It was a little after nine on Saturday evening when Vivian slumped over the desk and rested her brow on the typewriter. ‘Done,’ she said aloud, though there was no one in the room to hear her. ‘Bloody well done.’
The book was finished and the top copy would be on its way to her literary agent, Charlie Ames, first thing on Monday. He had already persuaded The Times to publish an extract, though just how much attention an article on British injustice would attract when London was lying in ruins and half the population were living underground was debatable. Ted Carr, The Times assistant editor, had liked what he’d seen of the book but, as Charlie Ames pointed out, Ted Carr was a supporter of Joe Stalin and highly critical of Churchill’s ‘Collar the Lot’ policy which he saw as a ruse to cleanse the country of Communist sympathisers.
Vivian didn’t care. She’d done her best, more than her best. The book, Charlie assured her, had flair and passion, by which he meant piss and vinegar, an assessment with which Vivian was all too willing to agree. Now came the tedious slog of ensuring that her all footnotes were accurate and compiling an index. Even so, An Enemy in Our Midst? – she’d added the question mark at Basil’s suggestion – would be published in the spring and some useful dollops of cash would flow into her bank account.
She wondered what sort of reception the book would have, where and by whom it would be reviewed and how many public appearances Charlie might be able to arrange on the back of it. Then she sat up. What the devil was she dreaming of? Charlie and Ted Carr and the publishing chaps might continue to ply their trades as if the future were as staid as the past but the Germans had other ideas. Long before An Enemy appeared in Foyle’s window there might be no Foyle’s, no publishers and no future at all for books like hers.
‘Oh, bollocks!’ she said and, leaping up, bundled the typescript into a box file and thrust the file into the small fire-proof safe that Basil had bought for the purpose. She closed the safe door, locked the handle, then, swaying slightly, stood in the middle of the room and listened to the wind whistling down the mews and the faint sound of gunfire and aeroplane engines that came riding along with it.
The raid had started at a little after eight.
Viv had ignored the warning and, absorbed in her work, had carried on typing. She had no fire watch duties tonight and, no matter how Basil fussed, would eat an unhurried supper, drop into bed for a good night’s sleep, and be damned to the bloody Jerries and their policy of obliteration.
She lit a cigarette and wandered through the hall into the living room in search of her husband.
The blackout curtains were closed. Basil had left one light burning, the standard lamp with the big parchment shade.
The men were outlined against the light, Basil in shirtsleeves and waistcoat and his brother, Derek, in naval uniform. They had their backs to her and were looking down at Susan who was stretched out on the davenport fast asleep and showing rather a lot of leg.
Vivian cleared her throat. The men swung round.
‘Enjoying the view?’ Viv said.
Commander Willets was not in the least embarrassed.
‘Every sailor’s dream,’ he said, then, coming forward, kissed Vivian on the cheek. ‘The poor girl must be exhausted.’
‘I’m sure she is,’ Vivian said. ‘Are you staying for supper?’
‘Supper, yes, please. But I must be on my merry way as soon as the all-clear sounds. I rather expected to find you cowering in the cellar. It’s pretty fierce out there tonight.’
‘We’re learning to ignore it,’ Basil said. ‘At least Vivian is. Didn’t you hear the doorbell, dearest?’
‘No,’ Vivian said. ‘I was otherwise occupied,’ then to Derek, ‘I gather you’re just passing through.’
‘I was my way to the station from a meeting at the Admiralty when the siren sounded. I hope you don’t mind but I decided to seek shelter here instead of hanging about a railway station. If the worst comes to the worst there’s an early train at five thirty. I’ll make a run for that, come what may.’
‘Well,’ said Basil, ‘however brief your visit, it is good to see you, old chap. Vivian, will you wake Susan, please.’
‘Why not let Derek do it?’ Vivian said, then added, smiling, ‘But not with a kiss, old chap. Please, not with a kiss.’
In spite of, or perhaps because of the air raid it turned out to be one hell of a party, one whale of a party, the best damned party, Jake Tucker, linchpin of the United Press, declared since Chuck Rainer’s farewell lunch at Horcher’s in Berlin; a lunch that had lasted all afternoon and far into the night and had wound up with Chuck being arrested and having to bribe some snot-nosed gauleiter to call the American embassy to send someone round to bail him out before he wound up in Dachau.
There was no excuse for the party that took place in Pete Slocum’s apartment that night. It just grew, like little Topsy, from a rowdy crowd of journalists and broadcasters who happened to be dining in the Lansdowne’s restaurant so far below street level that you could barely hear the explosions let alone the whistle of any bombs that might be heading your way.
Bob shared a big table with Pete, Chuck and Tucker, some guy from the Daily Mail and three women, two of them young, that Pete had winkled out of the Union Post’s London office.
They began with lobster cocktails and aquavit, moved on through beefsteaks and breaded partridge, washed down with a nice selection of wines, and finished up with ice cream and macaroons. When, at length, Pete got up to leave, the others followed, not just the gang at Pete’s table but half the guys of both sexes in the dining room, for it was Saturday night in London town and, raid or no raid, no one was going to bed before dawn.
George, the valet, kept his nerve long enough to pour one round of martinis, cut up lemons and fill a number of bowls with salted peanuts and stuffed olives. He even laid out coffee makings in the kitchen and a tray of fresh eggs for anyone who might be crazy enough to want breakfast. But when, shortly after midnight, one whistling scream was followed by a loud explosion and even the chaps who were shooting craps on the shag pile got up and galloped into the corridor, George threw in the towel, left the foolhardy idiots to get on with it and fled downstairs to the basement.
In theory you had ninety seconds’ grace between the bomb leaving the bomb bay and the bomb striking its target. Ninety seconds was surely enough for any reasonable person to down a last martini, kiss a pretty girl or, if religion was your thing, mutter a prayer before you piled out into the corridor to put an extra wall between you and the blast in the hope that the Lansdowne wouldn’t suffer a direct hit that would put you out of the game for good.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you remember me?’
‘Sure, I remember you,’ Bob said. ‘Who could ever forget?’ Leaning on the corridor wall, the girl looked up at him with big, round eyes. There was nothing innocent about her, Bob guessed, except that look, child-like and knowing at one and the same time.
‘Tina, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Hmm.’
And then she fell silent like everyone else in the corridor as the whistle of another falling bomb grew louder and louder.
The explosion was close and violent.
For a moment it seemed the building might crash down and bury them all. Later Bob would swear that not only did the ground move beneath his feet but that the biggest steel and concrete apartment house in the city swayed like a tree in the wind.
‘Ooo,’ the girl said, pursing her lips. ‘Too close for comfort, wouldn’t you say?’ and, before Bob could stop her, insinuated herself into his arms.
They ate supper in the kitchen tucked away at the back of the mews house, sheltered from what was going on outside. Vivian did most of the talking. She was glad to have an audience, Susan guessed, for she was pleased with herself for ‘polishing off’ her book in double-quick time and chattered on and on about the relevance her exposé might have when it came to rebuilding Britain in a post-war world.
On that September night the post-war world seemed as far away as the planet Neptune but the brothers Willets were sufficiently considerate not to draw attention to the distinct possibility that Britain would be invaded, or to the raid that rattled the slates or the fact that in an hour or two Derek would be returning to convoy duty on the dark Atlantic.
When he had wakened her out of a deep, deep sleep at first Susan had mistaken him for Danny. Rubbing her eyes and yawning, she’d been quite unaware that her dress had ridden up and that she was showing not only her slip and stocking tops but bare thighs as well. Saying nothing, Commander Willets had leaned out of the light and, with finger and thumb, had tugged down the hem of her dress to protect her modesty.
For eighteen years she’d been governed by her father in the paradoxical security of a life lived an inch above the poverty line. She had been pushed out of the nest only to fulfil her father’s promise to a mother she couldn’t remember, pushed out into the world to prove that even a cockney crane driver could make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
Her marriage to Danny Cahill had turned out to be less a romantic idyll than a vain attempt on her part to retreat into a world she’d left behind. And when the war had finally arrived and all the old verities had gone by the board how easy it had been to fall into the trap of equating uncertainty with irresponsibility, which had been all very fine and dandy until Ronnie had been killed.
‘Look at the girl,’ Basil said. ‘She’s still half asleep.’
‘No.’ Susan gave herself a shake. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, if she can sleep with a tummy full of your curry,’ Vivian said, ‘she’s a better man than I am, Gunga Din.’
The curry Basil had put together was hot and tasty. The men and Vivian drank bottled beer and Susan drank tea. They all smoked cigarettes from a tin that Commander Willets had brought with him and talked not of the possibility of defeat but of a time beyond that, a brighter day when the victory Churchill promised had been secured and everything got back to normal, whatever ‘normal’ might mean by then.
‘Will you stay with the BBC?’ Derek Willets asked.
‘If I can,’ Susan answered. ‘I doubt if the Corporation will continue to employ married women. It’s stated in my contract, I think, that we married ladies will be out on our ear ten minutes after an armistice is signed.’
`That policy may change,’ Basil said. ‘Indeed, I’ll be very surprised if it doesn’t.’
Viv said, ‘You’ve more faith in the establishment than I have, dear. With all the chaps coming back looking for jobs, you can bet that working wives will get short shrift.’
‘Your husband’s with the BBC too, is he not?’ Derek asked.
‘Yes,’ Susan answered. ‘He’s placed with a unit in Evesham right now but I’m rather hoping he may be brought back to London quite soon.’
‘Are you?’ Vivian said. ‘I thought …’
Basil cleared his throat and, under the pretext of stubbing out his cigarette, avoided meeting Susan’s eye. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘Danny won’t be coming back to London after all.’
‘Why? Did Rupert Talbot turn him down?’
‘Quite the contrary,’ Basil said. ‘Danny turned Rupert Talbot down. Didn’t he tell you? He’s decided to stay in Evesham.’
‘No,’ Susan said. ‘He didn’t tell me.’
‘You must be disappointed,’ Derek Willets said.
‘Oh, yes, I am,’ said Susan. ‘Very.’
One minute the priests were handing out wafers, wine and blessings in front of the altar and the next, or so it seemed to Breda, they were dishing out mail that had been left in a bag in the priests’ house over on Pound Street and that no one had found until this morning.
It struck Breda as weird to be receiving letters early on a Sunday morning with the wind swishing through holes in the church roof and the altar boys in none-too-clean shifts running up and down shouting, ‘Beidermeyer? Mrs Beidermeyer? You ’ere, Mrs Beidermeyer?’ or ‘McIntosh. McIntosh. Got a postcard for McIntosh,’ as if the sacred precincts of St Veronica’s had turned into a sorting office.
‘That’ll be from her daughter, Faye,’ Nora said.
‘What will?’ said Breda.
‘The postcard. Her daughter, Faye, in Nottingham.’
‘What’s Faye doin’ in Nottingham?’
‘Factory work. Very hush-hush.’
‘Can’t be that hush-hush, Ma, if you know about it.’
‘I don’t know what Mrs Beidermeyer’s doing here, though,’ Nora said, frowning. ‘She should be at the synagogue.’
‘Maybe Father Joe’s converted ’er,’ Breda said. ‘Anyhow, it don’t look she is ’ere since the kid’s put the letter back in the bag.’
Then: ‘Hooper, Hooper. Lookin’ for Mrs Hooper.’
‘Hoy,’ said Breda, heart thumping. ‘That’s me.’
There were three letters for Breda and one for Nora.
Sensibly, she should have taken the mail outside. Billy would no doubt be playing fast and loose with his grandfather who was in no fit state to chase a six-year-old round the buildings, but she couldn’t wait to find out who had written to her and what news the letters might contain.
She slit the first brown envelope with her thumbnail, scanned the official letter from the Home Office and, glancing at her mother, folded it neatly and tucked it into the waistband of her skirt.
She paused and stared out into the church, at the altar, at the blank space on the shrapnel-pitted wall where the crucifix had hung and at the hustle and bustle of choirboys and ordinary women and men milling about in the aisles.
She didn’t know what she felt or how to respond to the news that Leonardo Romano had been a passenger on the vessel, Arandora Star, that had been sunk by enemy action in the Irish Sea and that he was missing, believed dead. No explanations, no apologies, no expressions of regret, just a formal statement, grudging in the extreme, that wiped away her childhood, relieved her of guilt and – she glanced at Nora once more – set her mother free to marry again.
Breda swallowed the lump in her throat and said, ‘What you got, Ma? Is that a letter from Auntie Mary?’
‘No, it’s from Molly.’
‘Who’s Molly?’
‘Auntie Mary’s daughter.’
‘I didn’t even know Auntie Mary ’ad a husband.’
‘Well, she has. She had. She’s a widow. Molly’s your cousin. She’s got brothers, a husband and three kiddies, and …’
‘And?’ Breda put in.
‘She’ll have us. She’ll take us in.’
‘Even Matt?’
‘All of us.’
‘Did you tell ’er Matt’s a Proddy?’ Breda asked.
‘Won’t matter, not to Molly.’ Nora raised her eyes to heaven in a fair representation of ecstasy. ‘Sure an’ we’re all going home to Limerick. Wait till I tell Father Joseph.’
Breda said, ‘Why don’cha do that right now, Ma. I’m sure the father will be as thrilled as you are.’
‘Yes,’ Nora said, leaping up. ‘Limerick,’ and, waving the letter from Breda’s long-lost cousin, set off down the aisle to buttonhole the already harassed priest.
Breda opened the second brown envelope. It contained a short handwritten letter from Mr Reilly, the station officer at Oxmoor Road, in which he expressed his sympathy for her loss and told her what a good fireman Ron had been and how much he was missed by his colleagues.
Breda folded that letter too and put it carefully into her waistband for safe keeping.
Then, sniffing and puffing, she opened the last of the letters, which came from Evesham, from Danny, and would change her life for ever.
The all-clear sounded early, at 2.41 a.m. At a little after four o’clock Commander Derek Willets took his leave and set off on foot to find out if the station had survived and what trains might be running to carry him back to Portsmouth.
There was nothing sentimental in his farewell. It was very matter-of-fact. He shook Basil’s hand, kissed Vivian’s cheek, gave Susan a nod and a wink and, wrapped up in a duffle coat that had seen better days, strode off into the darkness as if, Susan thought, he was just popping round to the corner dairy to fetch a pint of milk.
Soon after, with dishes and pans washed and dried and the kitchen all shipshape, Vivian and Basil said goodnight and retired upstairs to their bedroom to catch up on lost sleep while Susan, though she had a little cubby of her own with a bed in it, lay down on the davenport once more and, closing her eyes, tried to sleep too.
Sleep would not come, though. Her mind hummed with uneasy thoughts of Ron, of her father, of the bright little girl she’d been before she’d realised just how her daddy had shaped her to fulfil not some vague death-bed promise to a wife he could barely recall and had probably never loved but only to satisfy his vanity.
How disappointed he must be that he was still the man he had always been and she, the star of his show, had deserted him. She wished him no ill; he had lost a reliable son, as she had lost a reliable brother. Even so, she was relieved, vastly so, that he had taken up with Nora Romano who would look after him, body and soul, and who had Breda to rely on if things got out of hand.
She sat up suddenly and crouched on the edge of the davenport, pressed her knees together. She was restless, agitated, in need not of Danny, who loved her and might be retrieved at the tug of a heart-string, but of her incorrigible lover who knew what she was and what she wanted and was more than ready to give it to her.
Rising, she lifted a corner of the blackout curtain.
The first pallid light of dawn filled the crooked little street that backed on to the mews. It was windy too, a thin penetrating wind that blew dust and leaves before it.
Summer was over, the long hot Indian summer. The days were growing too short, the nights too long. Her restlessness took on an urgency that robbed her of will.
She hurried into the bathroom, washed her face, combed her hair, applied make-up and, within minutes, overcoat flapping and hat held on with one hand, she was trotting up Salt Street in the direction of Berkeley Square.
A bomb, one among the many that had fallen on central London that Saturday night, had ripped up Conduit Street and brought down some of the buildings there. Fire tenders and ambulances had spilled over into the square but, as far as Susan could make out, Lansdowne House had not been hit, though the façade was pitted by shrapnel and black stains marked the wall where, some nights ago, the oil bomb Bob had told her about had obviously taken its toll.
The commissionaire knew Susan by sight but a warden guarding the doorway insisted on inspecting her identity card and asking impertinent questions before he let her enter. Early breakfast was already being served in the restaurant. Three men and two women brushed past Susan on their way downstairs – the elevator was under repair – but spared her not so much as a second glance. In the corridor outside Pete Slocum’s apartment several empty glasses and a dimpled bottle of Scotch, empty too, were scattered round the doorway.
Susan pressed the bell button and waited.
She hoped Bob would be asleep, that she could slip naked into bed beside him, waken him with an intimate touch and that, roused, he would make love to her, hot, forceful, indecent love before they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
The door opened an inch or two and a haggard face peered at her through the gap.
‘Ah, it’s you, is it?’ Pete Slocum said. ‘Too late, Mrs Cahill. You’ve missed all the fun.’
He was naked beneath the dressing gown, a knee-length woman’s dressing gown in pale yellow silk. Susan couldn’t help but glance down at his lean torso and bony hips and the long, flaccid member that hung between his thighs.
She said, ‘Is he here?’
‘Yep, he’s here.’
‘Well, aren’t you going to let me in?’
‘You don’t want to come in right now, Mrs Cahill,’ Pete Slocum said. ‘Take my word on it.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ Susan said. ‘I most definitely do.’
Slocum sighed, knotted the tie of his dressing gown, pulled open the door and ushered her into the hallway.
She looked down it into the living room but could make out nothing but bare feet protruding from an end of the couch and a man in some sort of uniform curled up on the floor.
‘Where is he?’ she said.
‘In his room?’
‘Is he asleep?’
‘Mrs Cahill …’ Slocum shrugged. ‘Never mind.’
She opened the door of Bob’s room, slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind her. She began to unbutton her overcoat, then, drawing close to the bed, stopped in her tracks. The blackout curtain billowed inward as a gust of wind found the open window. Daylight played across the bed.
The girl, stark naked, sprawled across Bob’s belly, her slender legs stretched backward, one foot, one toe, touching the carpet as if she had been struck down while practising some strenuous balletic move. Between Susan’s shoe and the girl’s foot a discarded rubber leaked fluid into the rug.
Susan clamped a hand to her mouth and squeezed her fingers into her cheeks. Bob hoisted himself up on an elbow. The girl stirred and, twisting round, stared at Susan without embarrassment or remorse. ‘Do come and join us, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Bob won’t mind.’
‘You bastard, Robert. You utter bastard,’ Susan said, then, before he could stop her, fled.