The bombs.
The girls.
I slept.
The shrill shriek of the falling bomb rose to its orgiastic climax as it fell nearby.
All conversation at the dinner table hung suspended for a moment.
"I’m worried about my daughter, Mr. Cord," the slim, gray-haired woman on my right said.
I looked at her, then glanced at Morrissey, seated opposite me.
His face was while and strained.
I turned back to the woman.
The bomb had landed practically next door and she was worried about her daughter, safe in America.
Maybe she should be.
She was Monica's mother.
"I haven't seen Monica since she was nine years old," Mrs. Holme continued nervously. "That was almost twenty years ago.
I think of her often."
You didn't think of her often enough, I thought to myself.
I used to think it was different with mothers. But they were no different than fathers.
They thought of themselves first.
At least that was one thing I’d had in common with Monica. Our parents never gave a damn about us.
My mother died and hers had run away with another man.
She looked up at me from the deep violet eyes under the long black lashes and I could see the beauty she'd passed on to her daughter.
"Do you think you might see her when you return to the States, Mr. Cord?"
"I doubt it, Mrs. Holme," I said. "Monica lives in New York now. I live in Nevada."
She was silent for a moment, then again came the piercing look from her eyes.
"You don't like me very much, do you, Mr. Cord?"
"I hadn't really thought about it, Mrs. Holme," I said quickly. "I'm sorry if I give that impression."
She smiled.
"It wasn't anything you said.
It was just that I could sense a shrinking in you when I told you who I was."
She played nervously with her spoon. "I expect Amos told you all about me – about how I ran off with someone else, leaving him with a child to raise alone?"
"Winthrop and I were never that close. We never discussed you."
"You must believe me, Mr. Cord," she whispered, a sudden intensity in her voice. "I didn't abandon my daughter. I want her to know that, to understand it." Nothing ever changed. It was still more important for parents to be understood than to understand.
"Amos Winthrop was a woman-chaser and a cheat," she said quietly, without bitterness. "The ten years of our marriage were a hell.
On our honeymoon, I discovered him with other women.
And finally, when I fell in love with a decent, honest man, he blackmailed me into giving up my daughter under the threat of exposure and the ruination of that man's career in His Majesty's service."
I looked at her.
That made sense.
Amos was a cute one with tricks like that. I knew.
"Did you ever write Monica and tell her that?"
"How does one write something like that to one's own daughter?" I didn't answer. "About ten years ago, I heard from Amos that he was sending her over to stay with me.
I thought then that when she got to know me, I'd explain and she'd understand."
She nodded slightly. "I read in the papers of your marriage and she never came."
The butler came and took away the empty plates. Another servant placed demitasse cups before us.
When he went away, I spoke.
"Just what is it you would like me to do, Mrs. Holme?"
Her eyes studied my face for a moment. I saw the slight hint of moisture in them. Her voice was steady, though.
"If you should happen to speak with her, Mr. Cord," she said, "let her know that I asked for her, that I think of her and that I'd appreciate hearing from her."
I nodded slowly.
"I'll do that, Mrs. Holme."
The butler began to pour coffee as the dull thud of bombs rolled into the heavily draped room like a muffled sound of thunder in peacetime London.
The roar of the four big motors came back into my ears as I opened my eyes.