Goodnight from London

by Jennifer Robson

  DEDICATION

  In memory of Nikki Moir

  1919–2014

  A first-class journalist, a wonderful grandmother,

  and the woman who led me to Ruby

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part I Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part II Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part III Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Part IV Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More. . .* About the author

  About the book

  Read on

  Praise

  Also by Jennifer Robson

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART I

  You lay in the tall grass with the wind blowing gently across you and watched the hundreds of silver planes swarming through the heavens like clouds of gnats. All around you, anti-aircraft guns were shuddering and coughing, stabbing the sky with small white bursts. You could see the flash of wings and the long white plumes from the exhausts; you could hear the whine of engines and the rattle of machine-gun bullets. You knew the fate of civilization was being decided fifteen thousand feet above your head in a world of sun, wind and sky. You knew it, but even so it was hard to take it in.

  —Virginia Cowles, correspondent for the Sunday Times, Looking for Trouble (1941)

  CHAPTER ONE

  June 1940

  New York City

  Ruby had been marooned outside Mike Mitchell’s office for going on forty-five minutes, perched on a hard wooden chair under a wanly flickering electric light. Not for The American a floor of grand offices in the modern splendor of the Rockefeller Center. Instead, America’s fourth-most-popular weekly newsmagazine made do with a third-floor walk-up on a dismal stretch of East Forty-Seventh Street, and if anyone complained about the scarcity of telephones, or the need to wear an overcoat between November and April, Mr. Mitchell just gave them The Look, which everyone knew was shorthand for If you don’t want this job, there are ten people who’ll take your place in a heartbeat.

  She hadn’t so much as shed her coat that morning when his secretary had summoned her, and she was glad, now, with her stomach flipping and flopping, that she’d skipped breakfast yet again. Mr. Mitchell had said hello to her on her first day, and had nodded at her twice in the hallway, but for all that, she hadn’t been sure he even knew who she was. And now he wanted to see her.

  She’d thought she was doing well at the magazine. Already she’d earned two bylines of her own, and her name had appeared as a contributor to five other pieces. She’d even moved beyond the usual sob-sister fare on her most recent story, a profile of a family of Belgian refugees who were still in shock at their country’s calamitous defeat.

  Maybe she’d stepped on someone’s toes. It wasn’t hard to do, since your average newsman was as touchy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Had she spoken out of turn at the last editorial meeting? Made the mistake of interrupting one of the old guard?

  Mr. Mitchell had been awfully quiet this morning, which in itself was disconcerting. After her first few days at the magazine, Ruby had grown used to his hoarse bellow, which was a constant bass note amid the cacophony of the newsroom. Even when his office door was closed, which wasn’t often, it was easy to hear him above the clattering of typewriters and jangling of telephones, shouting out his approval or disdain in equal measure. But a quiet Mike Mitchell . . . she’d no idea if that was good or bad.

  “Miss Sutton! Still there?”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, and gritting her teeth a little, she inched into his office.

  She’d assumed it would be messy like the managing editor’s office, which was overflowing with heaps of paper and books and marked-up page proofs. But Mr. Mitchell’s desk was nearly bare. Two telephones, a lone piece of paper centered just so, an old coffee can stuffed with pens and compositor’s pencils, and nothing else.

  He’d been looking out his window, though the view beyond was hardly more than a plain brick wall, and as his chair swiveled around she forced herself to stand perfectly still. A strand of hair was tickling her cheek, but she resisted the urge to tuck it behind her ear. Fidgeting with it would make her look nervous, and to look nervous would be to imply she’d done something wrong. It was one of the first lessons she’d learned growing up at St. Mary’s, and one of the hardest.

  She cleared her throat and waited, and then, when he still said nothing, she spoke up. “You asked me to come and see you . . . ?”

  “Yes.” He indicated the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, and remind me—how long have you been with us?”

  “About six months, sir.”

  “You’re happy here? Settling in well?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bill Peterson likes you. Says you work hard and keep your eyes and ears open.”

  That came as a relief. The managing editor was pleasant enough, but was a miser with compliments. “It’ll do” was the highest praise she’d ever heard from the man.

  “I—”

  “Been reading your work. Not much of a stylist, are you? But then we don’t leave a lot of room for that.”

  The American employed a distinctive house style that read like an expanded version of the cablese the wire services still employed to save money on overseas telegrams. Succinct, crisp, and to the point, it treated adverbs like caviar—rare and best regarded with suspicion—and ruthlessly excised any attempts by staff writers to spread their poet’s wings.

  Mr. Mitchell leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head, and regarded her steadily. “I’ve an idea to put to you. It would mean a big change.”

  It took a moment for her to process his words. “I don’t understand. Didn’t you call me in because I’ve done something wrong?”

  “Hell, no. Why’d you think that? If you foul up, I’ll let you know right away.”

  Sitting forward, he pushed the piece of paper across his desk and motioned that she should pick it up. “I just got this from Walter Kaczmarek, the editor of Picture Weekly in London. Go on—read it.”

  28 May 1940

  Dear Mike,

  I’ll spare you the preliminaries and get to the point: with the Phoney War behind us, London is filling up with Yank journalists, and after running into at least a dozen of them over the past week I’m starting to think I could use one, too—the fellows I’ve met are keen and bright and unfettered by notions of politesse, at least where getting a good story is concerned. I don’t have the budget to take one on full-time, but I could split the costs if you feel like sending one of your staffers over. If you have a girl to spare, so much the better—home-front news is our bread and butter right now. Someone smart and independent and not overly fussy about niceties like sugar in her
coffee, since both are in short supply in dear old England right now, and likely to remain so.

  If I’m barking up the wrong tree, let me know sharpish. Same goes if you do have someone to send me.

  Regards,

  Kaz

  “So? What d’you think? Are you game?”

  Ruby stifled the urge to look behind her, half convinced he was speaking to someone else, and instead attempted to focus her wavering gaze on the letter.

  “So you’re saying you want me to go.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not one of the other staff writers? Tom Alfredson or Dan Mazur?”

  “I may end up sending Mazur, but that would be to cover the war itself. If Britain and her allies ever get a toehold in Europe. Besides, Kaz says he wants the woman’s perspective, and you’re good at that human interest crap. I liked the piece you did on those Belgian refugees the other week.”

  “What about Frida Lindeman?” she persisted. It couldn’t be her—he had to be confusing her with someone else.

  “She has her parents to look after. No. Stop right there. I’ve already talked to Peterson. He says you don’t have any family close by.”

  “Mr. Peterson knows about this? And he’s fine with it?”

  “’Course he is. So—do you have family here that need you?”

  “No. Not close by.” Not anywhere.

  “Then what’s the problem?” There was an edge of impatience to Mr. Mitchell’s voice now. “Is there someone keeping you here? A boyfriend? Is that the problem?”

  Ruby shook her head, her face growing hot. “No, sir.”

  “Do you want the job or don’t you?”

  “I do, Mr. Mitchell. I do. It’s only that I . . . well, I don’t have a passport.”

  “That’s what’s worrying you? For chrissakes—we’ll help with that. Just bring in your birth certificate and one of the staff photogs will take your picture. I’ve a friend in the State Department who’ll make sure there isn’t any holdup.”

  Normally she was good at thinking on her feet, but this was a lot to take in. She looked around Mr. Mitchell’s strangely tidy office, so different than she’d imagined, and then stole a glance at the oddly unthreatening figure of her editor. Perhaps this was just a dream. An amazingly detailed one, but a dream all the same. Nightmares, or even good dreams like this, did have a way of being that little bit off in the details. Mr. Mitchell being so nice, for example.

  If she was dreaming, it was time to wake up and face the day. To hurry things along, she spiked her thumbnail into the tender skin of her opposite palm, and waited for the pain to wake her. Nothing changed.

  “When would I leave?” she asked after a moment, her heart racing. She wasn’t sure if it was from excitement or straight-up fear.

  “In a week or two. Soon as your passport’s ready. Are you in the middle of anything now?”

  “A piece on the WPA program that’s training domestic servants. It’s—”

  “Well, finish it off, then read up on the European war. Whatever’s been printed in Time and Newsweek, and I guess the Times as well. Any other questions?”

  “How would it work? Would you both run the pieces I write?”

  “Depends on the piece. I like the idea of you writing something for us every other week or so. We could call it ‘Letters from London’ or something like that.”

  “I think the New Yorker is using that already for Mollie Panter-Downes’s columns.”

  “Fine. Something else, then. And only if it’s got some heft to it. No profiles of brave Spitfire pilots or plucky girls riding their bikes to the munitions factory. Any other questions?”

  “Who will be paying me, sir? I’m sorry if that seems crass.”

  “Not at all. It’ll be like Kaz says in his letter—we’ll split your salary down the middle, and cover your expenses, same as here. No champagne lunches at the Savoy, obviously. Anything else?”

  She had about a million questions, but it wouldn’t be smart to annoy him now. And there were plenty of other people she could ask. “No, sir.”

  “The thing is . . .” he started, and a frown marked his brow. “It could be dangerous. We both know there’s a better-than-average chance of the Germans invading England by the end of the summer. As an American, and a journalist, you’d be safer than most. But I need to warn you, all the same.”

  “I understand, sir.” She doubted he’d have bothered warning any of the men at the magazine, but she was younger than most of her colleagues, and perhaps that was the reason he worried. “I’m not afraid. I’ll take my chances.”

  “Good girl. On your way, Miss Sutton. I’ll call along to Peterson now.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mitchell.”

  He nodded, grinned, and then picked up the telephone receiver and swiveled away. Hoisting his feet onto the bookcase under his window, he leaned back so far she braced herself for the moment he toppled backward, but if there was a trick of balancing the chair just so, he had clearly discovered it.

  Moments later she was back at her desk, which was wedged into the darkest corner of the newsroom with those of the other junior staff writers. She sat down heavily, out of breath though she’d only walked a matter of yards, and immediately drew the attention of her nearest neighbor. Betty Chilton had only been on staff a few months more than Ruby, and they shared a telephone and a typewriter.

  Ruby had been apprehensive, that first day at work, when Betty had introduced herself with the clipped yet airy accent of someone who’d been born several rungs higher up the ladder than most and educated accordingly. It was, in fact, the same accent that Ruby herself had been trying to master for years, honed by repeated viewings of Myrna Loy and Norma Shearer movies at the cinema around the corner from her boardinghouse.

  Betty was the kind of girl who bought her skirts and blouses from Bonwit Teller and had them fitted by the seamstresses in-store. Betty lived at her parents’ pied-à-terre on Riverside Drive and spent her summer weekends in Narragansett. Betty hadn’t needed to buy a used copy of Emily Post’s guide to etiquette and read it over and over again until its precepts were glued fast in her head.

  But Betty was friendly and sweet, and if she noticed that Ruby’s clothes came from the sale racks at J. C. Penney and she only had one hat for summer and one for winter, or if she realized that Ruby turned down her invitations to go dancing at the Roseland because she didn’t have a nice enough dress, she was too kind to say so.

  “What’s wrong, Ruby? Was Mr. Mitchell mean to you?”

  “Not at all. He’s sending me to England, if you can believe it.”

  “England?”

  “I’m seconded to Picture Weekly. They’re sending me to London. I might even get a column of my own.” Saying it aloud didn’t make it seem any more real. She was going to England. To cover a war. With only six months of experience under her belt, somehow she had been chosen.

  “Lucky duck, you.”

  “I know. I can’t quite believe it. Why did they pick me, of all people?”

  “Why not you? Mr. Peterson’s been happy with your work.”

  “I guess it helps that I’m at the bottom of the pay scale. And now they each only have to cough up half my salary.”

  “Perhaps, but they wouldn’t have chosen you if Mr. Mitchell didn’t think you were up to the job. So stop worrying and take a second to feel proud of yourself.”

  An unwelcome memory, fierce and galling, pushed itself forward. Sister Benedicta, her nostrils flaring with disdain, her hot breath puffing sourly against Ruby’s face. Forcing her to hold out her small hands for the ruler, its metal edge so sharp against her palms. Making her repeat, in front of everyone, “I will never amount to anything. I will never amount to anything. I will never amount to anything.”

  She had dutifully parroted the words for Sister Benedicta, but with each biting jolt of pain to her tender hands she had made a different vow. I will make something of myself, she had chanted silently. I will make something of myself.

>   Ruby had known many disheartening and miserable days since then, days when she had been hungry and cold and so tired she could barely stay on her feet. And she had been grateful, each time, for Sister Benedicta and her cruelty. Giving up would have meant proving that the nun had been right, and the memory of the vow she had made to herself never failed to keep her standing and moving forward.

  Betty reached over and patted Ruby’s arm, her kind gesture instantly banishing the specter of Sister Benedicta. “You aren’t worried, are you? The war’s being fought in Europe, not England. London should be safe enough for the moment. And if the Germans do invade, I’m sure you’ll be sent home. It’s not as if we’re at war with them.”

  Ruby nodded in acknowledgment, biting back any further protestations. Were Betty to be handed the same opportunity by Mr. Mitchell, she would certainly accept with grace and courage. “You’re right,” she said. “I know you’re right.”

  “When do you go?” Betty asked.

  “I’m not sure. I have to get a passport first.” And that just made her stomach start to flip-flop all over again.

  Mr. Mitchell had said they would need a birth certificate, which meant she would have to go over to Danny’s place in Hell’s Kitchen that evening, and hope he wasn’t too busy. Once she explained, though, he would definitely help. Once a St Mary’s kid, always a St. Mary’s kid.

  It would be expensive—there was no getting around it. She’d have to go home and see how much was left in her rainy-day envelope wedged behind the top drawer in her bureau. And that meant she had to leave by five o’clock and not a minute later, since there was no point going to see Danny if he’d had more than a couple of drinks. Shaky handwriting on a birth certificate wouldn’t get her across the Hudson, let alone the Atlantic.

  CHAPTER TWO

  30 June 1940

  The Sinbad

  The North Atlantic, somewhere north of Ireland

  The knock sounded at her cabin door at seven o’clock on the dot. For the first time in two weeks Ruby felt close to human, and she had managed not only to dress herself, but also to brush the tangles out of her hair and sit up in her berth.