“Yeah, but, mate, your fish has found another fish to swim with.”
“And soon there will be a school of them.” Wild grins.
“Where are they? He doesn’t know this town, doesn’t know which way to go. He took her the wrong way, straight down the burning Strand, they probably ran right into an incendiary,” Finch says.
“Are you hoping for that, mate?”
“We’re all right, Finch.” Mia steps into the passageway, letting go of Julian’s hand. “No incendiaries.”
Finch jumps up. “It’s not true what they’re saying, dove. Tell me it’s not true!”
“I’m very sorry, Finch. It’s true.” She tries to touch him. “Let’s go talk over there. Just you and me.”
He recoils. “No! How can you do that? We’re engaged!”
“Well, okay, engaged, but I don’t see a ring on my finger.”
“Is that what it’s all about? I said I’d get you one for Christmas.”
“Now you don’t have to.”
Finch swirls to his friends, laid out on the blanketed concrete and the bunks, looking up at him with sympathy and affection. “I told you Gone with the Wind was a terrible idea,” he shouts. “You mocked me when I said it’s not just sitting next to her. Well, who’s laughing now?”
“Not me.”
“Not me.”
“Not me,” Frankie says. She never laughs.
“And it doesn’t look like you either, Finch,” says Wild.
“Oh, you taunted me, come on, Finch, don’t be such a ninny, Finch, it’s just a movie, Finch.”
“Come on, Finch,” Wild says.
“Don’t be such a ninny, Finch,” Nick says.
“It’s just a movie, Finch,” Shona says.
“Don’t you want her to be happy, Finch?” Duncan says. “We’re at war. We could die tomorrow.”
“Oh, sure, hope for that.” Finch swirls to Julian standing silently by Mia’s side. “What, cat got your tongue?” he says in a bark.
“Don’t you want her to be happy, Finch?” says Julian. We could die tomorrow.
“You’re saying she won’t be happy with me?” Finch clenches his fists, squares off, then backs off. Julian doesn’t even take his fists out of his pockets. He has pity for Finch, but he’s also relieved he can finally stop pretending.
It’s Liz who comes to the rescue. Putting her arm around Finch, she leads him away to the pile of their stashed whisky hidden under coats and sweaters. “Look at it this way,” Liz says, pouring him a large mug, “your life is too precious, especially nowadays, to waste on someone who doesn’t feel about you the way you feel about her.”
“Oh, isn’t that rich, you of all people saying that!”
“Shut up, Finch,” says Liz.
“Hey, he never gave me a ring!” Mia calls after them indignantly.
And then deep night comes, and the siren goes. They hoped because there had been so many raids that day, that they’d be spared another one in the middle of the night. But no such luck.
Exhausted, still half in their cups, they stagger upstairs to the jeep parked on Lothbury, switch it on, turn to Mia, like a sleepwalking drill, and in the dark ask where to.
Leman Road in Whitechapel, she says, half-asleep.
And Whitechapel gets ignited that night.
The Germans come for Whitechapel.
The road Finch usually takes is blocked off by fallen burning buildings. He takes them another way through an alley. Mia tells him not to because the alley is narrow. Two cars can’t pass each other, and a car can’t turn around if it needs to. But Finch says it’s the quickest way to Leman.
Julian hears the words narrow and alley, hears two cars can’t pass each other, and says Finch please don’t go that way, please. Find another route. I have a bad feeling.
But Finch is mad and defiant. He goes that way.
There is no other car, no head-on collision, no oak tree. There is a bomb that falls through the narrow buildings, cascades, and explodes, cratering the earth thirty feet in front of their vehicle. Julian has just enough time to push Mia down. The force of the blast propels the truck half a block in reverse and shatters the windshield, which sails through the interior of the jeep like hail.
16
Finch and Frankie
JULIAN IS SPARED THE WORST OF THE GLASS, BUT A PIECE OF concrete hits him in the face and breaks open the skin above his brow. It’s not a life-threatening wound but a profusely bleeding one. He can’t see, and he can’t find Mia.
Mia, Mia.
He hears Wild’s voice, Swedish, can you help.
He hears Mia’s voice, Jules, my God.
He presses his palm against his eye, tries to orient himself. Mia presses her hat into his gushing wound.