He wishes he could remember the day. But if it hasn’t happened already, they’re fast running out of December days. Which means it’s still up ahead. No one can say for sure how long it will take to get to Leeds. No one can even say how long it will take to get to Sheffield, a hundred and seventy miles away. The civilian train must stop and wait for the military trains to pass before proceeding. No trains run past eight p.m., not even military. It’s not safe. They stop on the tracks to wait out the darkness in case of an attack. If there is bombing and the tracks get broken, they need to be fixed before travel can resume. Track engineers are few and far between.
When Mia hears the litany of assault on British Rail, she stares at Julian interminably, as if something is happening here that she doesn’t understand and is afraid to ask about. Why would you be taking me into the war zone, the mute question in her eyes reads. Why would you think this is a good idea? He doesn’t return her gaze.
It’s three in the afternoon by the time the train pulls out of King’s Cross, traveling slow. There is no first class or coach. There is only train. She sits on his left by the window, looking desperately forlorn. Julian wants to put his arm around her, but they’re both so injured.
Be careful with your body. Flesh is mortal. It can and will perish.
“It’s been so blitzy the last few weeks, hasn’t it?” Mia says, as if reading his mind.
“It has.” Julian helps her light a cigarette with the lighter that says sad girls smoke a lot.
“I’m a little bit down today,” she says, her eyes welling up. “I’m not as beautiful when I’m not happy, right?”
“Still more beautiful than anyone,” he says, stroking her bandaged head. “The sadness levels the playing field slightly.”
“Is there any food?”
They didn’t bring much. They can’t carry much. Julian has a bottle of whiskey in his coat, cigarettes for her, old bread, and a bar of chocolate. She eats the bar of chocolate by the time they stop for the night, somewhere near Stevenage. They’re barely out of London.
She closes her eyes. He watches over her. God above, help her. Mia, once I saw you holding a baby. All of it a mirage. The sight, the baby, you. Do you remember? We sat in Grey Gardens and held baby Jacob on our laps and pretended he was ours. It was summer. We were warm, you made jokes. We thought the worst thing that could happen to us was those hateful Pye women trailing us through the halcyon London streets.
* * *
Early the next morning, the train resumes its sclerotic pace across the wintry British countryside. They’re traveling north to Sheffield by taking the more easterly route through Cambridge, to get as far as possible from the continuously assaulted Coventry. From the restaurant car, Julian gets them some fresh bread, hot tea, a pat of rationed butter, and some rationed cheese, and he and Mia pass the time, reading the names of the towns outside their windows and imagining living in them.
They manage to get past Cambridge and then stop for nearly half a day. The tracks have been blown up. While they wait for them to be fixed, the conductor turns off the engine because it’s unpatriotic to waste coal, even though human beings might freeze. The train stands forsaken between a field and a forest, somewhere between Biggleswade and Bulby. Mia says she’d like to live in Bulby. Julian prefers Biggleswade.
Hours later, the tracks are fixed, and the train moves on, traveling barely twenty miles before darkness falls. But this time they’re between two open fields and no cover. The engineer comes through and tells everyone to disembark for their own safety. If the Germans fly overhead and see the train laid out and exposed on the main tracks, it will be the first thing they’ll bomb. The conductor recommends finding shelter in the woods, half a mile away, or three miles down the road in a town called Over. Maybe they could find some shelter there, but they must be back at the train by seven a.m. tomorrow . . .
It snowed, and a white film covers the earth. The temperature dipped right before freezing, and the film has turned to ice. The train turns off its lights. No one leaves. Staying on the