“That’s your military, the world over.” Archy took another long draught, then set his glass on the table. “Now, tell me again about this chap you’re looking for.”
When I had recounted the little we knew about Bobby, Archy pursed his lips. “He must have flown during the Blitz,” he said. “The Battle of Britain, they called it. Not many survived to tell the tale, did they, Paul?”
Paul shook his head soberly. “After a while, it was hard to strike up friendships with the lads. They were gone so fast, you see.”
“Here today, and gone tomorrow, that’s the way it was, eh, Paul?”
“A truer word was never spoken, Archy.”
“You don’t happen to have a snap of this MacLaren fellow, do you?” asked Archy. “The old memory is sharp as a tack, but there were so many boys through here…”
“No,” I replied, “but I do have some pictures of his girlfriend.” I handed him several photographs from Dimity’s album. “This is Dimity Westwood,” I said.
“Dimity Westwood, you say? Well, there were a lot of girlfriends coming into the old Flamborough in those days. It was a lively place back then, not the museum piece it is now—begging your pardon, Miss K.”
“That’s alright, Archy, no offense taken,” said Miss Kingsley. “Things are rather quieter around here nowadays.”
“Dull as dishwater,” Archy muttered, with a conspiratorial wink at Paul. Stroking his mustache, he looked carefully at each picture. “I couldn’t say that I recognize…” He paused. “Wait, now…”
The rest of us craned our necks to see what had caught his eye. He had come to one of my favorite pictures, a shot of Dimity standing in front of a shop with shattered windows. She had reached inside to touch the dress on a toppled mannequin, and was grinning mischievously at the camera. Archy contemplated the photo for a moment; then his eyebrows shot up and he slapped the table with his hand. “The belle of the ball,” he exclaimed. “You remember, Paul—the beautiful belle of the ball—that’s who she is.”
“By heavens, you’re right, Archy. That’s who she is,” said Paul. “The sweetest girl you’d ever want to meet…”
Archy cupped a hand to his mouth and in a stage whisper explained, “Paul took a fancy to her.”
“Look who’s talking,” Paul retorted. “I seem to remember you being rather fond of her yourself.”
“So I was, so I was,” Archy conceded. “But who could help being fond of her? She was… something else. Something you don’t find every day, I can tell you. You may know her as Dimity Westwood, but we called her Belle. She came in here all the time, on the arm of that Scottish fellow. Frightful accent, mind you, but how he could dance. Bobby… yes, Bobby and Belle. What a pair.”
“Lit up the whole place when they came in,” said Paul.
“I kidded them about spoiling the blackout—you remember that, Paul?”
“I do, Archy.”
Archy put his arm around Paul’s shoulders and the two men gazed, misty-eyed, at the photograph before Archy returned it to me. They emptied their glasses, and stared stolidly into the middle distance.
“It’s easy to remember the happy times,” Archy said. “No one likes to think of the rest, but it was there all the same, wasn’t it, Paul?”
“It was, Archy.”
“I remember the last time Belle came in here. She was on her own that night and I could tell just by looking at her what had happened. I’d seen it so many times before, but my heart broke for her all the same. I gave her the message and off she went, without saying a word. She never came back after that.”
“That’s how it was in those days,” said Paul. “Dancing one minute, and the next—”
“There was a message?” I said.
“Oh, yes,” Archy replied. “The chaps were always leaving messages with me here at the Flamborough, billets-doux for their sweethearts and the like.”
“That’s why they called it the Telegraph,” said Paul.
“Do you remember what the message was?”
Archy was taken aback. “I never opened it,” he said. “It wouldn’t have been proper.”
My face must have fallen, because he pushed his chair back and lumbered to his feet. Raising a crooked finger, he said, “Now, you come over here, and I’ll show you something. It’s not something I show to everyone, mind you. You can be sure I didn’t show that young bloke who came in after me. He got very snippy when I tried to show him the ropes—you remember him, don’t you, Paul?”
“A regular Mr. Know-Ail,” said Paul.
“So I said to him, ‘Fair enough, Mr. Know-All, figure it out for yourself.’ But seeing as you have a personal interest in all of this…”
I followed him to the bar, and the others drifted over from the table. Archy lifted the hatch and motioned for me to go inside, then closed it behind him as he came in after me. He spread his hands flat on the smooth surface of the serving counter, looking very much at home.