The Return of the Tiger
by Isabella Hargreaves
Copyright © Isabella Hargreaves 2020
Main Beach, Southport, Queensland, early 1919
Surf crashes on the wide sandy beach. A small crowd of motor racing enthusiasts line the low sand dunes to the west. They caught the ferry across the Nerang River from the Southport side early this morning. Now it’s late afternoon.
Tom Greenaway bounces on the balls of his feet. This is it—the last race of the day and the first of his new life after the war. He sizes up the competitor standing nearby—young, short and skinny. A cap and muffler cover most of his face. Goggles sit on his forehead ready to be pulled into place. Baggy grey overalls hang off his body.
He doesn’t look strong enough to steer his six-cylinder Studebaker on the best-made road in Brisbane, let alone race against three experienced drivers on the windswept sands of the beach.
“May the best man win,” Tom offers, extending his right hand to the lad.
The youth touches a Tiger’s Eye stone suspended from a leather thong around his neck, marking it as his talisman. Huh, someone else who wears a tiger’s eye. He blocks the stab of regret that threatens to open his old wound. Not now.
The kid doesn’t respond, just gives Tom a curt nod before he turns away.
“Hey!” Tom exclaims, surprised by the rudeness of the fellow. He opens his mouth to say more, but the bark of the starter’s summons, calling all drivers to the starting line, cuts him off. Instead, Tom strides across the damp sand to his Overland car.
Sliding his long legs into the driver’s compartment, Tom dismisses the young competitor from his thoughts to begin the pre-start check of his car. He nods to his mechanic and presses the ignition button. The modified engine of ‘The Lion’ roars into life. The pulse and thrum of its well-tuned motor sends a blast of excitement fizzing through his veins.
Tom pulls his goggles into place, gives a thumbs-up to his mechanic, and jiggles the accelerator pedal, listening to the responding snarls of the engine, hungry for release. He glances to his left. Two drivers, his racing foes from the past, nod back.
To his right is the boy. He doesn’t register Tom’s chin tip of acknowledgement. His attention is fixed on the sand track before him. Who is this fellow? A lot has changed in the four years since Tom last raced here—so many of his competitors are gone, thanks to the war.
Tom sucks in a breath. Don’t go there. Concentrate on the now. He forces his attention to the starter holding his chequered flag. He releases a ragged sigh, and gulps another breath to steady his nerves.
The flag drops. Tom stamps on the accelerator and releases the clutch. His motorised beast leaps into motion. Within seconds he’s worked his way through the gears to reach the top.
Around him motors revs, sand splatters machines and men, and exhaust fumes itch his nose. He keeps his right foot clamped to the accelerator, willing more power from the motor.
Gradually, as though in slow motion, he edges ahead of the cars on his left. To his right, the boy keeps pace, his whole body hunched forward, his gloved hands clamped to the steering wheel. Damn, he looks determined.
The winning post approaches fast now. Tom fights to keep his vehicle on the straight stretch of hard sand. Finally, he eases ahead of the lad, crossing the finish line with a roar of power.
Behind him sounds a clap of noise followed by the sickening scream of steel on steel. It ends with the revving of an engine running on without traction on the earth. Tom eases his foot off the accelerator and wheels his car in a wide arc.
Before him lays motorised carnage. One car stands abandoned, its side stoved in.
A second car lays on its side, its rear wheels twisted awkwardly, the axle broken. A front headlight hangs down like a dislocated eye. Clearly its fender hit into the side of the first car.
On the ground some feet away, lays one of the drivers. Uniformed officials rush to surround him.
No! Not again. Not now.
Not when he had just begun to believe that scenes of bloodshed were in his past forever.
A trickle of ice-cold dread slithers up his spine. His hands tighten on the wheel. He’s on the airfield in France again. The smell of leaking fuel, burning timber and molten steel fill his nostrils.
Tom charges his vehicle towards the group. This isn’t a downed Sopwith airplane. There’s hope, and he can to do something to stop another fatality.
He brings his vehicle to a sand-slipping stop, leaps from its confines, and sprints towards the group.
The cluster breaks apart as he approaches. From their midst the driver rises, supported by two sturdy officials. Tom heaves in a breath. “George, how are you, old man?” he asks him.
George shakes his head. “Could be better. But good enough.”
Tom halts in front of him. “What happened?”
“Axle broke. Hit Carstairs and went over. Got thrown clear onto soft sand. Bloody lucky.” His face beneath its oily streaks is still blanched.
Tom reaches out a hand to pat the man’s shoulder. “Thank God.”
One of officials barks out, “Stand aside, Mr Greenaway, we need to get this man to medical attention.”
Tom backs out of their way, and they head to the ambulance drawn up beyond the sand dunes on standby. Carstairs, the driver of the other damaged car, gives him a nod saying, “Well driven race, Greenaway. That car of yours is a winner.”
Tom thanks him. He’d wished for a better return to motor racing than this, but it’s a successful start, after so long away.
He looks around the expanse of beach, rapidly emptying of people now the racing program has ended. The plucky young fellow he’s beaten by a hair’s breadth, is turning away and heading back to his car.
Tom follows him. Who is he? “Hold up, young man.”
The mystery driver keeps striding away, as if he hasn’t heard.
Tom jogs after him. “Hey! I’m talking to you.”
No response.
Tom lunges forward, grabs the youth’s shoulder and wrenches the fellow around to face him.
Surprise, and something more shows in his brown-black eyes. Fear? Tom drops his restraining hand. “I want to talk with you.”
A grunt in response, then he turns for his vehicle again.
Tom curls his fingers around the fellow’s skinny bicep and stops him mid-stride.
The boy tries to shake him off, but Tom makes sure he can’t. “You’re not going anywhere until you answer a few questions.”
The fear on the lad’s face turns to anger. He steps towards Tom, as though to stop resisting him.
At last.
The slap from the boy’s hand across Tom’s cheek sends stinging pain radiating from the epicentre of impact. Its sound reverberates in his ear. Its force jars his teeth leaving them aching.
Tom’s grip slackens. A punch he might have expected…a slap—never. His hand slips down the fellow’s arm as he struggles to pull away. Tom grasps the other’s hand and jerks the youth against his chest.
Tom’s other hand sweeps the goggles and muffler from the bounder’s face.
The lad gasps and a flush reddens his skin.
The effeminate features, framed by the racing cap, confirm Tom’s suspicions. With practised fingers, he undoes the chin strap and strips off the close-fitting leather cap. A tousled bob of auburn curls settles around his foe’s angry face.
She’s gorgeous. And she glows with spirit.
“You bastard!” she spits.
You don’t know the half of it. “At your service, Miss…” He catches her hand as it arcs towards his face again. “I think once was enough to make your point.” He stares into her narrowed eyes. After a long moment, her gaze drops and the tension that stiffens her body subsides.
“Please let me go. I didn’t win the race. There is no reason to report me to the officials.” Her voice is whisper soft, her tone flat with defeat.
His stomach flips over at her plea. All his assumptions were wrong. His arms drop to his sides. “I don’t want to harm you. I just want to know why you competed today. You drove well, by the way.”
Her hand again clasps the talisman strung from her neck. She gives him a long look, as though weighing up whether she can trust him.
Tom cups her elbow with his hand. “Let us attract a little less attention from the officials by strolling to your Studebaker. We can look over it while we talk.” Luckily, the other competitors and officials are leaving fast, no doubt headed for the local pub. He waves his mechanic on his way.
They reach her car, distinctively painted with tiger stripes. He leans against the front fender and faces her where she stands beside the passenger door.
“What do you want to know?” she asks.
“We could start with why you chose to compete in this race. Purely feminist reasons, because women should be allowed to compete as men’s equals? Or because there is no equivalent race here for women?”
She trails a hand along the top of the door frame, her eyes follow its progress across the metal. “My reasons are more personal.”
He waits for more. It doesn’t come. He sighs. “And they would be?”
“I drove for my brother. He couldn’t be here today.”
“Couldn’t he have driven at the next meeting? There are more planned now the war’s over.”
She shakes her head, setting her auburn curls into motion. His gaze follows their movement.
Bubbles of foreboding gurgle in his gut. He senses her answer will take him back to places he’d rather forget. Raise emotions he wants to ignore. He asks anyway. “Why?”
Her eyes meet his, then she lowers her gaze. “Our parents bought this car for him last November, as a welcome home, when it looked like the Allies had finally won the war. He hasn’t returned.”
The foreboding morphs into dread, heavy in his stomach. “He’s delayed? Undertaking further training for servicemen before they come home?”
“No,” she whispered. “No. He won’t be returning. He died at an airfield near Saint Omer days before the armistice.”
A jagged blade of horror pierces his gut at the name of the town, winding him. He draws a shallow breath. If her brother was an airman, Tom had probably known him. “And his name?” The words come out hoarse from his constricted throat.
“Flying Officer David Hamlyn of—”
“No. 4 Squadron, Australian Flying Corps.” His voice cracks on the words.
She gasps. Her gaze bores into his. “You knew him?”
He wraps his arms around the punch of pain that flares in his middle, almost doubling him over.
He straightens to see one hand clap over her mouth, before she grasps his hunched shoulder. “You knew him!” Her words are ferocious with surprise.
He nodded. “And you’re his twin, Ellen?”
She dips her chin in confirmation.
“He wrote to you at the general hospital in Egypt.”
“Yes. How do you know that?” Wonder sounds in her voice.
“I watched him write to you many times. He used to read me parts of your letters.”
Shock registers on her face. “Why you?” she whispers.
He closes his eyes on the images that flash through his mind of the rooms they had shared at Bruay, Clairmarais, and finally at Reclinghem near Saint Omer. “We were room-mates.” That simple answer doesn’t come close to explaining all they had shared. All they had faced. All they had endured. Their daily dance with death, where even if you could control your temperamental machine, you couldn’t control the enemy’s ruthless pursuit of your demise.
Ellen opens the passenger door beside her and guides him into the seat. She looks across the expanse of the beach. “Your mechanic has loaded your car for home. Why don’t you come with me? Somewhere we can talk.”
The time’s come. The talk with David’s family that he had been putting off since arriving home. It couldn’t be delayed any longer. He jerks his head in assent.
She starts the car and they drive off the sand.
They park at a more secluded stretch of beach further north, where the distant sea water laps softly. “No-one will disturb us here while we talk.” She angles her body in the driver’s seat to face him. The light of the sinking sun burnishes her curls.
His hands clench on his knees, as he readies himself for the onslaught of questions.
“How did he die?” she asks. “The official letter only said in the course of his duties.”
“Yes, it was.” He saw them flying out early that fateful morning.
“The details, please.”
He looks deep into her eyes. Could she really cope with the reality of her brother’s death? The horror of it?
“Don’t spare, me, Tom.” Her hand grips his.
“You know my name?”
“Of course. David wrote of you often.”
He closes his eyes, steeling himself. “We flew a routine mission in support of the Allied advance—bombing and reconnaissance.” He halts.
She says nothing. The silence stretches onward.
“I made it back to the airfield in the late morning. Everyone, except David, followed me in. Finally, we spotted his plane. Smoke was pouring from the engine. I could see flames. He brought her in to land, but the engine cut out. The plane flipped into a death spiral and plunged to the ground.”
“And?” she whispers.
He drags in a breath. “It’s fuel tank exploded on impact.”
She’s crying now. “Go on,” she says.
She deserves the truth, but he hesitates. “We…We pulled him from the wreckage.” He wouldn’t give her all the details. “I took the signet ring from his finger and passed it on to our commanding officer to return to your family.”
She blinks away her tears. “I have it here.” She swallows. “At least, I have the stone. The ring was so battered and misshapen, we…” Her voice splinters, as she pulls the rawhide thong from beneath her overalls, revealing the Tiger’s Eye stone that had once filled David’s signet ring.
He covers her hand with his big fist. “I’m glad you’ve got it. David said you’d given it to him. To keep him strong. It kept him hopeful while many, many others died.”
She nods. “And to help him achieve his goal of coming home.” With those words, she crumples into chest-wracking sobs.
He swallows his pain, that jagged raw wound of loss, and wraps his arm about her shoulders and pulls her into his embrace.
It doesn’t matter they’re wearing grimy overalls and have oil-smuggled faces. All that matters is the warm comfort of their bodies, their shared grief, and their raw emotions.
Tom yearns to give this beautiful woman comfort. He knows so much about her from her letters and from her brother’s stories. He lifts Ellen’s chin with a calloused finger and tenderly touches his lips to hers.
She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t say a word of reprimand. She kisses him back.
And God help him, he lets her. He wants her to take away the horrors of the last four years. He wants someone in his life who understands what those horrors had been. She knows them. For as long as her brother was overseas in the army and the air services, she served as an army nurse. She’d seen things, like him, that no-one wanted to see, to know of, or to acknowledge.
If only there’s a future for them. Just like he’d imagined when David read her letters aloud to him.
He wants that future now.
Oh, how he wants it.
She eases her lips from his and gazes into his eyes. “I’ve longed to meet you. I feel I know you from David’s letters.” She glances away. “Shall we find out if it’s true?”
“Yes.” The word comes out like a plea. A thousand times yes. He kisses her again, allowing hope and passion to guide him. For the first time in a long time, the future looks promising.
The last streaks of sunlight fade into darkness. He releases Ellen with regret and a resigned sigh. It’s time to face up to rest of his duty.
Ellen’s fingers stroke his bristle-roughened cheek. As if reading his mind, she asks, “Can you face talking to my parents about David? They need to know too.”
He swallows his fear. He can tell them of their son, and all that David’s friendship had meant to him in the dark years of the war. With this woman beside him, he could do that.
He can face anything with her.
Surf crashes on the wide sandy beach. A small crowd of motor racing enthusiasts line the low sand dunes to the west. They caught the ferry across the Nerang River from the Southport side early this morning. Now it’s late afternoon.
Tom Greenaway bounces on the balls of his feet. This is it—the last race of the day and the first of his new life after the war. He sizes up the competitor standing nearby—young, short and skinny. A cap and muffler cover most of his face. Goggles sit on his forehead ready to be pulled into place. Baggy grey overalls hang off his body.
He doesn’t look strong enough to steer his six-cylinder Studebaker on the best-made road in Brisbane, let alone race against three experienced drivers on the windswept sands of the beach.
“May the best man win,” Tom offers, extending his right hand to the lad.
The youth touches a Tiger’s Eye stone suspended from a leather thong around his neck, marking it as his talisman. Huh, someone else who wears a tiger’s eye. He blocks the stab of regret that threatens to open his old wound. Not now.
The kid doesn’t respond, just gives Tom a curt nod before he turns away.
“Hey!” Tom exclaims, surprised by the rudeness of the fellow. He opens his mouth to say more, but the bark of the starter’s summons, calling all drivers to the starting line, cuts him off. Instead, Tom strides across the damp sand to his Overland car.
Sliding his long legs into the driver’s compartment, Tom dismisses the young competitor from his thoughts to begin the pre-start check of his car. He nods to his mechanic and presses the ignition button. The modified engine of ‘The Lion’ roars into life. The pulse and thrum of its well-tuned motor sends a blast of excitement fizzing through his veins.
Tom pulls his goggles into place, gives a thumbs-up to his mechanic, and jiggles the accelerator pedal, listening to the responding snarls of the engine, hungry for release. He glances to his left. Two drivers, his racing foes from the past, nod back.
To his right is the boy. He doesn’t register Tom’s chin tip of acknowledgement. His attention is fixed on the sand track before him. Who is this fellow? A lot has changed in the four years since Tom last raced here—so many of his competitors are gone, thanks to the war.
Tom sucks in a breath. Don’t go there. Concentrate on the now. He forces his attention to the starter holding his chequered flag. He releases a ragged sigh, and gulps another breath to steady his nerves.
The flag drops. Tom stamps on the accelerator and releases the clutch. His motorised beast leaps into motion. Within seconds he’s worked his way through the gears to reach the top.
Around him motors revs, sand splatters machines and men, and exhaust fumes itch his nose. He keeps his right foot clamped to the accelerator, willing more power from the motor.
Gradually, as though in slow motion, he edges ahead of the cars on his left. To his right, the boy keeps pace, his whole body hunched forward, his gloved hands clamped to the steering wheel. Damn, he looks determined.
The winning post approaches fast now. Tom fights to keep his vehicle on the straight stretch of hard sand. Finally, he eases ahead of the lad, crossing the finish line with a roar of power.
Behind him sounds a clap of noise followed by the sickening scream of steel on steel. It ends with the revving of an engine running on without traction on the earth. Tom eases his foot off the accelerator and wheels his car in a wide arc.
Before him lays motorised carnage. One car stands abandoned, its side stoved in.
A second car lays on its side, its rear wheels twisted awkwardly, the axle broken. A front headlight hangs down like a dislocated eye. Clearly its fender hit into the side of the first car.
On the ground some feet away, lays one of the drivers. Uniformed officials rush to surround him.
No! Not again. Not now.
Not when he had just begun to believe that scenes of bloodshed were in his past forever.
A trickle of ice-cold dread slithers up his spine. His hands tighten on the wheel. He’s on the airfield in France again. The smell of leaking fuel, burning timber and molten steel fill his nostrils.
Tom charges his vehicle towards the group. This isn’t a downed Sopwith airplane. There’s hope, and he can to do something to stop another fatality.
He brings his vehicle to a sand-slipping stop, leaps from its confines, and sprints towards the group.
The cluster breaks apart as he approaches. From their midst the driver rises, supported by two sturdy officials. Tom heaves in a breath. “George, how are you, old man?” he asks him.
George shakes his head. “Could be better. But good enough.”
Tom halts in front of him. “What happened?”
“Axle broke. Hit Carstairs and went over. Got thrown clear onto soft sand. Bloody lucky.” His face beneath its oily streaks is still blanched.
Tom reaches out a hand to pat the man’s shoulder. “Thank God.”
One of officials barks out, “Stand aside, Mr Greenaway, we need to get this man to medical attention.”
Tom backs out of their way, and they head to the ambulance drawn up beyond the sand dunes on standby. Carstairs, the driver of the other damaged car, gives him a nod saying, “Well driven race, Greenaway. That car of yours is a winner.”
Tom thanks him. He’d wished for a better return to motor racing than this, but it’s a successful start, after so long away.
He looks around the expanse of beach, rapidly emptying of people now the racing program has ended. The plucky young fellow he’s beaten by a hair’s breadth, is turning away and heading back to his car.
Tom follows him. Who is he? “Hold up, young man.”
The mystery driver keeps striding away, as if he hasn’t heard.
Tom jogs after him. “Hey! I’m talking to you.”
No response.
Tom lunges forward, grabs the youth’s shoulder and wrenches the fellow around to face him.
Surprise, and something more shows in his brown-black eyes. Fear? Tom drops his restraining hand. “I want to talk with you.”
A grunt in response, then he turns for his vehicle again.
Tom curls his fingers around the fellow’s skinny bicep and stops him mid-stride.
The boy tries to shake him off, but Tom makes sure he can’t. “You’re not going anywhere until you answer a few questions.”
The fear on the lad’s face turns to anger. He steps towards Tom, as though to stop resisting him.
At last.
The slap from the boy’s hand across Tom’s cheek sends stinging pain radiating from the epicentre of impact. Its sound reverberates in his ear. Its force jars his teeth leaving them aching.
Tom’s grip slackens. A punch he might have expected…a slap—never. His hand slips down the fellow’s arm as he struggles to pull away. Tom grasps the other’s hand and jerks the youth against his chest.
Tom’s other hand sweeps the goggles and muffler from the bounder’s face.
The lad gasps and a flush reddens his skin.
The effeminate features, framed by the racing cap, confirm Tom’s suspicions. With practised fingers, he undoes the chin strap and strips off the close-fitting leather cap. A tousled bob of auburn curls settles around his foe’s angry face.
She’s gorgeous. And she glows with spirit.
“You bastard!” she spits.
You don’t know the half of it. “At your service, Miss…” He catches her hand as it arcs towards his face again. “I think once was enough to make your point.” He stares into her narrowed eyes. After a long moment, her gaze drops and the tension that stiffens her body subsides.
“Please let me go. I didn’t win the race. There is no reason to report me to the officials.” Her voice is whisper soft, her tone flat with defeat.
His stomach flips over at her plea. All his assumptions were wrong. His arms drop to his sides. “I don’t want to harm you. I just want to know why you competed today. You drove well, by the way.”
Her hand again clasps the talisman strung from her neck. She gives him a long look, as though weighing up whether she can trust him.
Tom cups her elbow with his hand. “Let us attract a little less attention from the officials by strolling to your Studebaker. We can look over it while we talk.” Luckily, the other competitors and officials are leaving fast, no doubt headed for the local pub. He waves his mechanic on his way.
They reach her car, distinctively painted with tiger stripes. He leans against the front fender and faces her where she stands beside the passenger door.
“What do you want to know?” she asks.
“We could start with why you chose to compete in this race. Purely feminist reasons, because women should be allowed to compete as men’s equals? Or because there is no equivalent race here for women?”
She trails a hand along the top of the door frame, her eyes follow its progress across the metal. “My reasons are more personal.”
He waits for more. It doesn’t come. He sighs. “And they would be?”
“I drove for my brother. He couldn’t be here today.”
“Couldn’t he have driven at the next meeting? There are more planned now the war’s over.”
She shakes her head, setting her auburn curls into motion. His gaze follows their movement.
Bubbles of foreboding gurgle in his gut. He senses her answer will take him back to places he’d rather forget. Raise emotions he wants to ignore. He asks anyway. “Why?”
Her eyes meet his, then she lowers her gaze. “Our parents bought this car for him last November, as a welcome home, when it looked like the Allies had finally won the war. He hasn’t returned.”
The foreboding morphs into dread, heavy in his stomach. “He’s delayed? Undertaking further training for servicemen before they come home?”
“No,” she whispered. “No. He won’t be returning. He died at an airfield near Saint Omer days before the armistice.”
A jagged blade of horror pierces his gut at the name of the town, winding him. He draws a shallow breath. If her brother was an airman, Tom had probably known him. “And his name?” The words come out hoarse from his constricted throat.
“Flying Officer David Hamlyn of—”
“No. 4 Squadron, Australian Flying Corps.” His voice cracks on the words.
She gasps. Her gaze bores into his. “You knew him?”
He wraps his arms around the punch of pain that flares in his middle, almost doubling him over.
He straightens to see one hand clap over her mouth, before she grasps his hunched shoulder. “You knew him!” Her words are ferocious with surprise.
He nodded. “And you’re his twin, Ellen?”
She dips her chin in confirmation.
“He wrote to you at the general hospital in Egypt.”
“Yes. How do you know that?” Wonder sounds in her voice.
“I watched him write to you many times. He used to read me parts of your letters.”
Shock registers on her face. “Why you?” she whispers.
He closes his eyes on the images that flash through his mind of the rooms they had shared at Bruay, Clairmarais, and finally at Reclinghem near Saint Omer. “We were room-mates.” That simple answer doesn’t come close to explaining all they had shared. All they had faced. All they had endured. Their daily dance with death, where even if you could control your temperamental machine, you couldn’t control the enemy’s ruthless pursuit of your demise.
Ellen opens the passenger door beside her and guides him into the seat. She looks across the expanse of the beach. “Your mechanic has loaded your car for home. Why don’t you come with me? Somewhere we can talk.”
The time’s come. The talk with David’s family that he had been putting off since arriving home. It couldn’t be delayed any longer. He jerks his head in assent.
She starts the car and they drive off the sand.
They park at a more secluded stretch of beach further north, where the distant sea water laps softly. “No-one will disturb us here while we talk.” She angles her body in the driver’s seat to face him. The light of the sinking sun burnishes her curls.
His hands clench on his knees, as he readies himself for the onslaught of questions.
“How did he die?” she asks. “The official letter only said in the course of his duties.”
“Yes, it was.” He saw them flying out early that fateful morning.
“The details, please.”
He looks deep into her eyes. Could she really cope with the reality of her brother’s death? The horror of it?
“Don’t spare, me, Tom.” Her hand grips his.
“You know my name?”
“Of course. David wrote of you often.”
He closes his eyes, steeling himself. “We flew a routine mission in support of the Allied advance—bombing and reconnaissance.” He halts.
She says nothing. The silence stretches onward.
“I made it back to the airfield in the late morning. Everyone, except David, followed me in. Finally, we spotted his plane. Smoke was pouring from the engine. I could see flames. He brought her in to land, but the engine cut out. The plane flipped into a death spiral and plunged to the ground.”
“And?” she whispers.
He drags in a breath. “It’s fuel tank exploded on impact.”
She’s crying now. “Go on,” she says.
She deserves the truth, but he hesitates. “We…We pulled him from the wreckage.” He wouldn’t give her all the details. “I took the signet ring from his finger and passed it on to our commanding officer to return to your family.”
She blinks away her tears. “I have it here.” She swallows. “At least, I have the stone. The ring was so battered and misshapen, we…” Her voice splinters, as she pulls the rawhide thong from beneath her overalls, revealing the Tiger’s Eye stone that had once filled David’s signet ring.
He covers her hand with his big fist. “I’m glad you’ve got it. David said you’d given it to him. To keep him strong. It kept him hopeful while many, many others died.”
She nods. “And to help him achieve his goal of coming home.” With those words, she crumples into chest-wracking sobs.
He swallows his pain, that jagged raw wound of loss, and wraps his arm about her shoulders and pulls her into his embrace.
It doesn’t matter they’re wearing grimy overalls and have oil-smuggled faces. All that matters is the warm comfort of their bodies, their shared grief, and their raw emotions.
Tom yearns to give this beautiful woman comfort. He knows so much about her from her letters and from her brother’s stories. He lifts Ellen’s chin with a calloused finger and tenderly touches his lips to hers.
She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t say a word of reprimand. She kisses him back.
And God help him, he lets her. He wants her to take away the horrors of the last four years. He wants someone in his life who understands what those horrors had been. She knows them. For as long as her brother was overseas in the army and the air services, she served as an army nurse. She’d seen things, like him, that no-one wanted to see, to know of, or to acknowledge.
If only there’s a future for them. Just like he’d imagined when David read her letters aloud to him.
He wants that future now.
Oh, how he wants it.
She eases her lips from his and gazes into his eyes. “I’ve longed to meet you. I feel I know you from David’s letters.” She glances away. “Shall we find out if it’s true?”
“Yes.” The word comes out like a plea. A thousand times yes. He kisses her again, allowing hope and passion to guide him. For the first time in a long time, the future looks promising.
The last streaks of sunlight fade into darkness. He releases Ellen with regret and a resigned sigh. It’s time to face up to rest of his duty.
Ellen’s fingers stroke his bristle-roughened cheek. As if reading his mind, she asks, “Can you face talking to my parents about David? They need to know too.”
He swallows his fear. He can tell them of their son, and all that David’s friendship had meant to him in the dark years of the war. With this woman beside him, he could do that.
He can face anything with her.