To her relief, his expression didn’t change. “Where did you learn to write, then?”
“I didn’t. I mean, I read everything I could, and sometimes I’d write stories about things that interested me. Just for myself. To . . . well, to see if I could do it.”
“And that was enough to land you the position at The American,” he said, his pale blue gaze entirely focused on her.
She hesitated, not sure if he was stating a truth or asking a question. And she really, really wanted to start fresh at Picture Weekly, with nothing but truth between her and Kaz. So she waited and watched as he ate some more of his sandwich and drank down a few inches of beer.
“You said you grew up in New Jersey?” he asked after a moment.
“I did. In Newark.”
“Did you always want to be a journalist? Don’t look so surprised. Hasn’t anyone ever asked you before?”
“No, not in so many words.”
“So? When did you decide on it?”
“Not when I was little. I remember wanting to be a movie star for a while. And then I read a book about Anna Pavlova and wanted to be a ballerina. Silly dreams, I guess. I did like composition. It was one of the few things I really loved in school.”
“What sort of stories did you write?” he asked, his sandwich finished, his beer almost gone.
“They were always about girls going on adventures, usually by stowing away on a convenient ocean liner. Not very original stuff. I’m sure if I read one of them now I’d be appalled. But they were fun to write at the time.” She took a first bite of her sandwich; it was dry and somewhat tasteless, but would fill her stomach nicely.
“When I was taking night school classes,” Ruby went on, “I met a woman who worked at a magazine in Manhattan. She was there to learn how to type and take shorthand, and she got me thinking. Maybe I could try for something more interesting than work as a secretary or file clerk. Maybe I could do something, like being a journalist, that I’d really love.”
“Do you?”
“Oh, yes. It’s the best job I’ve ever had. By a long stretch.”
“What do you like about it?” he persisted.
She took another few bites of her sandwich, needing the time to consider her answer. “I like the work of finding a story, and then figuring out how to tell it. Everything is a puzzle, or at least to me it is. I just have to find the pieces that are missing. I hope . . . I mean, it does sound silly—”
He shook his head and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table between them. “The thing is, Ruby, I already have two staff writers who are doing that. What makes you different? What can you bring to these stories? Beyond your curiosity and diligence and so forth.”
“I’m not sure,” Ruby said cautiously. “I guess it helps that I’m an outsider. I’m not part of this war, not really . . . so perhaps I can provide a different perspective?”
He nodded, though from his owlish expression he was unconvinced by her fainthearted reply.
“I’m sorry,” she admitted. “It’s a fair question, and you deserve a better answer. In all the rush to pack up and get here, I guess I forgot to think about much beyond the practical things. Where I would live and how I would find my way around. That sort of thing.”
“Understood. Well, think on it when you have a chance. We all bring something to the stories we tell. It may well be that your outsider’s point of view, as you term it, is what sets your work apart—or it may end up being something else entirely. But it’s worth thinking about.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Not until Friday morning did the weather improve enough for Ruby and Mary’s trip to Brighton. Gray skies bloomed sapphire blue, leaving only wisp-thin tufts of cloud, and with Kaz’s blessing she packed up her things and took the Underground over to Victoria Station. Mr. Dunleavy had lent her a history of Brighton to read on the journey down, and as there were no express trains that late in the day, she would have nearly two hours to acquaint herself with the town and its lore.
Her ticket purchased, and with still ten minutes before the train was meant to depart, Ruby began to worry about Mary’s absence. The photographer hadn’t been at the office that morning, but Evelyn had said she or Kaz would telephone her at home. Ruby walked to the middle of the ticket concourse, a vast area that felt almost as big as a baseball stadium, and scanned the passing crowd for her colleague. It took no time at all to pick her out of the crowd.
Mary wasn’t very tall, nor was she especially beautiful, not if compared to a Hollywood actress or some society beauty. But there was something about the way she held herself that would make anyone look twice, something arresting about the confident set to her shoulders, or perhaps it was the calm, almost unnervingly steady way she regarded the passing crowds. As if everyone was a potential subject, and she, the artist, stood apart.
The photographers Ruby knew in New York always had a satchel crammed full of gear, but Mary had brought only her camera in its case, slung casually over her shoulder, and nothing else. Perhaps the camera was some sort of new model that didn’t require extra lenses or flashes or what-have-you.
“Hello, Mary,” she called out, reminding herself there was no need to be nervous. “Do you have your ticket?”
“I do, aye. Ready?”
“Ready,” Ruby agreed.
She’d been bracing herself for a crush on the train, and the possibility of having to stand until they were past the first few commuter stops, since Nigel had flatly refused to reimburse them for anything more than a third-class fare. To her surprise, the carriage they boarded was all but empty. She stood by as Mary chose a forward-facing seat by the window, and then sat opposite.
“When do we get in again?” Mary asked.
“At a quarter to two.”
“I’ll just close my eyes, then. Feeling a wee bit tired today.”
It seemed to take forever before they were clear of the southern suburbs of the city. The countryside, at least what she could see of it from her backward-facing view, was markedly different from the region she’d passed through on the train from Liverpool to London. It was softer, she decided, with beckoning hills and quiet valleys threaded through with silvery brooks. The villages were especially picturesque, their cottages and squat ancient churches linked by hedgerow-lined roads that, with their gently meandering turns, made no concessions to modern notions of expedient travel.
Mary opened her eyes the instant the train arrived in Brighton, leaving Ruby with the unwelcome suspicion that the photographer had been pretending to sleep to avoid speaking with her, and together they made their way toward the main concourse of the station.
It wasn’t hard to guess which of the half-dozen or so people waiting inside was their escort for the day. Middle-aged and precisely mustached, he wore the same sort of one-piece boiler suit in which the prime minister was often seen, along with an armband marked LDV in large appliquéd letters. All that was missing, Ruby mused, was a tin hat and bullhorn.
“You the ladies from Picture Weekly? I’m Bert Renfrew, from the Local Defence Volunteers here in town. Just a formality, but may I see your press passes and identity cards?”
He looked over their documents with care, though Ruby knew from experience that few people could tell a good forgery from the real thing, and handed them back with an almost sheepish grin.
“Can’t be too careful these days. Speaking of that, Miss Buchanan, you really ought to have your gas mask with you.”
Ruby had noticed, in her few days in London, that hardly anyone carried their masks with them; but as she was new to England, and didn’t care to attract the wrong sort of attention, she had forced herself to sling her mask over her shoulder every time she left her lodgings. Mary, it was evident, had no such concerns. Rather than respond to Mr. Renfrew, she simply looked at him steadily, unblinkingly, until he flushed and stepped back.
“I, ah, I’m sorry I don’t have a car for you. The request came in rather last minute, and we’ve . . . well, we
’ve been rather busy here.”
It was time for Ruby to play peacemaker. “I’m sure you have, and we don’t mind at all.”
“It’s not far to the seafront,” he added. “Only a half mile or so.”
She remained in step with Mr. Renfrew on the walk, patiently answering his questions about her reasons for leaving America and her opinion of English people, English food, and the English countryside. Before long they reached the last block of buildings and emerged onto the seafront. Ahead lay the great sweep of the English Channel, vast and limitless, stretching unbroken to the horizon.
“I was told you want to see how the town is defending itself against invasion,” Mr. Renfrew said. “It wasn’t an easy decision to close the beaches, but it was a necessary one. From here, you see, the French coast is only seventy-five miles away, due south. The enemy is only seventy-five miles away.”
Ruby took out her notebook and pencil, and began to make notes in shorthand. “How long does it take to cross to France? In peacetime, that is?”
“Oh, not long. Six hours, sometimes less if conditions are good.”
They walked across the road, stopping at a set of railings that marked the drop to the beach below, and Mr. Renfrew pointed out the defensive measures that were being put in place. “Madeira Drive—the lower road, just down there—has been closed, and blocked off with barbed wire. The entire beach has been mined, of course, and the decking has been removed from stretches of the piers—you can just see the gaps from here. Even this railing will have barbed wire attached to it by next week.”
“And those concrete structures? The things that look like children’s blocks, but much bigger?”
“Ah. Those. We’d rather you didn’t describe them in any kind of detail. Some are machine-gun emplacements, and some are simply barrier structures. In due course they’ll all be camouflaged in some fashion.”
“I understand,” Ruby said, scribbling away. “The story and photographs will have to be cleared with the Ministry of Information, in any event, so you don’t have to worry.”
“It’s strange, you know,” Mr. Renfrew said. “Normally, on a summer day like this, the beach is packed with people. On Whitsun you couldn’t see the shingle for all the crush. And now . . . now it’s more than your life’s worth to go down there.”
“Is it affecting the town? You’re a popular destination for tourists, aren’t you?”
“Not anymore. Not for the duration. Most of the hotels have closed. No one wants to stay here, not so close to the coast, and not with a beach that looks like a battlefield. Still, we’ve got to grit our teeth and get through it. We’re no different than any other town on the Channel.”
“Are people worried about an invasion?”
He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the sea beyond. “No more worried than anyone else, I suppose. I know I’m sleeping better now we’ve got our defenses in place.”
“What did you do before you joined the LDV?” she asked.
“I’m a clerk for the town. Still am, since there’s no pay for local defense. Doing my bit, same as everyone.”
As they talked, Mary kept busy with her camera, silently walking back and forth, one moment focusing on the piers, the next on the beach, the next on the graceful facades of the seafront hotels. Although her work did provoke some curious glances from the few people they passed, Mr. Renfrew’s presence was official looking enough to forestall any accusations of traitorous activities.
They continued along for a few minutes, eventually drawing near to a young woman and three children, one still in a pram.
“Hello there, Mrs. Goodsell,” Mr. Renfrew said. “Nice to see you out and getting some fresh air.”
“Hello, Mr. Renfrew. Keeping busy, are you?”
“That I am. These ladies are from Picture Weekly in London. Doing a story on the town and our defenses. Miss Sutton, Miss Buchanan, this is my neighbor from down the street, Mrs. Goodsell, and her little ones. Johnny, Stanley, and baby Carol.”
“Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Goodsell. Would you mind if we photographed the children for the story?” Ruby asked.
“I guess not. Long as you don’t say where we live or anything.”
“No, we’d never do that.”
They watched tolerantly as the boys tried unsuccessfully to climb the railings that separated them from the tempting obstacle course below, and all the while Mary’s camera kept clicking away, so unobtrusively that the children likely had no idea they were being photographed.
“You must be tired,” Ruby ventured, taking note of the dark circles under Mrs. Goodsell’s eyes. “Taking care of three little ones must be a lot of work.”
“Ooh, that it is. The boys were good babies, but Carol here is ever so fussy at night. Goes down without a peep, but then she’s up like clockwork a few hours later. Still hasn’t slept through the night. I’ve almost given up hope she ever will.”
“She’s a very pretty baby.”
Mrs. Goodsell’s expression brightened. “She is, isn’t she? And she’s good as gold during the day. It’s just at night that she runs me ragged.”
After that, the rest of the interview was easy. Ruby learned that Mrs. Goodsell and her husband had grown up on the same street in Brighton and had married when he was eighteen and she was seventeen, just as soon as they’d been able to persuade their respective parents. He was in the navy, and hardly ever home on leave, and Mrs. Goodsell fretted the children were forgetting him.
“What about the threat of invasion? Does that worry you, too?”
“Not so it keeps me up at night,” Mrs. Goodsell answered, her attention focused on Johnny and Stanley. “The air-raid sirens are a bother, though. Forever going off just as I’ve got little Carol all settled.”
The elder of the boys, Johnny, had tired of his attempts to scale the railings, and had come over to listen in on the adults’ conversation. “But, Mummy,” he pointed out, “you said it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“Yes, I did,” his mother admitted. “And it is best to be safe and listen to the siren.” She ruffled his hair affectionately. “I’d best get you three home for your tea.”
“Thank you for speaking with me,” Ruby said. “The article will probably be in next week’s magazine if you want to look out for it.”
“I will, thank you. Hope you have a safe trip back to London.”
They took a different route back to the train station, for Mr. Renfrew was keen to show Ruby the Royal Pavilion. The book Mr. Dunleavy had lent her had devoted an entire chapter to the unorthodox architecture and checkered past of the Prince Regent’s seaside folly, but its arid prose had done nothing to prepare her for the reality of the actual pavilion.
It was . . . it was . . . how was she meant to react to such an edifice? Its onion-shaped domes, Moorish arches, and slender minarets gave it the appearance of a palace from the Arabian Nights, out of a fairy tale, really, and was absolutely the last building she’d have ever expected to encounter in England.
“I had no idea,” she said, struggling to think of an appropriate response.
“That’s how most people react when they see it. Of course, we’re very fond of the pavilion here, but it is out of the ordinary.”
Though there was no concealing the exuberance and grandeur of its architecture, the palace did look the worse for wear, its paint peeling in a few spots, and most of its windows boarded up or taped over.
“Does the royal family still use it?”
This provoked a honking laugh from Mary, who had been silent since they left the seafront. “They wouldn’t go within a mile of it. Just look at the place.”
This provoked a sigh from Mr. Renfrew. “Miss Buchanan is right. Queen Victoria sold it to the town many decades ago. We began a restoration of the interior a few years back, but that will have to wait until the war is over.”
They said their goodbyes, and Ruby was relieved when Mary managed a perfectly civil thank-you to Mr. Renfrew for his help. She didn’t mi
nd her colleague’s lengthy silences, but it would help if she could refrain from offending the people who were meant to be answering questions. Hadn’t anyone ever told her the rule about catching flies?
As soon as their train was under way, Ruby pulled out her notebook, intent on making more notes while the visit was still fresh in her mind. It would help the journey go faster, besides.
“You were good back there,” Mary said into the silence. “With the LDV man, and Mrs. Goodsell, too. You’ve a real way with people, you know. Most people just rabbit on about themselves.”
“What’s the point in that? You’ll never learn a thing if you’re talking about yourself.”
“Agreed. But you actually seemed interested in her answers.”
“Of course I was. Besides, people can tell if you’re asking questions just to soften them up. You have to care about what they have to say. You have to listen.”
Mary nodded in approval. “It takes some people years to figure that out. Even Kaz in his younger days . . .”
“You’ve known him a long time?”
“Aye, for donkey’s years. There’s no better editor in London. Nor a finer man, for that matter.” A ghost of a smile played around Mary’s mouth, and she turned her head to look out the window.
Curious as she was, Ruby felt certain that the other woman would not welcome any further questions about her relationship with Kaz. “Were you able to get the photographs you wanted?” she asked instead.
“I think so.” Pulling a packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of her jacket, Mary tapped one into her hand and lit it, exhaling a thin plume of smoke in the direction of the half-open window. “I’d offer you one, but I haven’t seen you smoking.”
Goodnight from London Page 5