A Feather on the Water(4)

She felt the boat shudder as they began to move away from the quayside. When she could no longer make out the people and the buildings, she turned away from the rail and scanned her fellow passengers. There was no sign of the man she’d talked with in the truck, nor the woman she’d sat next to on the plane. The only person she recognized was the young girl she’d spotted on the gangway. She was standing alone at the bow of the boat, staring out to sea. There were knots of men in army uniform nearby, smoking and chatting. They were casting the odd sly glance at her.

“Hello again!” Martha turned to see the British man who’d checked her papers standing beside her. He was peering at her through thick horn-rimmed spectacles. In his hand was a clipboard. “I’m pairing people up for when we get to the other side,” he said. “You’re in the American zone: sector twenty-three.” He ran his finger down the list of names attached to the clipboard, then took off his glasses, shading his eyes against the sun as he scanned the passengers. “The young lady over there is in the same team.” He was looking at the girl with the long black braid. “I wonder if you’d mind introducing yourself?”

“Yes, of course.” Martha made her way toward the bow of the boat, one hand clutching her beret to stop the breeze from taking it. She dodged unsteadily past the groups of soldiers, avoiding their eyes. Some of them called out as she passed by, asking her name, offering cigarettes. She didn’t look back.

It wasn’t until she reached the girl that she realized how tall she was—probably not far short of six feet. Martha had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the noise of the engine. “Good morning!”

A pair of large gray eyes met Martha’s. They had a wariness and a hint of something else. Something feral. Like a wildcat about to lash out. Her lips were painted a bold shade of red that instantly dispelled the childlike image conjured by the hairstyle and the bobby socks. She held out her hand to the girl. “I’m Martha Radford. I’m told we’re going to be working together.”

The girl eyed her for a moment longer. “Kitty. Kitty Bloom.” She slid her hand from her jacket pocket. Her grip was hard, like a man’s. “You’re American?”

Martha nodded. Her free hand went to her head, her fingers tucking a windblown wisp of hair back under her beret. The uncertainty in the girl’s voice had made her feel self-conscious. Probably the only American women this girl had seen were Hollywood stars.

“From New York?” Kitty’s accent wasn’t like the English voices Martha had heard in movies. She made “York” sound more like “Yark.”

“Yes. But I grew up in Louisiana.”

From the look on her face, Kitty had never heard of it.

“How about you?”

“Manchester.”

Martha nodded. She had only a vague idea of the geography of England. “Is that far from here?”

“Far enough,” the girl replied. “It took all night to get here. Everything’s slower than it used to be because of the bombs they dropped on the rail tracks.”

“Was your town bombed?”

Kitty nodded.

“That must have been terrifying.”

A slight tightening of the lips was the only response to this. Martha wondered how old Kitty would have been when the war started. It would be tactless to ask. She remembered how it felt to be taken for someone younger than your actual age: if it happened now, she’d be flattered, but back then, it had made her mad.

“Are you hungry?” Kitty cocked her head at the white-railed staircase that led below deck. “There’s a place you can buy sandwiches.”

Martha followed her down the metal steps. It had been many hours since she’d last eaten. The ordeal of flying had robbed her of her appetite—and now the motion of the waves was making her feel queasy again. But perhaps it would do her good to try to eat something.

She changed her mind when she saw what was being offered. The bread was a grayish color, and there were only two fillings to choose from: Spam or fish paste. The only other food for sale was packets of something called Rich Tea.

“What are these?” Martha picked one up, peering at the tiny writing on the back.

“Biscuits,” Kitty replied.

“Do they come with gravy?”

Kitty gave her a blank look. “Gravy? With biscuits?”

“I think they’re cookies.” Martha recognized the voice of the man from the truck. He was standing in line, a couple of places behind her.

“Ah!” She nodded, feeling foolish.

“They’re quite nice if you dunk them in tea,” Kitty said. She was smiling, and it transformed her face. She had the most unusual eyes—pale gray irises that were almost lilac, with an outer ring of charcoal.

Martha felt even more idiotic when she came to pay for the tea and cookies. The woman behind the counter frowned at the dollar bill she proffered. It hadn’t occurred to Martha that she might need British money. The only foreign currency she had in her purse was German reichsmarks.

Kitty pulled coins from her pocket, counting what she had left, when the familiar voice behind them said: “Let me get that.”

“Thank you,” Martha said when he came over to their table, carrying a plate piled with sandwiches. “I can pay you back in German money if that’s okay?”