Grounded Hearts Page 5

  Nan let her own bike drop. A herd of boys in short pants ran around the craft, poking sticks into the rubble. She was about to yell at them to get away when she heard the sound of creaking metal. Several men dressed in tweed jackets and flat caps, cigarettes dangling from their lips, pulled a piece of the wing from the craft.

  “That’s the ticket,” one of them said.

  “Mind ya don’t cut ya hand,” replied another.

  They dragged the sheet of metal toward a wagon hitched to a horse. One of the men tipped his flat cap to her.

  “’Lo, Nan. How are ya this fine morning?”

  “Grand, Peter. Better than the boys who flew this airplane, that’s for sure. Collecting souvenirs?”

  “Not a’tall. We’re going to make gates out of the metal.” He placed his dirty hands in prayer, bowed his head, and said, “May the Lord have mercy on their brave souls.”

  Nan felt the blood drain from her face. Her balance swayed. A wave of dizziness hit her. Gripping her jacket collar, she barely noticed the spray of mist that splattered across her face. Dutch’s crew. Lost. How would he take the news? How would she tell him?

  “It’s a Vickers Wellington,” ten-year-old Sean, a round-cheeked, red-haired boy, offered. “Are ya all right, Nurse Nan?”

  She shored up her shoulders and nodded. “Just sad for the airmen. The plane, it’s so big. And crumpled.”

  “The Krauts who caught their bombs, they’re the crumpled ones now. When I grow up, I’m going to pilot a Wellington bomber, too. I’m gonna save the world!”

  Hmm. Where had she heard that before?

  The boy spread his arms out like airplane wings and made a roaring sound. He ran after another boy who did the same.

  “Let’s hope the war is over before he’s out of knee pants,” Peter murmured.

  If men would only come to their senses. “Yes. Please be to God. Tell me. Do you know for a fact the crew was lost?”

  Peter adjusted his cap. “Ah, that was just a prayer in advance should there be tragic news. Where you off to, Nan? A baby being born?”

  More like a flyboy almost dead. “Not yet. How is Josie?”

  “The wife couldn’t be fitter. She’s hoping for a girl this time. I told her that’s okay, since she already gave me five strapping sons.”

  A Ford sedan filled with LDF officers came thundering down the road. One of them leaned out the window with a megaphone, shouting, “Get away from there. This is government property now. You’re all stealing. Do you hear me? We’ll arrest ya all.”

  “I’d best be off. If ya see the missus, tell her I’ll be late for tea.” Peter tipped his hat, ran to the other side of the airplane, and hopped onto the back of a horse-drawn cart filled with scrap airplane metal. He laughed along with the other two men beside him. The horse galloped down a lane, too rough and narrow for the army car to follow. Everyone else scattered.

  Back on her way to town, the road curved and twisted, Nan’s stomach following the motion. Thatched and slate roofs of Ballyhaven loomed ahead as she sped down a hill into the village.

  The muddy lane gave way to wet pavement. Saint Patrick’s Church soared to the sky with a steeple that leaned to the right. Father Albert had warned, once the war and the Emergency were over, there’d be a massive building fund drive to repair the structure, advising everyone to save their pennies.

  She slowed near the churchyard. The gravestones resembled teeth as they poked up from the unkempt grass. Teddy was in there. He shouldn’t be after what he’d done. She squeezed the handlebar grips and pushed down the throb of guilt rising from deep inside. What she’d done was wrong. Truly wrong.

  Focusing on the bike wheel as it bounced over Ballyhaven’s cobblestone streets, she joined a busy stream of bicycles, men pushing handbarrows, and horse- or donkey-drawn carts that snaked their way past the numerous shops and houses, all crowded together like a deck of gray playing cards.

  She steered around a slow-moving cart carrying a load of turf, managing to miss the many animal offerings on the road.

  At the beep of a horn, she guided her bike to the side of the road. A new Guinness lorry, its bed filled with barrels, thundered past her. The driver parked at the corner pub, cut the engine, and swung open the door.

  Mrs. Odin, the pub owner, stood outside her establishment, rubbing a cloth over the multiple windowpanes. A scarf tied over her ears, her salt-and-pepper curls piled on top of her head, she offered a coy smile to the driver, Brian Monaghan, a short man with a bulldog face.

  Everyone knew he was sweet on the widow. Or perhaps he was sweet on her bountiful breakfast. He always stopped at Odin’s Pub before delivering his other shipments.

  More cynical villagers thought it wasn’t only the widow’s bacon he was sweet on, but also her curves. Nan refused to pass judgment. They were both adults, and what happened inside the pub was between the two of them. And the confessional booth.

  Nan scooted around another horse-drawn trap and then slowed to a stop outside Mikie’s, one of Ballyhaven’s biggest general stores. She stationed the bike, grabbed her basket from the back rack, and let herself inside the dark, crowded shop. It reeked of smoke, cabbage, and dried herbs.

  She hoped that the men hanging around the fireplace would let her get on with her purchases and not ask her too many questions.

  “Morning, Nan,” the owner called from a bench where several men sat around a glowing fire. They smoked pipes or cigarettes and held cups of tea. It was too early in the day for a Guinness, but after lunch, the back room would open.

  “Margaret,” Mikie yelled to his wife, who was behind a beaded curtain that led to their private quarters. “Margaret. Nan’s here. Get out here, woman, you have a customer.”

  “Keep ya pants on, Mikie. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Take your time,” Nan called out. Please don’t, she thought.

  An old man wearing a fedora winked at her, shuffling toward her with open arms. Muddy tracks lay in his wake. “How are ya, me beauty?”

  “Morning, Thomas.” She braced herself for the hug that Thomas Carlow, the vegetable man, always gave her.

  He placed his hands on her shoulders and then kissed her on the right cheek. “Ya remind me of my dearly departed daughter.”

  Nan knew what came next.

  He kissed her left cheek. “Ya remind me of my dearly departed wife, too. May she rest in peace.”

  Unexpectedly, he kissed her right cheek again. “Don’t ya have the same lovely spirit of my mother, gone to be with the angels.”

  His mother? That was new. Maybe she was getting old. She wondered if Dutch thought she was some dried-up Irish biddy. He had indicated he was past his prime at twenty-six. She glanced at her black stockings. Old-lady stockings. Old-lady laced-up shoes. She hoped she didn’t smell like one as well.

  She stepped away before Thomas could plant another kiss. This had to end before he invoked her likeness to his grandma.

  Returning to his stool by the fire, Thomas asked, “Did you hear the airplane go down last night, darling? I almost got out my horse and came to ya house to make sure you were all right.”

  “I was fine.”

  “No bomber boy at your door?”

  She gripped the basket to her chest, the rough weave pressing through her coat. “Of course not. You needn’t check on me. I can fend for myself.”

  “Fend for yourself? Nan, you need a man. If I were ten years younger, and you ten years older, well. We’d be a pair.”

  Her groan tickled her throat. Placing the basket on the counter, she craned her head to see if Margaret might be on her way out.

  “What about Shamus Finn?” Mikie packed tobacco into his pipe with a stained thumb. “Did he check on you last night?”

  “Yes, but he needn’t have been concerned.” Thank you, Lord. “I saw the crash site today. Peter thought the crew had all been killed.” She rubbed her collarbone. “Is it so?”

  Mikie lit a match on the bottom of his boot, th
en swung the flame to the pipe that jutted out of the corner of his mouth. After a couple of puffs, smoke looped from the pipe. “They’re not dead,” he said, flicking the match into the fireplace. “Lord Harry found them hiding in his barn. He gave them supper and delivered them to the Garda. They spent the night in jail.”

  Nan let out the breath she hadn’t known she held. “Thank you, Lord, for protecting those brave young men, fighting for our freedom,” she said, blessing herself. The men nodded and someone muttered, “Amen.”

  Mikie perched on a wooden stool, its seat worn from countless mornings around the fire. “The Garda’s looking for the new doctor to take a peek at them.”

  A toothless man pushed up his flat cap. His cigarette dangled between two fat fingers, the smoke twisting upward to the beamed ceiling and disappearing into bundles of dried rosemary. “Tell me, Mikie. Have ya met the new doctor?”

  “I did, Liam. I did. Dr. Mann.”

  “What’s the doctor’s name?”

  “Dr. Mann.”

  “I know he’s a man. What’s his name, then?”

  Mikie shook his head, his comb-over slipping the wrong way. A fringe of hair swayed around his ear. “Dr. Mann is not a man. Dr. Mann is a woman. Her name is Dr. Mann.”

  “A woman doctor? A woman who calls herself a man?”

  Thomas Carlow wrinkled up his nose. “No woman doctor is gonna get a look at me private parts.”

  Poor Dr. Mann, Nan thought, whoever she might be.

  Parting the beaded curtains, Mikie’s wife entered the shop. Margaret wore a flowered apron over her brown dress. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, making her ears stick out.

  “Sorry to keep ya waiting. Have a cup of tea.” She plunked a full cup onto the counter.

  “Ah, thanks. That’s very kind of you.” Nan picked up the rose-patterned mug, the heat warming her icy-cold fingers. But the inner shaking that chilled her had nothing to do with the climate and everything to do with the hot-blooded pilot in her bed. “How are you, Margaret?”

  “Still married to the brilliant one over there.” Her friend let out a low hiss toward the men around the fireplace.

  Margaret had been married to Mikie for forty-plus years. From what Nan could tell, they tolerated each other. At times the couple could be heard in heated arguments, their shouting echoing down the lane.

  Margaret rubbed the counter with a rag. “What can I do for ya this fine morning?”

  “You know. Bits and pieces.” Margaret wouldn’t think it was so fine if she knew Nan had an injured pilot sleeping in her bed. The thought made Nan blush. Not that there was anything to be ashamed of.

  Except all the lying. Nan reached into her basket and handed over her shopping list and ration book.

  The outline of Margaret’s tongue pushed through her cheek. “What’s wanting with you this morning?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Ya seem a bit off.”

  “Do I?” What was giving her away?

  “Your fingers have been shaking like a piano player’s.”

  Nan shoved them into her pockets. “I’m cold is all.”

  “I’ve known ya long enough to know when ya out of sorts,” Margaret said, grasping her reading glasses. She wiped them with the corner of her apron before balancing them on the bridge of her bulbous nose. “What’s doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay. If you say so.” Margaret returned to the list. Looking over the rims of her glasses, she inclined her head. “Why do ya have ‘one large men’s nightshirt’ on ya list?”

  Nan shrugged. “Actually, I changed my mind. I want a pair of men’s pajamas. It’s a birthday gift for my cousin up north. Do you have any?”

  “I do. I didn’t know you had a cousin up north.”

  “He’s a distant cousin, and he’s in need. I want to help.”

  “Ya a good girl that way, you are.”

  Well, Nan thought, I’m getting good at lying.

  Margaret looked her up and down. “What’s the matter?”

  There was no hiding the state she was in, at least not to Margaret. “The truth is . . .” Nan glanced side to side.

  “Yes?” Margaret leaned forward.

  “I suppose it’s the plane crash. It was close by. It could have crashed on my head.”

  Margaret smiled, revealing a dark spot where her eyetooth once was. “But it didn’t. And the Lord doesn’t bring anything to ya door that ya can’t handle.”

  “Do you really think so?” The idea was reassuring.

  “I know so.”

  “Of course. You’re right.” Nan hoped. Prayed. “Tell me, have you heard from Tuda? Is she back yet?”

  “Tonight, I think Paddy said.” Margaret adjusted her glasses. “’Tis sad the Lord called her da home, but we all get called home someday. Let me see; I have most everything on ya list.”

  “How about the canning jars?” Nan was glad to get back to mundane items.

  With a shake of her head, Margaret measured out three scoops of flour into a bag. “It’s a shame they haven’t arrived yet. I hear the factory is having a devil of a time finding tin. And this is probably the last of the white flour for a while.”

  “Ah, that’s too bad.” Nan tucked the bag into her basket.

  “Will the apples keep? The customers are asking after your jam.”

  “The fruit will be good a bit longer.” As well as the sugar she’d been stockpiling for three months. Sugar supply was very unreliable these days, but she was glad to live in a farming village where vegetables, eggs, and dairy products were available without a problem. At least for now. Who knew how desperate things would get if the war dragged on.

  “Over by Christmas, that’s what the English had boasted.” Margaret faced the shelves and stepped onto a footstool. “That was over two years ago, and there seems no end in sight.” Her friend sorted through bundled garments on the top shelf. “Size large, you say? I’ve two styles of pajamas. Would ya like to look at them? Give them a feel?”

  Nan thought about Dutch, wearing the bitty nightshirt. Heat rose in her cheeks. “No. I’ll take the cheaper one.”

  Margaret frowned. “Don’t you want to get a feel for the pajamas that will grace your young man’s body?”

  “He’s not my young man. He’s not even a close relative. Just wrap it up.”

  “Okay.” Margaret selected a navy-and-white-pinstriped garment, wrapped it in brown paper, and set it in the basket. “I’ll run the jars over to you as soon as they come.”

  “No, I’ll pick them up.” She might have said that too quickly, because Margaret’s forehead turned into rows of lines.

  Hooking her finger for Nan to lean in closer, Margaret pressed her ample chest into the counter. “I’ll run them out to ya. I’d like a bit of an outing, ya see. Get away from those meatheads over there. And I’ll bring ya a cup of sugar.”

  Nan’s mouth went dry. What if Margaret happened by and saw Dutch?

  “When do you think the jars will come in?”

  “At least a week. Maybe two.”

  Dutch would be long gone before the jars came in. Over the border and back to his RAF base. God willing. “All right, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Not a bit. Tell ya what.” Margaret ripped coupons from Nan’s ration book. “I’ll give you a discount on the pajamas, seeing how you delivered my lovely grandson last month. Shall I put everything on your account today?”

  “Yes, thank you. How is baby John?”

  Margaret smiled. “Still has them lungs that would wake the dead. And isn’t my daughter recovering without a care?”

  “She’s grand. If only all my mums and babes were that easy. I’ll pop up to see them right now.”

  The door swung open, followed by a chorus of hellos from the men sitting around the fireplace. Sergeant Paul Halpin, the village Garda, tipped his hat to them. His uniform fit his trim figure with precision. Just like the man, not a detail out of place. He had a broad fore
head, a refined straight nose, and keen dark eyes. He set his gaze on Nan. “Ah, I’ve been looking for you.”

  Had he been to her home and discovered Dutch? “Oh? Is it Kelly? She’s not due for a month, but first babies can be unpredictable.”

  “Kelly’s grand. I was about to go round to your house, so I’m glad I stopped here first.”

  Me, too. Nan lifted her basket from the counter. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s a matter of some importance. Have you heard we found most of the bomber crew?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve tried to find Dr. Mann—”

  “Did ya know Dr. Mann isn’t a man a’tall, he’s a woman?” Liam shouted.

  Halpin pulled a half smile. “That I know.” He focused back on Nan. “I can’t find the doctor. The bus for the internment camp will arrive shortly. Would you mind looking after the RAF crew?”

  “Not at all. Are they badly injured?”

  “Scrapes and bruises. They’re extremely lucky to be alive.”

  “I’d be happy to examine the lads. Are they in jail?”

  “At my house with Kelly.”

  Nan leaned back. “Alone with your wife? Is that wise?”

  “Hardly alone. There’s a vast number of the village girls hovering about, along with an armed army officer. They’re just scared kids, really. They know there’s nowhere to go. I’ll meet you at the house?”

  “I’ll be along. I need to check on Margaret’s grandson.”

  “Yes. That’s fine. Oh, and Nan. There are two airmen unaccounted for. Finn is searching for them now.”

  She hoped Finn wasn’t poking around her cabin again. And if he was, she prayed Dutch had stayed in bed. She’d be glad when her secret flyboy was on his way. She wasn’t made for all this Mata Hari intrigue.

  Halpin moved closer. With a lift of an eyebrow and a low tone, he said, “Have you seen anyone?”

  With gaze steady, she said, “No.”

  He studied her. She could feel her stomach tightening, her throat squeezing, but she didn’t falter. She remembered the instructions her ma had given her as a child. “If the authorities come looking for your da or uncles, you look the blaggards in the eye, say nothing, or deny everything.”