‘It is quite a tradition here,’ he said, ‘that nearly every passageway and building is associated with a more or less tragic story. This is just one more, I suppose.’
‘I wonder what has happened to the Temple ghosts?’ I said, lightly.
I saw the glimmer of a smile as he replied. ‘I expect they’re hiding, and terrifically annoyed at the Germans.’
‘They’ll come back.’ I looked around. ‘Didn’t Shakespeare put that scene about the start of the Wars of the Roses in the Temple garden?’
Jim did smile then, for the first time since we had entered the gardens. ‘Henry VI Part I. These gardens were famous for centuries for their roses.’ He paused, looked again at the devastation around him. ‘Actually, the roses haven’t bloomed for decades, because the smoke and grime of London chokes them. So I can’t mourn the Temple roses, I’ve never seen them.’
I looked at the wet rubble by our feet, edged in the grime of centuries. ‘It’s right to mourn the desecration of your legal Temple,’ I said. ‘It grieves me too, as does the loss of Coventry Cathedral last night, although I never saw it whole.’ I smiled at him. ‘But I’ll bet you anything you like that the roses bloom again one day in these gardens and that you’ll see them.’
He reached out an arm, put it around my shoulders and gathered me close under the shelter of his umbrella, resting his head gently on mine as I nestled under his arm. We stayed like that for a while, viewing the ruined gardens through a curtain of falling rain.
Jim left me on my doorstep, with an annoyingly chaste kiss on my cheek. We parted on the promise that we’d meet up the following evening for dinner and dancing.
I closed the door behind him and stood for a few seconds in the foyer, thinking about my afternoon. I wanted time to consider it all, to work out what it had all meant. But a quick glance at my watch told me that I was going to be late if I didn’t hurry. So I pushed thoughts of Jim Vassilikov out of my head and raced up the stairs to my flat, changed into my work clothes and headed off to Woburn Place under heavy, low clouds that hung over London like a shroud.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mr Richie was wiping tables inside as I approached his hotel on my way to Woburn Place. He came to the doorway to greet me and I stopped to have a few words.
‘Jerry’s been busy lately, eh, Lily?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Poor old Coventry. I wondered why it weren’t so bad here last night.’
‘There was a bombers’ moon,’ I said. ‘They didn’t even need to use flares to do their dirty work.’
‘They didn’t leave London out altogether. A couple of tip and run raiders came over Bloomsbury. Three houses were hit in Caroline Place, opposite the Foundling Hospital.’
‘I heard them,’ I said. ‘Two planes – they flew in low over St Andrew’s at around midnight.’
‘There’s a UXB still in the ruins, but it won’t go off for a while yet. The team is working on it now.’
He glanced up at the dark clouds. ‘Hope the rain keeps Jerry away tonight.’
‘I hope so, too,’ I said. ‘Send ’er down, Hughie.’ I smiled at his look of astonishment. ‘That’s what we say in Australia, when we want rain. I think it’s an invocation to the rain god.’
Mr Richie laughed, as I knew he would, and muttered something about barmy Australians. I doubted anything would keep the Germans away, but it was good to hope.
‘I see that Knaggs feller only got a fine for looting,’ he said. ‘They’re too soft by far.’
‘I know, I was disappointed too. Mrs Coke told us he had been dismissed from the Ambulance Service, though. I only hope he doesn’t cause trouble for Levy.’
Mr Richie frowned. ‘Looters like Knaggs are vermin. Need to be got rid of quickly. Mr Levy might’a seen him first, but if he hadn’t then someone else would have caught the blighter in the act. I’d asked a few good men to look out for him.’
‘And me,’ I said.
Mr Richie smiled. ‘You’re a good man, Lily. And so’s Mr Levy. I didn’t like him much at first, thought he was too proud and prickly. I know better now.’ He gave a quick bark of laughter. ‘I like his sense of humour. It’s very dry. Yes, he’s a good man, Mr Levy. You’d never think he was a Jew.’
I said my goodbye on a sigh before continuing along the road. Fat, shining barrage balloons drifted comfortably above me in the increasing gloom of the November evening. They were tethered at the station in Coram’s Fields, which older Londoners such as Mr Richie still referred to as the Foundling Hospital, and they were a reminder of the night raid to come.
The wind picked up and brought the rain with it. When I paused to open my umbrella, I suffered bumps and apologies from passing Londoners. They were hurrying home, no doubt anxious to get to the shelters before the raids began. There was no panic, it was Churchill’s ‘business as usual’.
Guildford Street was roped off and the ominous yellow sign had been hung on the rope: ‘No Entry, Unexploded Bomb.’ Caroline Place, where the bombs had fallen, was the next street down. It had once been a pretty street of Regency houses facing Coram’s Fields, but now at least three of the houses were in ruins.
I could not linger. My watch showed it was nearly five o’clock, so I set off for Woburn Place along the back streets at a rattling pace, fighting a stiff wind all the way.
As always, I went first to the garage to make sure that the Monster was ready for the night’s mayhem. By the time I arrived at the common room most of the day shift had already left the station. Those that remained were making noisy good-natured jibes as they collected coats and belongings.
Over the fourteen months of the war, our common room had acquired a few comforts. There were rugs on the concrete floor, a card table, a bookcase and books and even a piano, but the room was always chilly, despite the oil heater. One end had been partitioned off into two rooms, a small storeroom and the station’s office, which contained a table, three chairs, the safe and the vital telephone.
The office was where ‘reports of incidents requiring assistance’ would be telephoned through from Central Control. A window with sliding panes had been set into the wall between the office and the common room. Through this window the officer in charge for the shift would shout out instructions or hand over the chits detailing the incidents to the drivers and attendants.
Mrs Coke was in the office when I arrived, engrossed in paperwork. She always worked the day shift, from nine to five Monday to Saturday, so she would be off duty soon.
The roster board informed me that I was paired with Levy, no surprise there, and Jack Moray was to relieve Mrs Coke. I could not see Levy.
Maisie approached the board, unbuttoning her raincoat as she did so. ‘It’s pelting down outside,’ she said. ‘The raiders won’t be able to tell if they’re over London or the ocean. Hope it keeps up and keeps them away. Isn’t it awful about Coventry? They say the centre is utterly destroyed and the casualties are horrendous.’
‘Truly awful,’ I agreed. ‘A quiet night here in London would be just the ticket – so long as they don’t hit Oxford or Cambridge or some other medieval town instead – but I don’t know that we’ll be that lucky.’
‘I don’t want any church crypts with shattered wood flying about like needles. St-Martin-in-the-Fields was hellish. Or any bombed shelters, like Balham underground.’ She shuddered, and turned away to call out a general greeting.
Balham Underground Station had been sheltering hundreds of people when it suffered a direct hit in mid-October. There had been many casualties. The water and gas mains had been broken, as well as the sewage pipes, and the flooding and leaking gas had hampered rescue efforts. One rumour was that scores of Balham victims had drowned, crying out in the darkness when the water mains broke. I had transported some of the bodies and I knew the victims had all died of blast or the effects of flying debris, but the story persisted.
‘I don’t want any heavy lumps of patients to carry,’ I said. ‘And no injured children.’
�
��Amen to that.’ Maisie reached her arms above her head in a leisurely stretch. ‘Care for a cuppa? I’m about to make one for myself.’
‘Thanks. And if Levy’s in there, tell him I want a word,’ I called out to her. She nodded, and disappeared into the kitchen.
‘He’s not in the kitchen,’ said Harris, looking up from her seemingly interminable knitting. ‘He’s not come in yet.’
The door to the office opened and Mrs Coke stood there, glaring at me.
‘Is Levy here?’ Her voice was a hissing whisper.
‘No, not yet.’
‘Come into my office, Brennan.’
As I followed her into the small office I was surprised to see that her stocking seams were askew. There was fury in each of her tight little steps.
‘Sit,’ she said.
The whites of her rather prominent blue eyes were red-veined and her face was flushed. She looked like an angry lobster.
‘You can tell Levy from me that sneaking little stool-pigeons always get their wings cut,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’ I was shocked at her blatant threat, and worried what it might mean for Levy.
‘Just give him that message when he arrives. If he arrives. He may be too scared to face me. And you just tell him I’ve got friends – good friends – influential friends.’ She dashed a shaking hand across her eyes. ‘Go.’ She almost spat the word at me. ‘You can go now.’
I returned to the common room feeling bewildered and apprehensive. I could only suppose she had discovered Levy knew about her schemes. He had told me the information would be given to the proper authorities. That must have happened and she must have found out that it was Levy who had reported her. I was worried that Levy had earned the woman’s hatred and could only pray that she would be sacked as station officer before she could have him transferred. I really didn’t know if I could do my job if Levy was sent to another station.
As I turned to leave the office Jack Moray appeared in the doorway. I must have looked upset, because he gave me a puzzled look as he entered. Mrs Coke left the station immediately afterwards.
Maisie returned with the tea and glanced around the room. ‘Levy will be very late if he’s not careful.’
She handed me a cup and saucer and I took a sip of hot, sweet tea.
‘Have you any perfume for sale?’ she asked Sadler. ‘And I desperately need stockings. Silk if possible.’
He looked up. ‘Nah. Supply is temporarily suspended due to circumstances beyond my control.’
Maisie tried to suppress a smile. ‘How is Knaggs?’
Sadler assumed a look of injured innocence. ‘Knaggs has nothing to do with the shortage. It’s all above board, our little supply business, but we are experiencing some distribution problems at present.’
‘Do the problems wear blue helmets and stern expressions? Let me know when supplies are available again.’
Ten minutes later Sally Calder bustled in, looking windswept and flustered. ‘Sorry I’m late. I was bombed out last night.’
There was a flood of shocked sympathy and horror. She managed a wan smile. ‘My mother is staying with friends tonight,’ she said, in a high, fast voice, ‘and I spent all day going from agency to agency, trying to find out what to do. Thank goodness the kids were evacuated to Devon last year and Sam’s away with the navy, so it’s only us to worry about. We’ll find somewhere to stay tomorrow.’
‘You were in the Anderson when the bomb hit?’ asked Harris.
‘Yes, we were in the shelter. Worth its weight in gold, that thing. Only, there’s nothing left of the house. All our furniture, clothes, wedding presents. All my mother’s linen that she’d had from her mother and hers before that. All gone.’ Her voice broke a little, but she sniffed back the tears and smiled again. ‘Oh well,’ she said, in a trembling voice, ‘worse things happen at sea.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
By six o’clock Levy still had not arrived. He had never been late before and fear for him was like a niggling pain that might be the forerunner of something much worse.
‘Perhaps he’s taking the night off,’ said Fripp, glancing at the clock. She returned to the book she was reading with a tight, self-satisfied smile.
‘He wouldn’t do that,’ I said. ‘Not without letting us know.’
Celia was sitting next to Fripp, leafing through a magazine, but turning the pages too quickly to be reading them. Her mouth tightened.
‘Maybe someone bashed ’im,’ said Sadler. He was sitting crouched over a table near the oil stove playing one of his endless games of patience.
‘Why would anyone do that?’ I asked.
Sadler’s face took on a nasty expression and he shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t need much provocation, not with Levy. But it could be because he’s a commie. A fellow looks like Levy’s been handing out those leaflets in the shelters.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘This bloke’s been handing out those leaflets – you know, saying we should lobby Churchill to bargain for peace. The ones that say this war is . . .’ He paused, trying to remember the words. ‘They say it’s a conflict between imperialist powers and the working class has a duty to oppose it. And my mate said it was Levy that was handing them out.’
‘That’s utter bulldust,’ I said. ‘Levy is no communist.’
My voice was as certain and self-righteous as I could manage, although I was feeling slightly ill. The communists had at first supported the war against Germany, but when Stalin signed his non-aggression pact with Hitler, they adopted the line dictated by the Comintern, which was exactly what Sadler had said. Jim had told me that Levy had spouted communist nonsense at school, but Levy had never mentioned communism to me. Surely he was not a communist any more.
‘Many Jews are,’ said Harris. ‘They invented communism after all. They were the ones behind the Russian revolution and they want to see the same thing happen here.’
‘Not Levy.’
‘You’re wrong, Brennan,’ said Sadler. ‘My mate saw him in the Holborn Tube station handing out those leaflets.’
‘Your friend wouldn’t know Levy from a bar of soap.’
‘He would. We was walking along the road together and my mate pointed him out to me, saying that he was the one who’d been handing out leaflets. And I said, “That’s Levy, from my station. You know, the bastard what shopped Knaggs to the police.” And my mate said he’d bash ’im next time he caught ’im with those pamphlets.’ He smiled. ‘Levy’d better be careful. My mate carries a knife.’
‘Your friend got it wrong and it wasn’t Levy he saw in the Tube, or you mistook the man he pointed out. Levy wouldn’t do that. He’s a Jew, for heaven’s sake. He hates Hitler. He’s desperate for us to win this war.’
‘I only know what my mate said. And it was Levy he pointed out to me.’
I couldn’t believe that I was, yet again, in a futile argument with one of the spivs about Levy. I sipped my tea and shut up.
‘I’m spare tonight,’ said Fripp, in her high, breathy voice. ‘If Levy doesn’t turn up you’ll have to take me instead.’ She seemed unenthusiastic about the idea. I was not pleased about it myself.
‘Lucky Brennan.’ It was Sadler again and his tone was heavy with sarcasm. ‘She gets the kike or an attendant who screams when she hears a bomb.’
Fripp’s face coloured bright red, but before she could respond Moray appeared in the office doorway.
‘What’s the matter, lovely Lily?’ Moray asked, looking at me. ‘Lost a shilling and found sixpence?’
‘She’s moping because Levy’s late,’ said Sadler. ‘And she may have to go out with Fripp, who screams at bombs. I’d prefer the kike myself.’
Fripp flushed again and threw Sadler a look of poison. She seemed on the verge of tears.
‘Shut up, Sadler,’ said Moray. His yellowish-green eyes were cold and his mouth tight and hard. Sadler glared at him and seemed about to speak, but thought better of it.
Fripp looked do
wn and wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. She stole a look at Moray a moment later. Levy had said once that Fripp was the sort of woman who would throw herself into passion and see redemption in a man. I’d never been able to imagine her in any circumstance that involved any sort of passion, but from the way she was looking at Moray, I wondered if Levy was right.
Sadler gave Moray a cool look, and then he turned to me.
‘Levy might’a been bashed by my mate, like I said, but I think it’s more likely that your boyfriend’s been Blitzed.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ I said. ‘And he’ll be here.’
‘Nah.’ Again he looked at Moray. ‘He was Blitzed in Soho. I was there last night with the band, we was playing at the Red Room.’ There was a nasty eagerness that I’d heard in the voices of schoolyard bullies. ‘If you keeps your eyes open you see all sorts of things in Soho.’
Fripp squeaked ‘Soho?’ at the same time as I said, ‘What?’ I knew he was only trying to upset me, but it was working.
Sadler’s smile broadened, and I rounded on him. ‘You’re making this all up. There were no raids last night.’ As I spoke I remembered the two raiders over Bloomsbury. Single planes could show up anywhere.
‘There was no raid in Soho—’ began Fripp, but Celia’s cool voice cut in.
‘Just shut up, Sadler,’ she said. ‘You’re not in the least amusing.’ She stood up. ‘I’m surprised to see you here on night shift. What’s in it for you, I wonder?’
Sadler’s face was livid.
‘What d’ya mean by that? Knaggs was set up.’
Celia was walking to the door. She gave him an almost theatrical look of contempt. ‘Knaggs was indiscreet, dishonest and stupid. It was only a matter of time before he was caught. It just happened to be Levy who caught him.’
She left the room and for a moment there was silence.
‘We’d have heard by now if Levy had been caught up in an incident,’ said Moray.
‘He’s never missed a shift or been late before,’ said Maisie.
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