“A bit of both,” he answered. “I sent Peg down to Dorset with Jimmy early on. She didn’t want to go, but she knew it was best for him. She wasn’t feeling well when she left; had a bad cold. I made her promise to have it looked after down there. Turns out she and Jimmy got put with a farm family. They was in an upstairs bedroom with no heat; cold water only. Peg’s cough got aggravated. She didn’t want to be trouble, so she kept her mouth shut. Finally she asked the family to fetch a doctor. Doctor put her right in hospital, but it was too late. She’d had pneumonia for a week. The medicines they gave her did no good.”
He flicked ashes from his cigarette onto the floor. “Stupid bloody farmers. Didn’t have proper medical care, if you ask me. Peg died the second day in hospital. I went down and got her and brought her back, with Jimmy. It’s ironic, eh? Peg leaves London to be safe, and she dies.”
After a somber moment, I went on, “And if I may ask, sir, how did Jimmy die?”
“Jimmy?” He said the name awkwardly. I wondered how long it had been since he had talked about him. “A bomb. An accident. A case of builder’s negligence. All of the above.” He took another deep swig of York Bitters and then continued. “We had a bloody air-raid warden on our block who fancied himself a builder. Couldn’t build a doghouse. He tried it once; built it too big to get it out of the bloody basement. And they let him build bomb shelters! He built one on our street. It caught a bomb, and it caved in. It caved in and crushed my Jimmy.”
I couldn’t look at him after that. I turned to my list again. “Then . . . what did you do after the war? Did you continue on in the Fire Service?”
“No. They disbanded the Auxiliaries. Didn’t need us no more, us being auxiliary and all. I had no job. And let me tell you, there was no jobs to be had.”
“You left London?”
“Aye. I took the train up to York. I drank up what money I had left. Then I wandered into the cathedral and sat there.”
“In the Quire?”
“That’s right.”
“Why there?”
“It felt right. It felt like the right place to do my penance.”
“Your penance for what?”
“That’d be my business, lad.”
“Do you feel like you did something terrible?”
“More mind-reading, my boy?”
“No, sir. I just want to know—”
James swilled down the last of his drink. He hopped to his feet and held up one hand to me, like a traffic cop. “That’s it. The interview’s over. I ain’t telling you nothing else.” Before we could even react, he walked quickly to the door and left.
Dad said, “You’d better let him be, Martin.”
“No. I know exactly where he’s going. I need to go there, too.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
I looked at the brown bottles on the table. “No. You stay here.”
“You tell me if I can do anything.”
“All right. I might need you to do something. I just might.”
As soon as I emerged from the smoky pub, I looked toward the Minster. I saw James Harker disappear through the cathedral door, and I ran right after him.
I entered, placed a donation on the desk, and walked through the nave. Moving slowly and quietly, I settled into a seat behind him in the Quire. No one else was around. I spent a few moments looking at the dark, finely carved wood, studying the figures of human beings, and heavenly beings, and hellish beings.
To my surprise, James Harker spoke aloud. “Do you know anything about angels, then?”
“Uh, no, sir. I don’t really know anything about them.”
“They’re all called angels, aren’t they? But really, there’s nine orders of celestial beings, and only the lowest order should properly be called angels.”
“I see. What should the highest order be called?”
“Seraphim. The next step above the seraphim is God. So they tell me. They tell me that God’s up there.”
“I believe that.”
“You do? Why? Because your mum and dad told you to?”
“At first, yes. But lately I’ve been having my own experiences. Weird experiences. Unexplainable. Unless, of course, they come from God.”
“Is that right? Well, I have had no such experiences. I have sat here every day for sixty years and talked to God, but I haven’t heard back from him yet.”
“What do you talk about?”
“I ask forgiveness for my sins.”
I waited a long moment before asking, “For one sin in particular?”
I expected another angry explosion, but he answered calmly. “That is correct. But God has not deigned to reply to my request. Perhaps he’s too busy to bother with a janitor.”
I walked around the wooden bench and sat next to him. He half turned toward me. It seemed like the right time to get to the point. “Mr. Harker, what do you think happens when you die?”
His blue eyes registered surprise. He answered, “I expect you’re dead. And that’s that.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Who knows for sure? Look at Hitler. He killed tens of millions of people; destroyed the lives of millions of others. Then he shot himself, and he was dead. But he was no deader than anybody else, was he? They were all equally dead. Does that mean he bloody got away with it?”
“No. I don’t think so. I think he had to answer the question. And I think the answer, for him, was a damning one.”
“What are you on about?”
“The question is What did you do to help? And he didn’t do anything to help. He had to answer for all he had done to hurt people. If there’s a hell, he is in it.”
James turned so that he was looking right at me. “Who are you?”
“I am an American boy who, somehow, met your son Jimmy.”
“No. You did not.”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
He hissed, “You’re bloody ten years old!”
“I’m thirteen.” His eyes bored into mine. “I met him . . . back in time. In 1940. I traveled there.”
“You’re off your head. Leave me be now.”
“I will. I’ll leave you in peace. But I have to tell you some things first. Some things from Jimmy.”
“Jimmy? What are you talking about? My Jimmy?”
“Yes, sir. Jimmy wants me to tell you—”
“Stop using his name!”
“He wants me to tell you that he’s sorry.”
“Sorry?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“For going outside that night, that December night, against your orders. For making a bad decision. For ruining his life, and yours.”
James seemed to look within himself. Then he concluded, “You’re preying on the old. That’s it. Because the old want to believe there’s something, don’t they? Because they’re knocking on death’s door.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. Then I made one last try. “Mr. Harker, put aside everything I’ve said to this point, and just listen to this. This is why I’m here, to tell you this. Are you listening?”
He slowly turned toward me.
“You think you killed a man. A man named Harold Canby. An air-raid warden. You think you killed him on the night of twenty-nine December, 1940, the night of a massive German air aid, the night your son died in the surface shelter.”
James Harker’s eyes opened wider. His lower lip dropped.
I went on, “But you didn’t. You knocked Mr. Canby down, and he lay there like he was dead. But he was just pretending. He was hoping you would go away, which you did when the ambulance left. Then he got up. But he never got out of the rubble. A big man came back. He was angry. He accused Mr. Canby of cheating with his wife. Mr. Canby swore he didn’t, but the man wouldn’t listen. He picked up a block of concrete and smashed it against Mr. Canby’s bald head. That knocked him to his knees. Then he smashed him with it again. That broke his skull
open.”
James shook his head slowly, robotically. He stammered, “No . . . no.”
“The big guy threw more bricks on his head and on his body, making it look like he’d been crushed to death in the shelter. Then he took off.” I stopped to let my words sink in. “And I think you know who that man was.”
“No! It can’t be.”
I tried to look him in the eye, but he turned away. “A big man,” I said. “A footballer. A good fellow most of the time.”
James Harker could no longer resist my words. He finally croaked, “Bill Lane.”
“That’s right. Bill Lane. He got killed himself the next month, in a fire at Potters Fields.”
James whispered, “Yes. He did.”
“He died before he got up the courage to tell you about that night, didn’t he? So I’m here to tell you now. You never killed anybody. Mr. Canby’s blood is on Bill Lane’s hands, not yours. You’ve been asking God for forgiveness for sixty years for a crime that you did not commit.” I leaned forward. “Mr. Harker, there’s nothing to forgive.”
He looked right at me. All the blood was drained from his face. “Who told you this?”
“I was there. With Jimmy. Your son, Jimmy Harker.” His look demanded more. I added, “A skinny boy. Maybe eight years old. Liked the Gunners, and Vera Lynn. Used Brylcreem. Had a dog named Reg that got put down.”
James Harker’s eyes widened a little more with every fact.
“Jimmy brought me to that spot, on that night, and he made me stay there and watch so that I could tell you here, today.”
All anger was gone now from James Harker, and all suspicion. He simply asked, “Why? Why now, after all these years?”
“Because it’s your time now, Mr. Harker.” I swallowed hard. “So if you are ready to see your son again, I think I can help you do that.”
Mr. Harker’s eyes came into clear focus as I spoke. He nodded his understanding, and his consent. After a few moments, he stood up and took one last look around at the Quire; then he started out.
I walked with him down the length of the nave. I saw Dad sitting in one of the wooden chairs in the back, near the exit. His eyes had a strange, faraway look, too. Was he praying? He sat up at attention as we approached. I said, “This is it, Dad. We’re at a point here. This is why we’ve come.”
James Harker, standing beside me, let his gaze take in the rest of the great cathedral.
Dad struggled to his feet, pushing several of the wooden chairs out of alignment. “What do you need me to do?”
I thought of all the confusion that had filled my life for the past six months. I thought about Nana and her phone calls about a boy named Jimmy. I thought about sleeping in my grandfather’s office next to the radio. And I thought about my own long struggle to comprehend this incomprehensible task. Now I was on the brink of doing it. Now my mind was completely clear. I knew what Dad needed to do, and what James Harker needed to do, and what I needed to do.
I was ready.
I was ready to do my bit.
DAY OF RECKONING
I asked Dad, “Will you go back to the Wayfarer and get the box with the radio? Will you bring it to Mr. Harker’s flat?”
Dad answered with enthusiasm. “Sure, Martin. I’ll do that right away.” He led the three of us through the wooden exit doors and into the sunny day outside. Then he took off at a brisk pace, leaving James Harker and me to wend our way slowly through the streets of the ancient city.
James Harker continued to look around, as if taking everything in one last time. I understood then that he truly believed me. When I thought the moment was right, I interrupted him to ask, “Mr. Harker, when did you first know that I was telling the truth?”
He smiled apologetically. Then he winked. “I suspected it, almost from the first. When you said that Arsenal beat Fulham up at White Horse Lane.”
“Why then?”
“Don’t know. I have been having . . . thoughts lately. Like maybe something was coming, but I didn’t know what. Then you showed up, with your Arsenal Gunners shirt. I said to myself, ‘This could be it.’ ”
“Yeah?”
“That match, that day, was my last happy memory of Jimmy. He liked the Gunners, as you know.”
“And you liked the Spurs.”
“Aye. Still do.” He shook his head sadly. “That day is one that I go back to, over and over, more than any other. We were all laughing. Even the bloody air raid was a laugh that day.” He looked sideways at me. “Those are the days you remember, lad. Have yourself as many of them as you can.”
As we approached his building, the blue door opened and the landlord emerged, dressed in his gray sweats. He announced, “I’ll be round to check the flat tomorrow, Mr. Harker. And every Saturday from now on. I know that you’re smoking in there, and I won’t have it.”
Mr. Harker paid no more attention to him than he had to me back in 1940, when I couldn’t be seen or heard. As the landlord walked slowly away, though, he commented, “He’s always sniffing round here, like a fat bloodhound.”
He stuck his key into the door and turned it. Then he swiveled his head and directed a steely-eyed gaze at me. “You’re absolutely certain you saw Bill Lane do that? You swear to God?”
“I swear to God.”
We entered the small vestibule and started up the stairs. “I had always suspected that there was something goin’ on between Alice Lane and Canby. Them wardens and volunteers and all, they was all having it off. I couldn’t say nothing to Bill, though, unless I knew for certain.”
“Did Bill still work with you after that day? After December twenty-ninth?”
“No. They gave me three days off then to bury my Jimmy. Three bloody days. When I went back to work, he was gone. Another lad was posted with me. I didn’t see Bill at work, and I didn’t see him at home. We was on different shifts entirely.”
We reached the door to flat number two. Mr. Harker opened it and let me in. “But I heard, through talk, that he was acting . . . reckless-like. The other firefighters didn’t want to work with him. He took too many chances. That sort of thing.”
“How did he die?”
“Climbing a ladder. So I heard. He put a ladder up against a warehouse wall over in Potters Fields, like you said, and he climbed up. The wall collapsed, and that was the end of Bill.” He wandered over to the table and closed the book of Bible stories. “I went to his funeral. So did Alice, of course.” He picked up his father’s medals and placed them on top of the book. “Bill was a good man, in his own way. He talked a lot, but he’d stand by you when you needed him. I believe, once he had it all sorted out, that he’d have told me what he done.”
“I believe that, too.”
“He never got the chance to say it, though, did he?”
“No.”
James ran his fingers over Jimmy’s book. “Our paths never crossed again.”
“No.”
“Remember that, lad, if you never remember anything else. We all touch each other’s lives, for better or worse. So say the things that you have to say to people while you still have the chance.”
“Yes, sir.”
James busied himself putting some other personal things in order. I drifted over and looked through the bedroom door. The room had the same faded wallpaper as the living area. Inside, to the right, was an iron cot with a brown wool bedspread. Next to that was a night table with an empty glass on it. On the back wall, I could see a collage of photos. I asked, “Do you mind if I look at the photos?”
“Suit yourself, lad.”
The collage had yellowed over the years, but it still showed great care in the making. There were smiling faces that I recognized and some that I did not, but I could guess who they were. There was Jimmy with a football; there was a younger James, with a pretty woman who had to be Peg, standing in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral; there were older people—probably his and her parents—including a man in uniform wearing three medals; there was even a photo of Bill a
nd Alice Lane in a happier time, posed in front of a hotel door that said savoy.
Beneath the wall collage, James had a two-shelf bookcase. It was filled with titles about World Wars I and II. I bent to look at a row of matching red books—all six volumes of Winston S. Churchill’s The Second World War.
James came in and joined me. He reached into the bookcase and pulled out the second red volume. Then he held it up to show me the title: Their Finest Hour. He spoke without rancor. “Churchill wrote his own history books and made himself the hero. FDR wrote his letters and did the same. But they wasn’t the heroes. My Peg was a hero, and my Jimmy. Anybody who went out in the cold and wet, and faced death, and got nothin’ for it in return, they was the heroes.”
James picked up the empty glass and led me out of the bedroom. His back seemed to be straightening, like a great load was lifting. He deposited the glass in the sink; then he pointed to an old wooden table with a pair of mismatched chairs. “Pull them out for you and your dad to sit on. I’ve got another one over here.” He walked over to a corner where a piece of furniture sat covered by a white sheet, like a squatting ghost. He yanked off the sheet and tossed it to the floor, revealing a chair that I knew well—the Queen Anne wing chair.
I pointed at it. “Jimmy sat in that chair, listening to the radio.”
James was no longer amazed by my revelations. “That’s right. Five-forty-two every night on the BBC. ‘London Calling.’ ”
“You’ve had it all this time?”
“Mostly. I left it with Alice Lane. But once I got a job and a flat, I had it shipped up here.” He sat on it carefully. “Ol’ Alice was glad to be rid of it, I expect. She was about to remarry.”
“To Sergeant Dennis Hennessey.”
“Was that his name? I hope he made more money than Bill, or she’d have made his life a misery.”
“She liked her gin and It.”
“That she did. I was a very lucky man in that regard. My Peg was a treasure. They don’t make many like her.” James’s voice got very low. “We was just kids ourselves when we had Jimmy. But she made a right good mother. She put Jimmy and me before her own self.” A tear rolled down his lined face. “Yeah. I was very lucky there.”