Bryan bowed his head in habitual respect towards the high altar and slid onto the rearmost pew, closing his eyes and allowing the low, rambling organ melody and the hushed murmur of conversation to unfocus his mind. Footsteps shuffled past him up the aisle as the great, the good and the generally worried folk of Hampstead arrived to fill the sixty or more rows of seating that spanned the stone-clad floor, each seeking the solace and affirmation of congregating humanity.
Someone sat beside him.
Bryan raised his chin from his chest and flared his nostrils to gather the familiar scent. ‘Happy Christmas, Sweetheart,’ he murmured, his tone slightly blurred.
‘Are you drunk?’ Jenny whispered.
‘Not half as much as I need to be.’
‘Shhh… That’s not very Godly.’
‘I’m only here because it’s the family business. What’s your excuse?’
‘Oh, I love midnight mass. It makes me feel all Christmassy.’
Bryan opened his eyes enough to squint at her. ‘In that case, welcome to the pleasure dome. The show’s about to begin.’
‘Merry Christmas, Bryan.’ She leaned across, kissed his cheek and regarded him for a long moment. ‘Yet, here we sit.’ The echo of the words made her smile.
The volume of the church organ swelled and the tune changed from contemplative meandering to processional vigour. The worshippers in front of them stood. Jenny elbowed Bryan and he hauled himself upright.
A choirboy passed at a slow march, carrying a polished brass cross on an ancient wooden stave. Reverend Hale followed at the head of the surpliced choir, each luminous member floating like disembodied goodness through the candlelight. The reverend peeled off at the front of the congregation, the others continued into the chancel and shuffled into the choirstalls.
The organ dropped into startling silence and the memory of its voice throbbed in ebbing waves of delicious reverberation. Bryan’s father allowed the sound to shimmer away to nothing, then raised his head.
‘Please remain standing. Our first hymn is Hark the Herald Angels Sing.’
‘Oh,’ Jenny exclaimed, ‘my favourite.’
***
The last chord thundered into stillness and the congregation reseated themselves, straight-backed and attentive. Reverend Hale ascended a few narrow steps to the pulpit which was supported on a single stout column of oak, lending it the incongruous aspect of a polished wooden wine goblet. He arranged his notes while, behind him, the choirboys fidgeted and yawned.
‘Good evening.’ The cavernous body of the church reinforced the sonorous strength underpinning his voice. ‘On this most glorious of nights I have chosen as the subject of my sermon’ – he smiled mischievously at a small girl sitting between her parents on the front pew – ‘a cat.’
His smile evaporated and he swept his gaze over the assembled heads, quietening persistent shufflers and drawing his congregation into his presence.
‘This cat was lost. An emaciated stray in the City of London, dodging the dangers of the traffic and scavenging scraps to eat from the gutters and the bins. On one miserable afternoon she sought shelter from the rain in the house of God; St Augustine’s on Watling Street, in the very shadow of St Paul’s Cathedral.
‘The verger of St Augustine’s, a man with no love to spare for cats, discovered her and put her outside again. But the animal persevered and, after another two or three evictions, eluded her tormentor and passed the night in the dry, curled up on a kneeler.
‘The next morning, overruling his verger’s objections, Father Henry Ross, the rector of St Augustine’s and the man who related this story to me, decided the cat would stay, and named her Faith. “After all,” he reasoned with the verger, “she had the faith to try again after you had thrown her out three times.”
‘Faith settled in at the church, paying her keep by hunting mice and greeting parishioners attending service. But she must’ve maintained something of a private social life, because she was soon blessed by the birth of a single black and white kitten.
‘One day, at the end of August, she began behaving in a strange manner; she sat in front of the basement door all day, nuzzling and clawing at it, begging anyone who passed to open it for her. Eventually Father Ross unlocked the door and Faith dragged her lone kitten, by the scruff of its neck, down the basement stairs.
‘It was cold down there and the walls sometimes ran with damp, so Father Ross made several attempts to take the kitten back upstairs. But Faith returned him to the basement, insistent that this must be her family’s new home.
‘It was the 7th of September, I’m sure you will recall, when the diabolical evil of aerial bombardment made its first visit to our city. On that evening, Father Ross found himself away on church business. It was lucky for him that he was, because the church received several hits. The bombs smashed great holes in the roof, collapsed the floors and set fire to pews and pulpit.
‘When the rector came back later that night, fire crews were damping down the smoking remnants of his church. Father Ross sidestepped the firemen and climbed down into the rubble, distraught that Faith and her kitten might lay in the basement beneath the tiles and broken joists of the ruined floor. In response to his calls came the sound of a meow amongst the wreckage.
‘Pulling aside remnants of roof trusses and singed hymn books, Father Ross discovered Faith squeezed into a corner, dusty but unhurt, serenely nursing her kitten. The cat was, in the rector’s own words, “Singing such a song of praise and thanksgiving as I had never heard”.’
Reverend Hale paused to let his story settle, once again sweeping the congregation, this time his smile was one of satisfaction at his allegory.
‘In these dangerous times we must take our own faith, our faith in God, our faith in the redemption that is Jesus, given to us on this day, and find a secure corner of our heart where we know we have the strength to preserve it and feed it. Each and every one of you must jealously protect your faith to ensure it will survive whatever this terrible war has yet to bring. So when, with God’s grace, we once more find our way to peace, our faith will be there to support and guide us to the merciful path of the righteously victorious… Let us pray.’
***
The congregation drifted down the aisle, shaking hands and exchanging muted Christmas wishes. Bryan and Jenny sat shoulder to shoulder as they flowed past.
‘I’d forgotten how beautiful this church is,’ Jenny sighed. ‘On the inside that is. The outside is as ugly as sin.’
‘Careful. You’re talking about the love of my father’s life.’
‘He looks well on it.’ She beamed at Bryan: ‘And such a lovely sermon about the brave little cat.’
Bryan shook his head and mirrored her smile. ‘The Christmas spirit has certainly got you in its talons. What are your plans now?’
‘Straight home. My mother prefers a mid-morning service and she’ll expect me to go with her.’
‘Then I shall walk you there.’
They stood and followed the stragglers towards the door. Behind them a verger fussed about, clearing up the hymn books and straightening the kneelers.
Outside, Reverend Hale stood surrounded by parishioners eager to deliver their personal festive greetings. Bryan slipped past with Jenny on his arm, glad to leave without having to engage with his father. He guided Jenny through the side gate and across to Holly Walk. The narrow lane sloped upwards, bounded on one side by the main parish graveyard where the massed stones stood starkly outlined in the austere moonlight.
Jenny shivered, pulled her collar closer around her neck and scanned the sky. ‘Aren’t the stars beautiful? That’s one good thing about living on a hill in the blackout; it makes the stars stand out.’ She squeezed Bryan’s arm. ‘We mustn’t forget the beautiful things, Bryan. We mustn’t forget the things that bring us joy.’
Bryan regarded the press of monuments in the cemetery and said nothing.
Jenny slowed her pace and stepped closer to the black railings. Close
by, on the other side, a large statue surmounted a tomb, protected from the elements by a four-columned ciborium. The figure, weathered to verdigris, depicted a winged angel clasping a dying woman to his breast.
‘She looks very young.’ Jenny’s voice trailed with sudden sadness. ‘I wonder if everyone gets their own angel when their time comes.’
‘I’m not sure there are enough angels to go around.’
They continued along the lane and the graveyard gave way to a stocky terrace of Georgian houses punctuated with the façade of a Catholic church. The strains of earnest singing seeped from the door.
‘Maybe I should try having more faith in the future,’ Jenny mused. ‘Maybe I should be a braver little cat.’
‘Well, I reckon we’ll have a better idea about our future come June.’ The exertion of climbing the long slow incline gave Bryan’s voice an edge of breathlessness. ‘If the Germans invade, it will largely be up to the Navy to get in their way. If the Navy can’t stop them, it will be down to each of us to decide how, or if, we fight on.’
‘And if the Navy succeed?’
‘Then you might be justified in having some faith in the future.’ They turned the corner up a steeper alley. ‘But it will probably be in a satellite state all but ruled by a Nazi Europe.’
The alley let them out onto Holly Hill and they walked north along Hampstead Grove.
‘How does it get back to the way it used to be?’ The weight of Jenny’s question compressed her voice.
‘I suppose there’s a small chance we could make that happen. But everyone who is able will have to fight as hard as they can, for however long it takes to make the Americans wake up to the danger.’
They walked in silence for long moments.
‘Which is why,’ Bryan murmured with a sigh, ‘I haven’t put in for that transfer.’
He felt Jenny’s arm stiffen for a second, then relax.
A few moments passed before she broke the silence: ‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’
‘I’ll have to do lunch at least, I suppose. Generally, once that’s cleared away, the only option is to sit and watch my parents fossilise in front of a teapot.’
‘Alright’ – she squeezed his arm – ‘why don’t you call on me about mid-afternoon? We can take a stroll and try tracking down a pub that’s open.’
They reached the Freeman’s gate and Jenny hugged Bryan to her.
‘No more talk of Nazis and invasion’ – his overcoat muffled her words – ‘not ‘til after Christmas.’
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly, then again with a flare of passion, before turning on her heel and retreating up the drive.
Bryan lit a cigarette and walked back down the hill. The effect of the alcohol drained from his brain and a dull headache moved in to take its place. He gazed up at the black vault, momentarily peaceful, encrusted with the sparkling jewels of an indifferent universe.
Chapter 18
Christmas Day, 1940
Reverend Hale whipped the sharpening steel backwards and forwards on the blade, eyeing the roasted turkey like a sacrificial lamb on the sacred altar of his dining table. The noise set Bryan’s teeth on edge and he clamped his jaw muscles tight to defeat the sensation.
‘So, what is it you’re doing these days?’ the clergyman asked as he put down the steel and bent to carve the bird.
Bryan grimaced and ran his tongue over his teeth to resettled their jarred nerves. ‘Night interception. It’s supposed to be secret.’
‘Is it working?’
‘No, they hardly notice us.’
‘So why are you doing it?’
‘Because we have to do something, no matter how bloody useless it turns out to be.’
Mrs Hale placed a jug of gravy on the table between the bowls of vegetables and spooned sprouts and carrots onto the plates. ‘No swearing at the table, Bryan.’
Silence settled on the room, interrupted only by the occasional scrape of the knife against the carving fork and the clink of serving spoon against china.
Bryan studied his mother’s face; how she held her features in quiet serenity to accompany her air of a satisfied administrator surveying a situation safely under control. He had always supposed he hated her, but he had to concede in this moment it was unlikely he did. It was true that she had not so much brought him up, as managed his childhood from an emotionally safe distance. It was, at least, a project she’d completed, although with little enjoyment of the process or pride in the results. But it was enough of an effort to preclude his hatred.
The knife scraped again, this time more harshly, sending a twinge through Bryan’s teeth. He switched his reverie to his father. His malign feelings towards this parent brooked no softening. Bryan knew the considerable intellect behind those flinty eyes and it should’ve engendered some questions, made some contribution to the theological debate. Instead, his father had made blind faith a career decision, and the more lucrative the trappings of his position, the blinder his faith had become.
‘Shall I say grace?’ The reverend asked no-one in particular and bowed his head.
Bryan followed suit and studied the food on his plate. There were no Yorkshire puddings.
***
The watery sunlight slanted through the bare branches as Bryan knocked on the Freeman’s front door.
Jenny answered: ‘Goodness, hello Bryan,’ she said, then whispered, ‘you’re a surprise.’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ he muttered and followed her into the hallway.
‘Wait here.’
Jenny ducked through a door and the murmur of conversation filtered back from the room:
‘…old school friend…’
‘…but we’d planned a card game…’
‘… just for a short walk…’
‘…when you come back, then, I suppose…’
Jenny emerged and pulled a coat from the rack. ‘Quick, let’s escape.’
The heavy door clunked shut behind them and Jenny scampered out of the gate. Bryan quickened his stride to catch her.
‘You’re a real dab hand at subterfuge.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I learnt it from a man at quite an early age.’
Bryan sensed the edge in her voice and changed the subject. ‘Shall we walk down the hill and see where that takes us?’
Jenny nodded and they strolled south, down the incline.
The sunlight softened to a mellow gold that danced off the auburn tones in Jenny’s dark hair. Bryan stayed quiet, sensing his companion’s contentment.
As they levelled out into Hampstead’s main street, Jenny chose to break the silence: ‘I’ve been thinking about things,’ she said. ‘Without all of this going on’ – she gestured at the ether – ‘it’s almost certain we wouldn’t have bumped into each other.’
‘Almost certain.’
‘And,’ she continued, ‘I would give anything for all this not to be happening; it would be my dearest wish that the war had never started. Even if it meant I’d never meet you.’
‘You’re not blaming me for the war, are you?’
Jenny stopped walking and turned to look into Bryan’s face: ‘I’m trying to explain why I don’t love you.’
‘I didn’t ever think-’
‘And it’s alright not to love you,’ she cut across his apology. ‘Despite all we’ve said and done, it’s alright not to love you. What we have is part of the war. And it’s made the war bearable. Perhaps it could make the war survivable. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.’
Jenny’s eyes glistened in the last of the dying light and Bryan bent to kiss her upturned face. ‘You don’t believe I could make you happy?’
‘I don’t know. I only know you stop me from feeling unhappy, most of the time.’ She reached under her coat: ‘Here, take this.’
Bryan looked down at the small knitted figure: ‘A doll?’
‘It’s you!’ She laughed. ‘See? It has messy hair.’
He smiled in spite of himsel
f, infected by her sudden gaiety. ‘Why are you giving it to me?’
‘Because I don’t need it. Come on, let’s find a pub.’
Boxing Day, 1940
Gunmetal cold lay leaden across the city’s morning sky as Bryan drove south, retracing his route across the river. The streets were all but deserted, people preferring their hearth to the icy grip of the London air. The roads carried only military vehicles interspersed with the occasional die-hard taxi driver.
Bryan pulled up outside Scott’s house and tooted his horn. While he waited, he idly tapped the accelerator, making the engine growl like a frustrated cat.
The passenger door opened and Tommy bundled his kitbag onto the back seat.
‘Morning, Flight. Would you like to-’
‘No. We have to be away.’
Tommy let the door swing to and Bryan avoided looking in the mirror at the couples’ farewell embrace. The Humber’s engine growled a tone deeper.
The door opened again and Tommy clambered in. He put a small package wrapped in brown paper on top of the dashboard, ‘Christmas cake. Lizzy made it herself and wanted you to have a slice.’
Bryan nodded his thanks and pulled away.
Tommy arched his back and yawned behind a cupped palm. ‘The little blighter kept us awake most of the night. I reckon he’s so used to the noise of air raids that he can’t settle in the quiet.’
‘As long as it didn’t spoil your celebrations.’
‘No fear of that. We had a wonderful time. Most of Lizzy’s family came round for lunch and we sang carols all evening.’
Bryan nodded slowly.
Tommy cast a sidelong glance: ‘How was your visit home?’
Bryan pursed his lips. ‘About the same as ever. I’m almost glad to be going back to work.’
Friday, 27 December 1940
‘Night-warden Control to Blackbird C-Charlie, we have trade preparing to cross the channel. Vector one-five-zero. Angels twelve.’
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 47