Читать книгу Bloody Awful - Georgia Evans - Страница 9

“All correct, I trust?”

Bloch shrugged. It was bound to be but how in Hades Weiss had all this prepared in a couple of days was beyond him. He opened the identity card. So, he was now William Arthur Benjamin Block, 28 years old and declared physically unfit for military service because of flat feet and asthma, but apparently possessed the stamina to work long hours in a bakery.

“Finding Eiche’s killer is our priority,” Weiss said, “but we need results for our benefactors in Adlerroost. Flattening that munitions factory would be an appropriate gesture.”

“I’ll need supplies: plastic explosives, detonators.” And better luck than Eiche.

“You’ll have what you need.” Bloch hoped so. He fully intended to succeed, come what may.

“And I go, when?”

“Tomorrow. Wednesday. Time to ready things and open for business on Friday.”

Bloch shrugged. “Pity we can’t change it to Block’s Bakery, but I don’t plan on staying long.”

“You’ll stay until you succeed and start by finding Eiche’s killer.”

If there was one. But that he’d keep to himself. “He shall die. Slowly.”

“No!” Weiss frowned. “I have orders. When we find the killer, we capture him. Incapacitate if need be. They want him in Adlerroost.”

Of course. They’d played power games with vampires and fairies, why not a powerful human? All the more reason to see this one dead. He did not want to see the Nazis breeding a race of vampire killers. “I will be there Wednesday.”

Doris Brewer put her hand on her hip and looked the new baker in the eye. “Like that, is it?” She didn’t need the money this badly. Cleaning up Stone’s Bakery and the flat over it took the better part of three days. She’d expected that. It had been a sorry sight after sitting empty all that time but after generous application of ammonia and washing soda, the place was clean and no longer smelled of mice. They no doubt still lurked in the walls, but after the way the man was acting, he could get his own traps and use his own ration coupons for cheese.

“I expected more than this,” his high and mightiness announced, striding around the shop and narrowly missing her bucket of soapy water. “Are the machinery and ovens in working order?”

“Don’t ask me,” Doris replied, pushing her sleeves up. “I clean. I don’t take care of no ovens or machinery.”

“So, you’re my servant?”

He had to be off his rocker. “Oh, no, I’m not. Just came in to clean as a favor for Mr. Hudson.”

She might not have spoken. “I will need you every day. You will clean after the shop closes. Do not forget.”

Every evening? And who was going to take care of Joey if she wanted that many hours? Which she didn’t. But she found herself agreeing.

“Very good. You may call me ‘Sir,’” he told her as he turned and went upstairs. To find something else to go on about no doubt.

Sir, indeed! The only person in the village Doris had ever called “Sir” was Sir James Gregory over at Wharton Lacey and if this Block person thought he was Sir James’s equal, she was the Duchess of Devonshire.

Fueled with righteous indignation, Doris picked up her bucket, almost spilling the lot as he hissed into her ear. “Where are my sheets and furnishings?” Who did he think he was, creeping up on her like that?

“It’s not my job to provide them.” The cheek of some people! Mrs. Chivers and Miss Dake had spent the morning hanging blackout curtains for him and now he expected sheets and blankets.

“Who will get them for me?”

At least he hadn’t asked her. “Best talk to Mr. Hudson about that. Time for me to go.” She tipped the bucket down the outside drain. Loaded it and her mop and broom onto Joey’s push chair, grabbed her coat and left before he could make any more demands.

Honest, the cheek of some people!

Bill Block watched the servant Doris march up the lane in high dudgeon. If all the locals were as easy as that to compel, he’d have the entire village as his personal fief in a fortnight.

It was a thought.

Meanwhile he had a delivery of flour to chase up, and someone somewhere had to produce bedding and a nice warm neck. He should have made use of the stupid servant whilst she was within grabbing distance but no matter. He’d stroll down to the pub once it got dark and help himself.

“You look lovely, Gloria,” Alice said, as she combed out Gloria’s hair. “This color suits you so much better than it ever did me.” The dark blue dress, with a flared skirt and neckline Alice had tugged as low as possible, did a lot more for Gloria’s appearance than her nurse’s uniform. “Andrew is going to drop his jaw when he sees you.”

“Just as long as he closes it again. If I have to start the evening looking down at his tonsils, I’ll make him say ‘Ah!’”

“Ah! You’re beautiful!”

“Alice, you do go on.”

“Only when I have to. I’ve got your handbag. Your coat and gloves are downstairs. He’ll be here soon, and you really don’t want him to see you bumping down stairs on your bottom, do you?”

“Couldn’t be worse than pulling me out of a ditch.” But starting off upright was definitely more dignified.

She made it downstairs, hauled herself to standing, courtesy of the banisters and newel post, and Alice helped her on with her coat.

“Darn it, Gloria. We should have waited and let Andrew put your coat on.”

“I told him I’d be ready when he got here and ready I will be. Just taking my coat off and balancing crutches is going to be bad enough.” This being incapacitated was for the birds. She’d be much more sympathetic with patients from now on. It was amazing the simple things that needed two hands. She had to sit down to put on her gloves, and trying to button up her coat whilst balancing on crutches was close to an acrobatic feat.

But she was ready, more nervous than when taking her nursing finals, and convinced this was a loony idea. What was she thinking, even agreeing to go out with him? Taking the risk of getting close to a mortal man. Particularly a mortal man she really fancied. She should pick up the phone right now and say she’d changed her mind, couldn’t go out, was in too much pain and that…

There was a sharp rap on her front door. “I’ll get it,” Alice said.

“Evening, doctor,” a warm, friendly voice said. Alright, a warm, sexy voice, and Andrew Barron stepped into her kitchen and her heart did a flip. And a triple back somersault.

He was lovely. Handsome, gorgeous. Gloria’s mouth went dry, her heart raced and her hands sweated inside her knitted gloves. “Hello,” she said.

Andrew said nothing for a minute. Just smiled. Infinitely better than the dropped jaw Alice prophesied. “All set?” he said. “Let me help you out to the car.”

One step outside the door and Gloria thanked the heavens she had a nice, firm brick path, not the picturesque gravel so many villagers preferred. She made it to the car, and got into the passenger seat under her own steam, much, she suspected, to Andrew’s disappointment. And her relief. She wasn’t sure she trusted herself in his arms when she didn’t have pain to distract her.

After spending an unnecessary amount of time propping her cast on a box and pillows and wrapping a rug around her, Andrew walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat.

The drive across country, in the dark, could best be described as sedate with awkward conversation. Somehow the ride brought back Gloria’s memories of the pain and discomfort of her previous ride with Andrew. She tried hard to blot that out. She was here to have dinner and enjoy an evening with a distinctly good-looking man.

Andrew pulled up in front of the hotel and Gloria faced several stone steps up to the entrance.

Didn’t slow down Andrew Barron. “Hang on to those crutches,” he said, as he swept her up in his arms and strode up the half dozen steps. The door was held open for them by a young officer in uniform, and she was inside, Andrew setting her on her feet by a roaring fire.

“You really did yourself in, didn’t you?” the officer, a captain she noticed now they were in the light, said as he shut the door and rejoined his pals standing by the bar.

“Not too badly,” Gloria replied and that was all she was saying. If Andrew as much as mentioned a ditch…

Bless him, he didn’t. Just walked beside her as they crossed into the dining room and a stooped, gray-haired waiter showed them to their table.

“What would you like, Gloria?” Andrew asked over his menu.

“To go straight home” was downright churlish, and somehow not quite the truth. Sitting across from Andrew, comfortable with a cushion at her back and her leg propped up, she was…content. She seldom went out. Never had dinner with a man who as good as made her mouth water, and darn it, she was going to enjoy herself.

The selection wasn’t that brilliant, but more than she’d have picked from her pantry at home or the kindhearted offerings of the good women of Brytewood. She couldn’t help wondering where they found duck but decided to try it anyway. Some pond was no doubt lacking its usual quackers.

It was the bottle of wine Andrew ordered that distracted her from weighing merits of tomato soup or potato fritters.

“Wine, Andrew?” Wartime prices were prohibitive.

“Of course,” he replied, grinning. “It’s a celebration.”

“Then, sir,” the stooped waiter said, “may I suggest the claret. A very nice one, we’ve had it since before the war.”

It was lovely of Andrew to go to the expense and it did add to her sense of comfort and coziness. Nothing quite like being indoors, curtains drawn against the night and sipping French wine with a handsome man.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Andrew said.

“Alright.” Maybe not all of them. “I was just thinking how really nice this is. Beats reheated toad in the hole at home.”

“I’ve always liked toad in the hole. Especially when the sausages are all brown and the Yorkshire pudding crispy.”

“You’ve obviously never eaten Miss Millard’s then.” Gloria paused to take another taste of wine. “Her Yorkshire is soggy.”

“Then, Nurse Prewitt, dine with me every night and you’ll never have to eat soggy toad in the hole again.”

“If we came here every night we’d soon be skint and happy to get anything.”

“I’d like to be here every night with you, Gloria.”

Somehow lighthearted suddenly became serious. Thank heaven for the arrival of soup.

“Where did you work before you came to Brytewood?” Better ask questions before he started.

Andrew looked up from his soup and smiled. A nice smile. A very sexy smile. It really wasn’t fair. Why was she so attracted to him when it was a downright risky idea? “You’re not going to believe this.”

“Try me.” He couldn’t have a past stranger than hers.

“Only if you promise never, ever, to say a word of this outside this room.”

“Alright.” What was this deep, dark secret?

“I was in France, in Lyon, training to be a chef. Came back in August of ’39 when things looked really dodgy. I was searching for something to do. I knew the Army wouldn’t have me because I have a heart murmur left over from rheumatic fever as a child. An uncle in the War Office suggested I apply for a job in munitions. I nearly fell over when I found out it was setting up and running an entire plant. I actually told them I wasn’t qualified.

“The old duffers on the interview board didn’t bat an eyelid. Said I’d been a prefect and head of my house at school, so I knew how to organize and get on with people. Since most of the workers would be women, they needed someone who could handle women. I have five older sisters and that presumably gave me that qualification.” He shook his head. “Not that I ever ‘managed’ them. They all bossed me around mercilessly from the time I was in nappies.”

The way he said it showed he loved them, bossy or not. Gave her a little pang for what she’d never had. Or had there been others? Sisters? Brothers? She’d never know.

“So, on strength of those very flimsy qualifications and, I suspect, a whole lot of favors owed to my illustrious uncle, I got the job. And I’m nowhere near as incompetent as I feared. I have munition engineers and designers who handle all the technical stuff. I just keep it going smoothly, as best I can. My biggest headache—and this is between us, you have to swear.”

She nodded. “I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.” She made the old playground gesture.

“Is my Deputy: Williams. Ninety-five percent of worker problems are because of his hamhandedness. I swear he lives to stir up trouble. I know he resents me being younger and makes snippy comments about public schools. He can’t stand that I went to Winchester and he went to some high school in the Midlands. As if it mattered in the middle of a war, but it does to him.”

“I know him. He’s been sick a lot recently.” Peter had mentioned it in one of their meetings.

Andrew nodded. “Yes. Lost weight, even fainted a couple of times on the job. You’d feel sorry for him if he weren’t such a nasty piece of work. Still, I didn’t bring you here to talk about Jeff Williams.”

Nor her. The man gave her the willies. He had nasty leering eyes and the way he’d paired up with Miss Waite’s creepy nephew didn’t add anything to Williams’s allure. “You’ve led an interesting life. Did you really want to be a chef?”

“Very much, upset my parents no end. They wanted me to be a barrister, but my marks in my Upper Certificate were pathetic. I’d never get into one of the Inns of Court. So they sent me to Oxford, to Dad’s old college: Exeter. I so distinguished myself at cricket and rugby, I failed to get my degree. That did upset them. Should have really. I’d wasted their money and three years of my life. They had this big family confab—my sisters came home for it—on ‘what do we do about Andrew?’ You wouldn’t believe some of the lunatic proposals. Well, I thought they were lunatic.” Again that lovely smile.

She was not getting seduced by a smile.

“Seems the only thing I’d done that met with unanimous approval was getting really good marks in French on my Higher. So they decided to make a linguist out of me. I insisted on the chef bit. I’d been over there five years. Worked in two hotels and a restaurant and clawed my way up from vegetable chopper and general dogsbody to trainee sous chef. The war really scuppered my plans, but I thank old Uncle Stephen for getting me this job. If not they’d probably have me parachuting into France because I can speak the lingo and between us, Gloria, I’m terrified of heights.”

“I’m glad you’re here and not behind lines.” Or worse, in a prison camp like Alice’s brother.

“I’m glad I’m here too, Gloria. Very, very glad.”

His gladness gave her a dry throat. Soup helped. So did a few gulps of wine.

“You’ve had my none too illustrious life history, how about yours?” She’d been dreading this. “You grew up in Reigate, your parents died and you became a nurse.” Not quite in that order. “What happened in between?”

She took another gulp of wine. Not that it would help—the reverse probably—but to buy her time to decide how abbreviated a version she could get away with.

As she set her glass back down, the air raid siren let out a long, piercing wail.

The stooped waiter paused to speak to a couple at another table, before making his way to Gloria and Andrew. “I’m sorry, sir and madam, but it appears we are under attack. We have made provision for our guests down in the cellar if you would please bring your gas masks and follow me.”

Gloria hadn’t waited for that obvious information. She was already standing on one foot and struggling with her coat. Andrew was around the table helping her and handing her her crutches. Her gas mask was at home. Too bad at this point.

The cellar entrance was through the kitchen. The young officers were already down there for the bar evacuated first.

Gloria gave one look at the steps, called out “Watch out, I’m throwing my crutches down,” sat on the top step and bumped down. So much for dignity and Alice’s borrowed silk stockings. She’d have to replace them somehow.

At the bottom, one of the young officers helped her to her feet and another handed her her crutches.

Andrew was right on her heels. She was glad he was there. Just being close to him make her feel safe. Or as safe as one could with the prospect of Heinkels and Messerschmidts overhead.

As the last people descended, Andrew bagged a corner with an old sofa. Not exactly luxury and comfort but it was better than her Anderson shelter in the garden. She didn’t have Andrew’s arm around her out there on her own either. War brought a few small pleasures.