tattooed names on his arm after each one. Funny, because you and I are drinking and wishing, too. And MIRABELLE, all capital letters?
MIRABELLE, my love
Cholera prevails and war.
But you and I more.
This Shae character, what about her?
You flense seals, carve up
My dreams. I thought you chose ice
But you chose me.
What will you say about me, Mia whispers. What will you say about our brief but perfect love affair?
We rode horses to
Where the bombs still flew, dreaming
Of a dream machine.
Not horses but trains, she says, and he says, same difference.
I used to work a Dream Machine, she says, on the boardwalk in Blackpool. Did I tell you that? Is that how you know?
I don’t think you told me that.
The girls you loved, what happened to them?
They died.
All of them?
He pauses. Yes.
Wow. That’s unlucky.
Yes.
But to love is lucky, she says.
That is true, I suppose.
You don’t think to love is lucky? Did you love them all?
I loved them all.
Me too? she whispers.
I love you most of all.
I bet you say that to all your girls, she slurs. Their whiskey gone, she falls asleep, but not before she says, will I die, too?
I’m asleep, Julian says, I can’t hear you. I’ll tell you one thing, though. I definitely don’t want to live in a town called Over.
23
Two Prayers
THE NEXT DAY, BOY ARE THEY SORRY THEY HAD SO MUCH TO drink. Their sore heads lowered, they repent and beg forgiveness with their parched dry mouths. They drink the rest of the melted snow water out of the bucket and bang on the door for the conductor to let them out.
Mia is lightheaded. She can’t orient herself for a few moments. She has not recovered from her concussion. They scrounge in the food car for something to eat, but other people without hangovers got there first, and all the food is gone until the next stop. They find an old dry scone on the floor. They break the bread. It’s delicious.
The train doesn’t move. Five miles ahead, the tracks are still being repaired.
They bundle up and go out into the fields for a walk in the frigid air to clear their heavy heads. The ground is white except for the black grass.
Maybe we’ll have a white Christmas, Mia says, as they look for something in the fields to eat. They find a potato! They break it in half and eat it raw. It’s delicious.
They stumble on a pond blanketed with crystal snow.
They slide on the ice. They can’t run, and they can’t jump, but they slide to see who can go the farthest. She wins. They pretend to skate, trying not to bend their swollen knees, holding hands and gliding in their wet boots. For a few moments he takes her gingerly into his arms, and they waltz on the ice, until they hear the whistle of the train. They hurry as best they can, limping through sheets of snow, yelling, don’t leave without us, don’t leave without us.
Back in their seats, their flushed faces red, they hold hands, his left, her right. She is pressed against the cold window and he is pressed against her. She tells him about the Blackpool boardwalk, how much fun she had there in the summers with her friends. She wonders if the Ferris wheel is running in December, if the amusements are open. You were right about leaving London, she says. I’m sorry I didn’t want to listen. My mum will be so happy to see me for Christmas.
Let me out. Don’t leave me. Let me out. Don’t leave me.
Mia, Mia. Mia, Mia.
Free me.
Don’t leave me.
Bristol, Birmingham, Portsmouth and Hull, Belfast, Coventry, Glasgow and Liverpool, Cardiff, Manchester, Plymouth, and Cornwall. London.
Not Blackpool.
But everything else is bombed.
Including Sheffield. Oh, how Sheffield is bombed the night of December 15, as their train stands abandoned and out in the open. They’re evacuated a quarter mile into the cold woods, where they huddle under fallen trees and watch as their train blows up and burns.
Covering her with his body, to protect her, to comfort her, Julian whispers to her of happier times in the unknowable future.
Don’t worry. I will never leave you or forsake you. We are co-stars. We’ll always be co-stars.
We’re bomb magnets, she says.
No, we are train jockeys, he says. Riding companions. Camping buddies. Lovers. Adventure seekers.
She smiles. How do you do that, Jules, make even a wartime bombing sound romantic?
His lips are against her cold cheek. We’ll go roughing, you and I, another day when we are healed, Julian whispers.