Archive of Our Own ^beta

The bell rang loudly. Behind his swift movement, the door closed behind him, and he stepped over to the counter. Adjusting his suit and tie, impatiently jostling as the baker girl hurriedly approached the counter. She smiled. 

“The usual, I assume?” She asked.

“Yes.” 

She nodded and moved to fetch the baguette from the display it was sealed in. There was a hop in her movement, as usual — she was always pleasantly surprised at the notice of a customer — especially after fewer people came due to the rations. A beaming smile on her youthful face, like a stupidly smiley white rabbit.
It was a stark contrast to him, and Arthur wanted to scoff at her naivety. 

There he stood, sodden in his coat, and his face clouded by a frown. Each and every aspect of him, from the strictly done tie of a war hardened politician to his hair wet with grease and rain, seemed to be weathered by the storm over Europe. His suit was grey, and his shoes were black. Plagued by such dreary colours, it simply made it more humiliating to be stood in front of someone as radiant as the sun.

Neither did the weather outside help. Not only a few minutes ago, did Big Ben proclaim the 3rd hour of the afternoon. However, it had been nothing but murky blues and a pitiful weep of rain: all optimistic ideas of the Sun staying out for the rest of September seemed to be fading. Summer had ended, and British skies were returning to grey (as per usual.) 

Occasionally, on the street, he’d encounter some jolly young man, perhaps drunk with joy, suggesting that a grey sky was better than a Luftwaffe one. Whoever worked propaganda was doing a brilliant job of it all.

“Nine pence, Sir.” Though, her words were interrupted as he had already placed the coins on the counter. 

As she exchanged over the baguette, wrapped in thin paper, the pleasant smell of fresh bread and the romantic origin of France suddenly brought him back to his senses. It was gentle. The bread too. It was light and fluffy, handsome in its paper suit. Though he attempted to resist its sweet temptations, he brought it closer to his nose after he had turned away. Proud, it stood starkly different to the usual plain and dry bread since wartime began; only the money he received as Britain’s representative could afford such a luxury.

Even the walls in the small room announced his privilege in bold letters. Vivid blue and yellow posters, that were plastered to each wall of each street and shop, echoed the same: ‘SAVE the WHEAT, HELP the FLEET.’

Their orders questioned his loyalty. They begged and pleaded for the people to come together and protect England. All whilst the glorious England stood in his dripping clothes and wet hair and his feverish hands skittishly plucked a small piece of baguette like a dreaded short straw and pigged out on it.

He was back on the street, crashing into a puddle.

Each sludge step was like trudging through a town after being shamed with rotten fruits. By now, he was sure the people hated him. 

And, it was hard to miss. Every shop window mentioned the current war like a brand new notice — as the colours and boldness never faded — and neither did the diligent efforts of the people.

England DIG! England WORK! England WIN! England FIGHT! England KEEP CALM!

The posters said it, and he was sure each neighbour he walked past thought it too. 

He bit the inside of his cheek, and he sped up, like a race horse pretending to be oblivious to the shouting whilst it went full gallop. Well and truly, he had had enough with the demands from whoever in power was creating these propaganda. 

He scuffed his shoe and kicked up a puddle and ruined his new plaid suit and banged into neighbouring people and nearly banged into a pole — all in a race to get home.  

In the nick of time, he’d reached the bus just as it was about to depart. Passing over a coin, taking the stamped ticket and boarding the bus, he stumbled through the moving cabin and took a quick seat in front of two blokes. 

Perhaps he should be thankful that he made it.

Arthur frowned — he wasn’t thankful at all—, the wrapping on the baguette was frailed, and his suit was mucky, and God, his trousers were wet with sludge. He hoped it was mud. 

He hoped adjusting his tie was a way of redeeming himself.

He hoped this bus wouldn’t take so long; it was hard to judge the speed with the windows boarded up. Why? The war, of course.

“See this?” There was a rustle of a newspaper behind him.

“Not if you’re hiding it.” The bloke on the right clicked his tongue.

“Rations might hit ‘nother rock bottom.”

“They might. Every newspaper says that all the time. This rock we’re talking about has several asses it seems.”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“Neither did France.”

…

Arthur didn’t have a cigarette on him, which was strange and rather annoying at this moment. Francis had always nagged him to stop as it made him smell of smoke, and ash, and everything nasty — apparently.

“Risked our men for that pig stye. I think Dunkirk was a disaster, but no one wants to talk about that, do they?” The right man clarified himself.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am -“ 

He wanted to turn around.

“ — I think the darn pigs like the krauts. They pretended to fight and just snuggled right up to ‘em, didn’t they? Forget France as an ally, the krauts want us. Now that’s a real conversation, I tell you —“

“I tell you,” Spitting, he turned to the two men. A ragged wave of blond hair struck across his stormy face while he eyed the two men that addressed him. Their eyes startled; his eyes narrowed. There, he stammered for an insult for his mouth was far quicker than his mind. Similar to the sound of thunder trying to catch up as the lightning made the intimidating appearance.  “I tell you, that, either you’re a paid agent of Germany, or… or  you’re spouting propaganda for nothing. Either case, do shut up!”

The two men looked bewildered, though it wasn’t so sure if it was from the man’s sudden outburst — or his dreadful appearance.

“Pardon, who do you think you are? Who do you think you’re talking to — wait, aren’t you Kirkland?” 

“Now I’ll be leaving!” Arthur choked out, cutting off the right man. The man’s face had turned from a startled bunny to a rather feral rabbit baring fangs — and he was NOT prepared to argue with that. “Done with this talk, I shouldn’t mind walking home if it means to avoid whatever propaganda you’re spouting.” 

He abruptly spluttered out and stood up.

—

All in all, it had all been a terrible waste of time. 

Once he had finally gotten home, time had passed from when he’d heard Big Ben announce that it was 4 o’clock.

A coin wasted on the bus; his suit ruined; his baguette gone damp from a spontaneous shower of rain; and the terrible talk of France and Germany. 

Solemnly, he attempted to lighten his mood by averting his eyes over to the living room. In a hurry (as always), he had forgotten to stamp out the fiery hearth, and it was still burning. Albeit a little smoky, it was rather comforting for a mild day of grey clouds and a few specks of sun. 

After he placed the baguette down on the dining table, he kicked off his muddied shoes, and made his way over to lounge. 

It was just how he had left it.

The silk drapes let in the little light — that came from the Sun meekly waving from behind the clouds — as they were held back by curtain pullbacks. 

The natural light bounced through, and ended disheartened at what the mess it showed: a clutter of letters, written with nowhere to belong, was on the table accompanying the sofa. The rug was displaced, and the blanket discarded over the back of a chair, and an attempt at embroidery tossed; and all that was in place neatly was the last letter he had received from Francis. Open, beside all the unsent letters he had wanted to reply with, it lay. 

20th June.
It was now the 7th September. 

Damp and desperate, his hands shakily took the precious paper. It was a little yellow, now. The same dog-ear fold at the corner. The ink splodges in the writing. Their last contact was preciously preserved beside himself at home.

Their last contact was desperate. France surrendered two days later. The 22th June.

It had been a sorrow day, and he recounted the officer that had come to his door to inform him of the loss. He had been in grievance ever since. Although, he was not so sure of why; perhaps he dreaded the war with Germany, perhaps it felt strange to not have Francis blabbering over the cable, perhaps it was the reduction of tea imports.

His gloved finger smoothed over the page. Hesitantly, he looked about the room. There was never any company.

Though, he checked, just before he placed a small kiss beside the signature. It was only small, not too long, like something romantic, and the paper pillowed under his touch. He did not know why it comforted him; he did not know why he missed his rival so much; he just knew he wanted him back. 

He had lived many lives, kissed many women, but none had made him feel so loved as the kiss from the signature that was scribbled messily on the bottom right of the dog-eared page. 

‘Bisous, Francis Bonnefoye’

He attempted to pronounce the foreign words, and try to grasp the French nasal sounds that he’d mock. There was something always funny about the way Francis had spoken, and, despite the gentle voice becoming fainter in his mind’s eye, he still could remember the flamboyant tone and dramatic syllables. The way each frog opened their mouth like they were to announce a line from a pantomime. 

Alone, Arthur let himself snicker for a moment. 

Only then, did he realise how truly silent it was in his house.

There was no crackle from the fireplace, nor a pigeon scratting at his roof, no kettle whistle, no floorboard creaking, no squeaking tyres or horse trot from the street, nothing.
Ordinarily plain, he used to like the peace. However, he now felt like a ghost roaming a house he did not belong in. 

He was alone.

Drawing closer to the tall windows, he endowed his eyes with the charming view of a life outside his own. Where the veil of grey had parted to propose a shining jewel, the Sun, and was cloaking itself with a smooth white dress. The history of rain had painted a rainbow across the horizon. 

Pearly cobblestones sparkled like diamonds in the puddles, and did not shatter under the trotting of a horse, which bore a carriage adorned with roses and peonies — the best smelling flowers. Gliding closely behind, was a black-shelled car. Once again, there was a wonderful spark of white light that reflected on its back, as if a match had suddenly been struck. 

‘Just Married!’ The sign bounced on the bumper. And he was sure each passerby hailed in congratulations and praise — a wish for prosperity and peace — despite everything. 

He was sure that, if he opened the window, the smell from the flowers would not reach his nose, and the cheers of joy would not be heard over the screeching of tyres and hooves. 

So once again, he retreated from the window. 

Falling back in routine, he began to boil the kettle.
Attempting to ignore the wailing from it, he opened the cabinet above. There were no mugs. There would be plenty by his bed.

Above the stairs, the door to his bedroom was left wide open. Perhaps, in another situation, it would be inviting. However, as he approached the dwelling where the curtains were tied together like a frown burying the light of the eyes, the light was erased by a dull shadow. The shadow had been there for months. At this moment, he felt rather stubbornly against submitting himself to sleep.

Still, he could hear the screeching of the kettle. The whistle was crying out like a dying hare, and it horribly reminded him of the shells used at the last horrid war in Europe.

Already in a terrible mood (and not wanting it to get any worse), Arthur scuffed his feet, like a pigeon, along the creaking floorboards trying to not mind the scraggy clothes he’d left on the floor. He held his hands out in front of him as his only senses. The cool touch of the varnished wooden bed, and the smooth texture of his bed sheets almost welcomed him back in for another evening of laying alone. 

Fortunately, the familiar smell of leftover tea made his nose twitch. Soon, his fingers recognised the ceramic collection of mugs, and he collected one from the nightstand.

Once he returned downstairs, the whistling wasn’t any better. 

The kettle began to shake and rupture from the kitchen, and, like a shockwave, it made the air around him feel stifling. It was sharp and the wailing noise splintered. 

It climbed and it climbed and it climbed to a higher frequency, and the steam rushed to escape from the beak, like a frog leaping and scrambling to escape from an eagle’s vicious mouth. Soon, he expected the eagle to scream out and attack him too.

He knew he must’ve been pathetic. Pity him for his poor sensitive ears. 

Clumsily, he poorly attempted to place the mug down and block his ears. It crashed down and he stumbled away from the sudden broken ceramic. He cursed, and he held his ears tighter. He shook his head. He grit his teeth. 

And he looked over at the window. 

A sudden and louder sound took over. 
A whistling behind it, as this sound was no surprise: Britain had been waiting for it.
The kettle stopped and the air raid siren took over the wailing. 

The Eagle had attacked.

Germany was here.