway, she made to place her tailor’s stand in the large basket she carried but stopped at seeing a small envelope tucked in its handle. Upon opening it, Bess found a cheque for fifty pounds, written in elegant writing and signed Mrs. R Chase.

The station lights were just coming on when Bess arrived. A cold mizzle had descended on the city and, caught in the light of the station lamps, it glowed like lustrous confetti against the blue October night.

It was just as busy as it would have been before the war. Only now, the families heading for trips to the beach and the young couples adventuring to London for a long weekend were replaced by small groups of soldiers and sailors, or else labourers carting supplies between wagons.

Bess weaved across the platforms, peering over heads and between luggage. She’d raced from Robina’s, only just managing to catch the last bus from the small town she lived in. Had it been Douglas, he’d have told the driver to stop, or held his hand out for assistance as she jumped onto the back of the moving vehicle. A constant presence in her life as a child and woman, a surrogate father when Fergal was deep in his grief or drink, Bess could just imagine Douglas’ hand reaching out for her. The callouses from his work on the buses, or paper cuts from his rounds handing out his pacifist papers. Were they like Tom’s? She’d never noticed.

As though called to her, as if he’d heard his name on her mind, a loud guffaw sounded from somewhere along the platform. A call to his whereabouts. Tom and a few sailors Bess didn’t know were stood beside the engine, sharing a cigarette with the driver. Sensing someone approach, Tom turned his head ever so slightly to his right, the muscles of his long neck stretching.

Bess swallowed. The boatneck of his uniform so elegantly accentuated the column of pale skin and muscle, and Bess remembered all the nights she ran her tongue and teeth there. The moans the action elicited from him…

Watching her eyes falter, Tom raked his own over her. The sway of her hips, the tight fabric of her slacks across her hips. The way drops of mist adorned her frizzy hair, like pearls. The way her eyes were still rapt by him, lip tucked between her teeth, walk faltering as she admired him.

Without a word to his friends he made his way toward her, eyes never leaving hers. Bess blushed as he sauntered through the meandering crowd, glancing away when his eyes continued boring into hers.  

“Stop,” Bess whispered when he came to a stop scandalously close to her. Tom reached out to her, tucking one hand beneath her coat and caressing her side.

“I missed you last night,” he whispered into the shell of her ear. “Stopped by the flat.” His voice was low, breath warm as it fanned her hair.

Bess shuddered.

“Here,” Without looking at her, the doctor kicked the cabinet drawer closed and handed Bess two pamphlets. ‘The Dangers of Sex in Wartime’ and ‘Modern Methods of Birth Control’.

“Night shift.” She replied simply.

Tom looked down his nose at her and huffed. “Have to get myself into some mischief. Come home with a broken arm, cracked rib or something. Nothing serious, like, but can’t have any old Tommy that wanders into the infirmary spending more time with you than I do.” He gripped Bess’ coat lapels and pulled her flush against his chest.

“Stupid boy,” she whispered. “Besides, you’re the only Tommy for me.”

He kissed her head. “I should hope so. You heard these rumours about the Yanks coming over?”

“There’s already one in the hospital-”

“Walter Watson was down the pub saying they’ve sent people over, covert, to suss the situation out. Says Sarah Wallace next door to him was down the church on Sunday for a quick ‘I do,’ with one of them. There’ll be a baby by summer.”

Bess scoffed. “He’s just jealous it wasn’t him getting his end in,”

Tom guffawed again and a few passersby looked at the pair of them pressed together on the platform. “As long as you don’t go getting ideas, Miss Vaughn.” He smirked. “I’ve heard you like a man in uniform.”

“While we can’t be absolutely certain that it was the cause, I can say with little doubt that this kind of,” the doctor looked at the ceiling as if the words he needed were up there. “-congenital abnormality is the likeliest reason for the miscarriage.”

The closeness of Tom was suffocating. The scent of his cologne and stale Marlboro smoke. The standard issue detergent clinging to his newly pressed uniform. The thumb stroking the side of her hip felt like sandpaper through her blouse, his hand a hot and heavy weight against her waist. Bess took a sudden step back and Tom’s hand paused comically in mid-air where she had been, frozen like a wind-up doll.

He watched her a moment, brow furrowed and lips pursed. Ever since their argument on the beach, he’d been wary of upsetting her. Startling her. Just like her permanent state as a young girl, Bess was unsettled. Tom took a cigarette from his pocket, the click of his lighter the only sound passing between them.

Between puffs and clouds of smoke he stared at her, a strange look overcoming his handsome face. She fidgeted in front of him, eyes never holding his own. Rather, they flitted across his form, across the train station, meeting only occasionally to blush and look away.

“Did you see Lois and the baby at Mrs Chase’s?” He tried to coax her out of her shell with small talk. Something neither of them had ever been good at. It had the reverse effect. Her eyes blew wide and she shuffled uncomfortably.

“Miss Vaughn, I must tell you. If the x-ray confirms my suspicions, you should prepare yourself for the possibility that your future may not hold hope for children-”

“Bess?” He laughed, a quick flash of his boyish grin disguising his nerves. “Did you see Lois and the baby?”

“No,” Bess took out her own cigarettes and fumbled with her matches. “No, left before they arrived. Damn,” the match slipped from her fingers and went out under a raindrop.

“Here,” Tom stepped forward and clicked his lighter.

“Thanks,”

Tom made to grab her coat again only this time, rather than bring her near, he placed the lighter in her pocket. “Keep it.”

She looked up at him then. His grey eyes soft, brows pinched at the centre with worry. Altogether world-weary. The urge to pull him close, stroke his hair and keep him safe overwhelmed her. Gripping the navy cotton of his uniformed shoulders, Bess leant up and pressed a hard kiss to his cheek. She had never been good with words, famously so, but perhaps this one kiss would convey all the fear and all the love she had for him.

Warmth swelled in her chest when he winked at her, gripping her waist and steering her towards the train. Men were boarding, porters closing the carriage doors as steam billowed around them.

“Keep an eye on Lois for me, won’t you?” Tom said over the puff of the engine as it was stoked into life.

“Lois? She’s can take care of hers-”

“And Vera. She’s not well. Lois, I mean.” Tom added when Bess’ face turned white with alarm. “Everyone always said that Lois and I were more like mam than dad. But since-” the sentence petered out. He shook his head and carried on. “I don’t think that’s true. Now he’s gone, I see how similar we all were. And Lois pretends she’s tough. Is tough, like dad. But it comes from somewhere deeper.” He signalled to the area around his heart. Bess fought not to smile as she watched Tom grapple with words to express his feelings. Who’d have thought it all those years ago? Tom Bennett, emotionally perceptive.

“My problems I’ve brought on myself, or had them thrust on me. But dad and Lois,” he came to a stop and looked down at Bess. “And you, were born with it. This sadness. Weren’t you.”  

She didn’t’ move nor speak. She didn’t need to.

“Just keep an eye out.”

 “Yes, sailor.” She whispered.

A whistle blew on the station, and Bess’ stomach fell to that place between her naval and knee that it always seemed to live when Tom was away. He hauled his kit bag onto the train and jumped elegantly off the platform and into the carriage. Pulling down the sash window of the compartment door, Tom leant out with his arms outstretched. With the help of a railway porter, Bess stood on the carriage step and felt herself lifted up by Tom’s arms.

With one quick glance into her dark eyes, Tom held her by the neck and kissed her. “Write to me,” he said against her lips.

“I will if you do first.” Bess said back, planting fervent kisses to any part of his face she could reach. Slowly, the train began to leave and she felt herself carried along on the step. Somewhere behind her, the station guard began to shout. They pair feigned ignorance, shrouded by engine steam.

Cigarettes, childhood, cologne, gun smoke and engine oil. Birthday cakes, piano keys, ale, and first love. Everything Tom Bennett tasted of Bess committed to memory as he slipped from her arms and the train sped from the station.

Tom’s face became a blur on the horizon and, as he dipped back inside the carriage window, Bess whispered a prayer to the sky, to a God she wasn’t sure she believed in anymore. “Keep him safe. Please.”

Notes: We will be with Tom for the WHOLE of the next chapter, and a lot of the one after that! Plus! The letters will be back 😊

Wildly, those are real pamphlets on women’s sexual health from the late 30s and 40s.

Been listening to this paylist while I write, and it really helps get me in the mindset. It’s 40s music interspersed with radio broadcasts of the time. You could really be listening to the wireless in front of the fire at the Vaughns’ house.

I’m glad Harry’s camera is coming in handy. Tell Cora to keep Vera for the day next time and take some of yourself that you couldn’t get done at the picture parlour. One in the nurse’s uniform? I’m on my fourth ship and the girls’ have got a wall on every one. Now, you know I’ve got an eye for a pretty face and a flash of rouge, but my girl you’re the bombshell of every boat. The boys didn’t believe me when I put one of your pictures up with the others, thought I’d stolen your photograph from cig packet. Told them that Rita Hayworth’s lucky you aren’t in show business or she’d be out of pocket. You’ll be getting that angry blush that I love right about now as you read this, but it’s true. Even caught one of the new ordinaries trying to sneak it off the wall and into his pocket.

Life on board is the same as it always is. The top brass are all ski-nosed and silver-spooned, but Thornton, the commodore, isn’t too bad. Plays cards with us sometimes in the mess. He’s not supposed to but I reckon we’re more fun than the captain and the vice-admiral. They’re fair men and sound in charge but they don’t get much time allowing, being in charge, and we never see them on the chance they take an hour or two.

I even see Norman on occasion. We were in port a few weeks back and I heard someone shouting my name. For half a moment I had the urge to run. Father Michael caught me kissing Sarah Brown behind the pews back in ’34 and the shout of my name was almost as loud as the smack he gave my arse with the altar bible. Still hear the echoes now, the old codger. Well, I turned around and there was Norman running towards me. Was in that skirmish with the Bismark back in May. Reckon we’re the luckiest bastards in the Royal navy. He’s got a dirty great scar on his chin from the shrapnel that I know Dot will love. I haven’t forgotten that I promised to bring her back a sailor. Well, now he’s on one of the other battleships we’re in fleet with. Can’t tell you the names, or whereabouts, but one day I’ll bring you here. Never known heat like it in Longsight. Almost Christmas and I’m as tanned as your tights. Best not think about your legs too long or I’ll never finish this letter.

I’ve been knocked down a post again, but there’s rumour it’s temporary and I’ll be back to artificer by the end if the day. Cooke, the captain, was making the rounds and came by to tell us of a change to the day’s manoeuvres. Well, he caught me hiding a bag of change under my roommate’s bunk. Asked where I got it from and I said I’d won it in a hand of poker with some of the other lads. Reports of one of the ordinaries having their first pay packet stolen were greatly overexaggerated – he’d bet it on a bluff and lost, and so I was stripped of my new stripes as quick as I’d got them. What Cooke doesn’t know is that the aforementioned Commodore Thornton was playing a round that night, and so was Davies, the ship’s chaplain. He’s got a nose for poker and can’t help it if eighteen year old ordinaries bet their first packet on a hand of poker to fit in with the regulars. Of course, he won the hand and it’s doesn’t look too good if a man of the church is gambling on a ship of His Majesty’s Navy, does it? So he asked me to hide the earnings until he could collect them later in the day. Just so happened the captain caught me first and thought I’d won the hand. I wasn’t going to let the chaplain get in trouble now was I? So, my love, I’ve been demoted. But the distinguished service medal and a chaplain in your debt works wonders. It won’t last long.

We left the coast yesterday and have been sailing on open water today. We’ve two other battleships with us, and a few smaller boats. Heard rumour that one has a crew on from Pathé. You might see me on the silver screen next time you’re down the picture house! The air is warm, the sky is clear, the drink here is stronger than any I’ve had and there’s nothing surrounding us but sea. I’ll be home sooner than you know it, and God I can’t wait to be down the Palais again. The girls here aren’t like they are in France or Manchester. No dancing, no music, no fun. But I suppose I wouldn’t feel like dancing, with what they’ve seen. I’ll try and write when we’re homebound, will you girls meet me at the station with rouge and a hamper? God knows the Vaughns can put a smile on a fella’s face. Give Dot and Cora a kiss from me, and Roger a handshake. If he’s got no best man yet, tell him to wait until the Elizabeth’s are back – he’ll know what I mean. Sing Vera a lullaby and tell her Uncle Tom will be home soon. As for you, chin up and eyes straight. You’re magic and I’ll have you smiling again soon.

Yours, eagerly,

Tom.

Tom Bennett hastily folded the letter and stuffed it inside an envelope.

“D’you know, you had a dopey smile on your face all half hour as you was writing that,”

Tom smirked, jumped down from his bunk and good-naturedly tapped the envelope on his cabin-mate’s nose. “Least I got someone to write to,”

The other man whistled lowly and gestured to the letter. “Your girl got any sisters?”

“Two,” Tom said as he straightened his cap atop his carefully combed hair and made to open the door. “But one’s spoken for, engaged to a fella from the RAF, and I’ve promised a friend to the other. Sorry mate,”

“Shame.” The sullenness of the word was belied by the smile that accompanied it. Arthur Slade was a tall and rangy man of about thirty from the west country. Prior to the war he had been a fisherman and had taken to the navy as a duck to water, excepting the fact he preferred close quarters with a gutting knife to at-range combat. Tanned from years at sea, his brown hair was bleaching at the tip, and his sun-reddened nose and cheeks combined with his loping grace gave him the air of one just back from holiday. A few worn tattoos lined his left knuckles and arm, owing to the fact he had done them himself with a sharpened goose quill. Despite this outward appearance of labour hewn, inky sinew, however, he was something of a rarity. Not prone to outbursts of anger or joy, he sat somewhere comfortably in the middle; a man of whom you could happily spend an afternoon in companionable silence, watching the world go by.

“Your ‘chief ‘s up at the back,” he said, indicating slowly to Tom’s neck. Tom fixed the bowed scarf of his uniform and, with a wink to Slade, snuck from the room.

The walk towards the great cabin from the below deck took Tom through the mess hall. As always, seamen were at various posts enjoying their downtime before the bell rang to signal a change of shift. Many were crouched over a table or else an upturned bucket, crafting letters to home. One sat with a dwindling cigarette between his lips, reading over his words under his breath. He nodded to Tom as he passed. A scattering of midshipmen chattered self-importantly; we not merely seaman, we’re officers in the making. The gunners and artificers of Tom’s rotation were at the centre of the low-ceiling room, leant against the water pipe that split the room and was bedecked in photographs of women. The eldest stood with his leg propped against a chair, tuning a left-handed guitar. The others were playing cards.

“Looking sharp, Bennett.” An artificer looked up from his cards at Tom’s starched uniform.

“Heard you got a debt to pay in,” The other said, winking.

“Wish me luck, lads.” Tom doffed his cap as he strode by. A few of the new recruits watched on admiringly, looking away as Tom passed them. That’s the one who survived River Plate and Dunkirk.

Tom supposed he should have been nervous. Supposed that a year ago, he would have been. Perhaps he should have put that in his letter, didn’t Bess love it when he told her that on those rare occasions, he was human too? But now, on his way to the captain’s cabin with a commodore counted amongst friends, a gambling chaplain in his debt, snivelling ordinary seamen awed by his very presence and the Mediterranean sun awaiting him above deck, it was hard to feel tense.

One of the boat’s few marines was stood sentinel at the great cabin when Tom arrived. An imperious man the size of a barn door, he looked stiffly down his broken nose at Tom, scanning his low-ranking uniform from shining boot to gleaming cap.

“Second time this week.”

“I’d say it’s the last but I’m too fucking scared of you to lie.” They stared at each other a moment, before the marine’s face broke into a smile.  

“Best of luck, Bennett.” The marine rapped on the door and a lofty sound of ascent came from the other side. Standing upright and thinking of Douglas, Tom entered.

“Bennett,” Cooke, in all his regalia, sat upright behind his desk. Tom anticipated as much. What he hadn’t expected was for him to be flanked by Thornton and Davies. Tom raised his arm in salute to the captain, though his eyes flicked between the commodore and the chaplain with glee. Thornton, with his public-school good looks, smiled slyly at Tom. Davies was wringing his hands uncomfortably. “This is only the second time you have been in the great cabin this week.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the fourth since you boarded this ship.”

“Yes, sir.”

At this, Cooke set down the maps he was looking at and directed his gaze at Tom. “You’re a fine sailor, Bennett. And the crew seem to like you. All the makings of a leader. But God willing, if you are to see out this war in the navy, you surely don’t want to spend your whole time as an able seaman?”

“No, sir.”

“I was doubtful when you first joined, but Dunkirk was a hell of an operation. You joined the resistance in France for a while to evade capture, is that right?”

Tom smiled, thinking of his time there. He was Monsieur Laurent Proulx then. And what of Claudette, as was? Was she still alive? He hoped so. That girl could have run the resistance on her own. “Yes, sir. Though for my part, I did very little. Without the French and Spanish I’d never have made it back to Manchester.”

“Mm,” Cooke kept his gaze steady. “A humble man too.” Behind him, the commodore smirked. Tom bowed his head to hide his own smile. “Of course, River Plate and the distinguished service medal add a great deal to your short-” he emphasised the word. “-career in the navy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But this constant yo-yoing between positions cannot stand, Bennett. Making ordinary to able is of course expected from your record, but the trust we have placed in you must be reflected. Commodore Thornton here vouched for your position as an artificer. You understand, this position is equal to a petty officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And there are many men who would do well in your position. Envy your position.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you must stop this nonsense. The Barham is an Elizabeth-class battleship and we expect the best service from all our men. You were first stripped of artificer, 4th class, due to a ‘prank’, we shall call it, involving the sequestration of all forks from the canteen over a period of two weeks.”

“An ill-advised way to pass the time,” Tom added with a laugh. “Sir,” he corrected himself. It was true. Enlisting Arthur and a few other gunners, they had slowly begun stashing them in their pockets and hiding them in the control room. Of course, when the cook discovered the dwindling supply and announced to the mess that the auxiliary had messed up the numbers, people began keeping their own. And so, the forks continued to disappear. The next day, Tom and Arthur drafted a note from the captain.

“All hands beware! Renegade forks have escaped from the mess decks and are reported to be at large. Do not apprehend. These forks should be considered disobedient and unruly. If seen, any confrontation should be avoided and the Fork Apprehension Rehabilitation Team (FART) alerted immediately. Captain G Cooke.”

Captain Cooke ignored Tom’s outburst of un-navy-like before and continued. “The first time you were in this cabin was due to fighting, and the last demotion, was due to the stealing of a new ordinary’s shore leave packet.” At this, Davies shifted uncomfortably. “Now the good chaplain here has told me that this wasn’t quite the case.”

Tom answered with more uncertainty. “No, sir?”

“Please tell me, Bennett, in your own words, what truly happened.”

Fuck. It’s all good and well when the chaplain owed you a favour, but not when he’s forgotten to tell you how he’s fixed them mess he put you in in the first place.

“A few of the boys and I were playing cards, sir. And one of the young lads bet his shore leave packet, as you know,” he looked to Davies, who nodded imperceptibly. “Well, it was won by a sailor on a different rotation than mine, don’t know his name.”

The captain raised his eyebrows. How convenient. Davies shuffled again. Tom continued.

“The bell was rung for change of rotation, so he left pretty sharpish, leaving the money on the table also. I took it and was hiding it under my bunk for safe keeping.”

“And why didn’t you tell me this when I caught you, Bennett?” said Cooke.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I didn’t want anyone getting in any trouble.”

“Indeed,” the captain murmured. “Indeed. Well, that is certainly what the dear chaplain has told me. Another one, Bennett, who has vouched for you.”

“I’m very grateful, sir.”

“Very well, Bennett. Your rank is being noted in the log as artificer, 4th class, once more. Let it be known that if I see you in my cabin again, you will be spending your sea-going days as the cook’s mate. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Tom saluted to the captain and the commodore and made a swift exit with the chaplain.

“Jammy git,” said the marine.

“Never did nothing wrong, mate,” Tom said. “And by the way-” he turned to Davies. “Sixty percent of those winnings better be on my bunk by next rotation or you’ll be kissing the plank, never mind walking it.”

The light of the forecastle was bright when Tom surfaced from below deck. He checked his watch. Five minutes to three. Five minutes until he was due in the gunroom. Tom moved to port and looked out towards the Valiant, cruising steadily alongside them. A string of men were polishing the vessel, among them a certain sailor with a shrapnel scar. From his position on the Barham, Tom saw him check his watch and look up.

A giddy beam dimpled Tom’s cheeks as he raised his arm to wave. On the Valiant, Norman vigorously waved back. Every day, just before three, they went onto the upper decks of their ships to see each other. They’d done it first a few weeks back, when Norman had been on watch and saw Tom strolling the deck through his binoculars. It had become a strange sort of tradition. In the wake of Douglas’ death and Lois’ departure to Africa, Vera, Bess and the rest of the Vaughns were Tom’s only family now. Back in England. Here, they had to make their family. They’d seen so much in the two years of the war and lost so many people both here and at home. Tom wondered if the war ever ended; would Norman still be family? He’d never had a brother. Albie was the closest he’d ever had, and now he was gone too. He really would have to introduce Norman to Dot. They’d be bonded by real family then, not the navy. He paused in his waving at the thought.

That would mean marrying Bess.

Marry Bess.

Sure, he’d thought about it. Long before that night in the ginnel on new year’s eve. Many times after. Especially since Vera came along. But that had been married life, not a marriage. Now, there he was somewhere off the coast between Egypt and Crete, imaging Bess in a poky old church lit with sunlight, walking towards him in a white dress, jewelled with the colour of stained glass. The peel of the church bells and Vera scattering petals.

The bell rang.

Then the wailing of the alarm.

On the Valiant, Norman and his comrades were hurrying to their stations. Around Tom, sailors were doing the same. Mutters of “U-boat” and “the Jerries, they’ve found us”.

Cooke and Thornton swept passed him on their way to the bridge.

“Battle stations, Bennett.”

Notes: This is dry and I know it but I had to set the scene for the next two chapters. Reunion soon! Cooke was the real captain of the HMS Barham, the other names I just made up. The story of the missing forks is also true, based on a naval prank. You all know that my grandmothers served as the inspiration for this story, but there’s a picture of my grandfather playing a left-handed guitar during his time in the war, so I had to put that in 😊

I’m sorry it’s been so long. One of my goals is to write more and Mr H is encouraging me to do more of what I love. I live with a chronic illness and last year was my first in a full-time job since I got ill, so much of my spare time was spent exhausted. Hopefully, that’s behind me and there’ll be more room for writing!

This is a short one, to keep the pace light and to make me feel less daunted. The next will be longer, I promise. See you soon!

It was an unnaturally warm day for late November. The smoke of last night’s raid had lifted to reveal a sun tentatively beaming down on the rubble and residents of Manchester. A few gulls picked at the debris, hoping for scraps, and a myriad of displaced dogs and cats wondered the street looking for their owners. Some small children were walking hand in hand with hurried drawings of their beloved pets, sticking them to what remained of the telegraph poles, or else rushing to scoop a stray into their arms.

Bess stayed at the family home last night. Or rather, the evening, with the night huddled amongst other families in the air raid shelter at the end of the road. In the dim light of the dug-out, she sewed the last ornamental details to Cora’s wedding dress. It was a simple thing, made during the last war for their mother. Using some tablecloths that Etta always reserved for Sunday best, Bess cut away their lace trims and affixed them to the netting of Cora’s veil.

Much had changed since that disastrous day at the hospital a month ago. Tom had departed for distant oceans to battle terrors Bess daredn’t think about. Cora was seemingly looking after the whole street while preparing for her wedding to Roger and Dot was taking all the shifts at the factory the day could offer. Fergal was stupefied with exhaustion from working the raids and drinking to forget what he saw during them. Robina was still acting as though the war didn’t exist, even now that Kasia had left to work in the Land Army with Roberta, Grzegorz was a pilot in training and Jan had been sent to a family-friend of the Chase’s in the southwest to be away from the city. “That boy has seen enough,” as Robina had put it.

Even work at the infirmary had grown tiresome for Bess. Where once she had loved her independence, the cold walls of the hospital seemed to echo with the groans of soldiers, or else memories from the night of her hospitalisation. Joan and Helen fretted over her to the point of suffocation, worried she was working too hard through her recovery. Sister Stern had taken the opposite approach. “Time and hard work heal a broken heart.”

Her only relief came at Carver Mills, in the quite of her poky flat. But now, every corner reminded her of Tom. The kitchen table where they played cards after a measly dinner of stale bread and beans. The tattered armchairs where they’d listen to the wireless, her legs stretched out of his own. The bed. God, the bed.

It was last week, while staring at the bedclothes, that Bess made her decision. She’d heard of convalescent homes popping up around the country. The wireless reported that a stately home which had once hosted balls was now hosting soldiers too ill to return to the war, but too hopeless to remain in hospital beds.

And so, on the balmy November day, Bess was cycling around the raid rubble towards Robina Chase’s for one last time with a delivery of tailored jackets and a tea dress.

The evidence of war faded as Bess moved from city to suburb to the small village that Robina lived in. Well dressed couples of late-middle age walked dogs on tight leads. Church bells pealed. A Sunday. The bells had all stopped in Manchester to deter bombers flying overhead. A huddle of old women with fresh perms were gossiping outside the green grocers, and it was here that Bess could see the reaches of rationing. The women were swapping vegetables between their baskets, checking their ration books as they did. The window of the shop, dressed with faded bunting for artificial cheer, stocked only crates of potatoes and cabbages. Piled high behind them, were tins of canned food; beans, condensed milk and spam. Bess stomach turned. What she would give for a strawberry come springtime.

“Bess!” A boyish voice was yelling to her from beside the church green. “Bess!”

She skidded to a halt on the perfectly kept gravel track that wound its way from the vicarage to Robina’s grand home. Jan, was waving at her, beaming as he did so.

“What are you doing here, little man?” Bess said, swinging her leg over her bicycle to walk beside him.

“Mrs Chase told me to come and meet you,” Jan said, taking her tailor’s box to walk beside her. “And I’m not so little anymore, I’ve grown seven inches since the summer!”

 “Goodness,” Bess said with a wry smile. “I won’t have any of Albie’s clothes left if you keep growing.” Jan laughed lightly and jogged a little to keep up with her. “But why are you not in Cornwall?”

At this, Jan stopped walking. “You’ve forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?” Bess walked ahead to hide her smile.

“Bess Vaughn!”

“Janusz Tomaszeski!” She turned to face him. Her smiled couldn’t help but grow at the sight of his indignant face, the too big shorts he wore and the socks pulled high above his knees.

“It’s my birthday,” he said sadly.

Bess clapped her hand to her forehead dramatically. “I knew there was a reason I packed the sponge.”

“A cake!?” Jan all but screamed as he ran to her. “I haven’t had cake since back home.” His voice faltered a little at remembering Poland and his family, but he did his best to seem brave. Bess’ heart broke a little more and she bent to kiss his cheek.

“Happy birthday, young man. Now come on, best not keep madam waiting. Or the cake.” Together, they hurried to garden door and entered the house. Jan ran to the kitchen immediately to gather plates and almost knocked Robina over in the process. She made a noise like a startled snake and looked sharply at Bess.

“I was waiting at the front door.”

Bess was already unpacking the jackets for Robina and laying them upon the couch for her to assess. “Sorry, Mrs Chase. I was caught up in Jan’s excitement.”

Robina hummed. “Yes, it is lovely to have him back.” Her tone indicated differently, but Bess was used to her uneasy displays of affection. It was as good as a kiss. “Jan, not in the lounge.” The little boy had run back in, dropped the crockery with a crash onto the table and hastily retrieved the Victoria sponge from Bess’ bag. “We don’t want crumbs all over the carpet.”

Quick as a whip, Jan ran out of the room again, cake cradled in his arms. “How on earth did you manage to find a Victoria sponge? Even I can’t find one.”

Bess ignored this slight dig. “Cora’s been swapping with the whole street for about two weeks. Everyone’s so excited about the wedding, they’d do anything for her. We’ve been stashing butter and sugar in the outhouse. And I took a couple of eggs from the infirmary kitchen.”

Robina gasped. “You didn’t!”

Bess smiled serenely and Robina tutted. “Well, I suppose needs must.”

In a time when the rest of the country was surviving on stale food and watery broth, Bess couldn’t help but admire Robina’s desire for birthday cake as a need.

“I brought a tea dress too, for Kasia,”

“Ah, thank you. Though I suppose now trousers are the in thing.” Robina said the words as though they hurt. “Especially in her line of work. I never thought I’d have a daughter-in-law who dug cabbages for a living but I suppose-”

“Needs must.” Bess finished.

“Quite.”

 A moment of awkward silence follows as Robina inspected the clothes, before Jan ran in with a crash. He placed two plates of cake on the table, mumbled something that sounded like “thank you” through his mouthful of sponge, before running out into the garden.

Robina frowned after him. “Yes, thank you. I’ll put a little extra in your pay packet, for Cora to reimburse the ingredients. And for you to buy eggs.”

“Thank you, Mrs Chase.”

A little longer, the two women looked over the garments, and Bess made adjustments here and there. Somewhere in the garden, Jan was narrating his own game of football.

A wail sounded from somewhere in the house. As it always did, the sound made Bess jump, her wartime instinct prepared for a raid. But it wasn’t the cry of a siren, but a baby.

“Damn,” Robina hastily ate the last crumb of cake and wiped her hands. “All babies are the same. They can sense others eating without them.” She hurried to the door and began up the stairs. “Have you heard from Lois? Or Tom?”

Bess’ voice wobbled. “Not for a while.” She picked at the hem of her jumper. Lois hadn’t written to any of the Vaughns since she left for Africa, and Tom’s last letter arrived three weeks ago. She’d taken to carrying Tom’s latest letter in her pocket, alongside the picture of him from their early days of nervous courtship.

From upstairs, Bess could hear Robina cooing to little baby Vera, but her steps remained circular, soothing. There was a little time before she would be back down, with or without the baby. Bess supposed she should join Jan and rid her sudden uneasiness with play, but she had such little time to indulge her feelings that instead, she moved towards the piano. It was grander than the one in her family’s kitchen. Cleaner. Newer. Tentatively, she touched the keys. The sound was like crystal. Upstairs, Vera didn’t stir.

Amusing herself, she played a quiet rendition of happy birthday. Jan appeared at the garden door, smiling. He looked at Bess’ forgotten cake on the table. “Take it,” she said quietly. Jan beamed and took it back into the garden.

Bess kept pressing keys absentmindedly, thinking of Tom as she did. Sickness flooded her when she thought of Tom at war, so she restricted herself to thinking of Tom in the past. At Longsight. Dancing with him at the Palais, that night he first kissed her. At school, when he’d defended her against her bullies. Their family days at the beach and the nights he snuck into the house. Her mind wandered, thinking of that damned smirk and his sandy hair. The day she stood scandalously close to him while altering his uniform. The times he oh so rarely flushed under her gaze, and her fingers worked loosely over the piano.

“Mack the knife, I haven’t heard that in years.” Robina said, and Bess jumped from the piano. “Guilty conscious, Bess? It’ll be those eggs.”

Bess felt sick. At the sight of Vera. With missing Tom. With the guilt of not telling him. Of not telling him-

“Say hello to Aunty Bess,” Robina said in an unusually light tone, taking Vera’s fat arm and waving it. She sat herself on one of the ornate yellow armchairs beside the fireplace and perched Vera on her knee. Bess followed, stroking the baby’s cheek as she passed and sitting opposite Robina.

“You’ll learn soon enough, Bess, with babies it’s just food, food, food. Would you like to hold her?”

“No.” Bess’ reply was sudden. Sharp. Robina hid her shock with a small smile and continued babbling at Vera. Soon enough, Jan heard the noise and came to coo over the baby too.

“When are you off to Bramworth House, Bess?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Very admirable-”

“Thank you,” Bess said quietly, watching Jan play with Vera.

“-these people giving up their homes for the war effort. Opening your home to strangers is no easy task, let alone turning it into a place for the convalescing.”

“But it worked for you, Mrs Chase,” Jan said while pulling funny faces at Vera. She looked up at him, her large eyes bright and took and almighty breath. As with any expression of profound emotion from such a small creature, Vera moved in slow motion, and Jan and Robina glowed with anticipation. A piercing laugh rent the air as Vera threw back her head with glee. Robina and Jan clapped as Vera continued to giggle. Bess, unable to contain the sadness eating away at her in front of this happy scene, sobbed.

“Bess?” Jan’s voice was quiet, scared. He watched as Bess shuddered in her chair, encircling her arms around herself to prevent Jan seeing her weakness.

“Jan, take Vera upstairs please.”

“I’m sorry,” Bess whispered, hastily wiping tears away from her face. “I’m sorry, Jan,”

“Jan, please, take Vera.” Robina’s voice was steady as she ushered Jan from the room.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Chase, I’m ok-”

“Hush,” Robina was sharp as she spoke to Bess, but not unkind. “Joyce! Joyce,” she called into the hallway before returning to sit in front of Bess. “Joyce, make a pot of tea for Miss Vaughn. Now then, Bess. I have known you what, five years now?”

“Yes, Mrs Chase,” Bess hiccoughed, not looking at Robina.

“I knew you not long after your mother died, I knew you as a girl before you made your own way in the world, I knew you when Albie died, I knew you when Douglas,” her voice caught in her throat. “-I knew you when Douglas died. I’ve watched you work yourself into knots during this war for everyone but yourself. Please do not insult me by pretending that you are fine.”

Bess swallowed and looked at Robina with wide eyes. She seemed just as uncomfortable as Bess felt, but as care overrode her deep sense of honour and decorum, Bess couldn’t help but soften towards her. Joyce, the hapless housekeeper Robina was loathe to keep entered quietly with a pot of tea, took one look at Bess’ shining red face, and hastened from the room.

“Now tell me, what has happened?”

 “I-” Bess continued to look at Robina’s expectant face. The purse of her rouged red lips and one perfectly plucked raised eyebrow. She sighed. Where on earth to start. Robina took her hesitation for evasion and pressed on.

“Bess, I know you think me a stuffy old woman-”

“I don’t-”

“Don’t interrupt. I know you think me a stuffy old woman, sheltered and out of touch. And I admit, I can be severe. But I saw my father fighting in the Boer war, my husband Great war and my son through this. I have opened my home to four refugees, if you include Demba, one of whom my son married without out so much as a word and left her on my doorstep. Add to that the child he fathered out of wedlock with a socialist, both of whom have left me to raise Vera on my own. Then there was Douglas, and you and your sisters. I know you well enough that this won’t insult you, Bess, but through circumstance and luck, our worlds are very different. Yet still, I would consider each of you a friend. You see? Not so out of touch, not so sheltered. Now please, tell me. I may even be able to help.”

Bess considered her a moment, her eyes watering with tears. “I think, Mrs Chase,” she began. “That you are a good woman. And I am sorry people have led you to believe otherwise. That you’re perceived otherwise. I think those that know you, know different.”

Robina stared at Bess a moment before waving a hand in front of her face, as if swatting away a fly. Bess smiled. It was something her mother had done when trying not to cry. Cora did it still. “Thank you, Bess.”

For a time, nothing was said. Robina sipped her tea expectantly, waiting for Bess to speak. Bess, meanwhile, dabbed at her eyes as though forcing tears not to fall. When, at last, she was certain she would cry no more, Bess began.

Until the tea was cold in the pot, she told Robina of her miscarriage at the hospital, the doctor’s clinical way of telling her that she would like never carry to term, the operation that would prevent her from future miscarriages, but also from the hope of ever having her own children. She bemoaned Harry and Lois, for the gift of Vera they so desperately didn’t want. She told Lois about her argument with Tom, of his view that it was Lois’ duty to take care of Vera, and of Douglas. Her fear that he would view her miscarriage as a failure in her duty as a woman. But most of all, she lamented the fact that as Tom left the train station, she hadn’t told him. Hadn’t told him any of what she was telling Robina.

When she was finished, Bess found that the stone of grief she had been carrying around in her stomach was gone, replaced now by a galvanising disquiet. She wanted to run, as far away from Manchester as possible. Robina, it seemed, read her mind.

“Is this why you’re running away?”

“Perhaps, I don’t know,” Bess sighed. “Maybe. It’s too suffocating here. Everything reminds me of what’s gone wrong.”

Robina set her teacup on the small table beside her and leant forward on her knees. “Change, in all it forms, has a way of uprooting us. But I think you know that. You’ve always been a resilient girl. Love has come along and shaken you to the core. Shown you that, despite what may have happened in your past, you are deserving of love and affection. Shown you that despite how hard you’ve worked at it, Bess, you aren’t meant to be solitary. But that is by the by, those are lessons we all learn. It’s what you’ve been dealt recently. The sad truth is that some people are not made to be parents. Harry and Lois, for example. I myself was certainly not a natural mother. I remember one Saturday when Harry must have been about six months old. I’d taken him to the market. He’d been crying all morning, so I supposed the fresh air would settle him.” She sighed heavily. “The looks people gave me. The disdain, that I couldn’t calm my own child. So do you know what I did?”

Bess shook her head.

“I left him there. Stopped the pram by the fruit stall and went home. Of course, someone brought him home that evening, I can’t remember who, and on life went. But then there are people like you Bess, who seem destined for motherhood. You have that loving steeliness that all mother’s need. But the world is cruel and I can’t explain that. There’s nothing I can say that will make it any better. But Bess, don’t go running from your problems, they’ll just follow you there.”

“Thank you, Robina.”

“And tell Tom, when he returns. He’s many things, each one as surprising as the next.”

The gunroom was a cacophony of eager shouts and clanking metal. Between the wail of the siren and flash of red light, the cramped space was full of men, each frantically checking the torpedo turret.

“It’s jammed,” the first artificer told Tom as he poured oil over the gun’s many metallic joints. “She stuck pointing aft but we need to get her to port.”

There was no time to don his artificer’s overalls. Tom quickly set to work with the other lads attempting to push the gun into its crucial position.

“And here we were thinking this was a jolly cruise through the Med,” Tom said through gritted teeth. “It’s no use, Sir,” he called over the siren. “She’s stuck good and proper. Want me to go up and look at her mechanics?”

BANG

For the briefest of moments, each sailor tensed. Prepared for what surely awaited them the moment they signed up.

“We’re not hit,”

“Came from out there,” one indicated to abyss beyond the metal wall of the Barham.

“Get moving!” Screamed the artificer. “Tom, I’ll go up, you stay here and get her cannon working.”

“Sir,” Tom called in ascent, moving into position beneath the gun’s shining barrel. He’d learnt much since he began yo-yoing between roles as an artificer and able seaman. Which cogs led where, the names of each pin that kept the gun in place. And yet, he still didn’t know why their ships, and everything on her from the guns to the wheel, were female. He thought, as he slid his hands over the cold machine, that perhaps it was to give the men a feminine presence. Remind them of the order and decorum expected. Never in front of a lady, never onboard a ship. Perhaps it was to remind them of the women they’d left behind.

He thought of Bess as a trickle of oil ran down his forearm. The warmth of it against his skin could only ever remind him of her. Her warmth. In truth, Tom thought of her often. Always. But as on the Exeter, and at Dunkirk, it was in these moments of terror that he saw her clearer than he ever could in his daydreams or imaginings. The red light the colour of her hair. The pounding of his heart that nothing other than war and she could induce. Beneath his fingers, the gun metal clicked.

“Cannon working, Sir,” Tom bellowed up the chute towards the first artificer. Eight other men were still gathered around the gun, frantically trying to right its position. “Any news your end?” The call of his voice sounded strange echoing off the metal walls for, just as he spoke, the siren ceased.

The bright lights of the gunroom return, and each man blinked at their fellow sailors.

“What’s happened?” One whispered.

“Are we hit?”

“You’d have heard it if we were hit.”

“You lads keep working on her position, we’ll have to fix it sooner or later. Sir,” Tom called up to his senior once again. “Permission to assess?”

“Granted, but be quick Bennett, we need every man down here before Thornton and Cooke find out we’re jammed.”

Tom raced from the gunroom. Other sailors were poking their heads out from their positions, they too wondering what had caused this mid-battle pause. Up and up Tom ran, his boots echoing through the silent ship. When at last he broached the sunlit upper deck, he saw sailors walking nonchalantly to and fro, whispering in each other’s ears. Arthur Slade, Tom’s cabinmate, appeared from the radio room to lean over the rail with a pair of scouting binoculars.

“Slade!” Tom hurried to his side. “Slade, mate, what’s going on? I’m thrilled we’re not fighting but we’ve got a jammed gun downstairs and we’d love to know how long we’ve got before we’re fish in a barrel.”

Slade shrugged, still scanning the horizon. “Jervis thought it detected a submarine, ‘bout a kilometre away. Whatever it was, the thing was too wide for a sub.”

Ahead of them, HMS Jervis and HMS Queen Elizabeth were cruising easily through the still water.

“You sure it was nothing?” Tom asked, nerves prickling the back of his neck. “We thought we heard something down below.”

Slade looked at him then, and Tom saw apprehension reflected in his friend’s grey eyes. “Interference?” Slade said quietly. “Shit.” He whipped his binoculars to his eyes. “Shit!

Tom’s head turned to face the horror Slade had seen. A bow wave, metres high, was approaching the port side of the Barham. On it, a mammoth predator was riding towards them, its grey bulk broaching the clear Mediterranean water.

“CLOSE RANGE!” Screamed Slade as he ran back to the radio room. All heads turned but too late.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

With four almighty bangs, the Barham juddered. A jet of water taller than Blackpool Tower flew into the sky and through the noise, Tom could hear Slade’s voice radioing the other ships. “We’re hit, HMS Barham hit at close range. Jervis, Elizabeth, do you copy?”

Seconds later, Slade returned to the deck, fear blazing in his usually calm eyes. “Elizabeth’s hit too.” Around them, people were scrambling to ready the lifeboats. Someone from the wheelhouse above was shouting orders that no-one heard. It was each man for himself.

Slade gripped Tom’s arm. “We’ve got to get starboard, if we’re hit again it’ll be this side. The Germans can’t move round us that fa-”

The ground beneath their feet listed violently sideways. Like a wounded beast, the great ship groaned as she tipped Slade and Tom towards the ocean. Pressed against the railing, other sailors crying out in fear, Tom watched at the great turret above them blocked out the sun. In the wheelhouse, he could see Cooke and Thornton frantically shouting into a radio.

“Tom,”

He kept watching as Thornton’s rosy face turned pale. Through the glass, it was like watching a silent film at the picture house. The audience aware of the story’s deadly conclusion before the protagonist.

“Tom,” said Slade again. “We’ve got to get to starboard. We’re sinking.”

“Right,” Tom cleared his throat. “Right,” he had no time to think. Slade gripped his arm once more and began dragging him up the quickly listing deck. Looking behind them, Tom saw the railings they were just clinging to disappear into the bubbling water. They pulled themselves up the steep ascent of the deck using what ever they could reach, ropes, windows, doors, anything they could feebly hold onto.

The starboard side of the ship was more chaotic than port. Sailors were scrabbling to climb over the railing. Tom watched, mouth slack in awe as some threw themselves into the water below. He rested against the wall of the mess hall. They were horizontal now, his face turned towards the sky as the railing rose above them.

“We’re never going to be able to climb it, Slade. Slade?” He looked around. Slade was leant against the wall, his quick fisherman’s hands tying knots in a length of rope.

“Arms up, Bennett,” he said as he braced himself against the wall and slipped the rope around Tom’s chest. “I’m not losing you once we’re in.” He tied the other end around his own middle and, using his great height, jumped as the railing reached its zenith in the sky. Men slid past Tom’s feet into the water behind them as the Barham bobbed on its side.

“Fuck,” Slade had reached the railing and scrambled over. Tied as he was to the man’s waist, Tom’s feet left the floor and he dangled precariously between see and sky.

“Christ, Tom, you weigh a ton,” Slade grappled with the rope as he tried to pull Tom’s dead weight up to reach him. “I’ve hauled catches lighter than you.”

“Slade,” Tom span on the rope so that his arms could reach the length. “Brace yourself on the railing. Just lie flat.” Slade did as he was instructed and, using Slade’s weight against the boat, Tom began climbing the rope. When at last he reached the railings, Slade’s hands pulled him over. The sight below could have silenced even Dot, Tom thought.

Sailors were hanging from the rails, desperately trying not to fall into the water below, or else hit some part of the ship’s metal hull as they did. Beside them, billowing smoke blackened the sky from the Elizabeth. All around were screams of fear, cries out for home.

“You can swim can’t you, Tom?”

The question was so absurd, Tom almost laughed. “Course I can fucking swim.”

“You’d be surprised how many can’t, mate.” Slade said solemnly. “Tom, on the count of three, we’re going to jump.” At Tom’s look of disbelief, Slade continued. “We’ve got more chance of surviving in there than we do here.”

All Tom could do was nod.

“Right then,” Slade said it to prepare himself as much as Tom. “On the count of three.”

Tom looked at the water.

“One,”

He looked to the horizon.

“Two,”

He thought of Bess’ bright and bonny face.

“Thr-”

The air around them exploded. Heat unlike anything he had ever known surrounded them as they were flung into the air. Something cold pierced Tom’s arm, and he could only imagine, as the world turned black, that he had hit the water. The rope attaching him to Slade tightened around his torso and Tom gasped lungfuls of salty water as he surfaced.

“Slade?” He screamed. “Slade?” His call was met by the ringing of his ears. The black of the sky. “Slade, where are you?” He tugged the rope and it felt heavy in his arms. “Slade?” Panic gripped his voice now.

“I’m here, Tom. I’m right here.” Between the slapping of waves, Tom heard Slade panting to stay beside him. “Christ, there she goes.”

Another sting of fear ran through Tom. “Slade, I-” It was the smoke. Surely, it was the smoke from the Elizabeth. From the Barham’s deadly explosion. “Slade, I can’t see her. I can’t see.”

Notes: Woof. Only about three chapters left! The Barham disaster really happened. In the last chapter, Tom mentions in his letter to Bess that a Pathe film crew were aboard one of the other ships. Amazingly, and horribly, they got footage of the Barham exploding.

Esme did not let you live your encounter with Michael Gavey down.

“You should have heard her. Like she was interviewing all over again!” At any given opportunity, she took the chance to tell the story of how her best friend had shot down the genius from Brasenose.

“Esme, everyone’s heard this story a hundred times,” you’d said when she once again brought the matter up at the pub. “And anyway, he didn’t even reply when I shouted at him. Just said he needed a piss.” People at the table tittered. Michael’s reputation as a genius made had its way around the university’s colleges. Mainly because he was the one telling them.

It was a fact begrudgingly agreed upon at each recounting of the tale. Esme would tell her college mates, or new friends at the pub, the story of you and Michael getting into a fight, and inevitably they would say “The self-proclaimed genius?”

“The maths nerd?”

“That dickhead?”

Before resigning to the fact that, despite his arrogance, Michael Gavey really was a genius.

“Didn’t you hear him shouting at dining hall first night?”

“Heard he got 100% on the maths admissions test!”

“Pretty funny really. If he wasn’t such a twat I’d invite him out, he’s great entertainment.”

Luckily for you, the spectre of his reputation loomed larger than the man himself who, since your encounter at the pub, you had not seen. Perhaps he was too embarrassed after his very public rejection. More likely, it was because you were preparing for your extended essay deadline. Burrowed in your room at the desk, or else tucked in a dark corner of the library, Esme almost had to drag you to leave your room these days.

“Should have done something on Gentileschi,” you muttered into the open book on the library table. Your endless studying on the use of women as decoration that formed the basis of your essay was slowly crushing you. “Wanted to do a feminist essay but this is fucking depressing.”

Esme shifted in her seat next to you, leant over your book to look at the pictures on the open page, then pushed it from your view. Before you could protest, she spoke.

“One minute not looking at that dull picture,” she gestured to the image of Turner’s Reclining Nude on a Bed, “-isn’t gonna hurt you. But I’ll tell you what won’t be depressing. My end of year party!” Esme grabbed your shoulders and shook you.

You laughed, stifling it behind your hand when a few pug-nosed students frowned at you.

“I thought you’d settled for a cheese and wine night? ‘Sophisticated with a chance of minor sluttiness’,” you quoted her and she winked.

“Yeah, well, it’ll still be a cheese and wine night,” she opened another textbook and riffled through the pages absent-mindedly. “With slightly more wine than cheese-”

“And about sixty people.”

“Only after the meal! Had to take the chance and get in there before Catton. No-one’d come otherwise.” Esme’s face dropped, a flash of worry crossing her bonny face at the prospect of competing with Felix Catton for the Party of the Year.

“It’ll be grand,” you grabbed her hand reassuringly. “Who wants Catton’s friends there anyway? Load of stuck-up snobs-”

“You sound like Gavey!”

You shot an irritated look at Esme. She grinned back and busied herself with the work in front of her. You looked at the title scribbled across the top of the page. “Semper femina: misogyny’s early beginnings.”. You really picked a corker when you saw her at the humanities social. You nudged her shoulder affectionately, rubbing off her last comment and, still a little distracted, looked around the library.

Not all libraries in Oxford had vaulted ceilings of ancient oak, or were decorated with elaborately carved roses. Some had harsh fluorescent lighting and tiled navy carpets. It just so happened that you and Esme preferred the grander of buildings. So too, did most other students. When dedication and inspiration waned, the quickest way to feel inspired was to pop to the libraries with ancient tomes alongside the course textbooks, sharing silent exchanges with other students gazing in awe at the latticed windows and rows of paper possibility.

“By the way,” Esme whispered, not due to the setting but what she was about to say next. “Who are you bringing?”

Your eyes didn’t flicker from the book in front of you. “Bringing where?”

“To the cheese and wine party,”

You looked at her, a mixture of exasperation and amusement on your face. “Since when did I have to bring someone?”

“Well,” Esme fully turned in her seat to look at you. “You don’t, but I’m bringing Eleanor-”

“Pretty girl from the pub.”

Esme nodded and continued counting people on her fingers. “Laura’s boyfriend is visiting that weekend, Holly’s bringing some rugby lad, Joe’s best mate is coming and the other three all have boyfriends. Bit sad if you’re the loner.”

“How can I be a loner at a party?”

“You know what I mean! Come on, it’s the end of the year, loosen up a bit. Doesn’t have to be a bloke, just pick someone!”

You thought a moment. Though you hated to admit it, Michael Gavey had been right; a lot of the people on your History of Art course were public school wankers and horsey girls fast-tracked to jobs in their parents’ cosmopolitan art galleries.

Nope. No-one there you could bring, and all of Esme’s friends were already going.

“I don’t know!” You despaired, slumping back in your seat comically in mock defeat.

Esme laughed. “Tell you what, next person that comes round that corner,” she pointed to the last bookshelf of a long row, right by the library entrance. “You’ve got to take. Deal?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll buy your cheese and wine for the night.”

You stared at her. Trinity term was almost up, and so too was your state loan. “Fine.”

Esme laughed excitedly and stared excitedly at the shelves. You did so with apprehension. A minute passed and no-one rounded the corner. A group of gorgeous boys left the library, but not one person entered.

“Looks like you’ll be coming alone after all.” You pinched Esme’s side and she giggled. “Aha!” She pointed behind you and your stomach dropped. Turning slowly, you faced your fate. Date.

A wizened old man no taller that the fourth shelf shuffled along the wooden floor, his worn leather shoes squeaking with every step. There were more lines on his face than the tube map.

“No.”

“Don’t be a bitch!”

“People don’t want their fucking lecturers there, Esme.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “But it has to be the next person or my share of the food is on you.”

“Fine.”

You both stared at the bookshelf. The wizened old man shuffled past you, and soon the sound of his leather shoes faded. You glanced over your shoulder at Esme. “This is stupid-”

“Oh. My. God.” Esme was looking past you, and what had momentarily been shock was turning to unbridled glee.

“What?” You span in your chair. “No. Absolutely not.” Panic prickled the hairs of your neck. You whipped back to face Esme. She was laughing. “I can’t. Fuck. No!”

“This is brilliant,” Esme clapped her hands together. Some students shushed her and she sent them a two fingered salute.  “He’s coming this way! Go on, ask him!”

You took a deep breath and, with growing unease, turned to face your unknowing date.

Michael Gavey was walking stiffly along the rows of bookshelves. The muscles of his jaw were set in a tight line; he wasn’t here to browse; he knew what he wanted and was making his determined way towards it. You watched him carefully, waiting until the perfect moment to speak. How the hell were you going to ask?

“Let’s wait a minute-” Esme made to cut you off but you continued quickly. “Just to see where he goes. I don’t want to ask in front of everyone.”

Esme huffed but nodded, and you both went back to watching him.

“This feels creepy,” you said, watching as he got closer.

“All we’re doing is looking at him.” Esme said matter of factly. But that wasn’t quite true. It felt altogether more like you were studying him. Something about Michael Gavey meant you couldn’t look away.

Just as when you last saw him, his clothes looked second hand. Or like something an aunt would by. A crisp, short-sleeved shirt, starchly ironed, tucked into a pair of beige cargo trousers. Vile. Around his belt swung a number of carabiners, one containing his keys, another a collection of USB sticks. They jangled as he walked past.

You ducked your head to avoid being seen. Esme scoffed. You kicked her under the table.

The two of you watched his retreating back. You noticed you weren’t the only ones looking at him. A few other students, some boys smirking and some girls, were watching him to. None indicated that they knew him personally, for none sent him a smile or a wave. They simply watched as he passed. His reputation really did precede him.

You tried to think on what it was that made Michael Gavey so hard to ignore. He had done nothing today but enter the library and, by now, everyone knew him to be a stuck-up knobhead. So what was it that was making everyone stare?

Perhaps it was the rigidity with which he walked, so upright and solid. For one so thin, you imagined that if someone bumped into him now he would just continue walking as though nothing happened. Maybe it was the unnerving way in which his grey eyes stared. You remembered them from before. How he analysed people, unblinking, as he spoke to them, dissecting every minutia of their movement behind his glasses.

Could it be, that underneath the dreadful clothes and frankly alarming attitude, he was quite handsome? You blushed at the thought and turned away from Esme.

In another life, with better clothes, better glasses, a kinder face, he might have been attractive. Afterall, his hair was that Gisele Bündchen colour girls in your sixth form tried unsuccessfully to get from the bottle. His face was all angles, like the bassist in some boy band. Not front man handsome, but with a little something that appealed to the weird girls. And he was tall. God, was he tall. Not Felix Catton tall, but after him he’d been the tallest at the pub. You remembered the way he’s unfurled his body uncomfortably from the chair. Even now, he was almost half the height of some of the old bookshelves. When he came to a stop, depositing his Tesco carrier bag on the table with a rustle, his shoulder bumped into one of the shelves, and you noticed how broad they were, accentuated by the black leather belt holding up his trousers. Who’d have thought it? Michael Gavey vaguely good-looking. Shame he was a prick.

“There you go,” Esme whispered in your ear as Michael disappeared between two shelves. “Perfect chance.”

Your mouth went dry. You’d momentarily forgotten the reason you were both watching Michael. Sensing your apprehension, Esme turned you by the shoulder and looked you deep in the eye. “It’s fine, I’ll help.” She was loving this, and the two of you spent the next five minutes working out how to approach the Bastard from Brasenose.

You tried to get rid of Esme as quietly as possible.

“Just let me do it on my own!” you hissed.

“I don’t trust you, not after last time!” She was pushing you towards the bookshelf Michael was browsing. You were digging your feet in.

“Please, just let me-”

“No,” Esme giggled, pushing you closer to the shelves. “You’ll either have an argument or not ask at all. I want to see this.”

Your hand gripped the wooden bookcase just as you arrived and blocked her from going any further. She pushed against you, trying to force you towards Michael.

“I’ll do it, Esme, just give me a second!”

“Just get on with it, for God’s sake!” she whispered with a shove.

“Ouch! You’re hurting me!”

“Can I help you?”

You both jolted. Michael was staring at you, his hands balled into fists at his side. He looked…nervous. Esme had clearly pushed you closer to him than you’d thought.

“No, er, sorry,” you took a step backwards only to be blocked by Esme.

“Oh,” Michael relaxed a little, a tight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s you.”

You stared at him. “You don’t need to sound so offended by my presence.”

“You’re the one stumbling around the library hissing like a banshee.”

You were about to retort when Esme caught your arm warningly. You looked back at her with annoyance. She simply nodded at you and gestured to take a deep breath.

“Sorry, Michael,” you said. He flinched a little as you said his name, not that you noticed. Esme did. “Erm,”

“She has something she wants to ask you, Michael.”

“Ask me?”

Fucking hell, here goes. You tired to smile at him. He stared back blankly. Why did he make everything so bloody difficult?

“Yeah, um,” you stepped forward and leant against the bookshelf for support, to make it seem less formal. “Well, Esme is having an end of year party-”

“A dinner party,” Esme cut in.

“-and we wondered.”

“She wondered!”

“We wondered,” you said louder, drowning out your friend. “If you’d like to come? Maybe?”

Michael stared at you. His head jerked almost imperceptibly, as if it had suddenly fallen out with his neck, and he scoffed quietly. “Is this a joke?”

“What?” You and Esme said together.

“Are you taking the piss?”

“What? No-”

Michael placed the book he was reading back on the shelf and faced you both fully. “Get out of the way please, you’re blocking the exit.”

“Michael,” he stopped again when you said his name.

“Honestly, we’re not taking the piss.” Esme said kindly.

“We saw you come in, and Esme keeps reminding me what a bitch I was at the pub.” Never mind the fact that you were an absolute arsehole. “And we just thought, as a way to apologise, you might like to come to the party? Fresh start?”

“I don’t do parties.”

“It’s-a-cheese-and-wine-night-actually.” Esme said quickly.

“Right,” he continued staring at you. The longer he did it, the more you regretted asking. Fucking blink. He glanced quickly back at the shelves of books, and screwed his eyes tightly shut, as if working out something impossibly difficult. When he opened his eyes again, you weren’t sure whether he was going to scream or cry.

Then you realised he wasn’t looking at you. He was looking past you. With surprising force and speed, Michael pushed past the both of you.

“Oliver Quick.”

Esme looked at you with excitement. Without a word, you both hurried to the end of the bookcase. There he was. Oliver Quick, caught in a staring contest with Michael Gavey. Oliver glanced quickly at the two of you, eagerly poking your heads around the shelf to get the gossip.

Michael hadn’t noticed. “You look different.”

“Do I?” Oliver sounded bored and you wanted to smack him. What was it with the boys at Oxford? He turned away from you all, but Michael wasn’t done with him.

“He’ll get bored of you.” A pang of pity twisted your stomach. Esme had been right. Oliver’s abandonment at the pub had hurt Michael more than he let on.

Oliver stopped and turned around. “Excuse me?”

You glanced at Michael, waiting for his retaliation with bated breath. He said nothing.

“G’wan, Mikey,” Esme whispered.

Oliver walked away, but not before Michael could twist the dagger. “Bootlicker.” He enunciated every delicious, vicious syllable.

Oliver looked back again, only to cast an uncomfortable look at Michael and see Esme swearing at him behind Michael’s back. “For that Michael,” she clapped her hands. “You can be guest of honour!”

Notes: Short one this time but I’m getting back into writing by doing shorter chapters. SO excited to write the party.

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Nothing.

“Babe?”

Shrugging of his jacket and kicking off his shoes, Billy padded through the small flat and into the lounge.

He’d left you there an hour ago, curled amongst the cushions watching some trash on the telly. A few scrunched up tissues remained, an empty packet of paracetamol and an unwrapped chocolate bar.

The open plan room was empty. He filled the kettle in the small kitchenette, placed a peppermint teabag in one mug and a Yorkshire tea in another, and made his way to the bedroom.

“Babe?”

He pushed the door open a little. Light was streaming into the room, the white sheets invitingly crumpled and glowing under the bright sun’s rays. Billy would never get over this room.

In the old flat, his bedroom was like a cardboard box. Dark, brown, damp, uninviting. Made simply for sleeping, clothes littered the floor along with empty glasses and dirty plates. Whether it was an old habit or the result of his trouble state of mind, Billy wasn’t sure, but he’d never drawn the curtains nor made the bed. Here it was different.

You bounded into his life like a whirligig, full of curiosity, patience and open-hearted joy. Spent endless nights in the pub listening to him pour his heart out. Tentatively invited him to back to your new flat, the one you’d since decorated together. Helped piece himself back together, along with the small home you’d made your own, with picture frames and matching mugs. Your record collection alongside his games.

The little flat was just as bright as that day you’d unpacked the final box. Sure, the bookshelf needed dusting and there were a few dirty mugs in the sink, but you’d get to those later. Together.

Billy looked around the room. At the pillows rearranged on the bed. The abandoned romance book on the duvet. The blanket hanging of the frame.

-I will but you a bottle of wine

And we’ll laugh and toast to nothing

And smash our empty glasses down

Let’s have a round for these freaks and these soldiers

A round for these friends of mine-

Shit. Joni could only mean one thing. Her voice crooned from the record player and, at the sniffle from the corner of the room, Billy found you.

You’d dragged a pillow from the bed, folding yourself around its lumpy shape on the floor. Your comfy jogging bottoms and been discarded, and the two hot water bottles you owned were pressed against your back and tummy.

Through the mess of uncombed hair, you looked up at Billy from your position on the floor.

“Did you get chocolate?” You croaked.

He laughed a little and held up the plastic bag of essentials. He couldn’t help it. Some sick part of him loved seeing you so weak and needy. At last, a chance for Billy to step up and look after you, just as you had always done for him.

“Get on the bed?”

“I don’t want to move,” your voice was a pathetic whinge of pain and tiredness.

“Alright,” Billy got down on the floor beside you. “Here,” he handed you a sharing bar of Dairy Milk and, with his back braced against the bedframe, pulled you back onto his chest.

You groaned as your muscles stretched. “Kettle’s on, I’ll refill your bottle in a minute.” Billy’s hands wound their way to your front and removed the hot water bottle there. The skin beneath your tatty tshirt was red raw and hot to touch. “You’ll burn yourself,”

“It’s the only thing that helps,”

“Let me,” In slow, tender semi-circles, Billy massaged your lower stomach.

God, he was good to you. “Thank you,” you whispered.

“Bath later, yeah?”

You could do nothing but nod. His hands rubbing your tender body, the chocolate, the heat from the hot water bottles. This was all you needed. If you could stay like that for the next, you would. Fuck, Billy would let you if you asked.

When you’d brought Billy home to meet your parents, they were nervous. You’d told them about his past; better to be transparent. Billy was best taken at face value. What you saw was what you got, and why complicate it by skirting over what had happened to him? Their worry had eased at once, however, when they saw how dedicated he was to you. How he made the effort to talk to each of them, interested in what they had to say. How he pressed his hand to your back and gazed at you, even when you weren’t talking to him. They couldn’t have chosen gentler soul for you.

“Billy?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you,”

He looked down at you, kissing your temple as he did so. “What for?”

“Going out and getting my stuff. Looking after me-”

“Jesus Christ, I’d be a prick if I didn’t-”

“I know,” you laughed at him. “But thank you.”

You sat there on the floor together, Billy rubbing circles into your stomach and back until Joni finished her singing and the record crackled on the deck.

“How you feeling?”

“Better, a little crampy, but better.” You sat up and turned to face him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“You know,” Billy smirked as he chased your lips and settled his hands on the skin of your hips. “I did a little reading about what else helps periods, you know.”

“Billy Washington, you angel.” You teased, kissing his neck tenderly.

“Mmm,” he rubbed your sides lazily. What was the rush? A day of cuddles and cups of tea was all either of you needed. “Rosemary tea is meant to help the cramps, stretching your legs too, for some reason. And erm,” he faltered as you kissed his collarbone. “Sex, apparently.”

You stopped your kisses and looked at him with a smirk. “Getting ideas?”

Billy blushed. “It doesn’t heart to try. Said orgasms can help relax the muscles, and make periods shorter.” He was rubbing his neck, trying not to let his ulterior motives show. He’d do anything for your comfort, but if it was nice for him too? Even better.

You were still staring at him. What if you thought he was disgusting?

“We don’t have to, you know, fuck or anything.” Jesus Christ, he felt like a teenager. “But, I can give you an orgasm, if it would help-”

You shushed him with a finger to his lips. “Don’t be so embarrassed.” He smiled lopsidedly. “Maybe later?”

Billy nodded. “No pressure, though.”

“I know,” you laughed and settled against his chest. “Rub my back again?”

He did so diligently, and you hummed. “I love you, Bill.”

His hands squeezed you gently against him, and you inhaled his scent of laundry detergent and cheap cologne.

“I love you too,”

Notes: Fluffy fluffy fluff fluff.

The cold whipped Aemond’s face, harsh and blistering. Ice from the gathering storms clouds nicked his marble skin and the burn of the exposed air on his flesh hummed.

Any trace of anger, of anxiety or of rage had faded away. Amongst the clouds, high above the city, Aemond was utterly free. Free from what, he wasn’t entirely sure, but as he flew atop Vhagar’s scaled back he felt a peace the like of which he had never known.

For what felt like hours, the pair tumbled through dense cloud and bright sunburst in one endless day of freedom. He had no sense of duty, no eagerness to return to the Keep, no burden of family. Even Vhagar beneath him felt light and somehow far away. Still, she held him aloft in the sky, the steady beat of her wings taking them on, on, on.

After hours, or what could have been days, Vhagar descended below the clouds, and King’s Landing came into view. Beneath them, the waxy leaves of the Kingswood’s canopy gleamed. Aemond could just make out the world waking; the flight of birds from the trees, fires smoking from the townsfolks’ homes, a few traders making their way into the world to collect and sell their wares.

A lone rider cut a steady path along the woodland’s edge. Aemond watched a while as Vhagar’s enormous shadow followed behind them. The mane of the black horse rippled as it galloped, and even from Aemond’s position high in the sky, he could hear the thunder of its hooves.

Then, a great bell-like laugh rose into the air, pealing all around Aemond. Just as he felt, the sound was free. It warmed the very heart of him. On and on the gleeful rider laughed and Aemond found himself smiling in spite of himself. A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest and beneath him, he felt Vhagar murmur too. With a gentle roll of her body, the great she-dragon leant into the wind and Aemond saw the black horse’s rider at last.

Strands of dark hair billowed in the wind, as did robes of burgundy, bronze and deepest blue. As he was with Vhagar, the rider was effortlessly attuned to their steed, moving gracefully across every furrow of the land. Another tinkle of laughter took flight into the air and Aemond leant forwards over Vhagar’s side. He reached out, as if trying to touch the rider. Vhagar’s flight was dangerously close to the ground now, and just as Aemond’s leather-covered fingertips skirted the edge of the rider’s robes, they turned over their shoulder to look up at him.

Her bonny face was flushed red, mud spattered across her cheeks, no doubt kicked up from the hooves of the immense horse. The dark hair that so exquisitely matched that of her steed still whipped about her face, but through it Aemond could make out the brilliant flash of a smile. Mischievous, wicked, taunting.

It was as though she had sunk her teeth into him with that smile. At once, the heat that filled his veins turned to ice. Vhagar’s great bulk vanished beneath him, and he fell, watching the girl laughing at him as he disappeared through the earth.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Aemond barely heard the maid’s timid voice as he sat bolt upright in his bed. The girl stood by the windows of the chamber, a plate of fresh fruit in her hands, watching him.

Unruly blond hair swept in long strands in front of darkened his face. His naked chest, muscular and coated in a sheen of sweat, rose and fell heavily as he regained his ragged breath. One eye, unblinking and icy, stared forward, bright beneath his angry brow. The absence of the other made her shiver. She placed the plate of fruit on a table beside the window and stepped forward.

Aemond still did nothing but stare ahead of him. The gossamer curtains shrouding his bed rippled gently in the breeze from the open window. He looked straight through them, remembering the black hair of the horsemaiden and her steed.

“Your Grace?” The girl said again. A nightmare. She’d woken him from a nightmare, that was all. Or perhaps a dream. Maybe that was why he was angry. “I’ve brought breakfast, Your Grace.”

“Get out.”

Her steps faltered. Through the sweep of golden hair and fluttering fabric, she barely heard him.

“Pardon, Your Grace?” Her voice quavered, fear creeping into the words. Prince Aemond was a haunting man, that was true. The way he appeared like a spectre, his leathered boots having made no sound on the stone floors of the Keep. His unfeeling eyes, ever watching and unblinking. She had heard rumour of his fits of anger at the other servants. Still, in the ten months she had worked at the Keep, bringing food to him in the morning and lighting the fires, he had never raised his voice at her. Not yet at least.

Aemond’s hand balled into fists, the sheet beneath him crumpling. The girl stepped back. He was shaking. “Get. Out.”

“My Prince-”

“GET OUT!” The dragon within fired into life. Aemond stood abruptly, tearing at the bed’s curtains as he did so. With a squeal, and averting her eyes from the Prince’s near naked form, the maid tore from the room.

From beyond his chamber door, Aemond could hear her hurried footsteps and the shocked gasps of the Keep’s early risers.  He was used it. On any other day, they did it to his face. Storming across the room, he dressed hurriedly in his riding leathers, shoved his eyepatch aggressively over his head and made to leave the room.

How dare she, the shit-shovelling little horse-wench. From the moment she arrived he’d known nothing but her condescension and disdain. Now, even in dreams, he couldn’t escape her.

Smoothing his hair beneath the leather, Aemond passed by his dresser, pocketing his dagger in its sheath at his belt and donning his great coat. Then, struck by the stranger staring back at him from the mirror, he paused.

Wisps of blond hair stuck out from his head like spun sugar. The skin around his brow was pink from where he’d roughly donned is eyepatch. The eye that stared back at him was wild, dark despite its violet hue and ringed by purple. The usual glow of his marble skin was gone, replaced by a dull grey. Even in dreams, he couldn’t escape her. He leant against the wood and inhaled deeply.

What in the seven hells had caused this great animosity? She wasn’t the first person to mock him, nor would she be the last. And he’d met plenty a noble from far off lands as they passed through the kingdom, never to be seen again. True, he had been less than welcoming. But hadn’t he tried? Asked about her kingdom, taken her letter to the rookery. He sighed. His efforts were less than poor.

Again he smoothed his hair and straightened. After his ride with Vhagar he would, once more, try to make amends. Besides, what better way to get the upper hand of the Braedel girl than with cordial superiority. The day was set. A smirk tugging at his lips, he left his chambers and the night’s awful dream behind.

He should have known better. Were the week’s recent events not proof that while the Keep was upside down with the council and its attendees, his plans would always be dashed. No sooner had he turned left from his chambers did the young prince encounter a small Braedel delegation. A few of the calvary’s riders, and none other than the enormous Ser Herumbrand.

The knight bowed slowly to the prince, as did the other Braedels, and allowed Aemond to pass. It was as they passed each other that Herumbrand and Aemond locked eyes. The knight’s mouth did not move, but something in the twinkle of his grey eyes told Aemond that deep down he was smiling.

“She had you ratted there, son.”

Herumbrand’s last words to Aemond instantly ran through his mind. As did the humiliation of his spar with the woman from his dream.

“Ser.” Aemond said flatly, turning on his booted heel to face the knight.

“Your Grace?” The three Braedels halted and watched the prince.

“Lady Geowyth, where is she?” Best to avoid her until he had a sure plan of action that would not result in further hostility.

Ser Herumbrand waited a moment before answering. He seemed to be assessing the man before him. Aemond let him, his eye never wavering.

“With her brother, I believe, as he prepares to return to Braedel.”

A flicker of annoyance befell Aemond’s eye. “Forgive me, Ser.” He took a step forward. “‘As he prepares to return?’”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Herumbrand smiled broadly. “Lord Geodred will return to Braedel for his wedding. Lady Geowyth is to stay as the Princess’ lady-in-waiting for a time.”

With nought but a rumbled hmph, Aemond turned on his heel and stormed down the corridor. Maids and grooms parted with bowed heads at his coming and he ignored each one. Beyond the Keep the skies were blackening. He would ride Vhagar later. Deep with in the chasm of his chest he felt her settle towards slumber. She knew he would come for her by day’s end. Flying through the storm clouds was what she loved best. Better to let the clouds gather so they could really relish their time together.

Instead of making his way to Vhagar’s rocky outcrop as he had planned, Aemond treaded the well-worn stone towards the training yard, every step remembering the parries and attacks Geowyth dealt him during their spar. The way she exhausted herself trying to prove she could keep up with him, a man. He could almost feel the gentle press of the dagger she’d held at his ribs, and see the self-satisfied smile she wore when he realised its presence. And now she was to stay.

There could only be one person so scheming. Only one whose machinations would permit the young horse-maid to stay. And so it was that Aemond, on his way to sharpen his swordsmanship, burst through the ornate oaken doors that led to the queen’s ballroom.

“MOTHER!”

On the other side of the Keep, in the guest quarters, Geowyth watched with undisguised agitation as her brother and a few groomsmen packed his belongings into various trunks and bags.

From her position on the bed, she could see that he was anxious to get back to Braedel, and just as anxious to leave.

“I don’t see why you must go so soon if eam (uncle) is not so unwell. Did you not say that if he were, you would send for me? Why not take me with you?”

Geodred sighed, not looking at her as he tidied away the small writing desk covered with his studies of the mainland. “Don’t be childish.”

“I’m not being child-”

“Then trust me and stop with your pettiness,” Geowyth huffed and he ignored her. “He isn’t so unwell. Not more than when we left him, and I will send for you the moment he so much as coughs. But I am to be married, remember sweostor (sister). I may not be a husband yet, but I owe it to Folchild to prove what kind of man I will be. Thus far she has been stuck on Braedel with a sickly cynge (king), a fussing mother and a conniving father, all the while preparing singlehandedly for our marriage.”

Damn him for being so kind-hearted, Geowyth thought. Still, she couldn’t help digging in her heels and making him feel her annoyance at his abandonment. He was her brother after all.

“I wonder what sort of wife Folchild will be?” she said innocently. Geodred hummed to signify that even if his hands were busy, he was indeed listening. “When she first came to Braedel I, like you, was dazzled by her beauty. But what have we learnt of her since then?”

“I have learnt a great deal,”

She ignored him. “I cannot claim that I know her as a sister well enough to give my good opinion, but she makes you happy and that I suppose will have to do.”

“Geowyth,”

“Do you know, eam’s last letter said she has become more reserved with every visit to Braedel since we came here. No doubt your arrival home will cheer her. I’ve seen the way the women here look at you, maeg (brother). You should have come to the mainland to find a wife first. Imagine the noble ladies you could have claimed! I’ve seen even the queen giving you the once over when she thinks no-one is looking-”

“Geowyth,” Geodred said warningly.

“You could have inherited another title! Instead you get, as you say, a fussing mother-in-law and a conniving new father. No doubt he heard of eam’s ill health and descended on him like a vulture, throwing the only thing that Stanas Isle has of worth at you; Folchild herself.”

Geodred suddenly dropped the volumes of books in his hands upon the desk and interrupted her at last. In three silent strides he was at the chamber door, whispering something to one of the Keep’s servants. When he said nothing, Geowyth continued. She knew he was getting annoyed at her now, yet she couldn’t help it. It was like scratching an itch.

“And now you are to leave me here,” she said dramatically, disguising the fact that she was still hurt by this. “Drop your duty to the kingdom for duty of another kind.”

“Duty is duty, sweostor,” How could he still be so composed?

“If you say so. But I was under the impression we were sent here to make alliances and do right by Braedel. Instead, you are hurrying home so you may put your end in as soon as possi-”

“ENOUGH!” Geodred slammed his hand on the wooden poster of the bed. Geowyth flinched. “Enough.” He ran a hand over his handsome face and looked down at her. “I have done my duty here. I have impressed the king and, more importantly, the queen, for we know full well it is she running the order of things. I have made friends with the princes and demonstrated the value of our considerable calvary. And now I must return to strengthen other alliances.”

Geowyth opened her mouth to retort.

“Yes, Geowyth. I am well aware that my marriage to Folchild is to strengthen bonds with Stanas Isle and keep her father on our side. But have you stopped to think that perhaps I may love her too? Have you stopped to think at all?”

“Geodred, I-”

“If you spent your mornings with the other visiting young ladies, rather than gallivanting with Mearl, which you can do any day at home, you might understand. If you listened and learnt from our hosts rather than stirring up gossip as you did at the feast, you might understand. If you stopped of flirting with the princes and making a fool of yourself in the training yard-”

“I am not flirting!” Geowyth shouted, feeling flushed and sick in equal measure.

“-THEN YOU WOULD UNDERSTAND!” Geodred roared over her. “You are staying here because eam sees that you are a liability to our kingdom.”

Geowyth flinched like he had struck her. She needed to hear it while she was hurt, there was no other way.

“You have charmed the princess, true, but you have ruffled feathers also. How in the name of all above and below do you expect to command the renward (cavalry) when I am king? How can you expect us to trust you?” Geowyth’s eyes were watering an Geodred’s heart broke. With a shaking voice he continued. “You are hot-headed, quick to temper and to judge. We would be at war the moment you struck out on your first charge. You must learn! And staying at the keep will ensure this.”

“Geodred, please-”

“I mean it, Geowyth. The day that eam passes is growing ever closer, and I cannot afford to have such a wayward leader take my place. It is about time you realised your duty.”

“Lord Geodred,” Geodred’s head snapped to the door. Ser Herumbrand loomed in the doorway, bedecked in ceremonial battle dress. “The horses are ready.”

Geodred nodded. Herumbrand cast his eyes over the siblings. Geodred, red-faced, a little tiredness eking onto his face. Geowyth knelt on the bed with her head bowed, her face hidden by her curtain of hair but not containing her sniffles. Herumbrand left the pair as Geodred places both his hands on his sister’s shoulders.

“Come, we are away.”

“Stand up straight,”

“I am,”

“Straighter then. Our guests, your guests-”

“Father’s guests.”

“-our guests our leaving.” For the second time that week, Aemond stood on the barbican steps in the heat of the afternoon, listening to his mother and brother bicker.

All the royal family were in attendance this time. His mother, beautiful in the green of her house, auburn hair dancing in the gentle breeze, stood proud at the centre of the steps, watching with interest as the Braedel cavalry jostled with excitement; the horses eager to be on the road, their riders ready for home. Aegon looked surprisingly clean and well slept. The dark circles around his eyes were still present, and it was clear to all that he was still drunk from the night before, but he looked handsome nonetheless. Like their mother, he wore green, though darker than hers, and Aemond thought that while he might not quite pass for a prince of the realm, there was no denying his nobility.

Aemond tried not to look at his father. A crumpled heap of cloth and sallow skin had been propped up in a chair beside the eldest prince. His mouth hung open slightly, the gold mask covering his face flashing in the sun and agitating some of the horses. He could barely hold his head up to look his guests in the eye.

Only Helaena was not stood with them. The best of them, she had ventured into the crowd of warrior men and women to stand at Lady Geowyth’s side. Ser Herumbrand and a few older members of the renward watched with jovial smiles as Geowyth introduced the princess to her immense horse.

Aemond stilled with taut anticipation as Lady Geowyth took Helaena’s hand and moved it to the horse’s thick neck. Beside him, his mother shuffled on her feet. Both watched nervously. Helaena’s head was turned awkwardly away from the animal, as though trying to put some distance between herself and the horse. Lady Geowyth brushed her own dark hair from her face and whispered in Helaena’s ear. She looked just the same as when Aemond first saw her. Dark hair long and unkempt, amber eyes watchful. Her face too was just as flushed, though Aemond had put that down to her long days’ ride. Today, her cheeks were blotchy, as though she’d been crying.

It would take a fool not to see how she and Helaena complimented each other; Helaena in her light blue and gold silks, Geowyth in her dark blue and burgundy velvet. Helaena’s golden hair and Geowyth’s black. Helaena flighty and faraway, Geowyth earth-bound. When Helaena still retreated from Geowyth’s mount, the shieldmaiden took her hand and gently placed a kiss on it, murmuring something once more. Even from where he stood, Aemond could see that a small smile was playing upon Helaena’s face. Nodding at whatever Geowyth had said, Helaena allowed her to move her hand back towards the horse’s muscled neck and run it along the smooth hair there.

Aemond heard his mother exhale. He turned is good eye towards her and she smiled, proud and relieved. The corners of his mouth twitched and he turned back to the women. Geowyth had produced a shining red apple from her skirt pocket and given it to the princess. Helaena tentatively held it up for Mearl to sniff. When his bristled nose brushed her hand, Helaena giggled, and even jumped a little with glee when he began to eat it.

If it pleased his sister, Aemond supposed there was at least one good reason for Lady Geowyth to stay.

“Geowyth, astandan (come).” Geodred was standing before the king and called his sister back to her temporary position in the royal household.

“Helaena,” Alicent called gently. The two came at once. Helaena near gliding across the barbican, Geowyth following dutifully in her wake. Her role as lady-in-waiting had begun. She bowed before the king and queen when she reached the steps upon which they stood, then settled behind Helaena, now nestled between her brothers. All in the barbican and on the steps watched as Geodred approached the royals, Ser Herumbrand a step behind him.

A ripple of pride ran through the renward when their leader dropped to his knees before Viserys, so that the king may look upon him. Taking is frail hand, Geodred kissed his knuckles then covered it with his own.

“My King,” he began gently so only those closest to him could hear. “A thousand thanks for your hospitality this last week, and a thousand more for your council. I have learnt more than you can know. I shan’t forget this kindness.”

At his words, Viserys leant forward. A small gasp escaped Alicent’s lips and Ser Harrold stepped forward, ready to catch the king should he fall. Viserys raised a hand to quell them, and Geodred bowed his head closer to the king’s. This time, none could hear the whisper that passed between them, but when the king was finished, Geodred stood and bowed his head. Herumbrand followed suit, then clasped the hand of Ser Harrold in friendship.

The rest of Geodred’s goodbyes were easy. The queen beamed at him as he made his farewells and thanked her for allowing his sister to stay. All looked at Geowyth, but still her head was reverently bowed. After bowing to Aegon, Geodred patted the prince on the shoulder jovially. Heir to heir, young man to young man.

His deepest bow was bestowed upon Helaena. “Good princess, I shall not speak for my sister, but will say this. I am certain your friendship will do more for our kingdom than our cavalry or your protection.” Watching her eyes to make sure she understood, Geodred took her hand in his. He did not kiss it but held it a mere moment before letting go.

“Prince Aemond,” Geodred nodded and Geowyth, glancing up, noticed that Aemond did the same. He was the only who had. “My deepest thanks for your tutelage. Were it not for your direction, I would not have known where to begin. I only wish I could know more-”

Aemond hummed in gratitude. A warm, gentle noise. Helaena turned to look happily at her little brother, and Geowyth wondered if this sweet sound was usually reserved just for her.

“-and if you ever want to try your tongue at Braehic, or find yourself flying west, please do visit. We have plenty of land for your Vhagar, and livestock too.”

“Thank you, Ser.” Aemond held out his gloved hand and, without hesitation or worry for etiquette, Geodred grasped it in his with a broad smile. It was only then, when he’d addressed all the royals, did Geodred make his way back along the line. Helaena had already stepped sideways towards her brother-husband to reveal Geowyth.

She was looking up now, waiting for him to address her. She was the lady-in-waiting of a princess, and he a visitor of the family. In this setting he was no longer just her brother. He outranked her, and then some. Geodred sighed and stepped forward. Helaena turned away, pushing Aegon towards their parents. Aemond too bowed his head, but he could’t help but listen.

When Geodred took Geowyth’s hands, it was only then she felt able to speak.

“What did the king say?” Her voice was hoarse and quiet.

“I cannot tell,” he said solemnly, looking at her hawk-like eyes. They were not so bright as usual, their argument having dulled their colour. Pain welled in his chest and he took her face in his hands. It was just them now. Geowyth, he and their uncle Galan.

“I sorry, Geowyth,” he whispered. Aemond’s ears pricked with intrigue.

“You were right to say it,” Geowyth whispered, her voice wobbling. Say what? Geodred sighed again.

“Beon til, beon waeren (be good, be dutiful). I will send for you when the time comes.” Geowyth nodded fervently as she attempted to keep her tears at bay. “Deos forhtlic (who’s afraid)?” Geodred brought his forehead to his sister’s.

“Not I,” she said firmly. They paused a moment, their foreheads pressed together, savouring the feeling. This was the moment everything would change. Their next meeting would be the dawn of Galan’s death, and Geodred’s ascension. Who would take from them this last moment of normality?

With a swift kiss of his sister’s cheek, Geodred hurried down the steps towards his mount. Hurried, so he didn’t change his mind and drag her back to Braedel with him. Aemond watched as Ser Herumbrand fleetingly placed his forehead against Geowyth’s too. It was surely some Braedel tradition. He imagined pressing his forehead to Ser Harrold’s. He let out a sharp laugh and all but his father looked at him.

“Renward,” Geowyth called from atop his mount. Ser Herumbrand mounted his own horse beside him and placed the helmet adorned with horsehair atop is head. Just as when they had arrived, the Braedel cavalry displayed their kinship with the horses that gave them their name. This time though, Aemond did not scoff. Owing to his growing fondness of Lord Geodred, he found it admirable of the small island kingdom. Just as Geodred tired to learn about the ways of the mainland, Aemond found himself wanting to know more about Braedel.

A great clatter of metal and horses’ hooves echoed across the stone walls of the barbican; the delegation from Braedel had begun their slow journey home. At Aemond’s side, Helaena shuffled to stand beside Geowyth, holding her hand tightly. Tears were gathering in Geowyth’s eyes, her jaw set as her lips trembled.

It was as Aemond looked from Helaena and Geowyth’s entwined hands to the latter’s eyes that she looked at him. Wild and childlike in her sadness, the amber of them shocked him, as they had done the first time he saw her. He looked away quickly and instead caught the eye of his mother. She smiled knowingly and he tutted.

“Geowyth,” Helaena’s sweet voice was tender with concern. “You may have today as your own. Go, now.”

Geowyth hesitated. She cast her eyes towards her retreating house then, at Helaena’s insistence, curtsied to the royal family and made her way up the steps and into the comfort of the Keep.

“Aemond.” It was Helaena, speaking lowly to him.

“Helaena,” he smiled softly at her.

“I think you should have the day as your own too. You have not been of sorts. Perhaps the three of us could ride later?” Aegon looked briefly over his sister-wife’s head at his brother and shrugged noncommittally.

“If you insist,”

“I do,” Helaena smiled as the rest of the royal household made their way inside, the thunder of the calvary now a mere rumble.

Peace at last.

Aemond daredn’t say no to Helaena, certainly not when she had commanded him to take the day as his own. Not even their mother could refuse. She was so frequently flustered by her daughter’s odd pronouncements that she found saying anything to her a difficulty.

Still flushed with happiness at Geodred’s assessment for him, Aemond strode through the Keep with renewed vigour. After Helaena, the relative stranger from Braedel was the only person to see him as he felt. As he was.

Buoyed by the praise, Aemond made for one of the Keep’s many libraries. There were plenty to choose from. The large one favoured by his father, full of old tales and dusty tomes. The bright and airy one that his mother and sister frequented in the royal apartments. The myriad of others scattered across different floors and corridors. Today, before heading towards the outskirts of the city where Vhagar rested, Aemond made his solitary way towards his favourite since he was a boy. Where he came to hide from his brother and nephews after a day of merciless teasing.

Tucked between White Sword Tower and the goldcloaks’ barracks, the small study that was Aemond’s preference looked out over Blackwater Bay. It was midday now and Aemond imagined the water lapping at the city’s walls below the window he favoured sitting in.

No-one else came here. Not the white or goldcloaks as they were always too busy. His family stayed in the royal apartments and guests had their own library in the west of the Keep. It would be silent except for the gulls over the bay and the breeze through the window. Trays of confectionary will have been restocked by the maids, the windows opened to air the old books, golden light flowing in from the sun beyond. All Aemond needed to relax. It was also one of the few libraries he had not looked for knowledge of Braedel. Perhaps one of the guards had family from the small island and kept volumes of its history in there as a nostalgic reminder of home. Or maybe a Maester had produced a long-forgotten biography of the kingdom that no-one thought of interest enough to keep in the main library’s stores.

Whatever the reason he had not checked, Aemond all but bounded (as much as princes are allowed to bound) towards the small door at the top of the ill-used spiral staircase. A few goldcloaks bowed to him as he passed and, feeling that normality had returned to the Keep, Aemond threw open the door to his secret hideaway.

A chair screeched across the stone floor and clattered to the ground with a loud thunk.

The curtains were indeed open. The confectionary had been refilled, and Aemond could see that beyond the window seagulls were soaring and the water glistened. But before the window, in what would have been his usual seat, stood Lady Geowyth.

Her eyes were wide with shock but rimmed with red and shining brightly. She’d been crying. She stood frozen for a while, a mixture of horror and shame playing across her pale face.

A flash of recognition lit behind Aemond’s eye. He had seen this expression before. Minus the tears, she had looked just the same when she startled him in the royal library. The repetition of this event made him chuckle, almost imperceptibly. The noise seemed to remind Geowyth of where she was, and she hastily dropped into a low curtsey.

“Your Grace.” Aemond watched as she wiped her face with her sleeve and turned to the window. The chair she was sat in had overturned in her shock, and she bent to pick it up. Aemond’s eye followed the swoop of her frizzy hair as it fell towards the floor. The action exposed the back of her neck, and the midday sun on her pale skin glowed. It was almost Targaryen in its brilliance. He cleared his throat and moved forward awkwardly.

“Let me,” he reached one hand out for the chair and swiftly righted it. He was certain she could have done it herself, and he was still unsure of his feelings towards her. Whether indifference, curiosity or dislike, he had been raised a prince. Decorum, chivalry and honour above all.

Geowyth sniffled a quiet “thank you” and picked up the book upon the windowsill. Aemond read the spine. Philosophies on the Flora and Fauna of the Crownlands.

“This is one of Helaena’s favourites,” His voice was a little flat, a little stunted, but it was a start.

“Yes,” Geowyth sniffed again. “Forgive me,” and she wiped her nose once more. Aemond looked away. How are you meant offer comfort but also give privacy? His mind raced and he tried to think of what to say. The wrong thing might ignite her sarcasm, as anything he uttered seem to do. He might even offend her, as he had done on occasion. And he certainly didn’t want to make her cry more, what on earth would he do then?

As Aemond fretted over his next move, Geowyth watched him. Through her tear-blurred eyes, she watched him awkwardly look around at the books. He had removed his leather gloves, and they creaked as he wrung them behind his back. The eye that so often piercingly surveyed her was almost purple in the sunlight, and softer that she had ever seen it. After their last encounter in the training yard, Geowyth half expected Aemond to want her head. In his stead, she found a somewhat lost and, dare she say it, shy young prince.

“Here,” his voice broke her from her thoughts. Aemond’s pale hand took another book from the shelves and handed it to her cautiously, as though she would bite if he moved too fast. Geowyth looked down at the book’s green cover. Gold leaves were embossed on the fabric and she ran her hand over it.

“Eseld’s Apohtic,” Geowyth said lowly.

“It’s another of Helaena’s favourites.” His tone was blunt, but not so cold as how he usually spoke to her. Geowyth looked at him. He was watching her intently, eye shifting occasionally as though embarrassed.

“Thank you,” though Geowyth’s voice was still small from crying, something of herself began to return. She took the two books in hand, sniffled once more and then stood to her full height. Enough of this wallowing. She looked back to Aemond. “I’ll leave you know, Your Grace. It is clear you were hoping to find this study unoccupied.”

Aemond opened his mouth to speak, faltered, then shut it again. Offering a small smile, Geowyth curtsied and made for the door. As she passed him, Aemond caught the scent of pine and rosemary in her hair and, just as she reached the door, he spoke.

“My lady,” his voice was desperate and he cringed. Geowyth half turned to face him, and he could see just how flushed she had become from crying as the windowlight hit her face.

“Your Grace?” Despite her sadness, and the unhidden resentment the two shared for each other, something about her calm patience as he fumbled with politeness soothed him. Suddenly, he saw a glimmer of what Helaena so loved about her.

“I came here in search of books on Braedel. It is one of the few places I hadn’t looked-”

A smirk quirked the lady’s lips. “You have been looking?”

Damn. “Your brother talked so highly of home, and I cannot deny your language and customs intrigue me,” he flushed. How common of him to admit to something so indecent as curiosity. “I thought, perhaps, well. I would like to learn more.”

Geowyth watched him a moment, and Aemond wracked his brain for what he could have possibly said to offend her.

“All you have to do is ask, Your Grace.”

Aemond’s eye flickered to Geowyth’s. Mirth, or maybe even kindness, was shining in them now. He swallowed. It was the expression she had worn in his dream.

“But if you are so determined to learn from your books,” she pointed to a shelf by the unlit hearth. “May I recommend Grennan’s Compendium of Republic Realms? I believe my uncle wrote the introduction-” Geowyth’s voice tailed away. She had suddenly remembered the missive her uncle wrote the day before.

“The heir apparent you say is a wastrel but bonny fellow, and Geodred tells me that Prince Aemond has been giving him private tutelage in mainland history. List me two more of their virtues with your next letter.”

She looked at the books around her, the one Aemond now reached for and the two in her hand. Helaena’s favourites. “You care for Helaena very much.”

Aemond looked at her curiously. “Yes,” he said, as though it were obvious. “Only a little more than you, I dare say,” he added with sarcasm.

Geowyth laughed that hearty laugh she shared with her brother. Aemond’s breath caught in his throat; he had almost smiled at the sound.

“I doubt even one so plainly open as I could care for someone the way you care for her.”

Aemond clasped his hands behind his back and smirked. “Perhaps it is the one thing we have in common.” He watched as Geowyth relaxed against the door. This isn’t too difficult, he thought. Perhaps he possessed some of his family’s charm after all.

“Helaena and sparring, how contrary we are.” Geowyth too could hardly believe the ease their conversation had found. This gentle teasing and care of his family; maybe she had misjudged him.

“I would hardly call it sparring,” Aemond said, his tone more confident now. “Batting your lashes and holding a dagger to my ribs? That move has been used more often in the street of silk than it has in the training yard.”

A potent silence fell between them.

Aemond knew at once he had said the wrong thing. Geowyth’s eagle eyes hardened and an electricity seemed to bristle around her.

“Well, I maybe be as common as a whore in your eyes, Your Grace,” she spat his title viciously as she whipped her dark hair over her shoulder and opened the door. “But last we met it was you who was flat on their back.” No sooner had Aemond begun to retort had the study door slammed, Geowyth’s angry footsteps echoing down the staircase beyond.

“She had you ratted there, son.”

Aemond ripped of his eyepatch and jammed his hands into his eyes with an angry growl. Throwing Grennan’s Compendium of Republic Realms across the study, Aemond too strode from the study, not caring whether he encountered the lady on the stairs. He’d push her down the rest of them for all he cared.

Hours later, as he and Vhagar flew above the Crownlands, Aemond watched a lone stallion thundering across its grassy plains. Air-borne and earth-bound, the riders rode their mounts ferociously, testing them to their limits. It was as Aemond and Vhagar tumbled from the sky, flying perilously, exhilaratingly, exquisitely close to the ground, did the rider look up at him. With fierce determination, Lady Geowyth kicked her heels at Mearl’s side and tore away from the dragon.

From high above them, sat upon a rocky ridge, Helaena and Dreamfyre watched.

Note: The next chapter will have Sexual TensionTM, I promise!

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Next chapter won't be too long now!