crutches into it, and got into the backseat. “Where to, mate?” the cabbie asked.
“The Imperial Hotel,” Mike said. “No, wait.” The cabbie would know where the bus went from. “I need to catch the bus to Saltram-on-Sea.”
“There’s no bus that goes there. Hasn’t been since June. The coast’s off-limits.”
“Off-limits?”
“Because of the invasion. It’s a restricted area. No civilians allowed, unless you live there or you have a pass.”
Oh, Christ. “I’m a war correspondent,” he said, pulling out his press pass. “How much would you charge to take me to Saltram-on-Sea?”
“Can’t, mate. I haven’t got the petrol coupons to go all that way, and even if I did, that coast road’s full of rocks. I’ve got to make these tires last the war.”
“Then where can I hire a car?”
The cabbie thought a moment and then said, “I know a garage that might have one,” and drove him there.
The garage didn’t have any cars. They suggested “Noonan’s, just up the street.” It was considerably farther than that. By the time Mike reached it, he was really glad he hadn’t sold his crutches.
The garageman wasn’t there. “You’ll find ’im at the pub,” a grease-covered boy of ten told him, but that was easier said than done. The pub was as crammed as the boat coming back from Dunkirk. There was no way to get through the crush on his crutches. Mike left them at the door and hobbled into the mass of workmen, soldiers, and fishermen. They were all arguing about the invasion. “It’ll ’appen this week,” a stout man with a red nose said.
“No, not till they’ve softened up London a bit more,” his friend said. “It won’t be for at least another fortnight.”
The man next to him nodded. “They’ll send in spies first to get the lay of the land.”
Which one of these was the garage owner? “Excuse me,” Mike said. “I’m looking for the man who owns the garage next door. I need to hire a car.”
“A car?” the stout man said. “’Aven’t you ’eard there’s a war on?”
“What do you want to hire a car for?” his friend asked.
“I need to drive down to Saltram-on-Sea.”
“To do what?” he said suspiciously, and his friend asked, narrowing his eyes, “Where are you from?”
Oh, Christ, they thought he was a spy. “The States,” he said.
“A Yank?” the man snorted. “When are you lot going to get in the war?”
And a tiny, timid-looking man in a bowler hat said belligerently, “What the bloody hell are you waiting for?”
“If you could just point out the garage owner—”
“’E’s over there, at the bar,” the stout man said, pointing. “’Arry! This Yank wants to talk to you about hirin’ a car.”
“Tell him to try Noonan’s!” he shouted back.
“I already did,” Mike called, but the garageman had already turned back to the bar.
This was hopeless. He’d have to see if he could find a farmer he could get a lift with. Maybe Mr. Powney’s in town buying another bull, he thought, and started for the door and his crutches.
“Hold on there,” the stout man said, and pointed at Mike’s foot. “How’d you get that?”
“Stuka,” Mike said. “At Dunkirk,” and felt the unfriendliness go out of the room.
“Which ship?” the little man in the bowler asked, no longer belligerent, and the garageman left the bar and was coming over.
“The Lady Jane,” Mike said. “It wasn’t a ship. It was a motor launch.”
“Did she make it back?”
“The trip I was on, yes, but not the next one,” he tried to say, but before he could get it out, they were bombarding him with questions:
“Torpedo sink her?”
“How many men were you able to take off?”
“When were you there?”
“Did you see the Lily Belle?”
“Give him a chance,” the garageman shouted. “And a pint. And let him sit down, will you? Nice lot you are, makin’ a hero of Dunkirk stand and not even offering him a drink.”
Someone produced a bench for him to sit on and someone else a glass of ale. “Going ’ome, are you?” the stout man asked.
“Yes,” Mike said. “I just got out of the hospital.”
“I wish I could help,” the garageman said, “but all I’ve got are a Morris without a carburetor and a Daimler without a magneto, and no way to get either one.”
“He can borrow my car,” the tiny man who’d been so belligerent volunteered. “Wait here,” he said, and was back in a few minutes with an Austin.
“Here’s the ignition key. There’s an extra tin of petrol in the boot if you run out.”