Redgil here.”
“I see.”
“You’re sure you have the name right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m very sorry that we don’t have one. Is it possible that he’s a guest at another hotel in the area?”
“Possible. I just assumed he’d be at this one because he owns it.”
“Oh? Oh dear no, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. The owner of the hotel is not named Redgil. His name is Redfern. He’s the original founder, you know.”
“Yes, I know. An elderly gentleman, isn’t he? Birthmark on his right cheek?”
“Well, yes, that does rather describe him. Late seventies, I would say, but quite spry. Still likes to get out in the afternoon for a pint, whether the Jerries are dropping things on us or no. May I ask why you need to see him?”
“I promised my mother years ago that I would pay her regards to him—if our paths should ever cross.”
“Close friends, are they?”
“Not exactly.”
“Perhaps you should check with her regarding the name?”
“She passed some years ago. But it doesn’t surprise me that the name might have changed. Where does Mr. Redfern take his afternoon pints?”
“It’s the pub just two doors down. In fact, if you’re lucky, you might find him there now.”
The American captain thanked the young woman, stepped back into the street, and began walking toward the pub.
It was the only one visible on the street. There had been two more before the war began, in the next block—but most of that block was rubble now.
As matter-of-fact as the Londoners tried to be about it, he could still see it occasionally in their eyes—a brief shadow would be cast over the street, a cloud would pass under the sun, a flock of birds would startle up from a tree, and the Londoner would not turn to look, would refuse to do, would not give in to that extinct. Bloody hell, you couldn’t hear the rockets until it was too late anyway, and if by some miracle you looked up and saw the fleeting blur, the disturbance in the air, it would mean that you were already dead. Or you weren’t. There was nothing you could do about it either way.
Still, occasionally, on some subtle movement or sound, or even an imagined one, the eyes would look up.
The captain reached the pub and went inside.
Two gentlemen, perhaps as much as sixty years of age, were standing at the bar with their pints. A married couple of about that same age were in a booth with fish-and-chips. None of these were old enough to be the man he was looking for.
A middle-aged woman behind the bar came over as soon as the captain approached.
“What’ll it be, luv?”
“Just a pint of ale,” he said, out of courtesy. “I’m looking for someone. The gentleman who owns the hotel down the street?”
“He’s upstairs,” said the woman. “At the snooker table.”
The captain took his pint of pale beer and ascended one flight of wooden stairs to the billiard room above.
It was a loft structure, with two walls, and a wooden railing that overlooked the bar below.
At the front of the room, nearest the stairs, was a snooker table, with a rack of wooden cues on the wall and a small black chalkboard for writing scores. There was no game in progress, and two small children, a girl of about five and a boy of about nine, played with the piece of hanging white chalk, drawing designs on each other’s hands.
Farther back in the room, in the shadows beyond the well-lit snooker table, two men stood in one corner, one of them taking aim at a dartboard.
The captain stepped carefully around the two children and moved toward the back of the room.
He stopped at a respectful distance from the dart throwers. The man not currently throwing a dart acknowledged the captain’s presence with a nod that indicated the captain would be invited to the next game, if he chose to participate.
The captain stood by and waited his turn.
One of the two men, the one who had just nodded, was in British uniform; he was in his late thirties, perhaps forty. The other,
“I see.”
“You’re sure you have the name right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m very sorry that we don’t have one. Is it possible that he’s a guest at another hotel in the area?”
“Possible. I just assumed he’d be at this one because he owns it.”
“Oh? Oh dear no, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. The owner of the hotel is not named Redgil. His name is Redfern. He’s the original founder, you know.”
“Yes, I know. An elderly gentleman, isn’t he? Birthmark on his right cheek?”
“Well, yes, that does rather describe him. Late seventies, I would say, but quite spry. Still likes to get out in the afternoon for a pint, whether the Jerries are dropping things on us or no. May I ask why you need to see him?”
“I promised my mother years ago that I would pay her regards to him—if our paths should ever cross.”
“Close friends, are they?”
“Not exactly.”
“Perhaps you should check with her regarding the name?”
“She passed some years ago. But it doesn’t surprise me that the name might have changed. Where does Mr. Redfern take his afternoon pints?”
“It’s the pub just two doors down. In fact, if you’re lucky, you might find him there now.”
The American captain thanked the young woman, stepped back into the street, and began walking toward the pub.
It was the only one visible on the street. There had been two more before the war began, in the next block—but most of that block was rubble now.
As matter-of-fact as the Londoners tried to be about it, he could still see it occasionally in their eyes—a brief shadow would be cast over the street, a cloud would pass under the sun, a flock of birds would startle up from a tree, and the Londoner would not turn to look, would refuse to do, would not give in to that extinct. Bloody hell, you couldn’t hear the rockets until it was too late anyway, and if by some miracle you looked up and saw the fleeting blur, the disturbance in the air, it would mean that you were already dead. Or you weren’t. There was nothing you could do about it either way.
Still, occasionally, on some subtle movement or sound, or even an imagined one, the eyes would look up.
The captain reached the pub and went inside.
Two gentlemen, perhaps as much as sixty years of age, were standing at the bar with their pints. A married couple of about that same age were in a booth with fish-and-chips. None of these were old enough to be the man he was looking for.
A middle-aged woman behind the bar came over as soon as the captain approached.
“What’ll it be, luv?”
“Just a pint of ale,” he said, out of courtesy. “I’m looking for someone. The gentleman who owns the hotel down the street?”
“He’s upstairs,” said the woman. “At the snooker table.”
The captain took his pint of pale beer and ascended one flight of wooden stairs to the billiard room above.
It was a loft structure, with two walls, and a wooden railing that overlooked the bar below.
At the front of the room, nearest the stairs, was a snooker table, with a rack of wooden cues on the wall and a small black chalkboard for writing scores. There was no game in progress, and two small children, a girl of about five and a boy of about nine, played with the piece of hanging white chalk, drawing designs on each other’s hands.
Farther back in the room, in the shadows beyond the well-lit snooker table, two men stood in one corner, one of them taking aim at a dartboard.
The captain stepped carefully around the two children and moved toward the back of the room.
He stopped at a respectful distance from the dart throwers. The man not currently throwing a dart acknowledged the captain’s presence with a nod that indicated the captain would be invited to the next game, if he chose to participate.
The captain stood by and waited his turn.
One of the two men, the one who had just nodded, was in British uniform; he was in his late thirties, perhaps forty. The other,
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