Goodnight from London

by Jennifer Robson

  “Deep breath,” came Mary’s voice in her ear. “That’s it. And another. You’ll be yourself in a minute. Come away with me. Come on and follow me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ruby gasped as Mary led her away. “I don’t know why I reacted like that.”

  “You let yourself be human, that’s all. I took a turn, too, when I saw that wee shoe.”

  “I’m fine. I will pull myself together—I promise I will.”

  “I know you will. Now, why don’t we see where Mr. Ellis has vanished?”

  They ran him to ground just around the corner, deep in conversation with a police officer.

  “Sorry for wandering off, ladies. This is Sergeant Harris. Known him since he was a green recruit.”

  “Mr. Ellis here was telling me how you’ve come up from London to write a story about Liverpool. ’Bout time someone admitted the Blitz isn’t just in London.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Ruby affirmed. “Mr. Ellis was telling us that the college took a direct hit.”

  “Was a parachute mine. One gust of wind in any direction and we wouldn’t be standing here. Makes you sick just to think of it.”

  “Is there any hope of survivors? I saw, just now . . .”

  Sergeant Harris shook his head decisively. “After what I saw last night? I doubt it.”

  “Do you think anyone might be willing to speak with my friends?” Mr. Ellis asked.

  “Won’t know unless we ask. But not here—people here are waiting for news. Best to go down the road a bit. By the mobile canteen, maybe?”

  With their typical brisk efficiency, the ladies of the WVS had gotten to work feeding the neighborhood. Huge billy cans of soup and tea were steaming away, and slabs of cake were being handed out to any child who asked nicely.

  Was that all it took to restore a child’s spirits? A piece of cake and a cup of milky tea? When disaster had overtaken her life, she’d been about the same age as these children drawing hopscotch squares on the pavement with bits of broken plaster. It had been easy to placate her, too, with promises of fun and good things to eat. Only later, much later, had she grasped the import of her changed circumstances, and the grief of that moment had never left her.

  A few women stood nearby, their hands wrapped around steaming mugs of tea, their faces drawn and pale, their eyes moving constantly, fretfully, between their children and the calamity of the ruin down the road. One, who looked even more tired than her friends, held a feebly fussing baby, well wrapped in blankets and a knitted cap, over her shoulder.

  “Good morning, ladies. I’ve got Mr. Ellis here from the Herald, and two ladies from Picture Weekly in London.” The women nodded, one by one, and did their best to smile.

  There was nothing for it but to plunge ahead. “Thank you so much for speaking with us. Were any of you in the shelter at the college last night?” As Ruby talked, she pulled out her notebook and opened it to the first blank page.

  They all shook their heads, and then the woman with the baby in her arms spoke, her voice wobbly with fatigue or shock. “Only by the grace of God we didn’t go. Tommy is just getting over the whooping cough. He’s that noisy at night, and I didn’t want to bother anyone. So we sat under the stairs. Never thought I’d be happy to see him sick . . .”

  “Do any of you know anyone who was, ah, in the shelter?” Ruby asked, and steeled herself for their answers.

  “My neighbor down the road. Four of her kids died. Four,” said one.

  The woman next to her nodded sadly. “We always thought it was the safest place round here. Big, solid building like that. Seemed a sight better than those Morrison sandwiches they put up in no time at all.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Ruby asked. “‘Morrison sandwiches’?”

  “She means the surface shelters. Those places are deathtraps,” said another. “One good sneeze, and you’re the meat in the middle of a shelter sandwich.”

  And then, from the woman holding the baby, “Are you an American?”

  “I am,” Ruby answered, still scribbling down the quotes that had come flying at her. “I came over in the summer. My ship docked in Liverpool, so my first sight of England was your city. I never thought . . . well, I’m sorry to be returning under these circumstances.”

  “If I was you, I’d hop on the first ship leaving for Canada,” said an older woman at the fringe of the group.

  “You know, there’ve been mornings it’s crossed my mind. Especially after one of those nights when I’ve been back and forth to the shelter so many times my head is spinning.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement. “Those nights are the worst,” someone said.

  “But I usually think better of it once the sun is up. For better or for worse, I’m here for the duration. Now, would any of you be comfortable sharing your names with me? The story will likely run in next week’s issue.”

  She was pleasantly surprised when all the women crowded around, perfectly willing and perhaps even a touch excited at the thought of seeing their names in print. As she copied down their names next to their respective quotes, she looked to Mary and waited for her colleague’s signal. A nod meant they should move on; a shake of her head, and Ruby had to keep talking. Mary nodded.

  “Thank you, ladies. I do appreciate your taking the time to speak with me.” She shook everyone’s hand, patted the baby’s back and wished him good health, and then turned to follow Mary, Mr. Ellis, and the policeman back up the road.

  They said goodbye to Sergeant Harris, and back in the car, Mr. Ellis asked his driver to return them to the city center. “Do you feel like you were able to get enough photographs, Miss Buchanan? And you, Miss Sutton? Do you have enough for your story?”

  “I think so.” She checked her wristwatch; they had ninety minutes before the train to London was due to leave. “We’ve got a bit of time left still.”

  “Then why don’t I take the two of you to lunch? There’s a decent place not far from the station.”

  “We wouldn’t want to keep you from your work,” Ruby protested, all too conscious of the poor man’s fatigue. “Won’t they be expecting you back at the paper?”

  “I’m all but living there at present. They won’t miss me for another hour.”

  “How is your wife?” Mary asked.

  “She’s well, thank you, and the children. Refuses to leave the city, no matter how often I ask. Won’t agree to go without me.”

  “Do you live nearby?” Ruby asked.

  “Fortunately, no. Our house is in Garston, a bit south of here. So far we’ve escaped the bombs, but I’m not fool enough to expect it to last forever. I only hope I can persuade Isobel to go to my sister in Wales if—when—it gets worse.”

  They passed a pleasant hour with him, and Ruby was content to sit back and listen to his stories about a young Kaz, straight out of school and green as grass and given to blushing bright red whenever Mr. Ellis had so much as coughed in his direction. She couldn’t remember, even an hour later, what she’d eaten for lunch at the public house near the station, but it had filled her stomach and calmed her nerves, and by the time they rose to leave she was feeling quite miraculously restored.

  Mr. Ellis was kind enough to come inside the station with them and make sure their train hadn’t been delayed, and only when he was satisfied that their journey home was assured did he shake their hands and accept their thanks for his assistance.

  “It was my distinct pleasure, I assure you.” He paused, his brow knitting into a frown. “The thing is . . . what happened in Edge Hill is only the beginning. Call me a Cassandra if you like, but I’m convinced the Germans have been toying with us. Here in Liverpool, I mean. When they decide to destroy the docks, life in this city will get much, much harder.”

  “So it’s only a matter of time?” Ruby pressed.

  “Oh, yes. The MOI won’t let you print a word of this—I’m just telling you as one journalist to another. Britain lives and dies by what comes through these docks. War matériel, food, troops. Ev
erything our empire can give us. The docks are a lifeline, in the most literal sense, and if they go . . .”

  He surveyed the bustling station interior, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, his face pinched and drawn in an expression of utter desolation. “I’m sorry for sounding so bleak. If I were any kind of patriot, I would offer up something more encouraging. Something about the resolute spirit of Liverpool’s people, perhaps? At least that part would be true.”

  The station clock chimed the quarter hour; their train was leaving in five minutes.

  “Off you go,” he instructed. “And make sure to embarrass Kaz with my stories as soon as you can. The next editorial meeting, if you can manage it.”

  “That’s a promise,” Mary said.

  He turned to Ruby and shook her outstretched hand. “Good luck to you, Miss Sutton. Goodbye, and good luck.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Christmas 1940

  Ruby hadn’t expected to spend Christmas Eve in an air-raid shelter surrounded by strangers. Nor had she expected she would enjoy it so much.

  With Christmas falling on a Wednesday, everyone at PW had worked well into the afternoon of the twenty-fourth. That way, they might then have Christmas Day off without falling too far behind. Before they left, Kaz treated everyone to dinner at a nearby chophouse that hadn’t been aired out or given a good scrubbing for the better part of a century. Despite its scruffy interior, the food on offer was good and plentiful, and even included roast turkey as a main course.

  Kaz produced a bottle of red wine, which they used to toast the king, the prime minister, and finally absent friends, among them Nell, who had gone home to see her fiancé, back on leave for a few precious days, and Nigel, who had declared to everyone that he detested Christmas and was going to stay with like-minded friends in Reigate.

  As they ate, Ruby’s friends regaled her with descriptions of the traditions and customs they observed in their families, and nearly all of them were unfamiliar to her.

  “A Yule log, no. Pomanders, no. Bread sauce, ecch. Definitely no,” she commented. “I did know people who left out stockings for Santa—Father Christmas, that is—but I never did.”

  “What did you do at Christmas?” Mary asked.

  For a moment, she considered admitting the truth. Describing for them the grim reality of Christmas in an orphanage.

  The charity baskets filled with cast-off toys and clothes that nobody else wanted. The bishop’s annual gift of improving books that depressed rather than consoled. The knowledge that Santa Claus left presents only for children in real homes with real parents. It had been a relief to discover he wasn’t real.

  But what would that serve, apart from depressing everyone? Better to skim over the details and let her friends enjoy their lunch. “When I was young? Nothing very special, apart from going to church. And we would usually have turkey.” But only if someone had been generous enough to donate a few birds to the nuns. Otherwise it was whatever would stretch to feed all the children. One year they’d only had porridge and molasses.

  Nearly halfway through the meal, Mary finally asked the question that had been weighing on Ruby’s mind all day. “Where is Bennett? I thought we might see him tonight.”

  “I’ve no idea,” Kaz admitted. “I’d hoped to hear from him, but I expect he’s busy with work. Not to worry, though. He’ll make an appearance before long. Certainly before we ring in 1941.”

  At this, Mary’s expression brightened. “There’s another tradition for you. Hogmanay. Scots for the last day of the year.”

  “I’ve sung ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ Is that part of it?” Ruby asked.

  “It is. Just after midnight is the important part. That’s when you invite the first footer to pass through your door.”

  “‘First footer’? Is that some kind of dance?”

  “No, no. It’s the first person to come into your house, to set foot in it first, after midnight. They set the luck for the year, so you need to choose just the right person. The best luck comes from a tall, handsome man. Bennett would be perfect.”

  “What about me?” Kaz asked plaintively. “Won’t I do?”

  “With that sandy head of yours? Not at all. You’re bad luck. No, dark hair is best.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Well, there’s the gift to bring. My gran always preferred salt, but coal will do in a pinch. Or whiskey—I’ve never known anyone to turn up their nose at a bottle of good Scotch.”

  The sun had set long before they finished their supper, but Ruby wouldn’t let Kaz ring up a cab for her. “There’s enough moonlight still for me to see well enough, and I know all the shelters on the way home. I’ll be fine.”

  He looked doubtful, but she stood firm and he had to accede. “Very well. Happy Christmas, Ruby. We’ll see you on Thursday.”

  She wished the rest of her friends a happy Christmas and set off for home. She knew the best route to take, along roads that were wide enough to catch some moonlight, and even though it was a solid half-hour walk, she made it back before the first sirens of the night had sounded.

  That didn’t happen until nearly eleven, and although the all clear sounded less than an hour later, she decided to stay put in the basement. It was warmer there than in her room, to start with, and she knew some of the other long-term boarders well enough to wish them a happy Christmas and smile as they settled onto their respective camp beds.

  It was usual, in the shelter, for everyone to observe a sort of informal curfew after nine o’clock or so, with no conversation above a whisper, and certainly no music or singing of any kind. But tonight was different, of course, and when a man on the far side of the basement began to sing “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” nearly everyone else joined in.

  Ruby hadn’t sung carols for years, not since she had been a very little girl, but the lyrics came back to her, and without quite meaning to she found herself singing “Angels We Have Heard on High” and “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” and “Silent Night,” part of a choir of near strangers in a damp and rather smelly basement. And it was, with the possible exception of the concert at the National Gallery, the most beautiful music she had ever heard.

  THAT SUNDAY AFTERNOON, Ruby and her colleagues worked hard to make up for time lost earlier in the week. She was struggling with her story, a piece on cosmetics shortages that felt irrelevant no matter what approach she took, and when Kaz called a halt to work at six o’clock she was more than willing to set it aside.

  She had just switched off her desk lamp and slid the canvas cover over her typewriter when something made her look up. There, leaning against the doorway to the newsroom, was Bennett, and he was watching her. Smiling at her.

  He had a black eye, she noticed suddenly, and a deep cut on the bridge of his nose, too. “What happened?” she asked.

  “That bloody motorcycle again,” Kaz answered, brushing past his friend. “He never learns.”

  Bennett simply grinned at her. “I lost a fight with a tree branch,” he explained.

  “See?” Kaz said.

  “I’d have ducked if I’d known it was there.”

  “Are you back in London for a while?” she asked.

  “A few days. We’re long past due for a meal at the Victory Café. If you’re free, that is.”

  “That would be really nice,” she said, acutely aware that every one of her colleagues, Kaz included, was looking on and imagining far more than a simple meal shared by friends. “I’ll just get my things.”

  They walked east along Ludgate Hill, moving slowly in the near-total darkness of the blackout. There was no moon at all, not even the thinnest crescent of waning silvery light, and it seemed to Ruby that her toes were magnetically drawn to every uneven patch of pavement and upended cobblestone. If it hadn’t been for the support of Bennett’s arm, she’d already have tripped a dozen times over.

  “Did you have a nice Christmas?” she asked, hopeful for the solace of some easy conversation.

  “Not really. It was
rather lonely, I’m afraid. And you?”

  “On Christmas Eve I had supper with Kaz and Mary and some of the others from work, and then I spent the night in the hotel shelter. We sang carols.”

  “Did you go anywhere on Christmas Day?”

  “No, I just stayed at the hotel. I didn’t mind, though.”

  “Do you have any plans for New—” he started to ask, but the rest of his question was cut off by the rising wail of the air-raid siren. A heartbeat later, it was joined by the rumble of fast-approaching planes.

  “Bloody hell,” he swore. “A little notice would be helpful. We’re not even at Temple Bar.”

  “What should we do? There’s a shelter at the office.”

  “We’re closer to the Tube station at St. Paul’s. Can you run in those shoes? Yes? Then take my hand.”

  Together they ran through the night, his touch leading her forward through the swallowing darkness. They turned left, away from the churchyard, zigzagging through narrow, deserted streets that were completely unfamiliar to her.

  “The dome of St. Paul’s shines white,” he explained. “On a dark night like this it’s a beacon. We need to get as far away from it as we can.”

  Incendiary bombs were rattling down on the rooftops around them, here and there dropping onto the pavement to hiss and buzz impotently. “They won’t explode,” he cautioned. “Keep running.”

  They veered left again, onto an even narrower lane, but as they turned the corner her heel caught in a grate and she fell hard on her knees. Without a word, he dragged her to her feet, hoisted her into his arms, and set off running again.

  “I’m fine, Bennett. You can put me down.”

  “We’re almost there. Not until then,” he said, his voice betraying no sign of exertion.

  “I’m too heavy—”

  “Nonsense. When I was in the infantry, my pack weighed twice as much as you.”

  He ran on, not halting until they were well inside the station’s deserted entrance hall, and set her down at the top of the escalators.

  “Switched off, naturally. Bloody things. Are you fine to go on?”