Ambulance Girls Under Fire

by Deborah Burrows

  I dropped Bobby off at Albert’s flat and walked to Theobald’s Road, where I found a taxi. I asked it to take me to the Café de Paris. Above us a bombers’ moon was rising, cold and bright in a clear sky. No hope.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Saturday 8 March 1941

  The taxi made quite good speed though the darkness and dropped me off at Piccadilly Circus. From there I followed the bobbing light of my torch along Coventry Street towards Leicester Square. The night was one of moonlit beauty and chilly darkness and the only sounds were the chatter of other pedestrians braving the blackout for a night out in the West End.

  ‘This is like the good old days before the Blitz,’ a woman exclaimed. ‘I don’t think they’ll come over tonight. They’re hitting the ports instead of London now.’

  ‘They’ll come,’ said her companion. ‘Moonlit night, you see. And London is their prize target.’

  As if to prove him right, the Warning sounded just before I reached the Lyons Corner House and I increased my pace, because the last thing I needed was to be caught outside when the bombing began. The ornate Rialto Cinema was in sight, and tucked away next door was the entrance to the Café de Paris. I pushed through the thick blackout curtain and entered the restaurant.

  Just inside was a uniformed doorkeeper. ‘I suspect it’s going to be rough tonight,’ he said, ‘seeing as how we’ve not had a proper raid in weeks.’ And then he began what must have been his usual patter. ‘But you’re safe at the Café de Paris. It’s all under the ground, you see. Safe as a Tube station.’

  The cloakrooms were at street level. I handed over Cedric’s coat and hat and received the ticket. I checked my own coat separately. Then I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin as I descended the straight flight of stairs to the nightclub foyer. Head high and walk tall. Once I was divorced from Cedric, then I could work out what I felt for Simon and then we could decide whether there was any chance for us.

  The Café de Paris restaurant was decorated in opulent shades of red and gold, and its gilded ceiling glittered in the light of chandeliers. Mirrors lined the walls and threw back fluid and somewhat kaleidoscopic images of luxury and gaiety. Something in the roof caught my eye and I looked up again. Beyond the chandeliers was a small glass dome, painted over to comply with the blackout, which was about the size of a large sunshade. Not entirely underground, I thought.

  The Café de Paris comprised two lower levels, the foyer where I was standing and a lower floor, in which were the main restaurant and the stage where the band and floorshow performed. The foyer was a more like a balcony, as it overhung and encircled the deeper chamber. David had told me once that the lower floor of the Café de Paris had been a bear pit in past centuries. Now it was the place to be if you were young and smart. Those without influence or the foresight to book a table on the lower floor had to make do with tables in the foyer. I looked around for Cedric, but couldn’t see him, so I decided he must have been fortunate enough to snaffle a table downstairs. So I went to the edge of the balcony, which gave a splendid view.

  Beside me a divided staircase curved in two gold and crimson arms to the floor below. A circular stage nestled between the arms of the staircase. On it a Caribbean dance band, which I recognised as Snakehips Johnson and his West Indian Dance Orchestra, played with syncopated gusto under a flood of light. The dance floor in front of the band was heaving with couples. The men were mostly young and in uniforms of khaki and blue. Many women were also in uniform, or they wore fine evening gowns. The couples milled around under the floodlights like a swarm of fishes in a splendid fishbowl.

  Only the first row of tables downstairs was illuminated by the floodlights on the stage. I couldn’t see Cedric at any of them. The second row was more in the shadows and I caught glimpses only, of the ruby notes of a lifted wine glass, the glint of silverware and the sparkle of jewels on white fingers. Further back, beyond the floodlights and behind the row of pillars supporting the balcony, nothing was visible but the small shaded lamps on each table. It looked as if I’d have to check each table on the lower floor to find Cedric, give him his ticket and smile at Mr Fripp. And then I’d leave him forever.

  The dance music ceased and the dance floor cleared. A drum roll announced a troupe of barely clothed cabaret girls who seemed to glide on to the stage with a rhythmic swinging of their hips. A high-kicking routine ensued, complete with fixed smiles, flashing eyes and shimmying limbs. I descended the steps to the dance floor as the girls kicked up a storm.

  The roar of planes was now loud overhead, competing with the thundering reports of the ack-ack guns and the ominous crump of bombs hitting the ground. The restaurant shook each time a bomb fell. A few conversations around me briefly paused, but then carried on as if nothing was happening outside.

  I found Cedric’s party at a table for six in a dark corner. Archie and Isolde were chatting to a thin, middle-aged man with a toothbrush moustache. Next to him was Nola Fripp, and she was gazing at Cedric as though he had hung the moon.

  ‘Good evening,’ I said, and five pairs of eyes turned to look at me.

  The men rose. Cedric smiled. ‘Darling. I was just telling our guests that you’d been unavoidably delayed.’ He introduced me to Mr Fripp, and Nola and I smiled at each other as if we were friends. I sat beside Cedric and when I passed him the coat check ticket beneath the table, he smiled again.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ I said, and was about to proffer an excuse when I saw Cedric’s face change. He half rose out of his chair and his eyes seemed to flicker.

  ‘You—’ Cedric sat down again.

  I turned. Simon stood by the table watching Cedric with anger and more than a hint of bitterness in his eyes. Again I felt that single, painful thud in my chest. Without even realising I had arisen from the table, I found myself standing beside Simon, my arm brushing his, allying myself with him against the others.

  Cedric frowned. ‘This is a private party, Dr Levy.’ He flicked me a look of fury. ‘Sit down, Celia. You’re making a fool of yourself.’

  The planes above us were very low now and very loud. A bomb landed nearby and the cutlery on the table shook.

  ‘It’s madness,’ said Simon, in his deceptively light manner, ‘to try to stab a man through a greatcoat, a tunic and a shirt. But he’s not the smartest of assassins, is he?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Cedric.

  ‘Your man. Hollis.’

  My mouth was very dry. I tried to make sense of what Simon had said. It made no sense. And then I realised.

  ‘Eddie Hollis,’ I said, in a choking voice that I barely recognised as mine. ‘Cedric asked Eddie to kill you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘And he botched it. And now he’s with the police, who were happy to hear about your husband’s orders to murder me and his threats towards an eight-year-old child this afternoon and his assault on you. And his unlicensed gun.’

  I swung around to him, clutching his arm. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘He barely touched me.’

  Cedric looked bored. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Did Eddie say that I asked him to hurt you? It’s nonsense. I don’t like you, but…’ He lifted his shoulder in a dismissive shrug.

  ‘You told me you were going to kill Simon,’ I said.

  ‘I was angry. It was a meaningless angry threat.’

  ‘But Eddie would have assumed it was an order.’ My voice was high, incredulous. ‘You know that, Cedric. Did you say it to him? Did you tell him you wanted Simon dead?’

  A bomb landed nearby with a thundering crash and the room seemed to clench like a fist. A fork fell to the floor with a clatter and, as if released from a spell of immobility, the others at the table began to stir. Archie and Isolde exchanged glances and rose, murmuring excuses. Mr Fripp dragged Nola up with him, saying in a prissy voice, ‘Well. It’s been a fascinating evening, Mr Ashwin, but we must be running along.’

  In a minute the four of them were gone, practically running up the stairs t
o the foyer. How ironic, I thought later, that such social cowardice probably saved their lives.

  Cedric was looking at Simon now with undisguised loathing. He said to me, ‘Celia, sit down at once. You’re making a fool of yourself, clinging to that—’

  Clinging? It was only then that I realised I had Simon’s arm in a tight grip. It didn’t seem to bother Simon, and I didn’t let go.

  Behind me, on the stage, Snakehips and the band had begun a jazz number. The music swelled and Snakehips sang, ‘Oh, Johnny—’

  There was a blinding blue flash, then a deafening roar. Everything went dark as the world exploded and I was blown backwards off my feet. There was a second flash and a second explosion and I went back further. Something landed on top of my chest and shoulder, something very heavy but chillingly soft.

  For a second, the world held its breath. Then the silence was shattered by groans and shrieks and voices calling out in fear. I felt disoriented, lonely and lost in the darkness. The air was thick and choking with dust and smoke and the smell of cordite, and beneath it all, the sweetly sour smell of fresh blood. Something wet was trickling down my neck. People crawled around me, knocked whatever was on top of me. It was large and heavy and pinned me down from my chest to my lower legs.

  I pushed ineffectively at whatever it was that was crushing me, but I seemed to have no strength in my arms. ‘Simon,’ I cried out, ‘Simon, where are you?’ It was a second or so later I realised that I had said nothing. Everything had slowed. I closed my eyes and began to drift, slowly, as if in a pool of thick treacle.

  Someone trod on my hand and the pain drew me back sharply into consciousness. ‘I’m not dead,’ I thought, with some surprise. And then I remembered what had happened. It was difficult to breathe in the smoky, dusty air, but I called out his name. ‘Simon. Simon, where are you?’ My voice was merely one of many in the darkness. Around me others sobbed and moaned and cried out names and supplications to God.

  I pushed again at whatever was pressing down on me, but it didn’t move. I now suspected it was a human body, but I couldn’t be sure if it was dead or merely unconscious. Oh, God, I prayed. Don’t let it be Simon. Don’t let him be dead.

  ‘Help,’ I called. ‘Help me.’ I gulped in air and pushed at the body pressing down on me. I felt it shift, but not enough to release me. My head ached, every part of me ached, and I felt weak and shaky, flattened by the dead weight on top of me. Surely it was too heavy to be Simon. It couldn’t be Simon. He had to be alive, because I had to tell him what I now knew, that there was more than something between us, there was everything between us. I had to tell him that I loved him in every way that the Greeks could describe that emotion.

  I pushed again at the weight above me and it seemed to give a little, but not enough to allow me to slide out from underneath it.

  ‘Help,’ I screamed. ‘Help me.’

  Little lights had begun to move about in the darkness. Tiny will-o-the-wisp flames of cigarette lighters and matches, slim beams of pencil torches and a few brighter lights that I thought were flash lamps. One of these came close and hovered over me.

  ‘You all right?’ It was a man’s voice.

  ‘I need to get out from under—’

  I stopped, rendered mute, because the lamp had moved away from my face to reveal that the headless torso of a black musician was lying across me. The lamp abruptly went out and I heard the sound of retching. A wave of mindless panic engulfed me and I pushed in desperation at the body. It barely moved.

  I gathered my thoughts, forced myself to accept the horror of my situation. I’d seen sights as terrible in my months as an ambulance driver. It’s just a body. I can cope with bodies.

  So I called out to my unknown rescuer, in what I hoped was a bracing voice, ‘You can do that later. Right now I need him off me. Right now, please!’

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, in a now raspy voice. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s the shock, seeing him like that.’

  The lamp flicked on again. When he put it down to help me it illuminated the front of the corpse, lit up the shiny buttons of the white jacket the dead man was wearing. I had a sudden vision of the band, dressed in matching white suits with those shiny buttons, as they played with verve on the stage. All smiling. Not more than fifteen minutes ago, I thought, this man had been up there, making music and smiling. My neck was wet and sticky with what I now knew was the musician’s blood. I swallowed convulsively as saliva filled my mouth, refusing to give into nausea. A distraction came when my rescuer said ‘Push.’

  I pushed as hard as I could, and he pulled.

  ‘It’s moving,’ he said, and I felt the weight on top of me lessen. ‘See if you can slide out from underneath.’

  I gave a desperate, scissoring thrust with my legs and at last I was free. I lay still for a few seconds, sucking in the dusty air and shivering at the horror of it all.

  My rescuer helped me to stand up. ‘Are you injured?’

  ‘No. I’m fine.’

  ‘Then I’ll carry on looking for survivors,’

  ‘Wait! Have you seen a doctor? Not for me. He – he was with me when the bombs hit. He’d be helping if he could.’

  ‘It’s a shambles down here. I’m sorry.’

  Heavy footsteps were on the staircase. Rescue workers had arrived. I stood still, waiting as they set up arc lights, and then began my search for Simon. As the area became illuminated the full hideousness of the scene was apparent. In the past six months of the Blitz I had become used to horrific sights, but what I saw as I stumbled forward turned me cold. The Café de Paris looked like a charnel house. The walls and the mirrors lining the staircase were splattered with blood. Tables and chairs, bodies and body parts were scattered across the room.

  I scrambled over debris, frantic now and praying with incoherent desperation that Simon had been spared. I saw the corner of the stage and used it to orientate myself, to work out where the table had been. And then I saw it, upturned, with two men beside it. Cedric was lying unconscious on the floor. His face was black from the blast and his clothing was drenched in blood and his breathing appeared to be laboured. Simon’s face was also blast-blackened and his uniform bloodstained. He was kneeling beside Cedric and applying pressure to his brachial artery.

  I think I cried out, said something as I stumbled towards them. Simon glanced up, saw me, and seemed about to speak. Instead he just looked at me. It was the look Jim had given Lily as she came towards him in the register office. It was a look I’d waited a lifetime for.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said, when I reached him. His voice trembled. ‘Spent a decade or so hoping you’d arrive in one piece.’

  ‘Sorry. Got held up … or pushed down, if one wants to be crass about it.’

  ‘Not your blood, then?’ He had reverted to his usual offhand tones.

  When I glanced down, I saw that the bodice of my silk gown was a mess of dried blood. I thrust away nausea, gulping in air and swallowing convulsively.

  When I could speak, ‘No, not my blood.’ I gestured at his bloodstained tunic. ‘Not yours, then?’

  ‘No. I’m fine.’ He glanced at Cedric. ‘His blood.’

  Simon’s hand was keeping a firm pressure on Cedric’s artery and thus keeping him alive.

  ‘You do know who that is,’ I said.

  At that he almost smiled. ‘Of course I do. My patient.’

  I looked at Simon, desperately trying to save the life of Cedric Ashwin, a man he detested. Simon knew that Cedric would happily see him dead, and yet he would fight his hardest to keep Cedric alive. I felt again that strange, sweet, painful thud in my chest.

  Simon’s gaze fell to examine my evening gown. ‘I hope you’re not partial to that frock. It’s badly stained and bloodstains are devilishly hard to remove.’

  ‘What—?’

  ‘Sorry, blethering. I need a bandage to try to stop this bleeding. Could you lop off an inch or so off the bottom? If you reach into my breast pocket I’ve some little scissors.’r />
  I reached into the pocket of his tunic, just over his heart, and found a small leather pouch. When I flipped it open it had scissors, tweezers and a tiny scalpel. I looked at Simon and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Always prepared,’ he said. ‘Like a boy scout.’

  The little scissors were sharp. I cut the fabric and tore off a two-inch strip. Three more strips and the frock finished above my knees. Then I started on my silk slip, which gave me another four strips. I held up the makeshift bandages.

  ‘Stout fella,’ said Simon. ‘Let’s change places.’

  I held my hand over the throbbing artery in Cedric’s arm while Simon packed the wound and bandaged it.

  Cedric’s eyes fluttered open. He seemed to want to speak, so I leant closer.

  ‘Bit of a mess,’ he said. His breathing was laboured and his voice rasping.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ I said in the sort of bracing voice I used in my ambulance.

  ‘Looks like … no need for divorce.’ I began to remonstrate, but he shook his head. He glanced up at Simon, who had moved away to give us some privacy. Cedric glanced at him, then back to me. ‘Told me—’ he sucked in shallow breath. ‘He told me … was keeping me alive … just to annoy me.’ His chest moved in a silent laugh.

  That sounded like Simon. I smiled.

  ‘He’s a good man, Cedric. You rest now. Save your strength.’

  ‘Think … think I might die anyway.’ He gave another choked laugh. ‘Just to annoy him.’ When he looked at me his pale eyes seemed clouded. He clutched at my hand. ‘Only ever wanted the best … for this country. Shame I didn’t see…’

  ‘Didn’t see what?’ I said gently, but he had lapsed again into unconsciousness.

  ‘Need a stretcher?’ Two ambulance officers had arrived. The man glanced at the caduceus on Simon’s shoulder. ‘Any instructions, sir?’ he asked.