I trained the binoculars where she had pointed. Then I screwed up my courage and asked her straight-out, “Do you know a man named James Harker?”
“Yes, I do.”
“He works here?”
“Part-time. Yes. He’s on the stoneyard staff.”
“I see. Will he be here tomorrow?”
“I believe he will be. If he isn’t, I’ll knock him up.”
“Is that right? So you’re a friend of his?”
“I look out for him. He’s at an advanced age, you know. He only puts in a few days a week here, to keep busy.” The woman stopped and scrutinized me. “How do you know James Harker?”
“I don’t really know him. Not yet. I’m here to interview him for an encyclopedia, though. I e-mailed the Minster a few weeks ago.”
“Did you? That does sound familiar. What did you want to ask him about?”
“His experiences in 1940 with the Auxiliary Fire Service.”
The woman leaned closer to the wall. “Well, if you know where to look, you can actually see James’s place from here.”
“You can?”
“Yes.” She directed the binoculars to the left. “Do you see a blue door on Stonegate, next to the streetlight, about halfway up the second block?”
I scanned the street until I did, indeed, spot a blue door. “Yes! I see it.”
“There you are, then.” She turned as the rest of the group finally arrived on the roof. “Now I must get back to my post. You can return the binos when you’re through.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you very much.”
I spent my entire thirty minutes staring at that blue door and the nine windows above it. There appeared to be three apartments in the narrow building, one on each floor, and each apartment had three windows. When the woman finally announced that we could descend the stairs, I led the group back down.
Once outside, I hurried across the dark, narrow streets of York until I was standing before that blue door. The lights of the second-story apartment were on. I stepped onto the stoop and studied the three doorbells on the right—designated as Flat 1, Flat 2, and Flat 3—and I read the names of their inhabitants. I had nearly worked up the courage to press the buzzer for Flat 2 when the lights on the second floor went out.
I stepped back, into the medieval street, and looked up.
I thought about what I had come here to do. James Harker was in this building at this very moment. I would see him and talk to him tomorrow morning.
Our two lives had come to a crossroads.
THE CATHEDRAL
Dad was asleep when I let myself back into our room at the Wayfarer, and he remained asleep for the rest of the night. I was happy to see that he had gotten up to purchase a roast beef sandwich for me and a bottle of apple juice. I wolfed them down, standing by the window and looking out at the dark streets.
I unpacked most of my things before I turned in. Then I opened the box that held the radio. The first thing I saw was a small black square with metal prongs. It had an index card taped to it and a short note from Uncle Bob: “You need an adapter to run American appliances in England. They have different voltage.” I took the adapter, turned the prongs away from me, and plugged it into an outlet. Then I turned my attention to the radio.
Uncle Bob had done a great job packing it. The Philco 20 Deluxe was safely surrounded by at least three inches of solid Styrofoam on each side. I pulled it out, trying not to wake Dad with the squeaking of the white foam. I placed the Philco on the floor near the electrical outlet. I sat there for a long time, trying to work up the courage to plug it in. But I couldn’t do it. Not yet.
In the morning, I put on my vintage Arsenal jersey, and I combed a dab of Brylcreem into my hair. I waited until Dad went into the bathroom. Then I called through the door, “Go to breakfast without me, Dad. There’s something I have to do.”
“What? Where are you going?”
“To the York Minster. The cathedral.”
After a long pause, he said, “All right. Like I said, let me know what I can do to help.”
“Okay.” I pulled on my coat and left immediately, barely able to contain myself. I took the steps of the Wayfarer two at a time, ran past the unoccupied front desk, and hit the street. I hurried through the Shambles, past the blue door on Stonegate, and up to the entrance of the cathedral. It was still too early to go inside, so I sat on a bench in a triangular green park next to the church.
Not more than ten minutes had passed when suddenly I heard a rolling, bumping sound to my left. I turned and saw a wiry old man pushing a two-wheeled cart. The cart was painted the same dark green as the man’s pants and shirt, and it carried a black trash bin on top. The man proceeded noisily down the stone path until he was close enough for me to see his face.
I had seen that face before.
It was very old, and very wizened. And it belonged to James Harker.
I gasped. My throat got so dry that I could not even swallow. All I could do was turn my head slowly as the man pushed the cart past me and parked it in front of one of the wooden doors of the cathedral. He pulled out a small broom and dustpan, swept up two cigarette butts, and picked a third one up by hand. I was barely in control of my breathing when he came back toward me, without the cart, and sat on a bench to my right.
I knew my time had come.
I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out Margaret’s gift, the Sony voice recorder. Then I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out Mr. Wissler’s letter. I stood up and took three steps toward him. “Good morning, sir.”
He glanced up at me curiously. “What’s this, now? A lost boy?”
I recognized his voice. It had barely changed. I took another step and asked him the question that would seal his fate: “Are you, by any chance, Mr. James Harker?”
The old man took a good hard look at me. “I am. Now, who wants to know?”
“Mr. Harker, I am Martin Conway. I am conducting interviews for the Millennium Encyclopedia, interviews that will be part of a feature titled ‘Their Finest Hour.’ ”
He regarded me for a few more seconds without answering, so I held out my letter from Mr. Wissler. “Please, sir, if you could take a look at this letter of introduction, you’ll see what I mean.”
He pointed to his cart in a self-mocking gesture. “You saw what I just did, lad. I’m a janitor. I’m not part of anybody’s magazine article.”
I corrected him: “Encyclopedia article.”
“Or of anybody’s ‘finest hour.’ ” But he reached into his top pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses. Then he took the letter from me.
I explained, “We’re especially interested in any members of the Auxiliary Fire Service who were serving during the London Blitz.”
James Harker read the letter. He fingered the raised seal. But he still didn’t reply. I went on. “Internet records list your name as a member of the Auxiliary Fire Service in London in 1940.”
He finally looked up. “Aye. Me and a thousand others.”
“Yes, but you were posted at the American Embassy. Weren’t you?”
“That’s right. I was. For a bit.”
“That would give you, perhaps, a perspective on what the Americans were doing at the time.”
James Harker opened his mouth, revealing a set of sharp, stained teeth, and laughed. “They weren’t doing bloody much! I can tell you that, lad. Not when I was there.” He put his glasses away and conceded, “Later, of course, they got into it proper.”
James Harker looked directly at me. He spoke with a hint of challenge in his voice. “Now you tell me, lad. Why was it my ‘finest hour’?”
“Well, because you wouldn’t give up. Hitler expected you to give up. I guess the whole world did. But you wouldn’t.”
“I see. And what did I gain by that?”
I pulled out my voice recorder. “Do you mind if I record this?”
“No.”
I pressed the button and said into it, “James Harker, at York Minster. What did you gain from standing up to Hitler?”
I held the recorder out toward him. He smiled a very unfriendly smile and articulated, “Nothing. I lost. I lost my wife. I lost my son. I lost my friends. I wound up alone, a glorified janitor for sixty years.”
He reached into another pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. I racked my brain for something else to say. I tried, “Your wife, sir. May I ask how she died? Was it in the bombing?”
He lit the cigarette and squinted as a puff of smoke blew into his eyes. “No. She died before that.” He paused to take a deep drag on the cigarette and exhale. “ ‘Finest hour.’ They say we all muddled through it together. But some of us muddled a bit harder than others, didn’t we? The poor people lived like they always lived, and died like they always died. My Peg died because she waited too long to go to hospital. She didn’t want to leave our boy alone.” He pointed at my recorder. “I don’t recall that happening to Mrs. Churchill. Or Lady Halifax. Or the Queen Mum. Do you?” He took another drag on the cigarette and muttered, “Let’s hope nobody catches us over here. Can’t sit and have a fag anywhere nowadays. Except the pub.”
I followed up on what he’d said. “Your son, sir. Did he die in the bombing?”
Without emotion, he replied, “That’s right.”
“So who do you live with now?”
“Me? I live by myself.”
“Do you live near here?”
“Not far.”
I tried to sound like I had done several of these interviews, like I was reading from a checklist. “And do you, sir, have any historical items from that period?”
“No. Not really.”
I continued, “Like a poster? Or a football program?”
James Harker’s suspicious look returned. “I’ve got nothing that’d interest you.”
I held up the letter again, with the seal showing. “The encyclopedia would pay you for any authentic items that I photographed, and that we used.”
“Pay, eh? Now you’re talking, lad. Let’s see. I’ve got my dad’s medals. He won the British War Medal, the Victory Medal, and the 1914 Star.” He exhaled a long blue stream of smoke. “But they’re from World War One, aren’t they?”
I said, “Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred.”
“Hey! That’s right. You know some things, lad.”
I told him sincerely, “I’ve worked very hard at this, sir. Would it be possible for me to visit you at home, just for a short time, whatever time is good for you, to do a more formal interview?”
“Ah, I don’t know. The landlord don’t like me having company. Don’t like me doing anything, really. He’s always popping round to check that I’m not smoking. Or to check that I’m not dead. I’ll have to say no to you, my boy. But good luck with the ‘Finest Hour’ and all.”
He got up, stubbed out his cigarette on his heel, and put the butt into his pocket.
Not knowing what else to do, I unbuttoned my coat and blurted out, “Mr. Harker! Take a look at this.”
James Harker’s blue eyes bored in on my red-and-white Arsenal football jersey. He looked at me, totally confused. I asked him, “Do you remember the match when Arsenal beat Fulham up at White Hart Lane? I think it was five to nil.”
His confusion suddenly turned into anger. He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I don’t know what you’re on about, boy. Get away. Let me get back to work.”
I watched in silence as he wheeled his cart off in the opposite direction.
I knew I had gone too far. I turned off the recorder, put my papers away, and sat down. I replayed everything James Harker and I had said to each other, with and without the recorder. Then, when the first visitors of the day arrived, I got up and followed them through the huge doors of the York Minster.
Someone ahead of me in line was arguing loudly with the volunteer from the night before, the small woman with the blue blazer. She was listening patiently as a large woman in an orange coat complained about the admission fee. When the woman finally stopped, the volunteer explained, “But it is a voluntary offering.”
The woman in orange shot back, “If it’s voluntary, why do you have a price list posted?”
“That’s just a suggested fee.”
“You shouldn’t have to pay at all in the house of God.”
I spoke up. “You’d pay more if you went into St. Paul’s Cathedral in London.” The woman spun around and glared at me. I continued, “And they’d tell you exactly what to pay, too. It’s not voluntary at all.”
“I’ll thank you to keep out of this.”
“I was just there yesterday. It cost me three pounds.”
The woman in orange sneered at me. But then she plunked down a coin for the suggested amount and entered.
The volunteer woman favored me with a smile. “You’re back already?”
I handed her my payment.
“Tell me, did you do your interview with James Harker?”
“I did some of it. The preliminaries.”
“I saw you talking to him outside.”
Another volunteer stepped up next to her and said, “I’m here now, Helen.”
My volunteer said, “Thank you, Sylvia.” She stepped away from the desk and joined me in the nave. I asked her, “Would you mind answering some questions?”
“No. Not at all. That’s part of what I do.”
I started with something neutral. “How many men work outside here, like James Harker?”
“Well, let’s see. The stoneyard staff, the custodians and janitors, and the security people . . . I’d say about one hundred. Full- and part-time.”
“Do you know how long James Harker has been here?”
“A long time. Since the war.”
“He returned home after the war?”
“Yes. He is a Yorkshireman.” We reached the area with folding chairs. “Let’s sit for a moment,” Helen suggested. Then she told me, “James had a wife from Yorkshire, too. She died of diphtheria, I believe.”
“It was pneumonia.”
She looked at me curiously, adding, “And he had a son. He died in the war, too. In the Blitz.”
“Yes, he did. Twenty-nine December, 1940. The massive German air raid.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“Research. Internet research, mostly.”
“Well, I can tell you something that’s not on the Internet. Mr. James Harker has a very kind heart. I volunteer at the children’s shelter as well, and I know he dedicates a portion of his salary every week to the boys there. The lost boys, he calls them.”
We sat in silence for a moment. Then she said something unexpected: “Yes, James Harker is a very nice man, but he’s also a troubled man.”
I sat up straighter. “Oh? Why is that?”
“He spends half his time in the pub, which is not unusual for a single man, I suppose. But he spends the other half sitting right over there, in the Quire, just . . . looking up.”
I followed her gaze to a beautifully carved wooden section of the church. “You told me yesterday that you help him out a little?”
“That’s right. It’s not much. Sometimes he sleeps in and doesn’t show up at work. I pop over and get him. I don’t want him to lose his position.” Helen stood up. She pointed at me and smiled. “And that’s all the news you’ll get from me, Mr. Nosy Parker. Thank you for your kind intervention with that lady, but now I must get some work done.”
I left the Minster and walked slowly back to the Wayfarer, trying to think. Dad had finished breakfast and was watching a game show in the lobby with the manager. He came upstairs with me and listened carefully as I described everything that had happened that morning. He said, “I don’t think you did anything too wrong, Martin.”
“I drove him away. He was practically running.”
“The old man was overwhelmed, I guess. You ambushed him.”
“Yeah. I hit him with a lot of stuff at once.”
“The poor guy was just trying to do his job, and smoke his cigarette. Let’s see how he is at quitting time.”
We waited until three-forty-five and then headed out together through the winding streets of the city. James Harker must have slipped out early, because we ran into him halfway up Stonegate.
I said, “Mr. Harker. It’s Martin. I’m sorry if I asked too many questions this morning.”
He warned me, “You leave me alone, now.”
“Mr. Harker, this is my father, Jack Conway.”
Dad stayed behind me, but he called out in a friendly voice, “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Harker.”
James walked past us to his stoop. I looked at Dad, pleading with my eyes. He stepped up. “Mr. Harker! I know this is a terrible imposition. You certainly weren’t expecting company. But Martin has this assignment, and it’s worth a lot to him.”
Mr. Harker unlocked the blue door.
“And it’s worth a lot to me that he sees it through. So I want to offer you twenty pounds for a quick look at some of your World War Two memorabilia.”
James turned around. “Twenty quid?”
“Yes, sir.”
We heard the sound of someone clearing his throat behind us. A man wearing running shoes, gray sweats, and a black leather jacket had stopped to stare at us. He told James, “I’m off to the gym, Harker, to exercise my lungs. Make sure I don’t smell any secondhand smoke when I get back, eh?”