Victoria dabbed her chin with a neatly folded tissue and peered down at her next victim. That was why she always sat on the upper deck of the red buses, on the left side, toward the back--more to see from the top.
As the bus chugged into Victoria Station(s smoky hub, ruddy-cheeked school boys in navy blue blazers stood in an uneven line and waved small plastic flags. Their teacher waited with them on the curb. The bus stopped. One by one, the boys hopped onto the bus(s open platform. Cute little buggers, Victoria thought. Not likely to tolerate a boring seat at the bottom. Hard-soled shoes tap-tapped up the bus(s curving metal steps like a West End chorus line.
You happy little ones should be terrified the way I was when England faced the Fascist devil. We feared for our very lives. Now, we(re swallowed up by an accursed golden eagle with guns and dollars in its talons, an eagle that spreads its bloodstained wings over our beloved England.
Fight, little ones! Take back our empire, our royal empire. Not just our flag. Not just our queen. But dominant power, as it was meant to be. Give us back our smugness. Give us back our cleverness. Yes, and our arrogance.
Victoria(s victim sat at the very front, on the right side. Good of her to come to the top deck, but not surprising. Didn(t American women want it all? And didn(t they usually get it? The American put down her green Harrods shopping bag and spread two fingers to form a V. She flashed a toothpaste-perfect smile at the excited school boys. Blushing, they giggled and waved their red, white, and blue flags. Victoria realized her teeth were grinding. She opened her mouth to let some of the anger escape. Union Jacks. No longer a proud symbol, she thought. Even that has been despoiled.
Victoria brushed a tiny piece of lint from her blue woolen cape and hummed the national anthem. Our anthem, little ones. Stiffening her back, she stared straight ahead. Confound their politics, frustrate their knavish tricks, and make them fall. Yes, please make them fall.
She remembered her own war and D-day. Fifty years? Really that long ago? Fifty years since she and thousands of other youngsters scurried aboard black, creaking trains to flee Hitler(s accursed bombs. Tagged, sorted out like parcels for mailing, and bribed with bags of sweets, they sang the (Lambeth Walk( and prayed for happy times. But when her mum finally came to see her, she just left her there, left her for another two years.
Now several school boys bounced past. One skinny fellow no more than six stopped. He peered at her with a sheepish grin. Digging bony fingers into his tight trouser pocket, he pulled out five pennies and dropped them, one by one, into her red Salvation Army canister. The boy(s teacher patted his shoulder and winked at Victoria.
(Ta,( Victoria said, and eased back into the stiff plastic seat. She felt better now, more relaxed. Such a lovely day, such a lovely, lovely day. Commuters rushed in and out of cool purple shadows and beams of piercing sunlight. Such a peaceful day . . .
She turned and faced the greasy, speckled window. Grimacing, she reached under her cape, pulled a clean tissue from her jacket pocket, and rubbed the offending stains until they disappeared. Then she carefully folded the soiled tissue into a neat square and pushed it deep inside her uniform.
A bloody mess. Filthy. The whole country was coming apart. All these foreigners. She stared at the olive-skinned conductor and shook her head. And the Yanks, of course, ever since the war, with their straight, even teeth and devious words. What have we come to? Even British judges feared the Americans now. She was sure of that, and no one would ever convince her otherwise. She felt her anger resurface. Her parents would have made good Americans. Yes indeed. Weren(t they the arrogant ones, though? And cut from the same selfish cloth.
Black smoke, diesel fumes, and the vibration of clanking engines took her back . . . all the way back to the curving brick wall at Bentwaters Air Force Base. She and Jenny Holly waited hour after hour in a field of brilliant yellow maize. A light breeze stirred the sweet scent of honey and flowers and made the girls dizzy with love.
Finally they heard the groaning chocolate-colored bomber struggle down the runway and fight its way into the Wedgewood blue summer sky. They saw Davy and Paul clearly then, smiling and waving in the glass bubble at the very back. Another mission. Come back safely boys, please come back safely . . .
They were to meet at the officer(s club the next night--was it a Monday, or a Tuesday? Poor little Jenny hoped dearly for an engagement ring. But their boys didn(t show. Never saw them again.
Jenny, who had just turned sixteen, borrowed a green off-the-shoulder dress and the girls pooled three crowns to have their hair done at a little shop in Woodbridge. After waiting in the officer(s club reception room for what seemed like an eternity, they ventured into the smoky, crowded bar.
A handsome young lieutenant asked if he could help, but when Victoria told him the names of their beautiful guys, he shook his head and began to roar. A little American nurse, a bleached-blonde slut, sipping a drink with a cherry in it, covered her face with both hands and wiped away tears of laughter. What had happened to their lovely boys? they demanded. What had happened to Major Davy Crockett and Captain Paul Bunyan?
Even now Victoria(s cheeks burned with humiliation. She unsnapped her black leather handbag and groped inside, her fingertips resting on the moist rose petals. No rush, all planned to the last detail. She was organized, all right. It was the only thing her father never criticized her for. (Good girl, Victoria, always the orderly one,( he had told her. (A regular plow horse, though. No fancy bones in that big Suffolk body. What a waste, might have made a half-decent man.(
She giggled now and thought, Maybe so, Daddy. Maybe so.
Suddenly, the American pulled herself up and lurched from side to side, trying to keep her balance as the bus bumped its way down Vauxhall Bridge Road. Clutching each seat-back in turn, the attractive, middle-aged woman staggered up the aisle past Victoria to the stairs at the back. Hold tight, my dear. So easy to fall. Shouldn(t try those steps whilst the bus is moving.
Victoria watched her disappear down the stairwell. She sighed and shook her head. Her brother could have done this for her, but sometimes he truly had a mind of his own. Without holding the seat, she stood erect, let her body flow with the bus(s jerky rhythm, and took slow, deliberate steps to the back. The whole thing was quite sad, truly it was. She sighed. But duty first, always duty first, just as during the war.
At the Midland Bank corner, the double-decker picked up speed and clattered down the crowded street toward Pimlico. Clutching the plastic-coated safety bar, the American leaned across the open platform at the back of the bus. Hair tinted gold reflected the blinking sunlight. She pulled the cord, then pulled it again.
Victoria crept down, hugging the handrail, and stopped at the middle, where the metal steps curved like a spiral staircase. No time to waste; next would come the brakes. She glanced over her shoulder. The conductor, still checking tickets upstairs, would not be a problem. She took a deep breath. Now or never, old girl.
Victoria lunged down the last three steps, grabbed the woman(s wrist, and wrenched her fingers from the safety bar. The woman turned and looked up, eyes wide. Victoria pushed against the American(s bony middle finger until she heard a dull cracking sound and felt it snap. She used her weighty forearm to drive the woman backward, into the street.
Victoria saluted. (I do so hope you enjoyed your holiday, Mrs. Lewis.(
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