One London Night

by Denise A. Agnew

  “That one was close,” she said.

  “We’re safe down here.”

  Although she heard confidence in his voice, she knew the truth. “Relatively. When I was in the underground today, I saw a mass of humanity gathering to stay the night. Are they really safe down there?”

  “As much as they possibly can be. Imagine queuing for hours to get in.”

  “And they’re women and children and old men. People who could be hurt, even down there.”

  “Yes. Nowhere is a 100 percent, even if many of the people in the underground think it is. We do the best we can.”

  His arm stayed around her, and over the music, she couldn’t help but enjoy the admiration in his eyes and the deep cadence of his voice.

  “You had an underground map?” he asked.

  “Yes, and James Pendleton was with me.”

  He removed his arm from around her, and instantly she felt cold.

  “That newspaper guy?”

  She made a sound of amusement. “Yes. The newspaper guy. He’s staying here as well. He was coming through the lobby just as I was leaving yesterday.”

  “Uh-huh.” He turned his attention back to the band, which now played a soft tune.

  The clink of dishes and soft chatter filled the room.

  “Uh-huh? What does that mean?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Nothing. Seems like he’s moving in on you already.”

  She pushed, unwilling to let it die. “What if he was? He’s a nice man and attractive.”

  “Huh.” His grunt said it all, and he turned his gaze to her. His eyes were cool. “Take care. You don’t know much about him.”

  Rather than argue with him, she decided to say something he didn’t expect. “You’re right.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “I am?”

  “A woman can never be too cautious.”

  They were silent for a while, the occasional rumble from bombing keeping Sylvie on edge. Their meal came shortly afterwards, and the waiter served them with all the pomp and circumstance they might have expected upstairs. They ate their meals in relative silence at first.

  “It looks like half the hotel is here,” she said, making conversation.

  “Indeed.”

  “You haven’t said much about getting into the AFS. You don’t even seem too thrilled about it.”

  He finished the last of his Woolton pie and placed the fork on his plate. He jammed his hand through his hair, and then explained in detail what had happened.

  When he’d finished, she swallowed hard. “Sounds like this Hamel man was about to say no.”

  “I think he was. But I pulled through the physical. When he snuck up on me from the right, he thought he could prove that my eye is a liability.”

  Conflicting emotions ran around inside her. She didn’t think before she spoke. “Part of me wishes you hadn’t gotten the job.”

  A huge frown crossed his face, his expression hard. “Why?”

  “Because it’s dangerous. I’m worried.”

  He heaved a breath and tossed his napkin on the table. The waiter came and removed their empty plates. “Do you doubt I’m capable?”

  Impulsively, she reached out and clasped his forearm. “No, no. That isn’t it at all. Just…do you know how dangerous the job is going to be?”

  “Of course. A man would have to be a bloody imbecile not to understand.”

  She sighed. “So it’s work for us both on Monday.” When he stayed silent, she allowed more curiosity to take over. Fear hovered on the edge. She admitted to herself she didn’t want to bring up a painful subject. But maybe now was as good as any time. “When I came to England the last time, you were away at Oxford. At least that’s what my grandparents said. My parents were angry that I asked and that my grandparents knew.”

  Alec looked hard, his attention riveted to the table in front of him. “I’m surprised they knew I was at Oxford, considering my parents and your grandparents weren’t talking.”

  “I think my grandparents weren’t talking to your parents because of…”

  “I know. The way my father and mother acted after the accident.”

  “Did your parents ever tell you I stopped by your house while you were at Oxford? To try and mend things?”

  He jerked his gaze to hers, nailing her with the intensity. “No. But that doesn’t surprise me. What surprises me is that they’re reconciling now.”

  “War changes people, Alec.”

  “Yes. We’ll just have to see what this war does to our families, won’t we?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Did your grandparents tell you where my parents sent me after the accident?”

  “No.” She couldn’t imagine.

  “A school for the blind here in London. I was there a year and learned how to navigate in this world with only one working eye. It wasn’t all bad, but it sure as hell wasn’t all good. After that I went to Oxford and read English. My father was certain I would become a barrister or solicitor.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Didn’t like it. After I completed my time at Oxford, I came home.”

  “And you’ve been helping with the farm all this time?”

  “Yes.”

  She tried to imagine him retreating to the Kent House, closing off from life.

  She had so many other questions to ask him. Instead she said, “I didn’t want to leave England that summer of the accident. I wanted to stay…forever.”

  She swallowed hard as tears threatened. Raw emotions gripped her. She almost choked on it, surprised by her own torment.

  “Why are we talking about this now?” he asked.

  She didn’t expect to hear that, and it kept her quiet too long.

  “It was a long time ago, Sylvie. We can’t change anything that happened,” he said.

  “No. We can’t. But I felt it was important to talk about it.”

  “Bringing it up only reminds me of what I don’t have.”

  She heard a tone in his voice, a resignation she couldn’t understand. “You sound so defeated. For heaven’s sake, you just got a position with the AFS and you’ve wanted that for a while.”

  He went from listening to closed off. “Getting on the AFS was good luck and hard work. It’s one of the rare good things I’ve had happen in the last couple of years. I’m taking hold of it and running with it.”

  “Good.”

  “As for you, well, you’ll do your bit telling the Americans if we thoroughly cock up this war. Then maybe we’ll need you to rescue our hind ends before the Jerries destroy everything.”

  Her mouth opened at his rough language and the edge of scorn on his tongue. She hadn’t seen this side of him in a long time. Being blind in one eye hadn’t given him this edge. He’d always seemed this way, but now he was a full-grown man and the impact of his bluntness left her aching. She wanted to do something, to change something until he found a light in all this darkness.

  “Are you bitter?” she asked.

  “Some days. Some nights.”

  The finality of his statement left her speechless.

  He turned fully toward her, and he took her left hand in both of his. “Look here, Sylvie. You’ll be here however long the war lasts. We both know after that you’ll go home to the United States. England is just a short stop on your adventure. War correspondents don’t park themselves in one country forever. They have to travel, to make their way to new adventures. Even London won’t be exciting after the war is over.”

  The cynicism in his voice showed her this was one of those days he saw cloaked with uncertainty.

  “Well, that’s convenient isn’t it, Alec? People can say there is a war on, so don’t get too attached to anything,” she said, pulling her hand from his and folding her hands in her lap.

  An Air Raid Warden with impeccable timing entered the room and announced the all clear. There was no need to sleep in the shelter tonight.

  “Thank goodness. I have a feeling I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep d
own here,” Sylvie said.

  They left for upstairs, and when they returned to the lobby, she turned to Alec.

  “See you tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I plan on sleeping in. Last chance I’ll get for a long time. Then I have this eighty-two page book to read about procedures and training for AFS. In light of what we’ve discussed, maybe we should just…give ourselves a day off tomorrow.” His gaze tangled with hers, his eyes tired. “Perhaps dinner tomorrow night.”

  “I already have a dinner date with James at six o’clock here at the hotel.”

  His expression didn’t change. “Well, then…”

  Her heart thumped in her chest, a pain akin to gasping for breath. “Well, then…” Proving that impulse was a true part of her nature, she reached up and hugged him fiercely. She had a feeling this would be the last time she got to hug him in a long time. She released him quickly and left with only, “Good night, Alec.”

  Chapter 6

  News of the Day

  New York Herald Tribune

  Life goes on here at a pace most Americans would find fascinating. Far beyond the bombs that have fallen and utterly destroyed sections of London, there is a timeless rhythm of life the British refuse to abandon. They have tea in the ruins, eat in the ruins. Sleep in the ruins. While I suspect many of them are hurting from destruction of their homes and valuables, from injuries and deaths of loved ones, they refuse to give in to the punishment meted out by the Germans. Or, as they say here without hesitation, the Jerries. The British are a tough, unrelentingly stoic people when the bombs fall. There is less screaming and crying than one would expect. They simply grit their teeth and get on with it.

  * * * *

  Sunday, September 15

  James met Sylvie in the River Room for dancing after a light meal. The band played Moonlight, The Stars and You.

  “Oh, this is an old song,” she said. “Do we want to try this dance?”

  She was eager to finally take to the floor.

  “God no.” He smiled. “I told you I’m a horrible dancer, but at least if it is a slow dance, I can pretend.”

  She rolled her eyes. “This is a slow song. All right. We’ll wait for a slower song.” She decided she’d sing instead and watched his eyes grow wide and amused.

  “That’s amazing. You have a beautiful voice. Watch out or I’ll tell them to let you sing.”

  She stopped singing and frowned. “Don’t you dare. I don’t sing that well.”

  He laughed. “Oh, come on. One more line of the song. Let’s hear it.”

  Thankfully the music was loud enough no one could hear her. So she cleared her throat and sang a little more.

  He saluted her with his glass of whiskey as the last few bars of the song played out.

  She stopped singing. “I love that song.”

  “So where have you been hiding that voice?”

  “It’s not much, honestly, so don’t flatter me.”

  His grin was huge. “Right. Okay, if you’re not keen on the idea of singing, we could find something else to do.”

  “Such as?”

  “We could go up on the roof and be fire spotters.”

  She shivered. “I hate to admit I’m half excited by that idea. Have you gone up there during a nighttime raid?”

  “I have. Came down with bloodshot eyes. Betty shanghaied me with whiskey. I swear to God half the correspondents here are addicted to Jack Daniels.”

  They nursed their whiskey—James had asked her if she wanted one, and she surprised him by imbibing. She hoped tonight the Germans would give London a break and they wouldn’t need to retreat to the shelter for once.

  The female singer settled in to another slow song. This time Sylvie decided she wouldn’t have any more of James saying he wouldn’t dance with her.

  “Come on.” She slugged down her drink, also weary of sipping. “Let’s dance.”

  She stood and held out her hand, and this time he didn’t refuse her. “Well, we’re in the River Room in the Savoy in London. This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

  She took his hand, and they headed to the floor. “Only once? Maybe you’ll like dancing with me and want to do more of it.”

  “Are you flirting with me, Miss Hunnicut?”

  “I might be.”

  He laughed, and soon his warm hands and strong body distracted her as they took a spin on the dance floor. Dozens of others did the same, so she didn’t feel conspicuous. The music was sweet and delicious, a lovely song she recognized. She loved it. James, though, was an awful dancer. Now she understood his reluctance. She ignored his attempts to avoid stepping on her toes and watched a man tickle the keys on the white piano. Moments later they heard the distant wail of the air raid sirens.

  Another commotion came she didn’t expect. One of the correspondents ran down into the room and started chattering with someone across the room, and soon several correspondents headed upstairs.

  James stopped with Sylvie in the middle of the dance floor. “What is that all about?”

  “Let’s go see. You should be happy to stop dancing,” she said, and started that way.

  James hurried after her, and before long it seemed as if half the press corps headed upstairs. She broke into the lobby area and didn’t expect what she saw. A large group of around sixty or seventy men in ragged clothing, their hair astray, hats askew, and faces darkened with soot, argued with porters and hotel employees. Voices instantly went up, and angry faces registered around the aggravated group.

  “Let us in the bloody shelter! We’re just as worthy as the rest of this lot!” One man raised his fist and pumped the air.

  That’s when Sylvie realized this wasn’t the average man on the street coming in to shelter.

  One man at the front raised his hand. “I’m Michael Parkins, and I’m here to protest the conditions most of my fellow man live in during this war while you people live high off the hog!”

  Two reporters with notepads rushed forward and started asking questions, but other men around Mr. Parkins pushed them back.

  “Who is that man?” Sylvie asked James in a whisper.

  “Communist Party organizer,” James said.

  Another stalked toward Sylvie and James. “Yeah, these toffs don’t deserve anything better than us.”

  “Now, now,” one of the better-dressed men walked in front of the last man and cut him off. “We don’t want to hurt any of the rich. We just want equal treatment.”

  One of the porters bumped into a protestor. “Here now, there ain’t no call for this. Go back to bloody Russia or wherever you Bolsheviks come from.”

  James uttered a curse low under his breath. Tension crackled as the sirens continued their wail. Sirens came in an eerie series of sound waves across the city. She’d heard the phenomenon referred to as Moaning Minnie, but had no idea why London called it that.

  She pulled her attention back to the scene at hand, and in that odd moment, Sylvie’s writer’s mind went to the worst possible scenario. A bomb could drop here and now and wreak unimaginable destruction.

  “If they don’t watch out, a riot’s going to start,” James muttered.

  The man the porter had insulted got in the porter’s face. “I ain’t no Bolshevik, but I am a Communist.”

  “Well, we aren’t,” another porter said.

  The manager, a man she’d yet to meet, stepped forward, hands raised to the group. “Now see here. There’s no need to get violent. There’s plenty of shelters closeby. If you don’t leave, we’ll have to call the police straight away.”

  Mr. Parkins walked toward James and Sylvie. “Sylvie Hunnicut?”

  Startled, she stared at the man but said nothing. James stepped in front of her, as if to shelter her from harm.

  The man stopped in front of James but peeked around James’ far bigger body. “Are you Miss Hunnicut?”

  Full of hesitation, she answered. “Yes.”

  “You’re the one we’ve got to speak to, then. That woman t
old us you’d write up our story.”

  “That woman?” she asked, confused.

  “Betty Parks,” another man said. “She said you’d be the one to write up the story, and we should find you here.”

  Sylvie didn’t know whether to jump on an opportunity Betty had sent her way or not. And why would Betty throw a story her way anyway?”

  “What type of story?” Sylvie asked.

  “Why it is the toffs get all these special shelters while our families in other parts of the city are trying to survive in Anderson shelters that ain’t worth piss,” another man next to James said.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” She didn’t know what else to say. “I wish I could answer that.”

  The manager approached the man. “Now see here, this is no place to write up a newspaper story.”

  Sylvie thought fast. “Of course it isn’t. What if this man comes with me downstairs and I write up his story? And maybe the others can shelter there, too, while the bombing is going on? After all, they’re here.”

  Everything seemed to hang in a balance, threatening to fall to one side or the other with a crash. Quiet descended on the group, the sirens a spooky tune in the background.

  The manager’s mouth opened and shut. “Absolutely not.”

  Sylvie heard rumblings in the background, the sounds of bombs falling somewhere. “Please. We can’t leave them up here. Let them come downstairs.”

  The manager huffed. “Very well. But as soon as the all clear comes, they are out of here.”

  The manager directed two hotel staff, big burly men, to escort Mr. Parkins downstairs. Sylvie and James followed, while the protestors trailed along. Sylvie’s nerves jumped and prickled as she thought of what could happen in the next few minutes. Before long they’d entered the shelter, and dozens of people looked up in alarm as the somewhat ragged bunch entered. The piano went silent, and other than the commotion of coughs, glasses and utensils clinking, the restaurant and shelter was oddly quiet. Parkins stood in the middle of it all looking like a king among the men who’d followed him.

  “So what do you think, men? Are these handsome accommodations?” Parkins asked.

  A basic agreement went up around the room.

  The burly hotel staff watched the others with jaded expressions, as if expecting them to cause havoc at any moment.