One London Night

by Denise A. Agnew

  “Miss Hunnicut!” a man’s deep voice halted her.

  She swung around and saw James Pendleton wandering her way. His gait, which showed his slight limp, didn’t detract an iota from his handsome figure. He was dressed in a casual sweater and slacks with a long overcoat and a fedora hat on his head. She couldn’t help but wonder what Alec would look like with a hat. She hadn’t seen him in one like this before.

  “Mr. Pendleton, how nice to see you. Do you live here as well?”

  He smiled, and his gray eyes sparkled. “For a whole year. I should have rented a flat.” He shrugged. “But that’s the way it is. I’m not one to complain.” He glanced down at her hands. “I see you remembered your gas mask this time.”

  She looked down at her purse and the cumbersome box hanging on a string around her wrist next to her pocketbook. “Yes. Where’s yours?”

  He smiled. “Don’t tell Benjamin, but I never take it with me except to the office.”

  She frowned. “You don’t think we’ll ever need it?”

  “I can’t say for certain, but it is a feeling I have that we won’t.”

  “I hope you’re right, but I plan on taking mine everywhere now.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Exploring the city.” She got an idea. “Are you free to be a tour guide?”

  His grinned widely. “Perfect. I was going to the British Museum. My first chance to see it. Were you planning on riding the underground?”

  “I barely know what I’m doing, but yes. Do you know how to get around the city fairly well?”

  “Very well, after a year. You’ll learn it after you’ve been here awhile too.”

  “What are we waiting for, then?”

  They walked down The Strand until they reached the Charing Cross Tube Station. Sylvie was fascinated as they descended into the station.

  “Several of these have been converted to shelters?” she asked.

  James nodded. “Yes. A few are being used for other things temporarily, as well as being shelters. Along the way we could stop at one that’s a shelter and you could get an interview.”

  “What about you?”

  “I already interviewed someone in a shelter last week.”

  “Ah.”

  As they descended stairs, James offered her his arm, and she took it. A warm and comfortable feeling came over her in James’ presence. He seemed like such a nice man. Maybe, just maybe, another man in the picture would take her mind off Alec. Not that she planned any romantic entanglements with a co-worker, but it wouldn’t hurt to be James’ friend. If they worked together, then a friendly relationship made sense.

  The station was crowded with people ready to go to work, to do what they did every day, even when the bombs could arrive at any time. She couldn’t help but admire Londoners and their obvious fortitude. As they settled into seats inside the train and it zipped along a dark tunnel, the clack-clack noises, the musty scent, and the murmur of low voices seemed too normal for words. A woman with two small children sat nearby. A man reading a newspaper stood holding on to a pole. He’d given up his seat for the woman and her kids—it all seemed slumberous and everyone at ease.

  “We’ll get off at Holborn and you can see how many people are sheltering in the tube already,” James said.

  They did as he suggested, and she saw what looked like hundreds of people already there for the long haul. It was noisy, smelly, and didn’t look the least comfortable. Dozens and dozens of women, some men, and a whole contingent of children. It wasn’t even lunch, and the refugees were already queuing for a spot to sleep.

  “Oh, Mr. Pendleton, this is awful,” she said as they made their way to the street and fresh air.

  As they stepped into the open, she took a deep breath and stopped. Her hand was still tucked into the crook of his arm, and she realized she was clutching him tightly.

  “It is.” James looked down at her, his eyes warm. “Don’t think about it too much or it’ll eat a hole in you.”

  “Did it eat a hole in you when you wrote your article?”

  “No. I was too busy putting all my anger into the article. It really helped. Put your anger into your next piece, Miss Hunnicut.”

  She smiled, feeling better already. “Please, call me Sylvie.”

  “Only if you call me James.”

  “All right. Come on, how much farther is it to the museum?”

  “A few blocks. Are you up to it, or do we need a taxi?”

  “I am bursting with energy after that lovely breakfast this morning.”

  He laughed. “For lunch there is a place near the museum. They somehow manage bangers and mash even with rationing. Excellent meal for wartime.”

  As they walked toward the British museum, she could hardly believe this city had suffered several nights of bombing. Children laughed and played. People smiled and nodded to them as they walked by. It was almost as if the city hadn’t suffered crushing blows and furious fire, and she was spending a lovely morning walking with a handsome man. James kept his arm out for her to hold on to, and she found his gallantry amusing. She just took what he offered in good spirit.

  “So why are you putting yourself in danger, coming to London?” James asked.

  Oh, dear. Would he prove as overprotective as Alec? “I’m working, you know that.”

  “But why? You could be cozy at home in the good ole U.S.A.”

  She made an exasperated sound. “I’m doing my job, just like you are.”

  He smiled. “Sorry. Here I was hoping to have a pleasing conversation, and I’m needling you. I have three younger sisters, and I cringe at the idea of them being in danger.”

  “Of course. I can understand why you’d want to keep them safe. But this is important to me.” She explained how she’d struggled to be taken seriously through her first years out of college by the mostly male journalists and how many times she’d endured men telling her she should stay home with children. “It made me angry. And the angrier I got, the harder I worked.”

  “So you worked longer hours than the men, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand that. We had a female journalist at a smaller paper I used to work for a couple of years ago. She went to Germany to report on some of the things happening with Hitler.” He sighed. “She disappeared, and no one has ever heard from her again.”

  “Oh, my God. That’s awful.” She eyed him. “Wait, are you trying to scare me?”

  “No.” He turned a wry look on her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up that subject.”

  “It’s all right. Did you know the woman who disappeared?”

  He drew in a deep breath. “Yes. We were dating at the time. We’d been together two months.”

  She heard the twinge of sorrow in his voice, and when she looked up at his profile, his jaw had gone hard and his mouth tight.

  “I’m so sorry.” What else could she say?

  He heaved another breath and erased the frown. “I spent a considerable amount of time in Germany trying to find her, but I never did. I lost my job at the small paper because of that. But better things came along. Like my career with the Tribune.”

  “How long have you worked for the Tribune?”

  “I’ve been here the two years since she disappeared. How long have you worked for the paper?”

  “Since I graduated from Bryn Mawr, essentially. I didn’t want to move to New York and write a column about arts, fashion, cinema…” She shrugged. “But I moved to New York City and did just that.”

  He glanced down at her and stopped walking.

  She smiled. “I worked like a madwoman to get the war correspondent position.”

  “I admire that.” His voice was smooth and his expression sincere. “Seems like your friend Kent is protective.”

  Heat filled her cheeks. “He is. A little too much.”

  “Is he disrespectful to you?”

  She laughed softly. “Not since we were children.”

  They
dodged around a large group of people congregating on the sidewalk.

  “You’ve known each other that long?” he asked.

  “Since we were tiny kids. I’ve known him all my life.”

  “Is he blind in that right eye?”

  His question almost made her stop in her tracks. “Yes, he is. Why do you ask?”

  He smiled. “Sorry. That was too personal. I’m just a curious man. Always have been. I’m always driving my parents and siblings insane with questions.”

  “A good trait for a journalist.”

  “If it doesn’t get me into trouble.”

  Before long they reached the museum, and appreciation filled her. “What a magnificent building. I’ve heard so much about the place. It’s as beautiful as I thought it would be.”

  “Wait until you see the inside.”

  After they’d entered and paid their admission, Sylvie said, “I’d love to see some Egyptian relics. I’ve never seen any in person.”

  He gestured with a gallant sweep of his arm. “This way, my lady.”

  Their time in the museum took longer than she thought—they spent considerable time reading placards and discussing history as they went. James, she decided, was a very nice man with many admirable qualities.

  They left the museum and walked the two blocks to the pub, a place called Ram’s Rear.

  As they walked up to the pub, she released his arm and placed her hands on her hips. “Ram’s Rear? There’s one thing I can say for the English. They aren’t as prudish as everyone thinks.”

  He snorted. “Sure about that?”

  “Well, all right. They can be prudish. But can you imagine anyone back home naming a pub the Ram’s Rear?”

  He laughed, the amusement in his eyes clear and full. “No.”

  When he opened the door to the old pub, a rush of human voices chattering hit her ears. Inside the busy pub, they found a small table at the back. She tucked her legs under her, one of the few times she wished her limbs didn’t seem to stretch forever. She was glad for the long pants since there was a nip in the air. He went to the bar and ordered bangers and mash for them both, as well as a pale ale. He brought the drinks back, and she lifted hers to toast him.

  “To James Pendleton. A very nice man with a chivalrous attitude. Thank you for being my guide today.”

  His smile held mischief and sincere pleasure as they clinked their glasses together. “I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. How did you like the museum?”

  She lifted one eyebrow and adjusted the hat on her head. “A tad stuffy and a bit smelly, but otherwise beautiful.”

  He laughed and a few people looked over at their table, but most people ate their food and were too absorbed in their own doings to pay attention. “There are a lot of people from other countries visiting the museum, even in a time of war. London is truly a very international place. Not all of them view hygiene the way we do.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Did you find any stories that might turn into good articles?”

  “No.” She smiled ruefully. “Did you?”

  “No. But it never hurts to sleep on it and see if a new idea comes to you in the morning.”

  It took a while for their meals to come, but when they did, the food was worth it. She tried eating her bangers and mash with prudence but found as soon as the food came she was ravenous. She sipped the ale much slower—she didn’t drink much as a rule, and she didn’t plan to let the war give her a habit. They left around two in the afternoon and took the underground back to the Savoy.

  As they walked into the lobby, Sylvie turned to James. “Thank you so much for the tour today. I had a wonderful time.”

  James took off his hat. “So did I. We’ll have to do it again. Would you like to have dinner tonight?”

  Sylvie was surprised by the offer, but it didn’t matter. “I would love to, but I’m eating dinner with Alec tonight.”

  He expression was guarded and maybe even a bit disappointed. To his credit, he nodded politely. “Have a wonderful dinner, then. I will probably see you around the hotel and at work on Monday for certain.”

  “For certain. See you then.”

  “Wait…are you free for dinner tomorrow night? I hear the band is playing some wonderful dance music. Do you dance?”

  The idea of dancing, let alone with a good-looking man like James, sent a thrill through her. “I haven’t danced in ages.”

  His voice was liquid smoke, a charming smile on his mouth. “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes. Sunday night it is.”

  “Come hell or high water.”

  She retreated to her room, tired after the day touring the museum. Had she recovered from the bombing Friday? She didn’t know. She sat on the bed, determined to write a story on how the public fared in the face of continued bombings. She yawned, too tired to write more than a few fumbling sentences. She laid her notebook on the bedside table, washed her face, and drank some water before lying down on the bed to nap. Her mind didn’t even whirl with thoughts of her tour or how nice James seemed. She felt asleep in a flash.

  What seemed only seconds later, she heard a distant wailing. Her eyes flew open, and feeling disoriented, she listened. She sat up with a gasp as she realized what she heard. Sirens. A fast glance at her wristwatch told her she’d only slept fifteen minutes. She jammed her feet into her shoes, laced them up quickly, grabbed her pocketbook, and dashed into the hallway. She ran part of the way down the hall just as a few more doors opened. She heard several other guests hurrying down the hall. Everyone headed down the stairwell at a reasonable pace. She wouldn’t risk running and falling headlong, but her nerves bounced and snapped.

  She made it to the lobby and followed the stream of people being directed by a warden to the downstairs level. They emerged into the Abraham Lincoln Room. Among the table and chairs, which filled up rapidly, a man in a white tuxedo stood on a small dais with a band of five. They kicked into a jolly tune she’d never heard before. Suddenly she felt like a passenger on the Titanic and this was the band playing until the end. She shook off a shiver and went to a chair far from everyone else.

  She glanced around and observed the variety of attire. Siren suits, evening dress, and everything in between. In one area, numbered and pink-curtained bunk beds promised to shelter those overnight when bombs fell. She didn’t look forward to sleeping in one of the bunks—sitting in this chair all night seemed preferable. In an alcove, the area was heavily curtained. She imagined only those designated as V.I.P. might enter there.

  She thought of Alec and worry spiked inside her. She thought she heard a rumble, but it might have been her imagination. They hadn’t been in the shelter long enough for bombs to fall unless the warning had come late. She shivered and rubbed her arms. She wished she’d brought her coat. Drawing in a large breath, Sylvie decided she should take advantage of a captive audience. She dug in her pocketbook and then came to a realization.

  “Rats.”

  Not only had she left her coat upstairs, she’d left the notebook as well.

  “Hallo,” an unmistakable male voice came from her left, and she started.

  Alec.

  She stood, surprised and delighted. Part of her wanted to rush up and hug him, but she held back. “You made it. I thought we’d miss dinner again because of bombing.”

  “I was on the way back and just kept driving to get here.” He settled in the chair next to her. “I went upstairs to put away my uniform.”

  “Uniform?” she almost gasped the words. “You’re in?”

  Alec’s eyes widened slightly, and he waggled his eyebrows. “Very in.”

  She didn’t think, she just leaned over and hugged him. As he enveloped her in his strong arms, a surge of happiness was swallowed by her memory. God, he hadn’t gotten this on his own merit. She absolutely hated that and hated what his father had done. She swallowed hard as she came within a hairsbreadth of telling him what she knew. Instead she caught her breath and coughed to hide
what she’d almost said. She drew back.

  He reached up and cupped her face with his right hand. “Are you all right?”

  She smiled, happy for his concern. “I’m fine.”

  He drew his touch away, and she mourned the loss. “Good. So I take it we’ll have to wait to get dinner?”

  “Looks like it. Are bombs falling already?”

  “No. Let’s hope it’s a false alarm.”

  She noticed waiters rushing around in the room taking orders. “I could use a glass of water.”

  He gestured at one of the waiters and the man headed their way.

  “Can I help sir?”

  “The lady would like some water.”

  “Of course. We’ll also have dinner available if you want it.”

  “I’m famished. What is the kitchen cooking while all this is going on?” Alec asked.

  “Whoolton pie,” the waiter said, his tone almost apologetic.

  “That’ll do for me. Water also,” Alec said.

  Sylvie ordered the same, and they settled into a quiet punctuated only by the band at the front playing another jolly tune and the murmur of those in the shelter.

  “I hope we don’t have to sleep here tonight,” Alec said.

  She shrugged. “There are worse places to sleep. I saw a shelter in the tube station today.”

  His gaze sharpened, and she saw a hint of disapproval in his gaze. “You what?”

  “I did a tour. I went to the British Museum and had a meal in a pub called the Ram’s Rear.”

  His eyes widened a bit. She wondered if he’d have a fit because she’d gone out on her own.

  He shook his head. “I’ve heard of the place, believe it or not. You didn’t say you were taking a tour.”

  “Because I thought you’d try and tell me not to go.”

  “I would have. You don’t know anything about the city.”

  “I have to learn someday if I want to continue being a war correspondent.”

  A low rumble vibrated under their feet and the lights flickered. Several female voices went up in alarm, but Sylvie didn’t make a peep. Alec leaned closer and his strong right arm went around her shoulders. She sank into the height and strength. The rumbling stopped and the lights stayed illuminated.