As he buttoned his shirt, Ollie noticed a framed picture on the wall. He recognized Bertie, younger with dark hair and bowed legs, standing next to someone who appeared to be his wife. Beside them, a young couple holding a baby. Ollie suspected that the infant was Susan but couldn’t tell for sure.

Coming down the stairs, Ollie was greeted by the pungent scent of cooked cabbage. His stomach ached with hunger. “Sorry,” he said, stepping into the kitchen.

Susan turned to the stove and removed a lid from a pot. Steam rose to the ceiling.

Bertie, already sitting at the table, put down a newspaper. “Good evening, Oliver from Maine.” He gestured to take a seat.

“Guess I overslept,” Ollie said, sitting into a chair. “You’re welcome to just call me Ollie.”

“I prefer Oliver from Maine.”

“Grandfather,” Susan said.

“It sounds of royalty.” Bertie raised his hands like an orchestra conductor. “Oliver from Maine.”

“No royalty in Maine,” Ollie said. “Just farmers and fishermen.”

“And pilots?” Bertie asked.

“Crop-dusters.” Ollie rubbed his aching ribs. “At the moment, I don’t feel like much of a pilot.”

“No worries, lad.” Bertie laughed, then patted Ollie’s arm. “You’ll get a flying lesson in the morning.”

Ollie scratched his head, not quite understanding the man’s odd sense of humor.

Susan filled three bowls, placed them on the table, and then took a seat opposite Ollie. Bertie said grace, asking for the safety of Londoners and a quick end to the war, preferably with a British victory.

Ollie ate quickly. With his taste buds magnified by the lack of food, the boiled cabbage with chunks of potato and leek tasted more savory than any stew he had had in years. In fact, he couldn’t remember his last decent meal. He swallowed another scoop, then sipped some tea.

“Sorry we don’t have stronger tea,” Susan said.

“Rationing.” Bertie blew softly on his bowl.

“Thank you for sharing your food. And for taking me in.” He took another spoon of cabbage.

Bertie leaned back in his chair and produced a pipe from his pocket. He packed tobacco, struck a match, and sucked on the stem, drawing the flame down. Smoke poured from his nose. The smell of burnt tobacco filled the room. “Tell me your story, Oliver from Maine.”

“Do you mean why I’m here?” Ollie asked.

Bertie nodded.

“I guess I couldn’t stand by and not join the fight.” Ollie looked up from his bowl. He noticed Susan’s blue eyes, her blond hair pulled back into a bun and held with a pin, a few loose strands falling in front of her ears.

Bertie puffed on his pipe. “Why the Royal Air Force? If you wanted to join the war, why not Canada?”