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The call comes at the tail end of the late shift. “Oh for— Put me through to Crowley, you infernal contraption!”
Eva greets the rather vexed demand with routine precision. “Good evening, sir?”
But the man continues to speak right over her, completely unhearing, utterly incensed. “Crowley, I don’t know what you think you’re playing at—”
Eva rushes to cut him off, “No, no.” She has overheard enough domestics to last a lifetime. “You’re through to the exchange, sir, for calls to Mayfair.”
No answer, but there’s a distinct sigh in the background.
She persists, “It is a call for Mayfair, yes?”
And, now, the reply is swift, each word laced with frustration. “What on earth do you need to know that for?”
“Well, sir, it was just to be sure that you’ve got the right—”
“I am sorry,” the man interrupts, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “I thought it all just happened.”
“Afraid not,” Eva says firmly. She bites back, We can’t work miracles. Suddenly, ending the call is far too tempting an idea. Don’t you know how tired we are?
However, the man must sense something in her tone for he clears his throat, and the sound is far calmer than the tirade she just had to contend with. “Forgive me,” he says, subdued. “I forgot myself.”
Oh, and, there’s something in that, isn’t there? Eva can sense it trying to hide underneath the crackles on the line, that strain in the voice; the now familiar worry too many have been carrying, as they hurry down streets, looking for a lost face within a swarming crowd, the fear following them home as they shut the windows, and draw the blinds, praying, Please, just let them be safe. Please.
“All right, sir, don’t you fret,” Eva says, slowing her voice down in sincerity. “We can start again.”
“Oh, you are far too—”
“Good evening, sir. A call for Mayfair?”
“A-ah, yes. Indeed. I have… It’s here somewhere…”
There’s a rustling sound, then a whispered “Bugger!”, followed by a not altogether reassuring clunk. The caller has dropped the phone, Eva realises, but she stays on the line—at this rate, she almost wonders if this is the man’s very first time using a telephone. Surely not. More rustling, and another curse word that she, strictly in the aims of professionalism, pretends not to hear.
“I’m sorry,” the man says. His voice is small in embarrassment. “Oh, I’m all at sixes and sevens, I’m afraid. He wrote it down, I know he did, but I’ve been rather—that is, I—well, I don’t have the address.”
“Not to worry.” Eva glances down her list. “Hmm, there’s a few Crowleys in Mayfair…”
“Really? Goodness, he won’t be happy about that at all.” The man chuckles. “I have it on authority that he’s the only one in the world. A.J. Crowley, then, dear girl.”
“Aha, I have it.” Eva makes a pencil mark next to the name. “A.J. Crowley, seven treble-six.”
On the other end, there’s a faint splutter, and then the man is laughing again, breathy with what sounds like a mixture of fondness and relief. “Oh, dear me, I… Oh, I do apologise, it’s just… It would be that.” Another rustling noise, but softer this time; he must have covered the receiver briefly, yet Eva still hears a muffled, “Treble-six, you ridiculous creature.”
And, even though she should by all rights have finished her shift, Eva finds herself smiling. “Putting you through, sir. Won’t be a mo.” Click. Eva keeps listening, just in case. Oh, Lord, what will she do if this A.J. Crowley doesn’t answer…?
“Hello,” a new voice says, lower and rough around the edges.
“Never mind hello, my dear, where have you been—?”
“Things just got a bit hectic, that’s all.” It’s said with the accustomed breeziness of someone used to downplaying even the most serious of circumstances. Then, so, so gently, “I’m sorry, angel.”
Feeling abruptly like an intruder, Eva disconnects from the call.
And, that’s that.
*
Except, it isn’t.
The phone calls keep coming, until the voices of the two men are as familiar as the moon lighting Eva’s way from work to home. It’s a welcome kind of intrigue, and all her tickets that should be for the calls’ destinations are soon littered with scribblings, fragments she’s learned over many snatches of conversation: that the first voice belongs to a man named Aziraphale; that he runs a bookshop in Soho; and that he calls Crowley ‘my dear’ just as often as Crowley calls him ‘angel’ in return.
It isn’t like her to snoop, really, but there’s something about these two that draws her in, what with their clearly long-standing rapport, and their references she simply can’t explain, like the ‘trick’ at the ‘church’… Code, perhaps?
Eva begins to suspect that they are spies—the most unusual, obvious spies in all of London, in fact, if not the whole world. Why, she can reel off the number of times they’ve phoned simply to arrange a meeting at St. James’s Park, a rendezvous point so conspicuous it’s quite laughable, the place full of ‘cultural attachés’ meeting furtively with their poorly disguised pretence of feeding the ducks.
One night, unable to bite her tongue, Eva gives away the game entirely. “Are you spies?” she blurts out, reasoning that, well, one never knows. If they’re truly awful spies, they might just tell me.
Silence. Eva remembers, quite belatedly, that she should categorically not be listening in on calls. She is half-way through a weak apology—“Only, that is, if you are, you might want to consider… well, some alternative meeting places...”—when she hears twin peals of laughter.
“Oh, hello,” Crowley eventually says, sounding incredibly amused. “Was wondering when you’d pipe up. Rude to eavesdrop, y’know.”
“There’s something highly ironic about you saying that, my dear.”
“Shut up, angel,” Crowley replies cheerfully. “What was that you said, miss, about alternative spots?”
“Well.” Eva, reassured that they are not offended, now feels free to place her tongue firmly in cheek. “You know, on my walk here, there’s a bandstand…”
*
“They’re the most extraordinary characters,” Eva says, far from the first time, while taking out the kirby grips keeping her fringe in place.
Lily laughs from where she is tucked up in bed. Her hair is in rags, and there’s a loose ringlet already falling out; Eva reaches across to fix it absentmindedly, fingertips trailing behind Lily’s ear in lingering strokes. Lily sighs with a pleased little smile, one that soon turns mischievous.
“That reminds me. Met your bookshop man, didn’t I?”
“You never did.”
Lily points at her bedside cabinet. She leans over to pick up a worn paperback—Peter and Wendy—placed next to the lamp. “Look here,” she says, tapping the front cover eagerly. She opens the book up to the title page, and there it is, stamped in ink: A.Z. Fell & Co.
“How are we supposed to know that’s the right A? Might as well stand for Anthony,” Eva teases.
Lily rolls her eyes. “Stop splitting hairs, missus. It has to be him!”
“Just joshing,” Eva says. She jumps into bed, wriggles underneath the covers, and warms Lily’s freezing feet between her own. “What did he say?”
“Oh, he was just how you said, love, all Oxbridge professor type. Not a complete bastard, though.”
“No.” Eva grins, thinking back to their rather snippy first conversation. “Not completely.”
Lily cackles in return. “He said I might as well have that, as long as I didn’t have any ‘foolhardy hopes’ about first editions. I said, no fear, that one caught my eye the moment I stepped in!”
Eva thinks about how that story has long been one of Lily’s favourites. An image appears in her mind’s eye, makes her chest swell with gratitude: of the book being artfully placed, peeking out from the rest of the copies on the shelf, specifically for Lily to find. She imagines Lily, dearest Lily, weary and jaded from her rounds on the wards, and how her face no doubt lit up at the sight of a simple, childhood joy.
“Yes,” Eva says as she switches off the lamp, and pulls Lily close. “That does sound like him.”
*
Of course, everything comes to an end.
“Mr. Fell, I thought I ought to...” Eva dithers, hesitating to put the call through. “I just thought you ought to know. What? No, no, sorry, nothing serious, it’s just— I’m being transferred, you see, to calls for Langham— We’re on rotation, all in the same building, but, well… this might be our last conversation.”
There’s a little pause. “Well, then, dear girl,” Aziraphale says warmly, “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Oh, don’t…” Eva suddenly finds it a little hard to speak. She clears her throat. “Don’t be silly.”
“No, I’m in earnest. Crowley had a wager that I would rather use a carrier pigeon than a telephone.”
Eva laughs. Again, she hesitates, tapping her fingers on her desk. It’s a hard thing, to say goodbye. “Putting you through. You and Mr. Crowley do take care.”
“We certainly shall. Thank you. Mind how you go, Eva.”
It’s only when Eva hangs up that she realises: I never told him my name.
*
The city is in an uproar, a sea of people cheering, hugging, dancing. It’s an equally thrilling yet conflicting experience, especially when she can feel how Lily is shaking slightly, shaking through her dazzling smile. Yes, war is over, but there is a melancholy cloud that lingers. Home, Eva thinks. Let’s get us home.
Dashing for the bus at Green Park, leaping on board, Lily’s hand in hers, and Eva hears a shout.
She has only ever known one person who says, “Angel!” quite like that.
Eva turns on one foot, sees a flash of red and cream in her periphery. And, there, she can just make them out; their silhouettes together, arm in arm, in Berkeley Square, as the bus pulls away. Although she has never seen their faces, she somehow knows that it is them, with the same certainty that the earth will keep turning.
She watches as one of the men—she squints, is he wearing sunglasses?—waves, and… clicks his fingers? Perhaps, if she looked properly, she would see that the bus has inexplicably stopped, that the rest of the world has frozen around them. But, Eva is thinking of Lily (dearest Lily) who is still moving beside her, half-laughing, half-crying. She thinks of how Crowley says ‘angel’, and how Lily says ‘love’, and how, even though their little lives have only crossed briefly, even though they might be different in some ways, she feels an unbreakable kinship with this strange pair.
So, she takes her chance, leans into Lily’s waiting arms, and kisses her. They do not need to worry about any prying eyes. Not now, when all that matters is the honeyed warmth of Lily’s mouth against hers. They hold onto one another, and it is a miracle, a promise, a jubilation. We’re here, darling. We’re here.
When they break apart, the bus lurches forward. And, as her gentlemen disappear from view, Eva waves back, and gives a wordless shout of joy; a greeting that means hello, goodbye, and thank you all at once.