JACK OF DIAMONDS

iii

The sun slowly slipped into the distance, locked in a blaze of bright autumnal colours on the horizon. Willow trees were standing in silhouette on the horizon, twisting, bending—as if crying out in protest over the last vestiges of summers past—whipping their near naked branches in frustration as the wind picked up from the East, bringing huge storm clouds scuttling across a darkening sky. Tall aspens serving as windbreaks, bowed and undulated as though they were servants, while steely elms stood with the taciturn patience of age, along with fir trees, standing tall and erect, and looking as if they were rooks on a chessboard. The long grass writhed across the various hills and hummocks—every hump, knoll, prominence, and tor—the long blades rippling in the setting sun as though waves on an emerald ocean.

Sonia had put the top up, and what heat there was from the engine did little to keep away the cold. Nigel sat shivering in the seat beside her, and for a moment Sonia was afraid that perhaps she’d misjudged his addiction. Perhaps Nigel was feeling the ill effects of his withdrawal already?

“Are you alright?”

“No,” he said with a trace of irritability. “I’m cold; no, I'm fucking cold. Oh, I'm sorry, did that upset your delicate nature?"

"My delicate nature?"

"Don’t these things have any heat? I remember when I was a kid, my grandmother’s carriage had a brazier in it. You don’t even have a goddamned blanket.”

“I have a blanket.”

“You do? Because I can’t see it in here. I know it’s getting dark, but it’s not that dark.”

“And it’s not that cold, either. Do you want me to pull over and get it out of the boot for you? Is that what you want? Because we’re almost in Chumley Grove.”

“It’s Chumley. No one calls it Chumley Grove anymore. Besides, I’m sure I’ll be warmer once we pick out our costumes for the night. Have you decided what you want to be?”

“What?” She looked at him and then turned her attention back to the road. The dirt lane they’d been traveling on had long since been replaced by paving stones—worn down by time and weather—still, she supposed it would be another ten minutes before they reached the village itself. She hadn’t considered what costume to wear. It was a costume Ball, after all, and as such—as a woman—she’d be limited as to her choices: Princess, fairy, elf, shepherdess, the list wasn’t long, and the selection limited.

“Any ideas?” she asked.

“I suppose that’s going to depend on what’s available.”

“As long as the last costume isn’t a horse, I suppose,” she said with a grin.

“If it is, I hope you don’t expect me to be the horse’s ass?”

“Had enough of being that already, have you?” she smiled.

“Very funny. You can see I’m laughing, can’t you?”

Chumley Grove was a small village—less than seven hundred people—most of them employed in one way or another by either the railway, or as servants for the neighbouring aristocracy. As the main hub of civilization in the valley—civilization consisting of the six manor houses in the area—Chumley Grove supplied all the necessary needs of gas, food, and lodgings. The village’s main road housed two inns, three pubs, an automobile shop specializing in mechanical repairs, a smithy; as well, there was a doctor, a dentist, and a lawyer who shared the same building; a land surveyor, (employed by the Great Eastern Railway), and a bank. There were also three shops with the latest French fashions, as well as London’s latest. The streets were wide, cobblestoned, and the shops brightly painted, with wide spread, colourful awnings.

Sonia parked at the Town Hall, next to Nigel’s Triumph.

“Shouldn’t Charlie be here?”

“Tea time, remember? If I know Charlie, he’ll either be at the pub for a bite to eat, or home.”

“That doesn’t seem right?”

“Why?” he asked, stepping out of the Bentley and looking about. He took a deep breath, feeling a chill in the air, and reached into the saddle bag of the Triumph, pulling out a folded cardigan.

“I hope that’s not your costume?” Sonia laughed.

iv

In the end, Sonia walked out of the shop dressed as Charlie Chaplin, while he was dressed as Peter Pan.

“Peter Pan? Who in blazes is that?”

“You don’t know Peter Pan? The boy who never grew up? Peter and Wendy? He even wrote it as a play on the London stage—well, you would’ve been too young to remember any of that.”

“But you do?”

“1905 may seem like a long time ago, but believe me, I was fourteen and it was magical.”

“Then why didn’t you take the costume?”

“And be the boy who never grows up? I thought it was rather apt for you.”

And there was that smile.

She even tried moving her moustache like Chaplin but failed miserably, and he found himself laughing.

“Yes, you’re so much better as a little tramp,” he grinned.

“And you’re a wit as well?”

“I stumble about more than banter,” he confessed, and she smiled again.

It was a short walk back the Town Hall where she was parked, and Nigel enjoyed the silence. It gave him a moment to think, and look at her. Her hair had been tied up and stuffed under the battered derby, and the moustache they painted on her was a mixture of kohl and God only knew what else; but she had a sparkle in her dark eyes, and with the over-sized shoes, baggy pants, and tattered jacket, she was quite striking.

More Pickford than Chaplin. Or maybe Evelyn Nesbit?

“You said you were married? He died in the War?”

“It’s really quite tragic, isn’t it? War widow, and all that? And still young—well, as far as I’m concerned.”

“But you were at the Front? I mean, you were there—through the worst of it. The nurses and doctors, they died all the time; hospitals got shelled; planes dropped bombs. It was horror.”

“It was.”

“And you never thought of getting away from there?”

“It wasn’t like that where I was. We were quite safe. But I stayed, hoping I’d be able to see Edgar, and I did. Not a lot. But at least we had two moments before he was killed. We got to spend leave together in Paris once—seven weeks in Spring. I remember it rained a lot. But we didn’t go outside much,” she smiled.

“No, I don’t suppose you would’ve.”

“You never married? Why not?”

“Oh, not what I expected to hear from anyone but my mother.”
 “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I mean, you’re still quite young, I suppose—”

“You’re right. I’m twenty-four. I’ve been with women.”

“You’re only twenty-four? And you served in the—”

“I lied about my age. I was fifteen, and the recruiting officer told me to come back when I was older. When he turned his back, the sergeant that was there signed me up. He knew I could ride a motorcycle. He saw me earlier. So they put me on a motorcycle, gave me a gun, a bag of grenades, and sent me out across the lines delivering messages from General to General. I spent a lot of my time in Paris.”

“And you fell in love?”

“With Paris? Who didn’t?”

“I meant with a woman,” she laughed, and then they were at the Bentley. She walked to the boot and pulled out a large wool blanket, tossing it to him as he stood beside the door.

“Wouldn’t want you getting cold.”

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