Slowly Marian had grown accustomed to the blackout and to discerning the people moving through it like benthic fish, flashing their white gloves or phosphorescent boutonnieres. She enjoyed the shock of passing from the outdoor darkness into a nightclub: loud and humid, sparkling like the inside of a geode. Here was the subterranean persistence of life. The peaceful world had been burned away, but its roots were intact, safe down in the dark, nourished by booze, smoke, and sweat.
One especially frigid night Ruth and Marian were put on fire watch together, which meant they were to sleep on cots at the Luton airfield. By eight o’clock, when it had long been dark and there was nothing to do but sleep, they lay shivering on their cots in their wool underwear and Sidcot suit liners until Ruth said, “Do you think you could bear to squeeze in with me? I’m so cold I’ll never fall asleep.”
“All right,” Marian said, and Ruth lifted the blankets for her. Lying back to back, Marian felt acutely conscious of the slight difference in the rhythm of their breathing, but when she synchronized herself to Ruth, the feeling was even stranger, as though they had fused into a pair of lungs. She was aware, too, of the softness of Ruth’s rear against her own, aligned since Ruth （much shorter than she） had scooted down and covered her whole head with the blankets. Marian knew she could sleep—she could always sleep, anywhere—but she was not sure she wanted to.
“I haven’t heard from my brother in a while,” she offered. “Not since we arrived.”
Ruth scooted up above the covers so her voice was unmuffled. “Maybe his letter’s just stuck somewhere. I got a batch yesterday and some of them were ancient.”
“Maybe.”
“I had a letter from Eddie. He’s gotten his crew now. They sound all right. One guy gets airsick every time but no one tattles on him, not even after he decided to drop his barf bag down the flare chute and the wind blew it back up and splattered everyone. Their last training flight was over water so he thinks it won’t be too much longer before they go overseas.” She shifted, her shoulders pressing against Marian’s. “He said they’re all getting along, which is a relief.”
Marian had little sense of Eddie beyond the fact that he’d washed out of pilot training. “Were you worried?”
“A bit. People don’t always know what to make of Eddie. Don’t get me wrong—he’s terrific. But sometimes…I don’t know.” Ruth rolled over, squeaking the cot’s springs. Now the softness against Marian’s back was breasts instead of rump. “You’re warm,” Ruth said. She snaked her arm under Marian’s and held her hand in front of Marian’s face. There were red, swollen patches at her knuckles. “Do you have these? Chilblains? They’re awful. I have them on my feet, too.”
“You need to do a better job drying your socks and boots,” Marian said, and it seemed natural to take Ruth’s hand in her own and draw it beneath the covers, holding it against her sternum to warm it.
“Your heart is beating fast,” Ruth said after a minute.
“I don’t think so.”
“It is.” This in a loose, sleepy voice.
Marian didn’t answer. Something about the way Ruth talked about Eddie was odd. The elliptical idea came to her that if she were Ruth, she would figure it out. Ruth would get everything out of Ruth without even seeming to try. She found she wanted to go to sleep quickly, before Ruth could change position again, and so she did, falling away into herself.
England
November–December 1942
Continuing on
A letter finally came from Jamie, dated back in September. He was going to be an artist in the navy:
Who would have thought such a thing existed? I wouldn’t have, but Sarah Fahey wrote to tell me. At first I thought I should just enlist anyway, but I came around to thinking maybe I should do this instead. After all, they want artists, and I am one. I leave for training in San Diego soon, and from there I don’t know. I hope you won’t worry, at least not as much as I worry about you.
So it was done. The war had come for Jamie, too. Worry wasn’t the word for what she felt. Dread, perhaps. Anticipatory grief for what he would see, how he would be changed. Caleb was gone to the army, too, but there was nothing she could do for either of them, so she tried to set her fears aside.
* * *
—
As winter approached, the worsening weather made cross-country flights more and more difficult to complete, so in early November, when Marian had done only eighteen instead of twenty-five, the ATA shrugged off its own requirement and gave her her wings and four days’ leave. Ruth still needed to catch a few more flights, so Marian went to London alone but found that, without Ruth, even the most familiar parts of the city made her shy and tentative. The Red Cross Club, so lively and welcoming in Ruth’s company, felt daunting. She’d come to rely on Ruth to swing her into conversations like a trapeze artist tossing her partner into another’s grip. When an air force captain tried to strike up a conversation in the snack bar, she managed only the most stilted chitchat and fled at the first opportunity.