LONDON, NOVEMBER 1943
Her silhouette flickered across the wall, footsteps echoing as she made her way further underground. The temperature had noticeably dropped as autumn surrendered to winter and branches had withered to broomsticks, but down here the chill was absolute, the kind of icy cold that Eleanor knew reached into your bones and held on tight. And with the freezing cold came an increased gloom, as if she was diving headlong into a dark pool, the staircase behind her disappearing in shadows. She held the paraffin lamp higher, the movement shifting the gasmask further onto her shoulder. It seemed ironic that she was carrying apparatus designed to protect them when she was already struggling to breathe, the air thick with ancient dust and a penetrating dampness that leached through the floor. The winter had brought a physical discomfort that was pervasive in a way she hadn’t noticed before and, as she reached the bottom step, she wondered, and not for the first time, if she had done the right thing in coming back.
She hadn’t managed to trace Anne Valante or Jack’s sister Beth either. In fact all she had managed to find out was that Jack might have been with the Eighth Army. As news had arrived of their capturing of Isernia and the Germans’ withdrawal, there had been reason for optimism and she’d thought he might come back. But that was weeks ago now. The committee had expected a batch of drawings from him too, but nothing had come, and so she continued to send letters that remained unanswered.
Aubrey had proved elusive and hadn’t replied to her letters or returned her phone calls until just last week, when an invitation arrived for an exhibition opening this afternoon—Anthony Gross: War Artists in India—so she was hoping to talk with him then.
Her initial excitement at being back at the Ministry was also short-lived. In the eleven months that she had been away, tension had escalated in the city. There were more troops in the capital, more barricades in the streets, and increased air raid wardens on patrol—it was a level of activity that she hadn’t seen since the Blitz. She noticed that her colleagues were in a heightened state too as they struggled to keep up with demands from the growing number of British Restaurants amid the ever-shrinking resources. It now also fell to the Ministry office staff to carry out safety checks of the Ministry’s basement air-raid shelter.
So instead of being at a meeting in Harrow with the British Institute of Adult Education, Eleanor was studying the framed notice that catalogued the safety procedures under the dim fizz of light. Because she hadn’t carried out the checks before, she diligently worked through the checklist: first ensuring that the firefighting equipment was intact, then that the sandbags were in place; next that the emergency lighting was ready, and that the water buckets were filled. And then she bent to check one of the buckets, only to come face to face with a bloated rat floating on the surface.
She jumped backwards, nearly knocking the bucket over. Her chest was moving rapidly, the sharpness of her breath the only sound in the constricted space, and she pulled herself up onto the bench to catch her breath.
It was reassuring to know they had somewhere to shelter when the warning siren came, but she was sure that if they had any more than a few hours down here, they would all suffocate; a junction of grilles and pipes connected them to the outside world but it wasn’t obvious how far it went, or how much air it circulated for those inside.
It was then that she heard a scratching sound and realised that she wasn’t alone—and that it wasn’t clawing on wood or stone but the tearing of paper. Then she noticed the hole in the side of a cardboard box and prodded it with her foot.
There was a scuffling and small dark shapes emerged, quickly disappearing into the corner of the wall.
She pulled her legs up beneath her, clutching her knees to her chest; she could cope with one or two—she had to at home, since Cecily never could—but more than that and she would be running up the stairs.
She waited until there was quiet and then nudged the box with her foot. One of its sides collapsed. The boxes held emergency rations, but clearly the rats had whittled them away until only unopened tins were left. She shunted the box from the wall, noticing a trail of chewed cardboard, like porridge, on the floor, before she heard footsteps above.
‘Eleanor? Are you down here?’ Maura’s voice echoed, then she appeared in the shadow of the lamp she carried.
‘Maura, what are you doing here?’
‘I thought you might want to know that Clive is looking for you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been all over this blooming fortress—I thought you were on the rooftop.’ She tiptoed across the damp soil in a maroon suit and high heels.
Eleanor hadn’t been on the rooftop since Jack had gone; she couldn’t bring herself to, despite wanting to sit in the same spot overlooking London.
‘I don’t suppose you know where the traps are?’ Eleanor asked with a sigh.
‘I’m afraid not. Why?’
‘Because it looks like the rats have helped themselves to the emergency rations,’ she said, pointing at the boxes slumped like concertinas.
‘Bit of poison usually does the trick.’
‘Really…there are nearly a hundred people expected to squeeze in down here?’
‘Aye, I hadn’t thought of that. Let’s hope we don’t have to use it, eh?’ Maura said, worried. ‘Sweet Jesus, Eleanor, it’s how those poor souls must feel.’
‘Who?’ Eleanor asked with a frown.
‘The Jews. When they’re herded into…I can’t even say it.’ Maura was shaking her head as if trying to rid herself of the image.
Eleanor didn’t want to think about it either, yet it had sat there at the front of her mind ever since she’d heard about it; and it was one of the reasons that she wanted to stay and help. Enough of the contents of Der Stürmer and German propaganda was reaching London for them to know that the anti-Semitism knew no bounds and that the Nazis had no limits. She couldn’t comprehend the latest reports, no one could, but a number of refugee artists had confirmed that they were true.
‘Anyway,’ Maura said, noticing how pale Eleanor suddenly looked, ‘I came to see if you want to come to the parade. They’re setting up outside.’
The King had announced awards in recognition of the gallantry displayed in flying operations against the enemy, and this had given them all cause to celebrate. But even though she knew one of the wing commanders who had received a Distinguished Service Order, Eleanor was reluctant to join in.
‘Oh no, I don’t think I shall,’ she said.
‘I can wait until you’ve finished here. Or give you a hand…’
‘No, you go ahead. I’m supposed to be in Harrow, anyway—I should go up to meet Clive soon. And I really don’t think I could face it.’
‘What are you going to do about the boxes?’ Maura said, looking at the chewed cardboard.
‘I’ll move the food onto the shelves; then I can get rid of the rubbish before they eat that too.’
‘Or make nests from them.’ Maura pulled a face. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a hand.’
‘Really? Have you got time?’
‘Of course. It’s only you who’ll notice—the others are all out at the parade!’
They stacked the tins as they talked, the powdered milk and fruit placed on the shelves, unopened boxes lifted onto benches if they were undamaged, the damaged ones emptied.
‘I told Clive that I wouldn’t be long,’ said Eleanor regretfully.
‘I could have done the safety checks. You should have asked.’
‘But, you know, I wanted to come down here. I know it sounds strange but there’s something about being underground that helps me imagine how the soldiers must feel—the dirt, the confined spaces…’ Eleanor stopped work and looked at Maura. ‘It makes me think about my brothers…and Jack. Does that sound daft?’
‘A bit. Why put yourself through that?’
‘I don’t know. It makes me feel closer to them, I suppose.’
Maura was giving her a strange look, so she smiled.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘we’re nearly done.’
‘Good,’ Maura said, stacking the last of the tins on the shelf. She sat down on the bench and offered Eleanor a cigarette.
‘Why not?’ Eleanor said, even though she rarely smoked.
The match spat before settling and lighting the cigarettes, and they watched as the smoke coiled upwards, the tobacco camouflaging the damp.
It tasted bitter but Eleanor formed an oval with her mouth, kissing the air and watching as the rings of smoke emerged in front of her and then slowly dispersed.
‘So how are you coping?’ Maura asked.
Eleanor glanced sideways at her through the haze. ‘Honestly? I am eight weeks from becoming a farmer’s wife. My father hasn’t even allowed me the agreed six months—and he’s already told the man that I’m a widow. Imagine it.’ She fought back tears.
Maura had matured since Eleanor had been away; she could see it in her eyes and in the way she interacted with the others in the office. There was no hesitation, no room for uncertainty, and Eleanor was pleased to have her company and that she could trust her.
‘Well,’ Maura said, blowing smoke from the side of her mouth, ‘I have my own big moral dilemma to face.’
‘Oh dear, what is it?’ Eleanor said, worried about what work or guilt her parents had heaped on her now.
Maura’s expression was grave. ‘I have to decide whether to go out with the officer from Chicago—who can get me Cosmopolitan—or Doug from Kentucky, who said he is days away from getting his hands on the October Vogue.’
‘Maura!’ Eleanor said, elbowing her friend.
‘What? It’s a very serious business.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s the first cover by Irving Penn—and it’s all about accessories. Think about it, Eleanor, all those handbags and shoes…’
Nothing could be further from her mind; the only clothes she thought about were the baby clothes she sent home for Abigail from her lunchtime shopping trips.
Maura certainly had a flair, she thought, glancing at the Irishwoman’s maroon tweed suit, and at the skilful pleats of the skirt and the luminous buttons she had cleverly sewn on to make her visible in the blackout. The luminous accessories had been a revelation to Eleanor: she had commissioned Maura to make luminous handbags for all the women in her family and given them as presents.
‘What would you be doing now if you had a choice?’ Eleanor asked her. The thought that Maura would have a bright future after the war cheered her.
For a few seconds Maura’s eyes searched the gloomy space, and then they sparkled. ‘Well, I’d like to stick one to Hitler for a start, drop a big one on him, and then I’ll open my own fashion house, design and make my own clothes. Hey, I can get my fabric from your factory!’
‘And what about family, children?’
‘Oh yes, two…no, three. And a house with its own bathroom, and an indoor lavatory. And a big bathtub with taps.’
‘And what of this husband of yours?’
‘He would be a soldier, I suppose, so he would be off fighting somewhere. Doing his bit for King and country.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, Eleanor, I’m not like you.’ She turned to face her. ‘I don’t want to save the world.’
Eleanor felt wounded.
‘It’s not that I’m criticising you,’ Maura said apologetically. ‘It’s great that you want to show people these things, and you’re a brilliant artist. I’m just not as clever as you.’
Eleanor didn’t feel very clever. She wasn’t even sure that she should be here anymore, that she wouldn’t be better off back in a house in the countryside too, looking after Abigail.
‘I think your idea sounds perfect,’ she said, standing up and stubbing out the ghastly cigarette in the sand bucket. ‘But I also know that there are three hours before an exhibition opening I have to attend, and a restaurant in Harrow to visit in the meantime.’
‘We’re all done down here?’
‘Yes, and I think Clive has probably waited long enough.’
They were on the A40 on their way back from Harrow, approaching Shepherd’s Bush, when Eleanor leaned forward so that Clive could hear her. ‘How would you feel about a little detour today?’
She hadn’t had the chance to visit the orphanage in Richmond since her return, and she was looking forward to seeing the children again. The prospect of seeing their small freckled faces and hearing their squeaky childish voices, even though they were significantly older than Abigail, filled her with a new sense of purpose.
‘I would, miss, but I’m afraid they’re not there anymore.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The orphanage has gone, shut down. Some months back now.’ He sounded solemn.
‘But do you know why?’
‘No, I’m sorry, miss. I went to drop off the paints you asked me to a few months back, and it was boarded up, no sign of anyone.’
Of course, she couldn’t tell him that while she missed the children it was her own child she yearned for.
Clive dropped her off in front of the National Gallery in time for the Anthony Gross exhibition opening. The queue stretched all the way from the bottom of the portico steps up to the gallery doors, and Eleanor joined the back of it, half-expecting to smell the sweet aroma of the raisin and honey sandwiches she and Maura had eaten during the lunchtime concerts.
After only a few minutes of shuffling, accompanied by brief snatches of conversation, the queue funnelled inside and she was making her way up to the first floor.
The exhibition, Convoy, was in one of the larger rooms. She looked around for Aubrey but there was no sign of him, only the usual journalists and photographers jostling for a picture of Anthony Gross. He was one of the only war artists to have a one-man show, and his paintings for Convoy had been produced the previous year aboard the troopship Highland Monarch as it travelled from the North Atlantic across to the Middle East. Working her way round, Eleanor couldn’t help but compare Gross’s trip and his pictures with those that Jack would have made on his journey and with this came a renewed disappointment that it wasn’t his work she was looking at.
A smaller exhibition in an adjoining space caught her eye: a selection of paintings from the second series of War Pictures by British Artists booklets: Women, Production, Soldiers and Air Raids, published while she had been away. A string quartet was rehearsing Mozart in the same room and she was standing listening, waiting for the crowds to settle, when she spotted Aubrey talking with a journalist.
Keeping him in her line of sight, she made her way through the exhibition and nearer to the musicians. Representations from the first three booklets hung on the closest walls, but when she turned to face the wall that sat perpendicular, she froze.
It was a selection from Air Raids, and among it were four pictures she recognised: Fire Drill at a School, Auxiliary Fireman, Streetscape After a Raid, and a fourth, Children in the Attic—all listed as works by the war artist Jack Valante.
She stared at that fourth picture for a long time while people moved around her, as the quartet played and hushed conversations whispered around the gallery.
Jack must have decided to submit the painting, but why, and at what cost?
Then she heard her name and turned to see Aubrey. His thumbs were tucked into the corners of his jacket pockets. He held a pipe between his lips, so it was hard to read his expression.
‘You see, Eleanor,’ he said, ‘you are a war artist now.’