Bennett reappeared a few minutes later. “Vi will be down in a moment.”
“Is she all right?” Vanessa asked.
“She is. I made my peace with her. We’re all fraying around the edges.”
“Won’t you sit down and finish your supper?”
“Do you mind very much if I go? I have to leave at first light tomorrow.”
“Very well, but won’t you take anything with you?”
“No, I’m fine.” He kissed his godmother goodbye, and then turned to Ruby. “Do you know how to get to work? I’m sure Vanessa can—”
“Don’t worry. I still have my A to Z.”
“Good. I did tell you I couldn’t get you another. No, Vanessa—don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”
Ruby excused herself not long after, and as she lay in bed, hovering at the edge of sleep, she was overcome with a wave of gratitude for her good fortune. It was true that she had lost every one of her personal treasures, but they were only things, after all. She could replace her books and clothes. She would buy another typewriter one day. She could remember, just barely, her mother’s face.
And she still had her job. Kaz and Mary and everyone at work were all safe. Thanks to Bennett, she even had a place to stay, and it was the most beautiful home she’d ever seen.
Home. She’d only been with the Tremaines for a few hours, but they’d already gathered her into their little family. Treated her as if she belonged. And it would be so very tempting to believe.
Of course it was kind of them to be so generous and welcoming, but she needed to remember she no more belonged with them than any other stranger seeking refuge from the cold. She was a grown woman, not the little girl who had prayed on her knees, every night for years, that her mother might somehow come back for her; and then, after she’d lost all hope of that, had yearned for a home with one of the nicely dressed couples who came, every so often, to pick a child from among the youngest, prettiest, and best behaved of the orphans.
But Ruby had never, not once, been taken to the parlor to be presented to the nice families. The day she had stopped hoping she might find a home with one of those couples was the day she had stopped believing in fairy tales.
And this? This was a fairy tale, no more, and she would do herself no favors by forgetting it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
February 1941
It was well past eight o’clock when Ruby emerged from South Kensington station and started on the short walk home. She’d stayed late to help Kaz go over the final page proofs, since Peter, who normally helped with that chore, had been laid low by a terrible chest cold. Kaz had sent him home to bed, complaining that the entire office would fall ill otherwise, and Ruby had volunteered to fill in. It was interesting work, and good practice besides, but she had missed her supper and, she feared, might well end up in a public shelter if she didn’t get home before the first siren of the night sounded.
She, Vanessa, Jessie, and Percy had spent the last two nights in the Anderson shelter, and though it was dry and warm—Bennett’s improvements had seen to that—she hadn’t slept well at all. Percy had been restless, Jessie had snored relentlessly, and her narrow camp bed had left her back sore and stiff.
Ruby turned off Pelham Place onto the Crescent, skidding a little on the icy pavement, and was still trying to regain her balance when she heard a faint cry. She looked around, wondering if one of the neighbor’s babies had its cot by an open window.
Another cry, a fraction louder this time, and it seemed to be coming from the gardens on the south side of the Crescent. She stepped onto the road, her eyes scanning the shadows beyond the fence, and was able to discern something, a slight rustle of movement, under some low-growing evergreens. A small figure detached itself from the gloom and came forward, its gait awkward and stiff.
It was a young cat, and the poor thing was in a complete state. His long fur was matted and dirty, and he was limping badly, as if his paws were very sore. Crouching down, hoping that no one would choose that moment to come barreling around the corner in their car, she held out her hand and made the same noise that Vanessa used when trying to coax Percy indoors.
“Tuk, tuk, tuk,” she whispered, her heart in her throat. Please don’t run away, she silently begged. Please don’t be afraid. “Tuk, tuk, tuk. I won’t hurt you. I promise I won’t.”
He stood there, trembling from his nose to his tail, and then, as if accepting he had nowhere else to go, inched forward. She let him sniff her hand and, when he didn’t shy away, gently stroked his head. This close, she could smell his singed fur, and see where his whiskers had been burned off.
He looked up at her hopefully, his green eyes shining in the wan moonlight, and she was lost. Before she could think twice, she picked him up and cuddled him close. “Will you let me help you?” she asked, and his answering purr was all the confirmation she needed.
They were only a few doors away from home, fortunately, and once she’d dug her key out of her bag and let them inside, she went straight downstairs to the kitchen.
“Is that you, Ruby dear?” Vanessa called out. “I’m in the scullery. Been trying for ages to shift an ink stain, but I’m not having much luck. I’ll have to—oh, my goodness. What have we here?”
“I found him out in the street. At least I think it’s a he. I didn’t know what else to do. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Of course not. I’d have done the same. Come, come. Bring him here.”
“He’s limping, and I think he may have some burns. His whiskers are all singed off. I’m so worried about him, Vanessa.”
“Let’s just see what ails him first. Cats are sturdy creatures—you’ll see.” Vanessa let the cat sniff her outstretched fingers, but made no move to take him out of Ruby’s arms. “He won’t like it, but we need to start with a bath. That dust has to come off before he tries to lick it away.”
“Have you ever bathed a cat?” Ruby asked.
“Not a one. Plenty of dogs, but never a cat. Well, there’s a first time for everything.”
After lining the scullery sink with a towel, and filling it halfway with warm water, Vanessa took the cat from Ruby’s arms and set him down in his bath. Ruby stood by, fretting that he would fuss or claw at Vanessa, but apart from a few mournful meows for form’s sake the cat didn’t resist at all.
He was wearing a collar, which Vanessa handed to Ruby, but it was singularly unhelpful. “The tag only says ‘Simon.’ They might have thought to include an address or telephone number.”
“We can put up a notice,” Vanessa suggested. “But if no one claims him I don’t mind if he stays.”
A rush of emotion swept over Ruby, and for a few seconds she found it difficult to breathe. She knew what it was to be unwanted and hungry and desperate for love and attention. She, too, had once been a stray, alone in the world, and utterly dependent on the kindness of others.
Lathering her hands with the soap, Vanessa smoothed them gently over Simon’s dusty fur, and then rinsed him with additional cups of warm water. He was shivering by the time she was done, and looked quite ready to fall over. “He won’t tolerate much more tonight,” Vanessa observed. “You open up that big towel, and I’ll pop him on top. Try to soak up as much water as you can, then he’ll do the rest if he’s able. I’ll make up a bed for him. And I had better scrounge up something for him to eat. Poor fellow is probably famished.”
One wooden fruit crate and a square of ragged blanket later, and Simon had his bed. Satisfied that he was reasonably dry, Ruby set him in the bed and watched as he calmly washed his face and paws. His fur was longer than she had first thought, and was already drying to a beautiful shade of silvery gray.
“I found him something to eat,” Vanessa announced. “Just some scraps from dinner, but they’ll do until I can get some cat’s meat at the butchers.”
She set the bowl of food on the floor next to Simon’s basket, and next to it a matching bowl of water. After sniffing at it suspiciously,
he decided it would do, and set about inhaling the food with gusto. As soon as he had finished, Vanessa picked him up and carried him to the table. She’d already spread out a fresh towel and readied her box of first-aid supplies.
“Such a good cat, yes you are,” Vanessa crooned as she ran her fingers through Simon’s fur. Coaxing him onto his side, she inspected each of his paws minutely. “I don’t see any glass, thank goodness, and none of the cuts seem very deep. Best to just leave them alone, I think.”
“Will he be all right?” Ruby asked, her heart in her throat.
Vanessa glanced in her direction, and her answering smile was warm and loving and deeply reassuring. “Well, he’s eating and drinking, and there’s nothing wrong with his purr. All good signs. And he was well cared for before, which is fortunate. His owners had him neutered, which isn’t cheap, so someone loved him. And it will make him a much nicer cat to have around. Far less smelly, to begin with, and no getting into fights with every tom on the street.”
“May I keep him in my room?” Ruby asked, anxious to have Simon near at hand.
“Of course you can. But leave your door open so he can come and go.”
“What if he runs off?”
“I doubt he’ll try. Just listen to how he’s purring. He knows he’s landed on his feet. Besides, he won’t be going outside at night—I don’t want him getting run over in the dark. I’ve a box of sand in the cellar that Percy uses. Simon will find it on his own.”
“Poor Percy.”
“Oh, he’ll be fine. I’m off to bed in a minute. Do you want anything to eat before I go up? I’m not good for much in the kitchen, as you know, but I can heat you up some soup.”
“No, you go to bed. I’ll make myself a sandwich.”
“And you—are you all right, my dear?”
“I am. Thank you for letting me keep him.”
“What sort of person should I have been to say no? Now, don’t linger too long—you’ll want to get in a few hours of sleep before the sirens start.”
Ruby ate her sandwich as fast as Simon had eaten his dinner, and then carried him upstairs to her room. Shutting the door behind her, for fear that he might bolt, she returned to the kitchen to fetch his bed. Back in her room, she set it down in front of the cold hearth, and was pleased when he ventured over and curled up inside.
After changing out of her work clothes, she put on a warm pair of trousers and her heaviest sweater in anticipation of a night spent in the dubious comfort of the Anderson shelter. Crawling beneath the covers, she was only a little startled when Simon jumped on the bed a few seconds later. He curled up behind her knees, a welcome source of warmth in the chill of her room, and she quickly fell asleep to the lullaby of his soft and steady purr.
THERE WERE NO sirens that night, nor the following, but their run of luck ended on Sunday. Both of the Tremaine girls had come for dinner, the first time since January they hadn’t been working, and in honor of the occasion Vanessa had charmed two pounds of stewing beef out of the butcher. It was just enough for Jessie to concoct a sumptuous boeuf bourguignon, albeit without a drop of Burgundy wine.
They had just started their dinner when the siren sounded.
“Oh, bother,” Vanessa said, but with her next breath she picked up the casserole dish full of stew and set off for the shelter in the back garden. “Vi, you bring the potatoes and carrots. Beatrice, you bring the plates and cutlery. Ruby, you fetch Jessie, and collect the cats, too.”
After a brief standoff in which Percy had asserted his supremacy in the Tremaine household, he and Simon had become friends. They hadn’t yet been fed their dinner, which in any event would have been scraps left over from supper, and came running at her whistle. “Come on, you two,” she said, scooping them up, and bore them out to the shelter. “There’s some beef stew waiting if you behave.”
Between the five women and two cats it was a tight squeeze, but they were warm and dry, their dinner was delicious, the noises from above weren’t especially alarming, and they had, in the Tremaine family collection of anecdotes, a nearly inexhaustible source of entertainment.
“Have you told Ruby about Papa’s Tour of Infamy yet?” Beatrice asked her mother as soon as they’d finished eating.
“You must, you must,” Viola exclaimed. “I can’t believe she hasn’t heard about Mortimer the Charlatan.”
“Or Papa’s Dueling Scar,” said Beatrice.
“Or the snowstorm in Alberta,” said Viola.
“Enough, enough,” Vanessa protested. “You’re giving it all away. So. It was 1920, not long after we were married, and Nick was invited to do a tour of the United States and Canada. He’d just been in a film, his first cinema role, and his appearances were meant to build on the success of—what was it called again?”
“A Fair Rose for the Crown,” Beatrice answered.
“Yes. Dreadful stuff. Nick played the hero’s father, or perhaps his brother?”
“He was the hero’s long-lost brother who turned out to be his father,” said Viola.
“See what I mean? Ridiculous. In any event, we sailed across to New York in some style, and only when we arrived did we learn that Nick’s role had been cut from the finished film. I think the back of his head was left in one scene, but that was it.”
“He must have been so disappointed,” Ruby said.
“He was at first, but when we saw the finished film we felt quite relieved. It was awful. Things then went from bad to worse when the impresario who had made all our arrangements—”
“Mr. Mortimer Hewitt Tucker.”
“Yes, thank you, Beatrice—Mr. Tucker turned out to be a complete charlatan. Had booked Nick into one dismal place after another. Some were so seedy they made burlesque theater look respectable in comparison, and all of them were filled with men who weren’t the slightest bit interested in listening to Shakespeare’s soliloquies. One night, about a week into the tour, someone threw a broken bottle at Nick and it cut his forehead open, right down to the bone. He had to have a whole row of stitches put in.”
“Yes,” Viola added, “and when people asked about the scar, he always told them it was from a duel fought over Mama’s honor.”
“We’d only been married for a matter of months, and I began to worry I might have made a mistake. My parents had been entirely against my marrying him, you see. He was nearly twenty years older, and we hadn’t known each other for very long at all before getting engaged.”
“One week!” Beatrice crowed. “Can you believe it? One week!”
“Yes, well, that’s a story for another day. At any rate, Nick was magnificent. He refused to scurry home in defeat, and before long he was winning over everyone. And we had such fun. We visited so many interesting places. Niagara Falls and New Orleans and San Francisco, and Canada was beautiful, too, although I mostly remember the endless train journeys between engagements.”
“Viola said something about a snowstorm?”
“Yes. We were in Alberta, in the foothills of the mountains there, and our train got stuck in the snow. I’ve never been so cold.”
“Did you go to Hollywood with him when he made Winter of Our Discontent?” Ruby asked.
“Would you believe it was filmed in England? So much easier for Nick, although I wouldn’t have minded a winter in California.”
“I loved that movie,” Ruby said, a little wistful at the memory. Even though she’d been living hand to mouth at the time, her wages as a trainee stenographer so paltry that she’d had almost nothing left after paying her rent, she had always managed to scrape together enough money for a weekly trip to the pictures. “I saw it at least three times. Your husband was so handsome and charming. It was impossible not to sympathize with King Richard.”
“He was wonderful in it, wasn’t he? Such a shock when he fell ill. It was only a few months after the film came out, and he had so been enjoying the attention. Darling man.”
“I miss Papa,” Beatrice said. “I wonder what he’d have thought of al
l this. The war, and the Blitz, and having to sit in a shelter night after night.”
“He’d have complained constantly,” Vanessa said promptly. “And he’d have broken all the rules and had the warden by every night because he forgot to close the blackout curtains.”
“And when we were in here, he’d have insisted on reciting his favorite soliloquies night after night, and he’d have used his loud voice, his ‘Serious Theater Voice,’ he called it, and the neighbors would have come round to complain,” Viola continued happily.
“I’d much rather listen to music than Hamlet,” said Beatrice. “Vi, will you sing to us?”
“All right. How about ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’?”
At this, Jessie sighed happily. “Please do, Miss Vi. You sing it better than Vera Lynn!”
“I don’t know about that,” Viola said, but obligingly cleared her throat and began the song.
Hearing Viola sing, Ruby understood why she had been such a success in the variety theater. Her voice was clear and sweet and wonderfully expressive, and even without being able to see her face, lost as it was in the shelter’s gloom, Ruby could feel everything that Vi felt, simply by listening to her song.
“I won’t have a voice left for my performance tomorrow,” Vi cautioned, “if you make me do all the work. Come on, you lot,” and she launched into “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
One song followed another, one hour flowing into the next, and when the all clear finally sounded Ruby was relieved to return to her room, yet also vaguely disappointed that the sing-along was at an end. She hadn’t been brave enough to take the lead on any of the songs, but it had been fun to join in on the choruses and listen to the others.
Vanessa had insisted the girls stay until the morning, since the Underground had shut for the night and it was nearly impossible to find cabs so far west at that hour. They all piled up the stairs, Vi electing to share a room with Beatrice.
“And don’t say a word about giving up your room,” Vi warned Ruby. “It hasn’t been mine in ages, and I’ll be just as comfortable with Bea. Sweet dreams, everyone, and don’t let the bombers bite.”
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