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“Anything,” he said.
“That’s very unlike a solicitor, agreeing to answer a question without knowing what it is.”
“I left the office an hour ago, and I’m determined not to be a solicitor again until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You are free to ask whatever you like,” he said.
“What is it like not going off to fight?”
“Ah, that question.”
“I don’t mean any offense,” she hurriedly added.
His lips tipped up a fraction of an inch. “I know you don’t, Sylvia, but not everyone is so generous if I don’t take the time to explain about being deaf in my left ear.”
Her heart broke a little to hear that, because she couldn’t stand the thought of anyone thinking less of the gentle, considerate man she’d grown up with.
“It isn’t easy,” he admitted. “I know that sounds ridiculous given that I’m here, relatively safe in my solicitor’s office while tens of thousands of men are off fighting.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she said.
He gave her a smile. “Thank you. Being told that a chance accident when you were a child means you aren’t even fit to drive an ambulance for the medical corps is humbling and humiliating in equal turns.”
She shuddered, remembering too well the day it had happened. It was about two years after the Sheltons had moved to Glengall Road. Her mother believed Sylvia, at thirteen, was old enough to sweep the shop floor and do other odd jobs. However, nine-year-old Izzie was still allowed to run wild with the other neighborhood children so long as she was back for supper when the church bells rang six. That was why, when Izzie had raced into the shop, crying that William was hurt, Sylvia had followed Mum and Miss Reid out of the shop like a shot. William was lying on the ground, clutching the side of his head as blood trickled down from his ear.
Apparently William and the other children had found some sticks from a nearby park and were pretending to be buccaneers. One of the children slipped while thrusting, and a stick had gone straight into William’s left ear, puncturing the eardrum.
“Your hearing never came back then?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I haven’t heard a thing in it since. What is your husband doing in the war?”
She shifted in her seat, suddenly acutely aware that this was the longest she’d been alone with a man who wasn’t Hugo in years. Except that was ridiculous. William would never do anything untoward. For goodness’ sake, her mother had trusted him to handle her affairs. If Izzie had any sense and the inclination to marry, she would open her eyes and realize that a good man was waiting right here in front of her.
Only, when Sylvia looked at William, she found she couldn’t imagine him as Izzie’s husband.
Sylvia cleared her throat and said, “Hugo is a surgeon lieutenant-commander in the Royal Navy Medical Service.”
“You must be very proud,” he said.
“Yes.” The word stuck in her throat, coming out more croak than confirmation. “He is away a great deal.”
“That must be difficult.”
Not as difficult as she had once found it.
She cleared her throat and then gestured to the notebook she’d set aside. “I should probably finish this.”
William sat up a little straighter. “Of course. I didn’t mean to keep you so long.”
“You didn’t!” she rushed to say. “That is, I appreciate you sharing your contraband sandwiches and a little bit of company as well.”
“Well, I’ll let you finish your supper,” he said as he began to fold the parchment into precise lines until all that was left was a neat rectangle, not a crumb to be seen.
She smiled as she showed him to the shop door. Of course William wouldn’t leave a crumb behind. He would never be so inconsiderate as that.
Several hours later, Sylvia let her handbag slip off her wrist and onto the flat’s entryway table, only just catching it as it teetered, threatening to fall onto the polished hardwood floor. Then she lifted her hands to her hat to unpin it and cast it aside. She didn’t even bother to check her appearance in the mirror. All she wanted was to pour herself a couple fingers of whiskey, sink into bed, and sleep for twelve hours.
She toed off her shoes, leaving them in the entryway. She would pick them up before Mrs. Atkinson arrived the following morning, but at that moment she couldn’t be bothered. Trying to rub the tension out of the back of her neck, she made for the sitting room and its generously stocked bar cart. It had been weeks since she’d entertained anyone at home, but keeping the bottles topped up and waiting seemed like the civilized thing to do even if the recent alcohol shortages meant that it was harder than ever to find certain spirits in London shops.
She pushed open the ajar sitting room door and stopped short when she saw a pair of highly polished black shoes poking out from behind one of wingback chairs in front of the coal fire. The edge of a newspaper dropped into view and she heard the sound of paper crackling and fabric rustling as Hugo twisted to peer around the chair’s wing.
