He went over to the stove and opened the creaky metal door, throwing wood onto the glimmering embers. “I’ve brought more eggs,” he said. “There’s a loaf of bread, some cheese, and some milk. Oh, and apples—they’re a bit shriveled, but they’re nice and sweet.” He took the food from a knapsack on his back. Then he wiped the frying pan with a piece of rag.
“Please . . .” I hobbled across the room. “You don’t have to cook for me—I’m sure I can manage.”
He glanced at me over his shoulder. “I can’t have you frying eggs while standing on one leg—you might end up setting fire to the place.”
“Oh . . . I . . .” I looked down, embarrassed.
“You thought I was being kind.” His voice was matter-of-fact. He was being kind, but there was an air of detachment about him. As if compassion were something to be despised. “I should sit down if I were you—rest that foot. You’ll be of use to neither man nor beast until it heals.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I lowered myself onto the pile of sailcloth and watched him make breakfast.
“Do you always sit like that?” He cast me a curious look over his shoulder.
“Like what?”
“With the tips of your fingers tucked inside the cuffs of your cardigan.”
I glanced down, suddenly self-conscious. I’d done it without thinking. “It’s a habit—pardon the pun.” I smiled. “At the convent, it was ingrained in us that our hands must learn to stay still and out of sight except when needed. They used to be hidden by the sleeves of my robe.”
He laughed. “I don’t suppose you’re any good at bell ringing, are you?”
Now it was my turn to look puzzled. “Well, I did take my turn at it in Africa. Why?”
He flipped the eggs onto a plate. “We’re going to be ringing the church bells on Easter Sunday—for the first time since the war started. Churchill announced it on the radio this morning.” He carved a hunk of bread, holding the loaf in the crook of his arm as he took the knife to it. “Up to now, they were only supposed to be rung to warn of an invasion.”
“Does that mean the war’s nearly over?”
“I wish it did. Things are looking better now the Americans are in—but the Germans aren’t going to give up easily.” He shrugged. “It’s a gesture, I think. Today is Hitler’s birthday, apparently, and the bells thing is Churchill sticking two fingers up at him. Anyway, we don’t have any bell ringers. All the men who used to do it have gone off to fight. I wondered if you could give me some tips—and maybe help if you’re feeling better by Sunday?”
“I’d like that.” I smiled my thanks as he set the plate in front of me. “My father was a bell ringer.”
“What did he do? For work, I mean.”
“He was a doctor. He died while I was in the Congo. A car accident.” The saliva that had trickled into my mouth at the sight of food dried up. I felt tears prickle the backs of my eyes. Why had I let that out? Nuns weren’t supposed to talk about their families. In the hour of recreation at the mission hospital, it was a strict rule that the past must never be mentioned.
Jack must have seen my face change. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll leave you in peace to eat your breakfast. You don’t want an audience, I’m sure.”
I swallowed the tears down. “Please don’t go. Not if you don’t have to, I mean. I’m not used to eating alone. Won’t you share this with me?”
He said he’d eaten already, but I wasn’t certain he was telling the truth. I told him I wouldn’t be able to manage the whole loaf before it went stale. When I said that, he cut himself a slice and spread it with a dollop of honey. For a while we both ate in silence.
“No second thoughts,” he said between mouthfuls, “about going back to the convent?”
“No.”
“I thought perhaps you’d change your mind—that you were too traumatized yesterday to think straight.”
I shook my head, staring at the flames burning blue and gold behind the soot-smeared glass in the door of the stove. The memories of those terrifying hours in the English Channel seared my brain, too harrowing to put into words. I could still hear the faint, forlorn cries of those who, like me, were clinging to broken hunks of wreckage, fighting for life. A child calling for its mother, the voice growing fainter as I kicked out, powerless against the swell, unable to reach it. And when all human sounds had faded away, and I was utterly alone in the icy water, my mind began to play tricks. I thought I heard another voice, somewhere above my head, telling me I’d been saved because I had work to do. Was it delirium? Or an angel? If I tried to explain it to Jack, he’d probably think I was unhinged.