FIC: A Dream That Could Not Last 9 of 12 (Ryan/Simon, Amanda/Carly, Kimberley/Anwar)
Author: Clio
Title: A Dream That Could Not Last Chapter 9 of 12: Contesting Tears
Pairing: American Idol: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell, Amanda Overmyer/Carly Smithson, Kimberley Locke/Anwar Robinson
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Chapter Summary: War comes to London.
Chapter Length: 7600 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: A Dream That Could Not Last is an AU romantic comedy set in 1939 London, when everyone knew war was on the horizon but no one was sure when or how it would arrive-which made love of all kinds that much more important. Follow a year in the life of three groups of (mostly) Americans: pilots who joined the RAF, singers and dancers in a swing music revue, and reporters for BBC Radio. As usual there will be plenty of songs along the way to set the mood.
This was a big undertaking, and needed a team. If I was the writer/director, then locumtenens was my editor, lillijulianne, musicforcylons and evil_erato my producers, dana_kujan the actually helpful studio executive; and ali_wildgoose my executive producer who kept the train on the tracks in ways so numerous I cannot list them here.
Prologue | 1: The Lady Eve | 2: Adam's Rib | 3: His Girl Friday | 4: Bringing Up Baby | 5: Stella Dallas | 6: Pursuits of Happiness | 7: Gaslight | 8: The Philadelphia Story
Chapter Nine: Contesting Tears
12 July 1940
The next few weeks went by in a haze. Planes limped back from patrols and dogfights damaged (if they were lucky) and needed to get back in the air as soon as possible. Amanda, Castro and Grigsby became known around the base for the stringency of their pre-flight checklists. But Amanda was damned if she'd let Chris, or Blake, or any of her pilots get into a plane that wasn't in tip top shape. And then there were the visits from the Germans, when the ground crews would high tail it into the shelters, having been told in no uncertain terms by Capt. Johns that new planes could be built but new mechanics were hard to find. The three sergeants often helped some of the other crews while their own pilots were in the air, and vice versa, and Amanda was learning even more techniques from her fellow mechanics than she had in training. Capt. Johns's group was confined to air defense over Britain rather than the channel patrols, so their losses were few-none of the Americans so far-but they were getting pretty banged up by the German fighter planes that escorted the bombers.
Sometimes the grease became so embedded in her hands that no soap could get her clean, and Amanda was secretly glad that her mother couldn't see her only daughter in such a state. After all, rolling bandages to help out the war effort was one thing, as she'd said in her most recent letter, but fixing the engines of planes was quite another. Amanda had written back that they each owed the war effort their highest skills, and this was hers. Carly wrote often, little cheerful letters designed to bring Amanda a smile, and they usually succeeded. At this point even hearing Simon's radio show was comforting, knowing that Carly was sitting in the booth near him.
July became August without Amanda much noticing, especially when she was working so hard, going from mission to mission sustained mostly by twinkies, memories, and letters from Carly. Capt. Johns talked in his briefings about how they were the last line to keep Hitler from getting all of Europe, and Amanda didn't know how much harder anyone could work but she certainly tried. It seemed pretty dire-the Luftwaffe just kept coming and coming, and while those British factories were putting out planes as quick as they could, and more were arriving from America all the time, who didn't know of the inexhaustible industry of Germany? Chris and Blake were holding up under the pressure pretty well, though she could sense the tension in each of them when the other was still out on his mission, and wondered if it would be the strain of the secrecy, rather than the strain of battle, that would finally break them.
And then, in late August, she learned what it was to be in their shoes: the Germans had bombed London.
16 September 1940
The government had said that the 24 August bombing had been an error, and Simon had been inclined to agree with them. The RAF were sent over to Berlin and showed them what for, and things were quiet after that. That would teach Hitler to send his planes flying over their city.
But two weeks later, there was another bombing-and the next night another, and another, and another, until the nights all blurred into each other, the sound of explosions and the smell of smoke drifting through the early autumn air. There was still some nightlife carrying on in London in spite of the nightly raids-really, almost in defiance of them-though the bright lights of Picadilly were of course darkened for the duration. The BBC had its own shelter, but the one closest to Simon's flat was the Tube station, and when the sirens sounded, off they went underground. By unspoken agreement Simon and Ryan were spending every night together now, back and forth between the two flats, and Carly was in Ryan's flat more often than not as Joel seemed to calm her fears. Londoners reacted as Simon would have predicted, by just getting on with things and giving help and comfort where they could.
In the mornings the two radio teams went around town gathering information for the news broadcasts, which spared more reporters to head to Birmingham and the other northern port and industrial cities which were also being attacked almost nightly. It was a grim business, all this destruction, and Simon had to swallow his anger to do his job because really, how dare the Krauts think they could bomb Britain into submission? One night Ryan brought Simon to a supper gathering of the American reporters, and Simon had the chance to talk to Ed Murrow, he of the rooftop broadcasts to America, whom Ryan had met when he was traveling through Europe after the end of the war in Spain. Simon still couldn't picture Ryan as anything other than an entertainment reporter, the book notwithstanding, and to his eye Ryan didn't seem to be the same as these hardened foreign correspondents, yet the other men treated him like one of their own. Clearly, the matter required further thought.
But Simon wasn't inclined to give it any consideration at this time. It was all he could do to keep his mind from spinning in endless worry. War, again. Soldiers, again, boys far too young to know what they were doing, boys not unlike small David but with ginger hair and freckles. Too many freckled ginger-haired soldiers in England now-a-days; running into doppelgangers of a long-since-dead friend in every train station was downright eerie, and sometimes he wondered if it was his mind playing tricks on him. Boys who wanted to get their licks in before the war was over, who had absorbed romantic notions of war from Cambridge classrooms and public school readings of Tennyson and lectures about duty to King and Empire, were boys that came home in boxes. Simon had had no such notions-had in fact found the entire idea of armed conflict rather silly and wasn't sure why it couldn't be settled over a game of cards or similar-and had come home safe and sound. He'd thought after the Great War that the romantic notions were put away, and mostly they were; the young men he'd met were more grimly determined than gung-ho. Then again, they'd told him it was the war to end all war, and as Ryan would say, if you believe that I have a bridge for sale in Brooklyn that might interest you. Bravery and romance got a man killed. The problem was, for all their conversations and all his teasing he still wasn't sure where Ryan's romantic notions began and ended, and David Hernandez's brief visit had confused the matter even further.
Simon and Ryan were sitting in his living room, relaxing with some cognac and soft music on the reel-to-reel, when they heard the siren. It was routine by now-check pockets for keys, identification, press credentials, and notebook; make sure one has a bit of cash just in case; grab the gas masks by the door and turn out the light. Not much of a crowd shuffling toward the Tube station that night, and the faces were becoming more familiar. Unfortunate way to get to know the neighbors, but at least that was some kind of bright side. As they walked down the stairs he could already hear the distant sound of engines, and they all hustled to get well in and make room for more. He and Ryan ended up in a tiny alcove between one of the support posts and the end wall of the station, and now all they could do was sit and wait.
The drone of the planes was dampened a bit by their location, but they were still louder than they'd ever been. There was a shaking in the ground above them, and loose pebbles fell to the floor. Another rumble, this time a bit louder and stronger, and the lamps were set to swinging. The station was remarkably quiet for how full it was, silent but for the odd cough, a child's snuffle, a mother or father's comforting murmur. The rumbles all ran together now, and very close, and they all looked up at the ceiling-silly really, for what did they think they could see?-as they realized that it was their own little square in for it that night.
Quite a loud and sudden crash made everyone jump and then the officer announced that they were turning the lamps off for safety, but emergency lighting would lead them out if necessary, and the room was plunged into near-total darkness. Ryan moved closer then, emboldened by the lack of light, and Simon pulled him into his arms and further into the little alcove. Even by the dim lights every 20 feet or so, no one could see them. Ryan's hand slid up Simon's arm, across his chest, along his neck, and Simon relaxed into his touch, allowing him to pull them together into a kiss. Another explosion but Simon just absorbed it, for him and for Ryan, and sighed into his mouth. He was hungry for it, hungry for the touch and taste of the man in his arms. In retrospect he would find the whole thing absurd but in the moment it seemed entirely appropriate to snog the man he loved while bombs fell over their heads.
Between the two of them was just enough awareness not to let it get out of hand, even though these kisses were less a prelude than a thing in themselves, a comfort, a lifeline, maybe even a small act of defiance. Certainly Hitler, even with all his ridiculous posturing, was no fan of homosexuals, what with all the happy Aryan family propaganda. Kissing a man during an air raid was the closest Simon could get to making a rude gesture in the Führer's face. Ryan wasn't shaking now, not even a tremble, solid as a rock in his arms, and Simon relaxed and held on, humbled before the awesome truth of what was happening, inside their shelter and directly above them.
Suddenly he was aware of a silence, and pulled back, letting Ryan tuck into his neck while he listened. "I think-" he began in a whisper, but then the all-clear sounded. He and Ryan quickly pushed apart to a decent distance before the lights were turned back on, though that had less to do with shame than propriety; he doubted snogging sessions were the done thing in air raid shelters. They were escorted from the station via a different entrance, and turning back toward Simon's square saw that one building had been set ablaze. Not his, but just a few doors down the street. Simon sighed.
"Mine tonight?" Ryan asked.
"Yours tonight," Simon replied.
24 September 1940
Then there was the horrible morning when Giuliana wasn't there when they got into the office. It was about a week after Simon's square was targeted, and at the weekend he and Ryan had run small David up to Cambridge for his first year. The young man seemed to be temporarily diverted from his wishes to enlist by his summer spent touring South America with his uncle and giving speeches. He'd then stayed at Simon's family home in the country for two weeks; Mama Cowell was as charmed by small David as all adults were, and was sorry to see him go. "Just you wait," Simon had said to him, "she'll be sending you sweets in the post."
As Simon's gas and water were back on he and Ryan had stayed at his flat and come into work together. Carly and Joel followed shortly thereafter. But 10am came and went and no Giuliana, and her phone line at home was dead.
Carly jumped each time the phone rang, while Ryan was trying to work out whether Giuliana's neighborhood had been hit or not; reports were unclear about a raid in the very early morning hours. Simon paced, and tapped, and smoked, almost vibrating in his impotent frustration. Joel was completely silent, making the morning even more eerie.
And then at last, at 11, her voice at the door: "Oh, Mr. Cowell, I am so sorry."
Simon looked up, sharp, then jumped up. "Sorry? My god, Giuliana, we're just thankful you're all right."
The others had got up as well, hugging her and guiding her to a chair, and Joel put a cup of tea in her hand. Only those who knew her well could see how tired and disheveled she looked, as she was normally so perfectly turned out. But one of the combs holding her hair was slightly askew, her dress was a little limp, and her bag and shoes didn't match.
"Is everyone-" Carly began.
"Oh yes," Giuliana said, waving her hand. "We were in the shelter. Our building was hit-the roof on one side-and we don't seem to have a dining room anymore. Papa said one it's one good result from having to sell our things before we left Italy: no china to be broken." Carly took her hand and Giuliana smiled at her sadly. "They turned off the phone and gas and we can't go back until tomorrow, so we went to a hotel to bathe and they sponged my dress and here I am." She pushed back a stray lock of hair. "And I'm going to marry Bill Rancic."
The others, who had all been leaning forward as she told her story, sat back a little at the news. Ryan looked up at Simon, who seemed just as surprised.
"He asked you?" Carly said.
"He asked me months ago," Giuliana said, staring out the window over Simon's shoulder. "I didn't want to leave Papa alone, so I put him off. But what is the use now in being here? For this we could have stayed in Napoli."
"And your father?" Joel asked.
"He'll come to America with us. He can sew anyplace, he says. Bill took him to the embassy today to see about papers." She sighed, shaking her head.
"When will you be married?" Carly asked.
"In a month or so. Bill's company wants him to come back to Chicago in December, and Papa wants time to have a wedding dress made for me."
"Giuliana, look at me," Simon said. "Do you love Bill? Is this what you really want?"
She blinked. "It's always been what I wanted. Not like this-but yes, I love him."
They were all quiet for a moment, and then Ryan said, "Maybe it doesn't matter how it happens."
Giuliana smiled. "Maybe it doesn't."
"Well, I'll tell you what I'm going to do," Simon said. "I'm going to throw you a party. You, and our newly eloped Miss Paula. I think we need a nice celebration about now. Say, in a month? Perhaps we can get Capt. Johns to let some of those airmen into the city." He looked at Carly, who blushed. "But for now, work is the thing, I think."
They all stood-Carly had some things to do in the studio before the singers came in the next day, and Joel and Giuliana wandered off as well, but Simon touched Ryan's arm, holding him back, and pushed the door closed.
"What?" Ryan asked.
"Still think this is the same as Spain?" Simon asked.
Ryan shook his head. "No," he replied, and Simon nodded, with just a little less satisfaction than he usually had when he was right, and Ryan was thankful for that. Though that didn't stop him from asking, "Still think this is the same as the Great War?"
Simon pulled back, eyes wide; he clearly hadn't expected that reply. "No," he said. "No, I don't."
Ryan nodded. Simon didn't like admitting when he was wrong, but he always was willing to, and Ryan felt he should be rewarded for that; many men with egos as large as Simon's were much more reluctant. "Thank you," he said, giving him a peck.
Simon made no reply but his smile was pleased rather than smug, and Ryan felt even happier. "Run along now," he said, patting Ryan on the behind before opening the office door and sending him on his way.
Back in his own office, Ryan saw Joel reading a letter and smiling, but he didn't recognize the handwriting. "Is that from Cook?"
"Yeah," Joel said.
Ryan sat down behind his own desk. "I'm glad he wrote. I know you've been worried about him."
Joel shrugged. "I like the fella. All of him, not just his dick and his tongue."
"I know," Ryan said.
"I'm not in love with him, but I figure one more person caring about him can't hurt."
Ryan thought of the folks he'd met and managed to gather around him, of Joel and Davids big and small, of Giuliana and her father and Carly and her mechanic, of the girls in the show and the boys at the base, of Randy, and Paula and her new husband, and Simon who would loom large over all of them even if Ryan wasn't in love with him. "Nope," he replied, "caring about people doesn't hurt a bit."
25 September 1940
Kat was running late as usual; Kim thought her diva behavior would be much worse to deal with if she wasn't so, well, genuine about it. She kept them waiting less to make a point and more because she would forget her own head if it wasn't screwed on. Besides, lately they'd all been distracted, not only with worry for the airmen, but also by the near-constant air raids that interrupted the show at least two nights a week, and put them in the little basement of the house other nights. After the first week or so the raids became routine, though Kim wasn't sure if she'd just gone numb in self-defense or if it really was just becoming a way of life: nightly listening to the bombs going off overhead, and in the mornings searching the paper and listening to the radio for the reports of what had been hit.
Then she'd get another letter from Robinson, and realize that she hadn't gone numb at all. He still wrote about books, but those notes were interspersed with little details about his flights, how the English countryside looked from the air as though he were still a mail pilot. Kim went along in her own letters, never mentioning the raids but talking about who had come to the show, or some funny thing Paula had done, or how her songs for the radio were coming. He always mentioned them, seemed to make a point of listening to Simon's show when he could, and she sang her songs as if to him. Simon had commented on how much more emotion was in her performance of late, and when he asked why she was evasive, saying that she thought everyone was a little more emotional these days. Though she could see by Carly's expression that her friend knew the real source, Kim wanted to keep her feelings for Robinson to herself. After all, he wasn't her man.
Kim also couldn't wait to sing a new song, the one Carly had suggested a few weeks ago. She'd been working on it with Paula and Randy, but Paula had wanted her to wait so she could see Simon's reaction to the song for herself. Paula and Simon Fuller had gone up to Scotland for a week honeymoon, and were expected back anytime, though with the current situation travel times were variable, and Kim presumed that Paula would meet them at the BBC studio at Broadcast House. After all, she now lived closer to it, in Simon Fuller's flat; all of her things had been moved out in the days just before her small wedding.
Kim and Jen were sitting on the terrace, smoking and waiting for Kat to finish primping, when Jen looked over the railing to the garden below. "Who is that?" she asked.
Kim looked and saw a young man in a uniform walking a bicycle to the back entrance of the house. "Looks like Western Union, or whatever they call it in England," she said. She turned to look at Jen.
"I wonder what they could want here," she said.
They sat quietly as the boy knocked at the door, and Mandisa answered. She tipped him, thanked him, and he was on his way as she shut the door behind him. There was a pause-Kim was holding her breath-and then they heard her shout. Quickly they put out their cigarettes and ran down the stairs.
Mandisa was kneeling on the floor in the hall, and turned when she heard Kim and Jen coming. "Oh girls, girls," she wailed, holding out the telegram.
Some of the other girls, hearing the shout, were also gathering in the hall, including Kat. Kim took the telegram and read aloud as Jen comforted Mandisa:
WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT MR AND MRS SIMON FULLER WERE KILLED LAST NIGHT STOP GERMAN BOMBERS ATTACKED HOTEL AND SURROUNDING VILLAGE STOP PLEASE ADVISE AS TO NEXT OF KIN AND OTHER INSTRUCTIONS STOP BRITISH HOME OFFICE
Kim felt that she'd been knocked back on her heels a bit, and for a moment lost her breath. The girls gasped, and Kat started to cry. The reactions of the others brought Kim out of her haze and focused her thoughts. She looked down at Jen. "Randy's probably already at Broadcast House waiting for us," she said.
Mandisa looked up. "Ruben is at the Pyramid," she said softly. "Someone should call him."
"We'll take care of everything," Jen said, "don't you worry." She helped the woman to her feet.
Kim looked at the other girls. "Gina, could you call the Pyramid, and then Rabbi Yamin? And can someone put a kettle on? Oh, and one of you should run over to the boarding house and let the boys know. I'll go over to Broadcast House."
Jen nodded. "We'll be fine here, Kim. You go on."
Kim grabbed her bag and went out the door, hailing a cab in the street. "Broadcast House," she said. She was glad she'd tucked a handkerchief into her bag, but there would be plenty of time to cry later, when she was alone.
27 September 1940
Kim had heard people describe memorials as being somehow not-real, and though she'd lost one of her grandmothers when she was young, she'd never lost a friend, and hadn't understood what they meant until now. She kept catching herself thinking that Paula would walk in the door any time now; when they were all gathering to go to Simon Fuller's flat and she'd looked over the group to make sure no one was missing she almost said, "We have to wait for Paula." Kat was almost inconsolable, and Kim was very glad that she was so close to Rabbi Yamin, as he could be a comfort to her.
There was no real funeral; Rabbi Yamin had gone to Scotland and overseen the immediate burial that was their custom. Instead, he suggested a day where people could gather and say a few words of remembrance and comfort to one another. Everyone connected to the review was there, and all their friends from the BBC, and also Simon Fuller's people. Kim had sent word to the base and the airmen had all gone in on some lovely flowers, pretty white lilies like the ones that adorned the tables at the Pyramid, which seemed fitting as they stood for Paula and her Mr. Fuller both.
Simon Cowell spoke of the joys and frustrations of just being around her, and how she could turn so quickly from talking about clothing to making an interesting critique of some singer, which infuriated him because he had to actually listen to everything she had to say, and he didn't much like listening to other people. But even though what Simon said was light-hearted, he made eye contact with few of them, and Ryan was very near. And he had hugs for the three singers-deep, sad, clinging hugs that almost brought Kim to tears.
Ryan Seacrest talked about Paula's wedding the week before; with the raids and all she'd given up on a larger ceremony in the house and instead they'd just had a few friends, Randy and the Studdards, the Lythgoes, and Ryan and Simon. She'd worn a new peach suit and a little hat with a veil big enough for Fuller to lift up when he kissed her, and Ryan had teased her about being a blushing bride.
Randy told of he and Paula's first meeting in New York, how even then she'd always seemed to be in perpetual motion, how she'd come over to dinner with him and his wife and they'd worked out the basics of the review right there at his kitchen table, and while Randy was finding a band Paula was searching New York for a performance space before a friend of theirs, almost off-hand, suggested London and Simon Fuller in particular. Randy said that it was as though fate meant Paula to become a Fuller, and now she always would be.
Jen, predictably, made them laugh until they cried with memories of Paula's antics: of how long it took her to get dressed even just to go to the store; of her need to stand up and dance to almost every song that she heard, even if she was in the middle of a department store, and how that nearly got them kicked out of Harrod's; of the shock those who had only spoken to her on the phone always had to meet her and realize how tiny she was in person; and of how determined she was to make the revue, and everything else she did, as perfect and polished as possible. "She was the little engine that could."
Some of the girls pitched in with Kim to take over house duties from Mandisa for a while, so they'd brought food to Fuller's flat and stayed to clean up after, as did Carly and Joel, bless them. Kim was surprised at Jen's overall willingness to help; she wasn't really that much of a diva but she'd never been one for kitchen work before. Kim stayed in motion as much as she could; she wouldn't have the show to distract her from both their loss and the war going on overhead until the reopening on Monday. And she needed that distraction badly. Even reading didn't help, because books meant Robinson, and then she'd start to worry, and smoke a cigarette, and then go make another pie.
The boys in the band were being very well fed.
30 September 1940
Kim had never been so reliant on that old saw, "The show must go on." She knew the best tribute to Mr. and Mrs. Fuller's memory was to perform the show they'd each been so involved in. Backstage was tense with a kind of tired sadness and Melinda, the vocal director, had quite a time getting them warmed up and energetic for the show. It wasn't until Simon and Ryan had come backstage with Randy to say a few words to the company that Kim could feel the mood changing.
The opening number went off without a hitch and they all settled gratefully back into the groove of performing. No wonder the show went on, she thought. It's cathartic, just what show people need in such a time. They poured their heightened emotion into the show and the crowd sent it back to them in waves. "Caravan" felt the closest to Paula; her father had come to the States from Syria and she'd always meant it as tribute to him. It was the last new number she'd choreographed and a better legacy of her style Kim couldn't think of. The spectacle closed the show, and when they finished, the audience gave them a thunderous standing ovation. As the company took their bows, Kim glanced at Simon, in his usual place near the front, and saw tears streaming down his cheeks.
Backstage there was a palpable sense of relief. Randy had slated only one show that night, to ease them back into the routine, but Kim was confident that they'd be fine with their usual two shows the next day. The whole BBC gang was there, too, Carly and Joel and Nigel and Giuliana and her Bill. A large group of them went to an after hours club, telling stories and laughing, and Carly said it was like the wakes she was used to.
The girls got back to the house quite late. After the singing and the dancing and the laughter Kim felt almost serene, so she went downstairs to make herself some chamomile tea. Ruben had built some cubbyholes into the wall in the front hall for their mail, and Kim saw that she had two envelopes but no postcards-odd; she hadn't received anything from Robinson in a few days, but perhaps it was the mail service. She wasn't very tired, but she wanted to be alone, so she went upstairs to Paula's former room at the other end of the hall.
There was nothing of Paula's in the room, as her things had been moved to Mr. Fuller's flat just before the wedding, and they'd spent that first night there. Now, of course, most of her things were being shipped back to her family in Los Angeles. Devoid of Paula's personal touches the room was pretty but bland, the bed made up with crisp white sheets and a coverlet with yellow roses, small lamps on each nightstand, the top of the bureau empty but for a lace-trimmed scarf.
Kim sat in one of the small upholstered chairs and turned on the lamp beside it. The first letter was from a college chum who'd married a medical student and moved to Chicago. She'd found a secretarial position, and he worked as a janitor on the weekends to help with the money while he was still in school. With the housing shortage they were still living in a small apartment-not that there were many neighborhoods that would sell to them-so they were putting off having children for a bit. But she sounded happy, other than her worries about war, for her husband had already declared his intention to sign up "when we get into this fight." She took comfort in his having a medical degree, which would keep him back from the front lines.
Kim's mention of Robinson had made her curious, and much to Kim's chagrin she had asked her husband, who'd been at Morehouse a few years ahead of them, to ask around to his college pals. She reported that Robinson had a reputation of being a real square. He didn't go to parties or run with a lot of girls or join any clubs other than the Future Engineers and the Glee Club, and was usually to be found in the library with his nose in a book. His dress was always a few years behind the times; the only thing he lacked was the coke-bottle glasses. But for all that he was well liked, and secretary of his class. "In other words," her friend said, "he sounds perfect for you."
Kim shook her head as she set the letter aside. She'd expected the next one to be from her mother or some other relative, but was surprised to see it was from Robinson. She didn't think he'd ever sent her a proper letter before. It began with all the usual things she expected in his postcards: the book he was reading, the countryside he'd seen during a mission, how the other boys were doing, some news he heard from back home. And then the tone changed:
Now let me speak frankly here, as we always do with one another. You've been knocked sideways by the news of Mr. and Mrs. Fuller. We all have. And if I know you you're spending most of your time making sure everyone around you is doing well and not worrying about yourself at all. If I were there, I'd make it a point to take care of you, and I'm real sorry I can't be there just to give you a squeeze and an ear. But I'll give you permission to be a little self-indulgent. Next time you're at tea with Carly have all pastries and no sandwiches. Or read a silly book. I expect you're pretty sad, and running around acting happy. But I bet Mrs. Fuller herself would have told you it's okay to just stop and let yourself be sad.
Kim read the paragraph again, and smiled at Robinson's gentle scolding. She sighed, and thought of him giving her "a squeeze" and suddenly she could almost feel his arms around her. She let the letter fall into her lap and pulled her knees up to her chest, thinking of Robinson and all that Paula had said about him, and strangely she didn't feel quite so alone. And then, finally, looking around at the empty room, she began to cry.
18 October 1940
Even though they were coming into London for the first time in months on a precious weekend pass, the mood of Squadron 15 was somber. They could scarcely afford the time away, but Simon Cowell had actually come to the base and worked some kind of magic with Capt. Johns that Amanda suspected had to do with the recent death of Paula Abdul, which had touched them all. Squadron 11 had gotten their time the weekend before, which avoided grumbling and let Hicks strut around like he was getting something special. The twelve members of Squadron 15, plus their pastor, sat together in one area of the train car, as they were all bound for the Pyramid Club, where they'd make the second Friday night show.
"So what are you up to for the rest of this nice weekend pass, Rogers?" Cook asked.
"Chik, you know, the drummer for the band? Well, he's giving a party on Saturday night, right in that house the band shares."
"All the chorus girls will be there," Grigsby added.
"Aww, c'mon Grigsby," Castro said. "You know you've only had eyes for that Kiki for months now."
Robinson whistled, low. "She's the one with the little girl back home, that right?"
"Yeah," Grigsby said, bashfully.
"She'll put you through your paces."
"Whaddya think she's been doing?" Young said, and everyone laughed.
"A party with the band doesn't seem like your sort of thing, Padre," Cook said.
"No," Sligh replied. "I've been invited by Rabbi Yamin to help him in his work this weekend. And a real honor that is."
"Bice and I are going, too," Phil Stacey said, "and Daughtry and his girl, of course."
"Katharine's been working for him during her off time," Daughtry said, "and even more since she lost her Mrs. Fuller. "Her letters have been full of these poor little children, and their stories. I tell you, it's made me think even more about what we're doing up there, what we're fighting against. And Kat, a girl like that, a real beautiful, talented girl, the kind of girl you want to take care of, and she's spending all her time taking care of these children." He stopped and looked up, suddenly realizing that the car had grown quiet, the men all listening to him. "Well," he said, laughing, a little shy now, "I guess I hit the jackpot, huh?"
"Yep," Cook said. "I guess you have."
Amanda, who was kneeling up on her seat behind Daughtry, reached over the back to touch his shoulder. "And I know that Katharine thinks she has, too."
Daughtry nodded, and cleared his throat. "So what about you, Cook?"
"Oh, Richardson's little Irish girl is gonna have a wingding at her place," he replied. "Kelly's going, and actually asked me to escort her, which I'm taking as a positive sign."
Bice shook his head. "That girl is giving you quite a hard time," he said. "Hope she's worth it."
Cook shrugged. "I hope so, too."
Only a few of them-Amanda, Chris, Blake, Robinson and Cook-knew that the actual reason for all of Cowell's machinations was his intention to give a party Saturday night, a kind of wake in Paula's honor and a celebration of Giuliana's engagement. Given that Simon wanted to ensure that people could relax at this party, the guest list was small, and had been helped by Randy suggesting to Chik Easy that the band could have a little gathering at the house. That the party was Carly's was just a cover story.
But Cook's description of Carly as "Richardson's little Irish girl" reminded Amanda of the role she had to play. It was so much harder during off times like this to remember to be somewhat solicitous to Blake. She sat next to him now, and it seemed odd to have Chris on the other side of him rather than near her. On base the strict anti-fraternization rules made it easier; no one expected her to sit in the lounge draped all over Blake, and she did genuinely enjoy talking to him. But until they were alone, she and Blake would have to play the game, and it made Amanda irritable. The barnstorming years had spoiled her, awakened her to her own desires in a way even college did not, as much as she had been seduced by, and seduced in her turn, quite a few fellow Smith girls. Now she was being asked to go backwards-maybe not back to the "fine young lady" box of her adolescence, as they expected her to be tomboyish, but back to a nice girl who wants a nice boy-and she wasn't sure she could pull it off.
The conversation had moved on to other topics, and Amanda stared out the windows of the train at the setting sun. She couldn't wait to see Carly and have some sort of connection to sanity and her true self, though by the looks of the bombed out countryside Carly hadn't had it any easier. Amanda couldn't even tell where they were, as all the station signs had been painted out for the duration. At least consoling Carly-alone, at night-was infinitely better than trying to console herself while Chris was on a mission. She could hear the restraint in Carly's letters, all the things Carly didn't want to worry her with, but in this war who was untouched? Her letter telling of the bombing of Giuliana's flat was such a document of understatement that Amanda had teased in her reply, telling Carly that the stiff-upper-lipped English were rubbing off on her. Predictably, this wasn't received well, and Amanda had gotten a reply full of language that Carly wouldn't say in front of her mother. But it had pushed Carly to say something real, which she had no problem doing in person.
Girls had certainly set their caps for Amanda in the past, but none like Carly. Amanda had forgotten, in those years on the road, what it was like to sleep with a girl you could also have a conversation with. The last time they'd had dinner together, they'd discussed philosophy, of all things! They weren't exchanging book reviews like Kim and Robinson (and truly, what was it going to take for those two to get over their shyness and do something? That was a mess you wouldn't find either Amanda or Carly in) but Amanda was very aware that Carly had received a proper classic education. When she said Amanda was a hedonist, she knew very well what it meant!
Yet Carly wasn't prim like a Smith girl could be. Carly was a real woman who'd made her own way, who could handle men like Simon and women like, well, like Amanda. At the clubs Simon took them to, Carly could keep rivals away with little more than a glance. And she had played Amanda herself like a violin, wearing that beautiful dress and then acting aloof the second time they met. (Carly was a real woman in bed, too; she'd certainly taught Amanda a few things!) Amanda was not ashamed to admit that she was a little spoiled, though some of that had been knocked out of her on the road and even more in the RCAF, but she was still used to getting away with things when she needed to. She was well aware with Carly that she got away with little that Carly didn't want her to get away with.
A girl walked down the aisle selling sandwiches and pastries, and they bought a few, Blake and Amanda both intent on getting Chris to eat more than his share. It was nice to have someone to help her take care of Chris, who despite his protests still needed someone to look after him. Even with their fresh shaves and well-combed hair Chris and Blake both looked exhausted; Robinson, sitting opposite her, didn't look much better.
The girl's wrist passed Amanda's nose as she handed out the sandwiches and her perfume reminded Amanda of the day that they'd gone to get Carly a bottle of perfume as a present from Amanda herself. It was late spring, one of the first times that they had ventured beyond the safe confines of a few bars and cafes frequented by "our sort" as Simon liked to say. Amanda was feeling flush, and wanted to get Carly a properly romantic present, something that would suit Carly, and they'd decided on some very nice perfume. For the sake of propriety Carly would buy it herself, but who would think it strange for a girl to bring her friend with her to the store to decide on a fragrance? They'd tried several, giggling, Amanda doing her best not to make any suggestive remarks, before finally settling on Tea Rose. It was classic and pretty, just like Carly. Amanda loved it.
She felt a hand on hers. "Thinking of me?" Blake asked.
She turned to him and smiled. "Of course," she replied, mindful of the others in the car. "Who else?"
Blake nodded, and turned back to Chris and their conversation, but he kept her hand in his. Amanda was annoyed; she felt a little scolded, though she knew none of it was Blake's fault.
She looked up and saw Robinson had put his book down and was staring out the window, so she leaned forward. "Excited to see your girl?" she asked.
"What? Oh!" He smiled and looked down, the way Chris did when he blushed. "She's not my girl, but yes."
Amanda shook her head. "What makes you think she isn't?" she asked.
"Oh, that kind of girl-I know she's out of my league. I'm not kidding myself."
"Robinson, you're a pilot."
"I'm really an engineer who can fly." He leaned closer. "Besides, we haven't, you know..."
Amanda leaned in too. "Fucked?" she asked.
Robinson sat back. "What? No!" he said.
"Amanda!" Chris said, turning to her. "Have some class, sister!"
"What?" she asked. "I was just asking. The way you boys talk-"
"Yeah, boys," Chris said. "And anyway I don't talk like that and neither does Robinson. Jeez, try being a lady sometimes."
Amanda sighed, annoyed. "What did you mean, Robinson?"
"Kissing," he replied. "We haven't kissed."
"Well, she's not gonna kiss you," Amanda replied. "She's a real lady."
"That she is. So is Miss Hennessey."
Amanda smiled but remembered to bite her tongue in the nick of time. "She is that," Chris said, "unlike some people."
"Say, that's my girl you're talking about," Blake said, loyally playing his role.
"Well, you can have her," Chris retorted, but there was a flash in Chris's eyes-he'd always thought of Amanda as his girl. Amanda remembered that the charade wasn't easy for him, either, and resolved to buy him a drink once they reached the Pyramid.
"Children, really," Cook said, smiling and shaking his head.
The conductor came into the car then: "Paddington Station next!" he shouted.
Amanda turned to look out the window at London, but she couldn't see a single city light. It was eerie to walk down the dark city streets, even though they knew them fairly well by now. The group grabbed a quick dinner at a pub before heading to the Pyramid for the second show. The coat check girl was still cute as a button and Amanda had to check herself again; one thing about being on base, there were fewer women around. As they entered the main room she saw Carly, gorgeous as ever, and just like that she wasn't thinking about any other girl in the world but her own. Carly gave them a smile as they walked in and sat with her and the rest of the BBC crew. But when Carly hugged Chris, as she must, Amanda had to make a fist. She didn't like this self-control business, not one little bit.
Chapter Ten: It Happened One Night
Notes:
Contesting Tears is a book by philosopher Stanley Cavell.
I'm going to wait until the commentary after the story is posted to talk about the Battle of Britain and the London Blitz in terms of the larger war; here I just want to give you enough context to understand what is going on within the story itself.
The "official" dates of the Battle of Britain-that is, the battle of the Germans trying to gain air superiority prior to a planned invasion of Britain, and the British attempt to stop them-are from mid-July to the end of October 1940. Note that I made a change here for the story's sake-what happened on 10 July was actually that the Germans started bombing convoys in the English Channel, and that's where most of the fighting until mid-August took place. Once the convoys were haulted due to ship losses the fighting moved to the RAF airfields, which would continue until early September.
On 24 August an attack hit London, and while it's unclear whether that bombing was an error, the RAF did bomb Berlin over the next two nights in retaliation. This led Hitler to rescind a previous directive to avoid civilian targets, and on 7 September the London Blitz began-57 consecutive nights of bombing. 43,000 civilians died, half of them in London, and over a thousand aircrew were lost.
We know how this ends (psst, the British won) but how and why, I'll leave to another chapter.