‘Were they impressed?’
‘Mightily. But they were country children in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. How could they comprehend the enormity of London?’
‘I think Hitler and Goering are only now beginning to realise the enormity of the task they set themselves with this Blitz.’
‘What did you mean about Mrs Coke?’ I asked.
He gave a short laugh. ‘You’re like a terrier aren’t you. Won’t let things go.’
‘You’re always saying Mrs Coke isn’t on the up and up. Have you found something to prove it?’
‘I’ve discovered some interesting information about the way she runs that charity fund of hers.’
‘The Ambulance Benevolent Fund?’
‘Yes. There’s a decided whiff of corruption about it all. The registered address is our ambulance station, which means that Ma Coke receives all cheques for the fund there. She’s been paying them directly into her personal bank account.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘She’s asked McIver to deposit a few of them.’
Beryl McIver was one of the deputy station officers, a Scotswoman. I liked her. She was not the sort of woman to exaggerate or make up tales.
‘Into Mrs Coke’s personal account? Not into a specific account for the fund?’
‘There is no bank account for the fund, apparently. McIver asked her about it and was told to mind her own business.’
I frowned at the river.
‘That is odd, I agree. And McIver told you this?’
He seemed flustered. ‘She told someone who told me. But there’s more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mrs Coke has been using the letterhead of an exclusive London club to write letters seeking a generous monetary donation for Lady Mary, Mrs Coke.’
‘That stupid fake title again. Why would people give money to Lady Mary?’
‘She’s signed the letters as Lord Castledown.’
‘I repeat – why would anyone give fake Lady Mary money, even if fake Lord Castledown asks them to?’
‘The money is sought,’ said Levy, barely able to contain his mirth, ‘to fund Lady Mary in forming a secret force to go behind enemy lines in France and sabotage the German invasion.’
‘What?’ I gave a short bark of laughter. ‘The woman doesn’t even speak French. I tried her out once and she was hopeless. This is a fantasy. I can’t believe anyone would fall for it.’
‘She’s pulling on their patriotic heartstrings, Brennan. And if only a small percentage respond, she’s got her profit.’
I no longer felt like laughing. It was unforgivable to prey on people’s patriotic goodwill in such a calculated manner.
‘The evidence will be passed on to the proper authorities in the Ambulance Service. She’ll be gone by the end of the month, I suspect.’
I was confused. ‘Who told you all of this? Who gave you the evidence? Was it in that envelope, the one in the book?’
He turned away to stare at the river and did not reply.
‘Levy, be careful,’ I said. ‘If Mrs Coke gets any hint of what you’re doing she’ll have you transferred to another station straight away.’
‘I’m always careful,’ he replied, smiling.
The All Clear sounded, that long steady siren note announcing that the raiders had departed our skies.
‘They’re heading back to France,’ said Levy, looking up at the empty sky. ‘Racing the dawn and the RAF.’
I thought of Jim, up there, chasing them. I had not told Levy about my date with Jim, who had not contacted me again in the past week. If he had been at all interested in me, he would have sent me a note or flowers or called me after two days. Not that I was surprised. I was simply not a Dorchester type. If that was the sort of woman he wanted, I was better off without him. And yet, I’d really liked him at first. I thought again of Henri Valhubert. Perhaps I was simply a bad judge of men’s character.
As if he could read my mind, Levy remarked, in a teasing tone, ‘Speaking of the RAF, I hear you met Jim Vassilikov the other day.’
‘However did you find that out?’ I said lightly. ‘We went to an afternoon concert on Sunday and then tea afterwards. It was all very dull, I’m afraid, and he’s not contacted me since.’
‘He’s a fast worker,’ Levy replied, obviously surprised. ‘Anyway, you shouldn’t take it personally that he’s not contacted you. He was shot down earlier this week.’
It was as if I was in some other place, one where I was bitterly cold and the air was thin.
‘Shot down?’
‘Don’t look like that, Brennan. God – you only met him once. He’s fine – well, I’m told he’ll live.’ His voice softened. ‘Apologies for breaking it to you so flippantly. I didn’t realise . . . Do you want me to find out what hospital he’s in?’
I nodded, then shook my head vigorously. ‘He won’t want to see me. We obviously didn’t “click” because he didn’t seriously suggest another meeting.’
Levy laughed. ‘What is it with girls and pilots? At least write to the poor chap. Maybe you intimidated him – you intimidate me.’
‘Ha. I doubt that. Isn’t he some sort of Russian duke or something?’
‘Would it make a difference if he was?’
‘Probably,’ I admitted. ‘I’m more a Lyons girl than a Dorchester lady.’
‘Snob,’ he replied. ‘That’s prejudice, pure and simple. If you like him, forget about all that rot.’
‘What is his title?’
‘Old Harrovian. Decent chap despite it. That’s all you’ll get from me. Except . . .’
‘Except what?’
‘He’s shy, you know.’
‘Shy?’ I laughed. ‘He’s a Russian duke or something. I doubt he’s shy. He didn’t seem shy to me.’
‘He was shy at Harrow. Maybe you’re right, people change. Maybe he simply found you to be dull and your company tedious.’
I decided to ignore that. ‘You really think I should write to him in hospital?’
‘Common politeness to write, Brennan. Or send grapes or something.’
‘Who can get grapes nowadays?’
‘Anyone with a deep enough pocket.’
‘How deep?’
‘Twenty-five shillings a bunch I believe.’
‘I’m hardly going to waste two weeks’ pay on a bunch of grapes. You’re sure he’s going to be all right?’
‘Yes, I heard he’d pull though.’
We climbed into the ambulance to begin our journey back to Woburn Place. In one of those dramatic English weather shifts, a soft drizzle had set in, the sort that could last all day. It matched my mood. I needed all my concentration to negotiate the hazards on the road and I tried to push my worries about Jim out of my head. But I felt a little shaky after hearing the news that he’d been shot down, and I realised just how disappointed I had been over not receiving a note, or flowers or anything to show that he really did want to see me again.
‘Going out tonight, Brennan? It’s Saturday night, after all.’
When I glanced at him, Levy was resting his head on the back of the seat and his eyes were closed.
Going out was the last thing on my mind.
‘I think I’ll spend a quiet night in – if Jerry lets me.’
‘I thought you Aussie girls were out every night.’
‘Enjoying the bright lights of London?’ I laughed. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret, cobber. There’s a thing called the Blitz and it means there are no bright lights now. It interferes with our social life something dreadful.’
He laughed. ‘Cobber.’
‘It means friend.’
‘I know; I like the way it sounds,’ he said and repeated the word. ‘Cobber.’
‘Maybe something will crop up to tempt me.’ Or maybe I’d spend the evening writing a get-well letter to Jim. ‘Do you have plans?’
He took a breath and let it out slowly. Nodded.
‘You don’t seem
too happy about them,’ I said. ‘What are they?’
‘Madness most discreet,’ he murmured, twisting his head away from me to stare out of the window.
‘Whatever are you on about, Levy?’
‘Never mind.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The caretaker banged on my door that afternoon with the news that I had a telephone call. I raced downstairs to the lobby, expecting the worst, to find it was Levy who was on the line. Apparently Jim was recuperating in the Princess Mary Hospital, near the Halton RAF Base in Buckinghamshire.
‘How is he?’
Levy’s voice was flat and tinny through the phone line. ‘Took a couple of bullets but managed to get the plane to ground.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Levy. That doesn’t tell me anything about how he is. How is he?’
‘All I know is that he’s expected to recover. Won’t be flying for a while, though.’
‘Good.’ I breathed the word.
I heard him laugh. ‘Pilots. It’s as if they become magically attractive to women once they pin on those bloody wings. Here we have Brennan, an otherwise sensible young woman, who goes out once with old Vassy and falls head—’
‘Shut up, Levy.’
‘I was at school with him. I feel obliged to inform you that his feet smell and he’s—’
‘I’m hanging up now. Thanks for the news.’
‘Wait. If you want, I’ll go with you to Halton.’
I stood holding the receiver, unsure. ‘Levy, we can’t just lob into the hospital and expect to see him. Anyway, it’s miles away, right out in the country.’
‘Couple of hours by train.’
I said, cautiously, ‘When would you go?’
‘Tomorrow’s our day off.’
‘He may not be up to seeing visitors so soon.’
‘I’ll find out. Stay by the phone.’
I sat by the lobby telephone glaring at anyone who looked as if they wanted to use the machine. Levy telephoned back a quarter of an hour later.
‘Vassy told the nurse he’d be delighted to see his old school chum David Levy and Miss Lily Brennan. So, are you in?’
I was not sure if I believed him. I was not sure it was the right thing to do. I suspected it would all end in tears.
‘All right.’
I hated the hospital smell, that first sharp carbolic whiff as we entered the vestibule. I hated the officious white-garbed nurse at the desk. I hated the neat rows of beds that held a world of suffering. I hated seeing Jim Vassilikov lying there, white-faced and sunken-eyed, wincing with each breath and trying to smile.
‘I say, Vassy, damned clumsy to let Jerry get you. Waste of an aeroplane.’ Levy had turned into Bertie Wooster. I knew it was a protective mechanism. He hated hospitals as much as I did.
‘Sight for sore eyes,’ said Jim, looking at me.
‘Steady on, old man,’ replied Levy. ‘Like you, of course, but—’
‘Not you, silly ass. Lily.’ Jim’s voice seemed very strained.
‘Don’t try to talk,’ I said, as I perched awkwardly on one of the chairs beside the bed. Levy sat next to me. There was silence for a moment.
‘I’ll talk for everyone, then,’ said Levy, and he began to chatter about people I had never heard of while Jim and I shot nervous glances at each other.
‘Shut up, David,’ said Jim, finally looking at him. ‘Don’t people usually bring grapes?’
Levy stood. ‘You know, I forgot the grapes. I’ll just pop out and get them. I’ll leave Lily with you, shall I?’ He gave Jim a look, got up and left the ward.
‘We both hate hospitals,’ I said.
Jim tried to laugh, which clearly pained him. ‘I’m not partial to them myself.’ He took a breath and said, haltingly, ‘It’s marvellous to see you. I meant to write, thank you for Sunday, but in the event . . .’
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. How . . .?’
There was a movement that could have been a shrug, but ended in a grunt of pain. ‘A one-ten came out of the clouds ahead of me. As I dived after it the rear gunner started up, and bullets came through into my cockpit.’
My hands were tingling and I realised it was because I was holding them in tight fists. ‘And you were hit.’
‘Bit of a mess inside, they tell me. But I’ll be fine.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
He smiled. ‘Never play poker, Lily. Honestly, I’ll be fine. Won’t fly for a while, maybe never again if my lungs . . .’ His smile had disappeared and he sounded bitter. ‘There’s a desk job already lined up for me once I’m out of here.’
I looked down, to brush some invisible lint off my jacket and hide from him my joy to hear that he could no longer fly. Desk jobs were safer than flying; if anywhere could be said to be safe at the moment.
‘I’m a bit of a linguist, you see,’ he said. ‘The RAF can still use me. Even if I can’t fly.’ He stopped after each short sentence to take a breath.
‘Will you be based in London?’
‘Mainly in London.’
I had run out of conversational gambits and we lapsed into silence.
When Jim spoke next he made little sense. ‘Lily – when I’m – it would be – I mean, I’d like – if you’re not – but I suppose you’re—’
‘I love concerts,’ I said. ‘The ones at the National Gallery are usually—’
‘That sounds marvellous.’
Levy returned in a clamour of chattering energy. ‘You’ve got other guests, my lad. Had no idea you were so popular, otherwise wouldn’t have bothered to bring little Lily all this way to see you.’
I looked up to see Celia Ashwin and another woman entering the ward behind him. Her hair was auburn and she had the same thin straight nose as Celia, so I assumed the other woman was Celia’s sister, the one Jim had ‘had a thing for’ at Cambridge. She did not catch the eye the way Celia did, because there was a liveliness and grace about Celia that was striking. Still, she was an attractive woman, and dressed up to the nines in an elegant bottle-green suit and a tartan blouse.
Jim puffed out the introductions. He was tiring fast, and I felt embarrassed to have exhausted him. Celia’s sister was Mrs Helen Markham, a fact which gave me some comfort. I assumed she had not been married when Jim knew her at Cambridge.
There was a slight shudder when Helen Markham heard Levy’s name, and a bare nod in reply to his polite ‘How do you do?’ She flicked a glance at me.
‘Australian? You’re a long way from home. Whatever are you doing over here?’
‘Miss Brennan works with me at the ambulance station,’ Celia explained, in her cool way. ‘As does Mr Levy.’
‘So we are all involved in the war effort,’ said Helen. ‘I help to run a small charity – Comforts for the Bombed. We provide blankets and clothing for those who’ve been bombed out.’
And I bet you do it with an immaculately gloved iron fist, I thought. My instant dislike of her air of self-congratulation had nothing to do with her past involvement with Jim. She was the sort of woman I detested.
‘There’s a great deal of work to be done,’ she went on. ‘A great deal. Often we are working far into the night.’
I murmured something appropriate in response and wondered if she knew anything about the long hours her sister, Levy and I worked. I glanced at Celia, who seemed to be uncomfortable with the exchange: she was examining something over to her right with a fixed, wooden expression.
‘And how do you know Jim?’ Helen asked me, because, apparently, Levy had become invisible.
‘I work with Mr Levy, who was at school with him,’ I said.
Helen addressed Jim, seeking confirmation. ‘Goodness. At Harrow? Really?’
Jim’s ironic smile appeared, although his face was now chalky white and he winced as he took a breath to reply.
‘Yes, at Harrow. David was my best friend at that godawful place.’
‘Young Ivan was as Jonathan,’ said Levy, in his most irritating drawl and pu
tting a hand to his chest, ‘to David.’ He raised his voice, and declaimed theatrically, ‘Oh, Jonathan. How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle. They were swifter than eagles, They were stronger than lions.’ He added, in his normal voice, smiling radiantly at Helen, ‘My people know how to string a word or two together.’
Jim’s smile widened, but as soon faded. His jaw was tight and his lips stretched flat against his teeth.
‘Do you need morphine?’ I asked.
‘Wouldn’t mind a dash,’ he grunted.
‘I’ll find a nurse,’ said Helen imperiously. As she turned to leave she muttered, ‘Your people did not write the King James Bible. The English did.’
Celia and Levy locked glances for a second, but her gaze swiftly slid away from him to rest on me. ‘How on earth did you get here?’ she asked.
‘Train,’ I replied. ‘Though there was an hour’s delay because of damage to the line just out of London.’
If Celia and her sister had come by car from London, the obvious thing to do would be to offer us a lift home. Nearly everybody who had private cars offered lifts nowadays. Drivers would stop at bus stops to offer rides to complete strangers. Many kept a notice on their windscreen, ‘Hail me if you want a lift.’
Celia seemed about to say something, thought better of it, then turned her attention to Jim.
‘We should be going,’ I murmured when Helen returned with a nurse. As Levy and I made our farewells, Helen was leaning over Jim making soft, cooing noises. I assumed there were words, but I could only hear the coo.
As we neared the doorway I slowed, wanting to look back and not daring. I looked back finally and met Jim’s eyes as Levy hustled me out of the door.
On our way to the bus stop I took pleasure in muttering every nasty name I knew and applying them all to Helen Markham under cover of the din of planes taking off and landing somewhere nearby.
A queue had formed along the footpath and we joined it. Behind us was a small copse that smelled of damp earth and growing things. Across the road were open fields. Normally I would have been delighted to be out of the city, breathing air that was fresh and not tinged with brick dust and cordite, but the walk had not dulled my rage.
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