The lorry screeched to a halt, skidded on the damp road and ended up a foot or so away from my door. The driver, a fair-haired young man, gave me a wave and slammed the lorry into reverse. Slowly, with a series of metallic shrieks, it backed up, until it was out of the alley and waiting at the crossroad. Four young men, an officer, a corporal and two privates emerged to stand beside it, taking time for a cigarette break. Celia jumped out of the ambulance and walked over to them.
In a seemingly interminable series of forward and backward turns, I got my ambulance around and trundled back towards the lorry. I stopped, and Celia climbed back in.
‘There’s a time bomb down there,’ I said to the driver.
‘Don’t worry about us,’ he said with a smile, ‘we’re the ones who’ve come to take it away.’
And then the world exploded.
How can I possibly describe the loudness of an exploding bomb? It is all the claps of thunder you have ever heard rolled into one roaring crescendo. The ambulance rocked and juddered. When the smoke cleared a little, the alleyway I’d been in a minute before was a mass of tumbled bricks and steel girders. Bricks had smashed the ambulance’s windscreen and Celia’s window. She was tumbled against the door and her face was bloody.
‘Celia,’ I shrieked, ‘Celia.’ I pulled her towards me.
Her eyes blinked open and she managed a smile. A thin trickle of blood was still running down her face, from a cut above her eyebrow.
‘Still here,’ she said, and wiped her hand across her forehead. ‘My head is bloody but unbowed, as they say.’
‘We’d better see to the bomb squad,’ I said.
Celia’s door had been crushed by falling bricks and she couldn’t push it open. My side was relatively undamaged. I pushed open the door, jumped down and ran over to the truck to find three of the men, like Celia, bloodied but unbowed. The only casualty was the fair-haired driver, whose radius had fractured after being struck by a flying brick.
He grinned at me, despite his pain. ‘We owe you. If you’d not got your machine stuck in that alley we’d have been down there when it went off. Must have been on a timer. You’re our lucky star, Ambulance Girl.’
Their lorry was scratched but otherwise undamaged, and they drove off laughing to take their injured comrade to a first-aid depot. As they left, one leaned out of the window and said, ‘Try Maple Street – left then right then right. I think it’s clear.’
Celia and I plucked the bricks off our machine, and used rags to clear the seats of glass. I pushed the starter. The engine chugged into life after a few revs.
‘No windscreen, but the back’s undamaged,’ I said. ‘Should we do the pick-up?’
‘I don’t mind a windy ride,’ said Celia. ‘The deceased won’t mind either, if you don’t.’
‘Oh, I like a bit of fresh air.’
We headed off, bumping over bricks, turned left then right then right and ended up where we wanted to be. As we rattled along with the wind in our hair, Celia spat on her hankie and scrubbed at the blood on her face.
Twelve pitiful sacks lay outside what had been a large group of flats. The smell of death hung over them. Smaller sacks and a few ash cans held smaller remains. The mortuary workers would face the daunting task of trying to identify the human flotsam with only a list of names of missing people and a brief description.
We took two trips. As we hauled the last sack into the back of the ambulance, Celia stretched and leaned her back against the vehicle.
‘I need a cigarette,’ she said.
Her attempts at cleaning her face had been a compete failure. No one but Celia could have managed to look so lovely despite the dried blood and dirt that caked her white skin and the brick dust in her hair.
‘These poor souls won’t worry if we’re a bit slow in taking them to the morgue,’ I said, and stood beside her, also leaning on the ambulance. ‘I thought you were giving up smoking.’
‘Simon wants me to give up. He says it stinks and it’s bad for my health.’ She laughed. ‘I’m sure it is both, but on days like this I need it. A time bomb and a mortuary run. Ugh.’
She lit a cigarette, took a deep breath in and exhaled with a smile.
‘You and Simon Levy …’ I wasn’t sure what to say; her husband had died only six weeks before.
‘That’s right, you saw us outside the Café de Paris’ she said, turning to me with a mischievous look in her eyes. ‘Were we, er, locked together in passionate embrace?’
‘Um, yes.’
‘First time we’d kissed, actually. I adore him. We’ll be married in September, six months after Cedric … Well, you understand?’
‘Of course. Are you going to, um, convert?’
‘No. But the children will be raised Jewish. It’s slightly complicated, in a good way.’
I said, tentatively, ‘You and Dr Levy, you seem very different.’
‘Him Jewish, me gentile, you mean?’ She sucked in another lungful of smoke, and blew it out with a huff.
‘No, not that … I don’t know really.’
‘Actually, we’re very alike in the way we see the world, our sense of humour, our hopes for the future – all the things that count.’
‘And you were both born into wealthy families, of course.’
‘That, too.’ She smiled. ‘But the other things are more important. He’s my opposite in one way, though. People like him – he’s so easy to like. I’m not.’
I began to remonstrate, but she laughed.
‘You know it’s true. Shall we say, then, I’m harder to get to know. I think Simon and I complement each other in that aspect.’
Celia was in a rare, chatty mood, so I thought I’d venture down the rabbit hole again. Michael Harker.
‘You used to go to a lot of American Embassy parties, didn’t you? Before the war I mean.’
‘When Cedric was still persona grata? Yes, we did. He and Ambassador Kennedy had a bit of a mutual admiration thing going. Both wanted peace with Germany at any cost, and both rather admired Hitler. I told you we met Dan Lowell and John Casey at those dreary dos. Why?’
‘Um, did you meet a man called Michael Harker? He has a wife called Vivian. Did you meet her?’
Celia thought about it. ‘I remember Vivian Harker better than I do her husband. Her father’s a congressman, wealthy family, socially well connected. Very pretty little thing, one of those china doll blondes. A bit milk-and-water for my liking. Pleasant enough, you understand, but vapid. Had no opinions of her own.’ She laughed. ‘Mind you, I would have been called vapid in those days, too. All of that social whirl ceased when war was declared, and Cedric was imprisoned. No one wanted to know us then.’
She took another deep drag at the cigarette, threw the butt on the ground and stamped it out. Then she stood still, as if thinking.
‘I heard something about Vivian Harker. Last year, it was. Can’t for the life of me recall what, though. Something sad.’
‘What do you mean, sad?’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t remember. Something about children? … No. It’s gone.’
As we drove to the mortuary she asked me how I knew Michael and Vivian Harker.
‘Oh, um, I met Mr Harker after the Café de Paris bombing.’
She gave me a sideways glance. ‘Handsome man. Should I become all big sister and remind you he’s married?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing like that,’ I said hastily.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We drove down the ramp into the garage and parked the ambulance with a squeak of brakes. Celia’s door was still jammed shut, so she slid across and jumped down to the concrete floor after me.
Armstrong was standing by the Ford with his arms full of blankets, replenishing its supplies.
‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Your vehicle’s a right mess. Moray won’t be happy.’ Then he saw Celia and gave a start. ‘You all right?’
‘Had a tussle with a time bomb,’ said Celia. She turned to me. ‘Think I’ll wash my f
ace. Mustn’t frighten the animals.’
When I entered the common room, Harris was sitting in the Lloyd Loom chair, the most comfortable in the room, knitting something in khaki. Sadler was playing patience. Purvis was deep in a newspaper, but looked up when I entered. He smiled at me and turned the page.
‘The newspapers are shrinking every week,’ he said.
‘As you well know, the government wants all the paper it can lay its hands on for the war effort,’ said Harris calmly. She nodded towards Moray’s office. ‘Moray wants to see you,’ she said.
Through the window I could see Moray talking to a man in a suit. As his guest’s back was to the window, his face was hidden, but I could see it wasn’t Michael. Moray looked up and saw me and motioned me to come into the office. It was when I pushed open the door that I saw it was none other than Mr Peregrine Denbeigh, from the air-raid shelter in March. The man from the film unit.
I greeted him with cordial suspicion. He responded with a brilliant smile, revealing small, white teeth. Moray’s demeanour was one of polite annoyance.
‘Mr Denbeigh tells me that he met you in an air-raid shelter,’ said Moray.
‘Yes, last month,’ I replied.
‘And he asked you to take part in a short propaganda film.’
‘I refused.’
Denbeigh leaned forward in his chair and radiated good humour, with an underlying sense of authority. ‘As soon as I clapped eyes on Miss Halliday I knew. I saw it all in my mind. A film about the wonderful girls who drive our ambulances.’
I said, through a tight jaw, ‘Mr Denbeigh, I can’t act.’
He was all joviality. ‘No need. No need at all. We’re using Billie Prescott. She’ll have nearly all the lines – you may have a few words but that won’t matter. The important thing is that we can say we used real ambulance girls in the film. We’re on the look-out for others.’ His smile was dazzling. ‘Marvellous. Simply marvellous.’
I was about to protest when Denbeigh’s attention was diverted. He was now gazing through the window in a state of what seemed to be rapture. Moray rolled his eyes, and I turned to see that Celia and Lily had entered and were chatting together. Celia’s face was clean, her hair brushed and she was the very picture of an English rose. Lily was smiling, and with her dimples she looked like Shirley Temple’s older sister.
Denbeigh turned to Moray. ‘And they’re also ambulance girls?’
Moray nodded. ‘They’re part of this shift.’
‘This is serendipitous indeed. I’ll want all three.’
‘I’m not—’ I began.
Moray interrupted me. ‘Mr Denbeigh has the full cooperation of the London County Council and of the Ministry of Information. You –’ he glanced at Celia and Lily, through the window ‘– and perhaps the others, are obliged to attend at a screen test. If you pass it then you’ll attend the film studio during filming. I am assured that your part in the filming will last no longer than two days. A film like this is seen as an excellent way to inform the public about the work we do here in the Auxiliary Ambulance Service. Your participation is to be seen as part of your duties.’ His voice was even, measured, but somehow I knew that he was absolutely furious.
I stared at him. ‘I have no say in it?’
Denbeigh smiled. ‘It will be entirely painless, I assure you.’ He looked up at the ceiling as if seeing there a finished film, and murmured, ‘Ambulance Girls At War. That’s what we’ll call it. And it must be entertaining. We’ve been informed in no uncertain terms that for a film to be good propaganda, it must also be entertaining. This film will be entertaining. It’ll have girls with plenty of oomph and the right sort of message.’
I shared a look with Moray. Mine was tormented, his now amused.
Lily and Celia were a picture of opposites when Moray emerged with Mr Denbeigh and informed them that they were to help provide the oomph in an entertaining and propagandistic production entitled Ambulance Girls At War. Lily looked intrigued; Celia affronted.
‘You do know who I am?’ she asked Mr Denbeigh.
‘Mr Moray explained,’ he replied. ‘Not a problem. Use your maiden name. Ah, what is it?’
‘Palmer-Thomas, but—’
‘No one holds grudges,’ he said quickly. ‘Your – well, he is dead, after all.’
‘Tactful, isn’t he?’ murmured Moray to me. ‘And shockingly single-minded. I think even Celia’s met her match.’
Moray was right. Any other protests Celia made Mr Denbeigh simply waved away.
‘Screen test on Friday?’ asked Lily. ‘That soon? What about a script? Can we at least see the script before we start?’
‘Oh, it’s being worked on now,’ was Denbeigh’s airy reply. ‘Have it to you by Friday morning. Your job will be to look lovely, brave and utterly committed to the war effort. Most of the lines will be said by Miss Billie Prescott.’
Lily’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, she’s a favourite of mine. I’ll be in a film with Billie Prescott. Gosh.’
‘Australian?’ he asked.
‘Yes. From Perth, in Western Australia.’
Denbeigh frowned. ‘I think we’ll make it Sydney,’ he said.
Lily attempted a protest, but Mr Denbeigh’s riposte was, ‘Everyone’s heard of Sydney. Convicts, etc. And Perth’s in Scotland.’
Celia’s face seemed to have become moulded of stone. A particularly fine alabaster. Even Moray quailed when she turned blazing blue eyes on him; Denbeigh seemed to shrink into his tailored suit.
‘I won’t do it,’ she stated, in her most regal tone. Celia had a particularly regal tone. ‘I hate making an exhibition of myself and I simply won’t do it, I tell you.’
Mr Denbeigh dithered his way out of the common room, muttering to Moray, whom he dragged along with him.
When Moray returned he raised an eyebrow. ‘Can’t be helped, Ashwin. You’re in the movies. If you pass the screen test. That’s on Friday afternoon at Ealing Studios.’ He raised his hands. ‘I have to give you the time off, which is annoying for the rest of us. If you pass the screen test, then you’ll have two days off work next week. Only during the day, mind. You’ll be expected to come back to the station for the night shift’
‘What’s going on?’ Powell and Squire entered the common room. They were told all about our foray into film-making.
‘Ashwin, love, you’ll look gorgeous up there on the screen. Show off your lovely face.’ Squire’s placating tone did not move Celia.
She pursed her lips and looked mutinous. ‘If I have to, I’ll stand there like a wooden dummy, but they can’t make me act. I’d like to see them try to.’
‘Well, I’m looking forward to it,’ said Lily. ‘It’s in a good cause. And we get to meet Billie Prescott. She’s the star.’
‘Ooh,’ said Powell. ‘I like her ever so much.’
Harris said, with some dignity, ‘It’s part of the war effort, Ashwin. Letting the public know what we do. You should be pleased to take part.’
‘As if people don’t know what we’ve been doing,’ said Celia scornfully. ‘We don’t need propaganda to show them what ambulance drivers do.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Lily. ‘I think it’s more to emphasise how we’re all mucking in together. You know, how the ARP services are a great leveller. They’ll probably put in a few cockneys, someone from t’North, and us. I’ll have to say a line in Aussie, to show that the Empire is right behind Britain in her finest hour.’ She giggled. ‘I bet they’ll make Celia the posh girl slumming it, who comes to realise the worth of the great unwashed who drive ambulances with her.’
‘Whatever do you mean, the great unwashed?’ said Powell, affronted.
‘Yeah,’ said Purvis, making a comical expression. ‘Wotcha mean? I washed me ’ands and feet before I come, I did.’
Purvis sometimes threw in odd remarks like that. They were humorous only to himself and I suspected it was to show his learning. He’d been to university, after all.
Lily gave a peal of laug
hter. ‘It’s an expression, not a reflection on your hygiene. “The great unwashed” means ordinary people.’
‘It sounds like it’s a reflection on our hygiene,’ Powell muttered, her face flushed and annoyed. ‘It’s hard to keep clean with all the regulations and the water being off all the time. And when it’s on there’s no gas to heat it. How can we keep as clean as we’d like?’
When she saw that Powell was really quite upset, Lily went over to her and patted her shoulder. ‘Of course I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just a silly expression.’
‘It’s not a nice one.’
‘It’s condescending,’ said Purvis. ‘Even if you mean it ironically, it’s condescending.’
Lily looked abashed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I didn’t think.’
‘To tell the truth,’ I said, smiling, ‘we’re all the great unwashed at the moment. As Powell says, there’s never any hot water, and when the gas is on it’s five inches only in the bathtub. I dream of a long hot bath with lovely scented soap.’
‘Now, Maisie, you know perfectly well that running water wastes fuel,’ said Squire, with a wink.
‘And if you’re up to your neck in it—’ said Purvis, smiling.
‘Oh, I know this one,’ said Lily, excitedly. ‘If you’re up to your neck in it, that’s a waste line.’
‘Your waist line is the high water mark,’ finished Powell, smiling at last.
We all knew the lines from the shorts at the cinema off by heart.
‘Speaking of baths,’ put in Sadler, ever on the look-out to sell his dodgy wares. ‘Care to take a butcher’s at my latest selection?’ He reached down into a hessian bag near his feet and pulled out a half-dozen or so small cakes of soap, wrapped in bright paper. We all came over to look, except Celia, whose expression remained mutinous.
‘I’ll not say a word,’ she said. ‘I don’t care what they do. They can’t make me. People hate my accent. I hate my accent. I do not want it recorded for posterity.’
‘Don’t worry, Ashwin,’ said Squire. He was examining a cake of soap wrapped in paper on which was a garish sprig of lavender. ‘I’ll take this one, mate. The missus’ll be pleased.’ Transaction completed, he looked at Celia. ‘No one actually watches them propaganda films. They put them on in the intermission, or at the end, when we’re all leaving.’
Ambulance Girls At War Page 17