Free Blood And Honey by Graham Hurley Page B

You need a drink. Come with me.’
    She led him by the hand, back across the dance floor, acknowledging a series of fluttery waves. Most of the guests were in their sixties, some of them older, and they were plainly having the time of their lives. A makeshift bar beside the stage offered everything from spirits to a wooden barrel of real ale.
    ‘Or we’ve got cocktails if you’d prefer it.’ Gwen beckoned the elderly barman. ‘Charlie was in the FirstClass lounge on the
Elizabeth
. The real thing. And a great friend of Grace’s.’
    Charlie capped the introduction with a shy little nod. His velvet waistcoat had definitely seen better days but Faraday guessed it was probably original. He settled for a pint from the barrel, much to Charlie’s disappointment.
    ‘You sure I can’t fix you something stronger, sir?’
    ‘’Fraid not. Beer’s fine.’
    The end of
American Patrol
sparked a cheer from the dance floor. Faraday, glass in hand, followed Gwen to a nearby table. She might have known him for years, a warmth all the more welcome for being so natural.
    ‘This is my mum.’ Gwen was bent over a frail-looking woman forking her way through a tiny helping of cocktail sausages and Russian salad. ‘Her name’s Madge.’
    Faraday extended a hand.
    ‘Madge … I’m Joe.’
    The woman peered up at him and smiled. The eyes were milky with cataracts but she had the complexion of someone half her age. Faraday began to say something inconsequential about the music and the fancy dress then became aware of a voice in his ear.
    ‘My mum’s been dying to meet you. She’s the one who knows all about you and Grace.’
    Faraday looked round, but Gwen was already stepping back onto the dance floor as the band picked up a new beat. She gave him a little wave, then began to jitterbug with a man in white trousers and a striped blazer.
    Faraday sank into an empty chair, Madge beside him. He felt like a stranger inexplicably made welcome at someone else’s hearth. There had to be a subplothere, an explanation for these open arms, but he hadn’t a clue what it might be. He reached for his glass and took a long pull at the beer. Then came the gentlest of pressures on his other hand. It was Madge. She beckoned him closer.
    ‘Gracie thought the world of you.’ She was beaming now. ‘She used to phone me up after you’d gone. Just think what an impression you made.’
    She nodded, part encouragement, part applause, the way you might be proud of a favourite son, and over the next hour or so, whenever the music permitted, Faraday began to tease out Madge’s story.
    She and Grace had been childhood friends – same school, same church. Before the war, for a couple of summer seasons, Grace had gone to sea with the Cunard line. She’d been a skivvy first, then a waitress, and had finally caught the purser’s eye. She had a good voice, lovely figure, nice temperament, and one evening at an American family’s insistence she’d been given her chance onstage in one of the cocktail bars.
    Then came the war and she was back in Southsea just like everyone else, scared out of her wits one moment, bored stiff the next. After the worst of the Blitz, the news had got slowly better. Soon you got to see Canadians and Yanks in the streets. Grace had found herself a GI from West Virginia, nicest manners, generous to a fault, but he went off to the west somewhere, Dorset, Devon, and that was the last anyone ever saw of him. Then the invasion happened, all those thousands of boats, and before you knew it Gracie was back on the liners, the
Queen Mary
this time, singing for her supper.
    ‘And you?’ Faraday, on his third pint, was beginning to enjoy himself.
    ‘Me, dear?’ Madge looked blank.
    ‘Your war? Did you find yourself a Yank?’
    Madge looked at him a moment, the eyes clouding again, then shook her head. The band had stopped for good this time and the dance floor was rapidly emptying.
    ‘I didn’t need to,’ she whispered. ‘Not a