Chapter 8 Snow and Small Mercies #3
But the thought of it made my chest tight. Too many variables. Too much physical contact, accidental bumping, people grabbing at me for balance. Too much noise and movement and the expectation that I'd know how to perform enjoyment in a way that looked natural rather than calculated.
And the cold. The deep, seeping cold that would soak through my clothes and leave me shivering and miserable while everyone else seemed perfectly fine.
My body had never regulated temperature properly, always too hot or too cold, never the comfortable medium other people apparently experienced without effort.
So I stood at the edge and watched and told myself I was choosing solitude rather than admitting I didn't know how to be part of something that looked so effortless for everyone else.
“Not tempted to join them?”
Tom's voice made me jump. I turned to find him a few feet away, hands in his pockets, snow collecting on his shoulders. How long had he been standing there? How had I not noticed him approach?
“Not particularly,” I said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near defensive.
“Too cold for skating?”
“Too awkward for falling repeatedly while people watch.”
His mouth twitched. “Fair point. I've seen you walk. Skating would be a disaster.”
“Thank you for that vote of confidence.”
“Just being honest.” But there was warmth in his voice, the kind that suggested he was teasing rather than mocking. “You're too clever to fall on your arse in public. Dignity and all that.”
“Exactly. My dignity is my most precious asset.” I adjusted my glasses, which had fogged again. “What's your excuse?”
“Same as yours. Too stubborn to embarrass myself in front of an audience.” He gestured toward the bench near the water's edge, the one that had become accidentally significant. “Want to sit? I've got cigarettes.”
Did I want to sit in the cold with Tom, sharing cigarettes and probably making stilted conversation that would reveal how profoundly bad I was at normal human interaction? No. Obviously not. That sounded uncomfortable and awkward and likely to end with me saying something wrong.
“Yes,” I heard myself say.
We walked to the bench together. Tom brushed snow off the seat with his gloved hand before we sat, a small courtesy that made my chest do something complicated. He pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes and offered me one.
I didn't smoke regularly. Never had developed the habit despite everyone around me chain-smoking like it was an Olympic sport. But sometimes, in moments like this when I needed something to do with my hands and mouth, a cigarette helped.
I took one. Tom lit it for me, cupping his hands around the flame to shield it from the wind, and I watched his face in the brief flare of light. Serious. Focused. The way he probably looked down a rifle scope, all his attention narrowed to a single point.
Then the lighter snapped shut and we were back in the grey afternoon, smoke curling between us.
“How was your shift?” he asked, which was such a normal question that it took me a moment to respond.
“Productive. Cracked a stubborn intercept.”
“The one you've been fighting with all week?”
He'd noticed. Had paid enough attention to my muttered complaints to remember which specific piece of work was causing me trouble. That shouldn't have felt significant, but it did.
“Yes. Wehrmacht supply route. Same encryption error every time.” I took a drag, felt the smoke burn down my throat. “Their operator is either very tired or very lazy.”
“And now our side knows where to find them.”
“Yes.”
We sat with that reality for a moment. Him understanding without me having to explain that every success felt like failure from a different angle. That the work saved lives and cost them in equal measure.
“London's getting hammered again,” Tom said eventually. “My sister wrote. Said the V-2s are worse than the Blitz because you don't hear them coming. Just sudden noise and then half the street is gone.”
My stomach clenched. “Bea said similar. She tries to make it sound like an adventure, but I can read between the lines.”
“Rose does the same. All jokes about sleeping in the tube station and racing rats for dropped food. Like if she makes it funny, I won't worry.” He exhaled smoke, watching it dissipate into falling snow. “Doesn't work, obviously.”
“No.”
“Your London and my London are probably different cities,” he said, and there was something careful in his voice. Not judgment, but awareness of the class divide that ran through everything in England. “You grew up where, exactly?”
“Respectable suburb. Terraced house, decent garden, neighbors who kept their hedges trimmed.” I felt oddly defensive about it. “Nothing grand. My father's a solicitor. Comfortable, not wealthy.”
“Still a world away from the East End.”
“Probably. I didn't spend much time in London proper until university. Mostly knew it through museums and libraries and the occasional theatre visit.” I glanced at him. “Where exactly in the East End?”
“Near the docks. Cramped streets, shared courtyards, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone else's business.” He took a long drag. “Could smell the Thames when the wind was right. Could hear the ships at night.”
I tried to picture it. Tom as a boy running through those narrow streets, learning to be tough because the alternative was being a target. Growing up hard and fast in a world that didn't make space for softness.
“Do you miss it?” I asked.
“Parts. Miss my family. Miss knowing every shortcut and hiding spot. Miss the pub on the corner and the way the whole street would turn out for celebrations.” He paused. “Don't miss the damp. Or the rats. Or the way poverty sat on everything like coal dust.”
“I don't think I've ever experienced real poverty.” The admission felt shameful. “We had rationing like everyone else, but we never went hungry. Never wondered if we'd make rent.”
“Not your fault. You were born where you were born.”
“Doesn't make the gap smaller.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it doesn't make us enemies either. Just means we saw the same city from different angles.”
The snow kept falling, accumulating on our shoulders and laps. I should have been cold. Should have been shivering and miserable. But sitting here with Tom, cigarette smoke curling between us and his solid presence radiating warmth beside me, I felt almost comfortable.
Down by the lake, someone shrieked as they hit the ice. Laughter followed. The sound should have grated, should have been too loud, but from this distance it was just part of the landscape. Background noise that I could observe without having to participate in.
“Bona,” I said, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
Tom's head turned toward me. There was recognition in his eyes, a flicker of something that made my stomach tighten.
“Madam Fortuna used that word,” he said quietly.
Of course he remembered. He'd been there. He'd heard the Polari flowing around him like a river in a foreign tongue, and he'd stored it away the way he stored everything, cataloguing details for later examination.
“Yes,” I said. “It means good. Or attractive. Pleasing.”
“The snow is bona?”
I felt heat creep up my neck. “The snow is... acceptable. I was being generous.”
Tom's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “She called me something else. Trade, I think.”
Now my face was definitely burning. “She did.”
“What does that mean?”
I took a long drag on my cigarette, buying time. “It means... a man. One who might be interested. Or available.” I kept my eyes on the frozen lake. “It's not always polite.”
“She thought I was available?”
“She thought you were following me. Which you were.”
“I was.” He didn't sound apologetic. “Good thing, too.”
We sat in silence for a moment. The skaters on the lake had thinned out, most of them retreating to warmth as the afternoon darkened. Snow continued to fall, soft and relentless.
“Nanti,” I said, because the silence was becoming too heavy. “Means no, or not. Negation.”
“Nanti.” He tested the word, getting the vowels right on the first try. “So nanti bona would be...”
“Not good. Bad.”
“And nanti trade?”
I glanced at him. His expression was carefully neutral, but there was something underneath it. Something waiting.
“Not available,” I said. “Or not interested.”
“Ah.” He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. The flame illuminated his face for a moment, caught the sharp line of his jaw and the tired creases around his eyes. “Useful to know. In case I need to disappoint someone.”
My heart was doing something complicated in my chest. “Do you often need to disappoint people?”
“Not as often as you'd think.” He passed me the cigarette without asking, and I took it, our fingers brushing in the exchange. “Most people don't bother asking.”
“Their loss.”
The words came out before I could stop them. Too honest. Too revealing. I kept my eyes fixed on the lake, afraid of what I'd see if I looked at him.
Tom was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Omi. That's another one. Means man.”
“You remember.”
“I remember everything.” He took the cigarette back. “So if I wanted to say... a good man. A bona omi.”
“Yes.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “That's right.”
“Bona omi,” he repeated, and the way he said it, low and deliberate, made something twist in my stomach. “I like that.”
We sat in silence, smoking, watching the snow fall and the last skaters stumble toward shore. The cold was seeping through my coat, numbing my fingers, but I couldn't bring myself to move. Couldn't break whatever fragile thing was building between us in the gathering dark.