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‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘I know.’
‘You shouldn’t be here. At all.’ England had his lips pressed together so tightly that they were white, jaw clenched with muscles visible under his skin. He strode through the corridors of Number 10 Downing Street without looking at Canada who was lengthening his stride in an effort to accompany him, ‘I did not want you here.’
‘I wanted to come.’
‘And I forbade it.’ England stopped and turned to him suddenly, eyes furious, ‘I did and do not want you here. It is too dangerous to be in London.’
‘You’re here,’ Canada pointed out quietly.
‘Where else would I be?’ England hissed. He paused, eyes flicking to focus on each of Canada’s own before he gave a small, slow shake of the head, saying quietly, ‘You’re more use elsewhere.’
He started walking again, something heavy and unsaid in the air between them but Canada let it go to continue to press his point home, ‘I’m going to join the air force with some of my men.’
‘Jesus Christ, Matthew.’
‘I’ll be leaving London in a few days for Hampshire (1) to help set things up but I’ll be stationed in barracks here.’
‘And what does your government say?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Of course it bloody well matters. Do they even know you’re here?’
They didn’t. Canada hadn’t wanted to tell anyone before he left, lest word get back to England who would most certainly put an end to the entire thing.
A human entered the hallway in front of them, someone too young to sign up, too young to work, and too desperate to be allowed to do either. They skirted around the doors in a wide berth, carrying in their arm a bag of what looked like supplies: heavy shapes in too skinny arms recently arrived directly from Canada. They nodded at England as they passed him, sensing that he was someone important and England stopped to watch them go, eyes on the precious food they carried carefully.
The United Kingdom was beginning to starve, (2) the bones of peaks and hills scraped bare for vegetable gardens sharpening England’s features and thinning his wrists- empire excess receding to show the original land being drained underneath. Canada imagined that Scotland and Wales looked similar, sparse resources to feed the millions whilst the Germans blocked the trade ships.
England swallowed, a nervous bobbing of his Adam’s apple that wasn’t present in the steady, firm tone of his voice when he spoke, eyes still watching the human’s progress, ‘Where are you staying.’
‘At the Mayfair.’
‘Don’t be a fool, you’ll be staying with me.’
Without local knowledge or a local for a guide, London was impossible to navigate. All street and station signs had been removed in case of invasion and to ask for directions would invoke nothing but suspicion. (3) This usually wouldn’t have been a problem; Canada had been here more times than he could count. Despite his familiarity with the place, however, without England he would have struggled to make it across town as quickly, or even at all.
There was very little left that was familiar. Ancient pubs destroyed. Parks turned into food gardens. Whole streets obliterated. A chaotic mess of rubble and dust, buried car parts and lost family homes smeared and blurred into each other.
Canada hadn’t had time to look around too much the day he had landed, too full of nerves at what he was doing and who he was disobeying to really take in his surroundings, or even want to explore them. London hurt to look at, the childish sheen of Canada’s memories too powerful, too wrought of something glittering and untouchable to be proven as incorrect and even now it was a struggle, amongst all of the evidence to the contrary, that he was there- in the city that was the heart of it all. The soul of an empire, brought to this.
The city was still busy, which was somewhat of a surprise considering the ongoing damage. They passed milkmen delivering their rounds to houses that were no longer there (4), children kicking chunks of brick up and down the road and people in smart clothes making their way to work across town, lifting their feet over debris and hopping over torn beams.
England led them both through the crumbling madness with ease, a constant internal navigation system that made his heart, no matter how unrecognisable it happened to be, always something he could read like the back of his hand. Roads upturned and lost in a day casually discarded immediately for a new route.
His regency era town house was still standing. There was a layer of soot on the smooth white facade that hadn’t been there since the invention of electricity had rendered his air cleaner, and there were a couple of tiles were missing from the roof but it seemed otherwise unharmed. The neighbours immediately around it too seemed fine, Canada was pleased to note, but there were less fortunate survivors further down- weary, fragile teeth surrounded by great gaping holes in the grin of the street.
‘I don’t have much to feed you with,’ England said, ushering him inside, ‘Especially not compared to what you’re used to from me.’
‘That’s alright,’ Canada hung up his coat on the old, worn coat rail by the door, ‘I’m not that hungry. It’s been a long few days of travelling.’
‘Hmm,’ England disappeared into the parlour, sounding displeased, ‘You’ll be eating anyway but I can promise that you won’t enjoy it. It’s all watered down and minimised until it hardly tastes like anything at all.’
There was a bitter, sharp tone in his voice that Canada didn’t quite know how to address so he left it alone, choosing instead to follow him deeper into the house.
‘There’s a shelter outside,’ England’s voice came from the kitchen now. Next came the spurt of water from a tap and the clink of ceramic, ‘I’ll show you in a moment as you’ll most likely be needing it tonight and it’s a bastard to find without light. And put your coat in your room tonight, there might not be much time to grab anything when the bombing starts.’
England never was one to avoid a topic.
‘Thank you,’ Canada stepped through to join him, glancing about the kitchen, ‘Nothing much seems to have changed in here.’
England snorted and handed him a mug of water, ‘You’re a terrible liar, Matthew.’
Canada took it and paused. The kitchen mostly looked unchanged- wooden cupboards and an ancient, sturdy table in the centre that was cluttered with the same mess of books and plants as it always was. But there was crockery missing from the fancy display cabinet in the corner, fine bone china cups not where they should be on its shelves and delicate plates absent. The dining room door was closed but the parlour seemed almost bare- paintings gone from the walls and a large, carved wooden statue of a woman missing. Family photographs remained only as time bleached squares in the patterned wallpaper, photo albums as gaps in the bookcase.
One lone frame still stood on the mantlepiece- something England has taken of them all in his large garden up north a few years back. A summer party he’d hosted after they’d all recovered from WWI, music and food and cheerful company that was forced to an unnatural height to try and make up for lost time- a false impression of ‘before’.
Canada forced a smile, ‘You’ve said for a while that you should declutter.’
The corners of England’s mouth twitched briefly upwards, ‘Only the most important bits are gone. They’re safer in the manor; I have no faith in this place standing unscathed throughout the whole thing.’
Canada drummed his fingers on his mug. There was a crack running down one side, a fine line he could only see if he really searched. He put it down, ‘The windows…’
England looked towards the great windows in the kitchen. They were taped, glass crisscrossed into small sections and thick, heavy black curtains hung where there used to be lace netting. The golden hour light flooding the garden still got through, making warped, yellow chessboards of England’s back wall, ‘The blackout,’(5) he said, almost offhandedly ‘and to minimise shattering, of course. I only had them refitted thirty years ago so I hope they bloody well make it.’
Suddenly, he sighed, leaning forwards onto his hands where they were now gripping the sink, ‘Why have you come, Matthew.’
Canada hesitated, ‘As I said, I-‘
‘No,’ England’s voice was firm and he stood, straightening and pulling his shoulders back, ‘Why have you come here. To me.’
Canada had known of the bombings, of course. Had felt them in the connection he shared with England, goods and men and ammunition gnawing at him with a growing greed and desperation that, even had England not mentioned anything officially or personally, Canada would have known something was concerningly amiss.
‘I needed to see,’ he said quietly.
England held his gaze for a moment, as if waiting or searching for more. Eventually, he nodded, ‘You’ll see.’
It began in the early hours of the morning.
‘Matthew. Matthew, get up.’
England was shaking his shoulder, fingers firm and insistent. He was almost impossible to see in the darkness, the merest outline of a shape and a gleam of eyes in relief from the room behind him. He squeezed Canada’s shoulder, thumb smoothing over the material of his pyjamas, ‘It’s going to start soon. Come on.’
Canada sat up and rubbed at his face, glancing at the thickly curtained window in confusion. It was quiet outside.
‘They’re not here yet,’ England said softly. He stepped back from the bed, ‘But I felt them arrive. They’ll be here soon; hurry up, lad. We’ve only got a few minutes and fuck knows where they’re going to land.’
Canada swore under his breath and threw back the covers, scrabbling under the bed for his shoes that he’d stored there ready for this. England unhooked his coat from the door and threw it at him, ‘Put that on and a jumper if you have one, it’s cold tonight.’
England was already dressed, Canada noted, coat buttoned up high to his neck. Had he gone to sleep at all that evening? Had he been waiting for the German planes, or did he just not have another choice? Canada doubted that he would sleep now, although potentially he could lay down in a moment if he needed.
It had been a sombre visit to the Anderson shelter (6) earlier where it was nestled down at the bottom of the garden but not terrible- a single cot, a bucket, a small table. A radio, antenna slightly bent, on a wooden bench and a pile of warm blankets.
Medical supplies. Painkillers. Things Canada wondered if he were ready to acknowledge.
England had eaten a smaller portion than him at dinner, which was already small enough as it was. Was that because he had been trying to compensate for the already tiny amount of food compared to what he usually served his guests- lavish parties of endless silver platters, rich and hearty and filling meals and exotic fruits. Or, was that more because he was not feeling well enough to eat?
Canada didn’t know which answer made him feel worse, neither were things that he associated with England. Canada had rarely seen him show weakness, physical or otherwise, and to catch this brief display of something made him want to leave and pretend that none of this were happening at all.
‘Come on,’ England said with urgency, glancing at the window.
Heavy overcoat thrown on Canada hurried after England through the house and outside into the cool autumn air. He led them past old planters of roses now boasting vegetables as overhead came the distant, low, menacing hum of a plane. Several.
More.
Down the steps of the bunker, England pulled the door open with a creak and gestured for Canada to go in, ‘There are matches on the table. Remember, light the lamp in there and stay inside until I come back for you.’
‘Until you- wait, where are you going?’
England looked irritated, ‘Go on, get in.’
‘No wait, Dad,’ Canada tried to reach for him but England stepped back, waving at the shelter.
‘Hurry up Matthew, for Christ’ sake.’
‘No!’ Canada was horrified, ‘What about you, where are you going?’
The humming overhead grew louder. Suddenly, a loud wailing of air raid sirens split the air, running straight down Canada’s spine and all across the entire City of London and beyond- a modern network of warning beacons. England looked up at the skies and Canada followed suit. It was a cloudless night, moon bright and clear and even without their lights the planes were possible to spot as small dark shapes coming steadily closer. Canada felt a cold spike of helpless panic in his chest at the sight of them, watching the unstoppable march of two realities converging before his very eyes.
Homes came alive either side of England’s, doors flinging open for people to pour out in a flurry of noise and activity that blended with the sirens and the planes overhead, children tripping as parents tugged them along wailing.
‘Dad!’
‘You get in there right this instant-‘
‘I’m going with you.’ Canada tried to make his voice sound as unmovable as England’s own above the sirens as he cut across him, ‘Where ever it is. If you’re not going in there, then nor am I.’
England swore, shaking his head. He either knew that Canada was serious, or he didn’t have the time to argue with him, ‘Come on then,’ he said. He ran back towards the house with Canada hot on his heels, throwing open the door and bolting it shut.
‘Where are we going?’
England did not look pleased at his use of ‘we’, ‘Out.’
‘Wh-‘
England was moving again, through the house to the front door which he stepped straight out of, running his hands almost reverently along the walls as he went as if touching them for the last time.
‘Matthew...’ England paused on the stone steps after Canada had stumbled to join him, looking up to search his face with an expression that Canada had never seen him wear before. A mixture of frustration and worry, or maybe fury. Maybe something more that England hadn’t let himself feel openly for centuries.
Whatever he was going to say didn’t come. England clicked his jaw shut, hand firmly gripping on the door handle as he took a deep breath and nodded, ‘Right.’ He locked the door and slipped his keys into his pocket, ‘Let’s go.’
There were civilians in the streets, hurrying to shelters and pouring out of homes. Members of the Home Guard, ARP Wardens and Auxiliary service (7) were dotted amongst them, herding people through or rushing off to where they were needed. Everyone ignored England and Canada and they walked further into the centre, either too caught up in what they were doing to notice, or perhaps subconsciously ignoring them because England wanted them to. Regardless, no one questioned why they were not rushing for shelter and they walked quickly through the winding old streets unbothered.
They didn’t get too far before the first bomb hit. England staggered, a muffled explosion coming from across town at the same time but he shook Canada off with a swift jerk of the shoulder when he grabbed at his arm to steady him. Then everything came at once, a lightning storm of noise and fire and rubble and chaos- the battle of war brought home and enveloping them like a gas cloud.
A house a few streets away from them burst, the thunderous explosions muting Canada’s hearing and ringing out the cries of the people as dust and debris filled the air. He must have cried out, or stood still for too long in shock because suddenly England was there right in front of him, pulling on his arm to rush him away and onwards as all around them fires blazed and the night grew hot with them.
With no idea of where they were going or why, Canada followed England blindly, staying close behind him with his head down as the world around him narrowed to just a few feet ahead at a time. They didn’t stop, not even when the assault began in earnest, but they did eventually slow once they got more towards the centre, England beginning to veer off in random directions with seemingly no destination in mind only to then stop before something burning or falling apart. He'd stand there a few minutes, watching, before moving them on again.
Unlike Canada, who increasingly felt as though he was in some sort of nightmare, England seemed entirely unphased by his surroundings. He looked about the destruction with a hard, set face that Canada couldn’t read, hard eyes darting about the rubble. Aside from an occasional wince that he couldn’t quite catch in time and a stiffer stride than normal, there was nothing about him to indicate a problem at all.
However, no matter how hard he tried, eventually the effects of the night started to show.
‘Dad,’ England had stopped again, leaning heavily against a wall across the road from what had once been an impressive church. He had a hand up to his chest and Canada could see the smallest flicker of pain in the firm set of his jaw, ‘Dad, let’s go back.’
England was silent, his gaze fixed on the church. The beams and rafters were exposed, a skeletal shell of the past emerging from smoke, ‘That was built in the 12th century,’ he said after a moment. His voice was odd, emotionless and nonchalant but there was a break just as he started speaking, a catch in his throat that spoke of more than he could say with words.
‘It has stood through the Fire of London, put up with numerous repairs, and has been entirely rebuilt at least once. Civil war, plagues, religious reformations…’ England shook his head and swallowed, ‘And now this.’
Humans darted in and out of the flames and from the buildings around them. Despite the noise, despite the booming of bombs and the roar of fire Canada could make out England clearly. He weighed up his options and took England’s other hand. It was frozen.
He didn’t pull away.
‘What are we doing here,’ Canada asked him, ‘There’s nothing we can do for it-‘
‘This is what I need to see,’ England hissed, turning to him so suddenly that Canada took an involuntary step back. England gripped his hand, skin clammy, ‘If that damned child is going to burn away my history, then I am going to bloody well watch him try to do it.’
He turned back to the church, a raw look on his face that was both furious and desperate, ‘I need to see it go. As much of it as I can for the last time so I know exactly what that boy has cost me. Since Francis, no one has-‘
He broke off, jaw tight once more.
Canada squeezed his hand back and stood with him to watch the old world vanish.