( Chapter Sixteen: THREE ALLEYS IN A FRENCH CAFÉ )
ROBIN STARTED HER WEEKEND OFF FROM NURSING BY HEADING INTO FRANCE WITH A NEW DRESS AND A BOTTLE OF CHERRY-FLAVOURED GIN IN HAND. She'd been cast merrily overseas, and had been able to disguise her morning sickness as being that of the rocky sea; however, she wasn't sure that boating was too good for her either way, and spent must of her time flat on her back on the canvas bunk, staring at the bottom of the one stacked above her own.
She'd been stationed exactly where she'd told Olive; rural, occupied France. It was solitary and quaint and a nice place to take legless men on leisurely strolls in their wheelchairs, especially if they enjoyed the fresh air as much as she did, even when it was a frosty December. The military action was scarce but the bodies were still heavily amounting in the streets; infected wounds and dank conditions made for a lot of passings away, and there was no way that the nurses could get rid of the bodies other than to stack them up in a pile on the side of the street and wait for someone to come and take them away.
A petite French girl with big front teeth ane a pretty face named Fleur Buchanan had began the rumour that they were incinerating the bodies using Nazi technology after she'd seen a sketchy article in an American newspaper that was given to her by one of the hospitalised Yanks. Delphine Bisset dismissed that as nonsense and said that all the bodes were taken to morgues as they awaited conformation from their families of what to do with their bodies. Nurse Bisset had the gruelling task of identifying the deceased men and writing tags that listed their station, divison, where they were from and their name, and then tying them to their big toe using string.
Robin tried not to think about it too often, and spent most of her time in the more lighthearted wards of the hospital, where the men did jigsaws and dances and sang romantic songs to impress the nurses they wanted to take out that weekend. Everyone seemed to be in the frame of mind to couple up — it was on trend to have a soulmate these days, and besides, if these women were to wed these men and then lose them to the Germans, they'd have a chance of receiving a hunk of money for mourning compensation.
Herself and James had a crossover of merely one day — only one day when their time in Paris overlapped. Robin had arrived in with some other nurses that were quartered nearby, but there were none of them that she was particularly close to, which was beneficial as she could romp off into Paris without a second thought about anyone but Jim.
It was a bad headspace to be in. She was a fool, and she could hear Olive and Kitty chiding her in her head constantly whenever she stopped for a moment to think. However, she couldn't help but feel as if they didn't understand; that nothing that they were going through was nearly comparable to what Robin was feeling. She acted as if she was the only war bride and the only British girl following her solider boyfriend out into Europe like a humble little lemming.
She was anxious on the tram, and had told Fleur Buchanan that she was taking the day off due to illness, but she knew the girl had seen her leaving in her nicest dress and plum-coloured beret. Fleur probably suspected Robin of leaving to meet a boy, a lover in secret. That was partially the case, yes, but Jim was no boy. No one could still be a boy after what the war had put them though.
It was a garrison cap with a sky blue circle with a white parachute inside on the front that she spotted first. Jim? she focused hard to double check and check again that it really was her husband and not some sort of illusion in the street that she'd imagined for being too hopeful in her search. She'd never seen a man so beautiful, in a long woollen trench coat, a dark shadow dusted across his chin and above his mouth. Robin Winifred couldn't help but feel like her chest was caving in, and she could hardly regulate her breathing at the sight of him fit and in one piece — well, mostly.
Like a little plum on legs, she ran towards him in her wine-coloured beret and coat (of which was beginning to feel tighter and tighter around the stomach region). She had to stop and wait for a tram and three bicycles to pass before she could wrap her arms over the shoulders of her love, "Jim!" she cried with glee, unable to contain herself for much longer, "You came, you came!"
She cupped his face with her trembling hands, her eyebrows cocked upwards and the corners of her mouth drawn back in a beam that practically glowed. Winnie looked just the same as she had the day he'd left her for Holland. For just a moment, he wished they could both could go back to the times when things were warm and the days were soft and she was still studying for her medical exams on the riverside in pretty summer dresses and frilly socks.
He cupped her body in a hearty embrace, a heaven-on-Earth kind of bliss that only they were subject to on that street in Paris that day. Parisian bystanders had no idea of the relief and the bliss that flooded through Jim, a heat that warmed him from head to toe in an instant. "Winnie," he sighed into the crook of his sweetheart's neck, cradling her in his arms like he would something fragile and easily broken, "Oh, how I've missed you so damn much."
She could have stayed like that for forever and a day, wrapped up in a coat. It was like not a single hour and passed since he left her, and they were just newlyweds again, blessed and fresh with love and youth. A couple of drunken Frenchmen whooped and jeered as they passed the couple, who had spontaneously kissed in their embrace.
Breaking their rather publicly endowed kiss and opening his eyes again, Jim commented, "And I thought nurses were only pretty in pinup shots," tucking her into his chest and popping his chin onto the crown of her head, a smile tucking into the apples of his cheeks, "You been here long?"
She shook her head, looping her arm around his, "Trust you to say something moderately poetic and simultaneously stupid. I just arrived by tram, the stop was just across the road," she nodded her head over towards the point where she had initially been stood, "I wasn't on it for too long. I read one of my books on the way down, the journey was only about an hour or so."
"Let's get goin' before we start holdin' up traffic, hm?" Jim began to steer her down an offshoot alleyway, nattering, "I heard there's a small cafe a few blocks away. Bill's nurse was tellin' us about it back a week or so ago. He kept sayin' he was going to take her out, and she suggested going there for tea, and he said he didn't do tea — that made us laugh, y'know, because he's British and that, and that's all you folks drink, ain't it? We should go there, yeah? Better than standin' out here in the freezin' cold. I've had enough of that for a lifetime, I think."
"That sounds absolutely lovely, Jim," she commented, giving him a soft pop kiss on the mouth that he gladly returned, and she gave him another, and another, and if it were appropriate, she would have given him a thousand more.
The two of them skirted away to the backstreet coffee shop like not a moment had passed since they last saw one another. It was lovely and quaint, only filled with the clinking of cutlery and the low murmur of smalltalk. Jim exclaimed: "There was a shop back in Mount Ida a bit like this. It was called Orange Crush, and I was always there for Coca Colas after school with Penny. It seems like a lifetime ago. It was like I was a whole different person back then."
"Yeah," she agreed as he held the door open for her and she was greeted by the bitter scent of ground coffee, "I feel the same way when I think about the time I used to live in Yorkshire ... when I used to work as a Land Girl with my big sister Hermia. I can hardly remember Doris Desmond sitting beneath the peach trees, and all that jazz. I can scarcely remember the way my life was before the war."
They sat on the same side of the booth that curved around the table in the corner of the coffee shop. Outside, there had been a sign that read: Entreprise ouverte comme d'habitude! which meant Business open as usual! as a subtle moral booster for Parisians and enlisted European soldiers alike. She smoothed her skirt down against the backs of her thighs when she sat down, and Jim took off his blazer and garrison cap and everything that made him look mildly unfamiliar.
There he was, again, in his cream button-up shirt and tie. They were pressed up against one another, side by side, but he still seemed so distant. She touched his feet with hers and looked at the scarring the potato masher shell had left in the side of his face. He was looking down when she did, but noticed almost instantly that she was assessing the damage. It was like a sixth sense. He always knew. He'd seen it in the nurses, too.
She slowly reached out and grazed that half of his face with the tips of her fingers. This world was ever so tough on them both — every so often it was either her or the love of her life getting injured and at this point she didn't know which caused the other more stress. It was a ridiculous back-and-forth cycle or worrying that made her nauseous to the very core of her being and made her ache for this war to be over as soon as possible.
"Is it so bad?" he whispered, his eyes fluttering around nervously and his pupils dialates. The scarring wasn't too raised, but was webbed right over his cheekbone and extended down to his jaw. The whole ordeal had ended up scalding off a chuck of his eyebrow that luckily grew back, though she hardly noticed that.
"No," she reassured him with her hand over his, "It's not. Of course it isn't," you are not the scars you harbour — you are not the war you've fought. She retracted her hand and tucked it into her lap again, "You look the same as you always have, and you've always looked like a dish."
Jim's dark eyes lingered on her for a second before he produced a hip flask and poured himself some cherry-flavoured gin into one of the empty teacups. "My Uncle Sylvester used to drink gallons'a this stuff. Actually, it reminds me of him — he used to get our Aunt Carrie to send him over all these different types'a alcohol from back home, whilst he was servin' in the American Civil War, durin' the Battle of Fort Sumter. He used to swap them for weekend passes n' then trade those for dough. He got himself enough to buy her a weddin' dress, eventually."
That reminded her of a story her pal Kitty had told her. Giddily, she recalled, "Kitty Grogan's been trading letters with her fiancé, Harry. Apparently he'd been hoisting his parachute around with him all throughout the Normandy operation for her to use the silk for her wedding dress, and it was now in a locker somewhere in Aldbourne. Kitty's been looking for it high and low, trying to pick all the locks, but Harry can't remember where he stuffed it when he got back. I'm sure she'll find it at some point — Aldbourne's a small place for something as significant as an open parachute to get lost. I suppose we'll just have to wait for you lot to get home."
"I dunno about that, sweets," he responded dejectedly, "They're gettin' us back on our feet and prepped for Bastogne, now. They're sayin' out with the old, in with the new, n' pumpin' us up with replacement soldiers. Now that I'm shiny n' new again, I'll be tagging along just as we leave for Belgium. I was sent to a replacement depot n' I knew I would be assigned to another company. No way, I thought, I ain't going back into combat with another unit. If I had to face combat again, it was gonna be with E Company, so I decided to go AWOL."
Instead of weeping like many war wives would have, Robin Winifred pursed her lips and then inquired, "Have you got everything you'll need for when you're out there? Are you certain? The last thing I want is for you to freeze, you know. It'll be absolutely glacial out there — I can knit you some socks if you like and send them in the post. I'll pen to Olive about it; she has tons of spare time and we've even been unravelling my grandpa's old jumpers for wool, I'm sure she could help knit socks for all your buddies too. I don't want a husband coming back with half of his fingers and half of his toes! Promise me you won't do anything idiotic over there like ... like take off your darned boots or something."
"'Course I won't Winnie, you won't need to worry a bit," he said with a smile. A white, bright, American Colgate smile that made her both weary and sad and warm at the same time. She savoured it with every morsel of her being, and watched him for a moment, until he said, "What?"
"I think I'll be worrying about you either way, I'm afraid, even more so since ..." she admitted, and with a huff of a laugh and a quirk of her shoulders, "... something funny happened, Jim — something quite unbelievable. I wanted to come and tell you in person rather than through some silly ceremonial letter. It appears that, in six months or so, I'm going to be having a baby."
There was a beat of silence between them as the words seeped into Jim's consciousness. Once a recognisable smile formed on his mouth, Robin sighed with relief. He laughed against her, his chest jostling as he reeled her in against him, peppering her with kisses across her face, "Oh Winnie, I can't quite believe that," he commented, his glee sprinkled with the newfound fear of dying and leaving behind a fatherless child, "I can't ... I can't believe it. I feel like I'm dreamin'."
"Oh James, I've never heard you so eloquent," she cupped her mouth with her hand and giggled as he gave her an incredulous look, "Part of your will be living inside me, now. I'll carry you wherever I go — please, if you weren't before, take proper care of yourself, and please just come home safe and sound," she begged, "It takes time to find a good peach."
"You'd know," he chuckled, squeezing her gently, hardly able to contain his unfiltered excitement, "It must'a been back in September, when ..." he smiled softly, "How long have you known? Properly?"
"Oh, only a short while. It was Kitty who noticed the symptoms initially, whilst I was completely oblivious to them. I thought it was just anxiousness, you know, the throwing up and all the sickness — I was checking the papers for surnames almost every single day until Olive convinced me I needed a break ... so you need to get home safe, Jim, because this baby needs a father and I'll be damned if they grow up without one."
"I can't promise anythin' to you, Winnie, but I can promise that I won't go and do anythin' goddamn stupid whilst I've got you sittin' pretty back home," he gulped, "I forgot to ask, actually, how's Olive since I've been gone? How's her job? Is she getting on well?"
Her heart fluttered at the thought of him being so concerned about Olive's wellbeing. Robin made a mental note to include that in one of her letters to the woman. Jim asked about you. "Yes. Yes, she's getting on very well. She ... she was more concerned about me leaving home at such a critical time, but she eventually gave in and packed me a bunch of things to bring here with me. Hand cream, and things. Imagine that, we're in the middle of the war, and she's fussing about my hands being chapped."
"They are very smooth," he mentioned, holding her delicate hand in his and inspecting it. His face then fell, and he commented, "Hey, you're not wearin' my ring."
"I'm sorry Jim, I should have mentioned earlier. They ... they don't allow the nurses to get married whilst being part of the QAs. It's forbidden, don't ask me why, I have not a clue," she could feel tears forming in the corners of her eyes and tried to blink them away, but it was difficult, and she added, "I ... I can't wear it whilst I'm here, and I have to use my maiden name, too. I'm sorry, no one can know I now have a husband."
"Hey, Winnie, it's fine. That's OK, I understand," he gave a huff that sort of doubled as a laugh, "Don't get upset about it, alright? It's probably best not to wear it either way. It could get ruined or lost."
"Do your friends know?"
"Know what? Oh? Yeah, yes. I told them," he chuckled, "Smokey was very pleased, as was More. Dukeman gave me a Luger as a wedding gift," his face fell a bit, but he did his best to hide it, and she squeezed his hand subconsciously, "I sold it for enough money to cash myself into Paris. I'm gonna go and find Winters. I heard he's somewhere around here, and I'm gonna see if he can help me back to Easy ... OK, alright. I have to get going if I want to catch him before he reports back for duty and I miss my chance to be reunited with Easy."
"Do you have to go so soon?" she asked with saddened eyes, clinging to his hand like a lifeline as he stood up from his seat.
He helped her up after him, and assured her, "We'll be together again before you know it," but seeds of doubt had already been planted in Robin Winifred's mind. They paid for their drinks and were out of the tearoom as if they'd never even been there in the first place, and the brunette held her sweetheart's hand tightly as they walked together back towards more central Paris. It was the city of love — why couldn't they just be together? "And if —"
"— No."
"If I die, I'll make sure to write myself a will and dedicate half of my life insurance to you. Make sure to get a window's allowance, and perhaps you could even go and visit my mother and sisters in America. They'd be more than happy to look after you, and I know you don't have much family left in England."
"I will," she nodded, "But I want you to come back to me. Please, come back to me. Please write as often as you can so I know that you're okay — even if I don't reply. My letters may get lost of you're constantly on the move."
"And I will. I'll see you soon. Please, keep yourself safe whilst I'm gone — I beg."
"Of course," he responded. She wished that she could cling to every last fibre of him — that he wouldn't have to disappear off and away ever again, like he'd been nothing but a figment of her imagination in the first place. Robin reached up and held onto the collar of his trench coat. "Stay warm and safe, and say hello to Alton More for me, and write to me and ask him how Erma Jean and baby Janet are, OK? Don't do anything — don't do anything damn stupid, will you? Don't try to be a hero, goddamnit, just come home, alright? Come back to me."
"I will," he said, kissing her hard, "You know I always will. I love you, very much," he looked down at her only slightly swelling stomach, "And I also love you."
"I love you too — we ... we both do. Goodbye, Jim."
"Goodbye, Robin Winifred."