Ambulance Girls

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘Please Ashwin, I need to see Jim, but I’m not sure of his address. I’m hoping that he will . . .’

  She twisted slightly toward her other leg to place the second clip, and still did not look up. Her movements were deliberate and unhurried. Exasperated, I tried again.

  ‘Levy is missing. We – Moray, I mean – he couldn’t raise Levy’s parents. He thinks they may have been bombed out. Jim might—’

  ‘Jim’s staying in Lady Anne Gresham’s flat. Half Moon Street, number 26.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  It was after I had whirled around to return to the common room that she said, ‘I hope you find him.’

  I was not sure if she was referring to Jim or to Levy.

  On the common room wall was the large map of London marked up to show current detours, blocked streets, UXBs, bomb craters and other hazards. I ran my finger past Soho into Mayfair, stopping at Half Moon Street. Green Park station was three blocks along from Jim’s street, and Green Park and Russell Square stations were both on the Piccadilly Line, which meant I could be there in less than thirty minutes.

  Jim would know what to do.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I emerged from the ambulance station into a chilly November morning. My eyes felt heavy and my entire body ached, and for a few seconds dizziness almost overwhelmed me, but I pressed on until I reached the corrugated metal arch piled about with sandbags that was the entrance to the Russell Square Underground Station.

  Although it was after nine o’clock, some people who had spent the night on the platform were just emerging, clutching their bundles of bedding and blinking at the morning light. The children were still in their dressing gowns and pyjamas, the adults had winter coats or raincoats belted over night attire. It was then I remembered that it was Saturday morning and I had promised to meet Jim for dinner that night.

  A sailor in Royal Navy uniform walked out of the station, singing the haunting folk song ‘Siuil a Ruin’ in a fine tenor voice.

  A man walking by said, ‘Shut up, will you. Irish scum.’

  The singing stopped and the sailor threw a curse into the wind before walking away with a hard, angry tread.

  I wondered why people were so harsh to strangers. Was the sailor Irish? I had no idea. The song was a Scottish one, and perhaps he was from there. In any event, he was in uniform. You would think, in a war, that such prejudices would be forgotten, but although the bonhomie was there, prejudices remained and if anything, were magnified. Perhaps, I thought, people simply needed a scapegoat that was near at hand and not in Berlin.

  I sat in a crowded carriage as the train hurtled through dark tunnels, pinching my arm to keep myself awake, yawning constantly. When I emerged on to Piccadilly, exhaustion made my steps unsteady and I had a few puzzled looks from passers-by when I stood leaning against the sandbags to blink at the daylight.

  The traffic along Piccadilly was heavy. A Daimler passed slowly by me, its front and back seats full. A man and a woman were sitting in the luggage boot chatting together most composedly with their feet sticking out. As the car drove away the woman pulled out an umbrella and opened it.

  A drop of rain hit my forehead and I looked up to see the sky dark with low ragged clouds. It did not look real; it was a watercolour painting of a sky, by Turner. More raindrops fell as I plodded past the buildings that faced Green Park.

  I wiped my hand over my wet face and it came away grimy. It was then I remembered that I had not washed after my shift. No wonder I was getting suspicious looks, I thought. If Jim’s apartment block had a doorman he might refuse to admit such a grubby ragamuffin as I must seem to be. If Jim was even in his apartment. I had a moment of grim fear. What if he had gone to work, or spent the night elsewhere?

  Suddenly dizzy, I leaned heavily on the wall of the building behind me, gaining strength from the solidity of the stone at my back. My eyes were sore and gritty. When I closed them I began to slide slowly down the wall and I felt myself tumble into comforting velvet darkness.

  ‘Steady on,’ someone said, and a hard, painful grip pulled me upright. ‘It’s all right, I have you.’

  I forced my eyes open and squinted at my arm. My sleeve was in the firm hold of a long, fine-boned hand, scattered with light freckles. The world was spinning and everything seemed blurry, so I caught impressions only of the face that belonged to the hand. Looks like Jim, I thought. Then I gave up trying to think at all.

  * * *

  I was searching for a lost child in a bombed house, crawling through unstable ruins, only I was clumsy and kept catching my limbs on wood and plaster. All the while I was terrified that the whole edifice would collapse and bury me alive. In that strangely logical way of dreams, the child I was searching for became Levy and I knew that if I managed to shrug my way into a small, dark hole in front of me, I would find him. I wanted to go in after him, but it was such a small hole and the house was creaking so alarmingly that I was paralysed. I could hear Levy laughing, just beyond my reach. ‘I’m not lost,’ he called to me. ‘I’ve been here all along. You never look in the right place, Brennan.’

  I felt myself take a gasping, snorting breath and my head jerked. The patter of rain was loud above me, but I was dry and sitting in a slightly inclined seat that was firm but comfortable. The heavy softness of a blanket or rug lay over my body. I stretched out my hand and felt metal, and I opened my eyes to realise I was in the passenger seat of a low-slung motor car. The windows were wound up and slightly fogged and outside it was raining heavily.

  ‘Good afternoon, sleepyhead,’ said a familiar voice.

  I sat upright, realised I had been drooling and put up a hand to wipe my mouth.

  Jim Vassilikov was sitting next to me. We were in his car. I stared at him, uncomprehending, embarrassed.

  ‘You were asleep on your feet,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen it before – after a tough few days the boys in my squadron would be the same. I’d be talking to one of them and when there was no reply I’d realise he’d fallen asleep where he stood.’ He smiled. ‘Just like the dormouse in Alice.’

  ‘I fell asleep?’ It seemed incredible. ‘On the footpath?’

  He nodded.

  I was now fully awake. ‘Where am I? How did I get here?’ We were in a street of elegantly proportioned Georgian houses.

  ‘You’re in Half Moon Street, outside my flat. Around the corner from where you collapsed. I saw you in the street and was coming over when you started to topple.’

  ‘But how did I get here?’ I repeated.

  He shrugged and ducked his head a little. ‘I carried you. You hardly weigh anything, and you really were out for the count.’

  ‘You carried me to your car?’

  His boyish smile appeared. ‘I considered carrying you up to my flat, but thought it was probably inadvisable. Not least because you’re not that light and I’m not completely recovered. And I had visions of long, difficult explanations to the doorman. So I put you in the car. I thought I’d let you sleep. It’s a quiet street when the planes aren’t overhead.’

  ‘What’s the time now? You said afternoon.’ I was suddenly, painfully aware of my bladder.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s nearly one o’clock.’

  ‘What!’ I had been asleep for over three hours.

  He gave a short, soft bark of laughter. ‘Long night? It was a bad raid. Pitts Head Mews over near Park Lane was destroyed. Blast took out all my windows and shook the place up badly. It’s lovely to see you, but why are you here?’

  I had forgotten Levy in the shock of my awakening.

  ‘Oh, Jim, Levy’s missing. He didn’t report for work yesterday and his parents seem to have been bombed out. I have to find him. I need your help.’

  He gestured behind me. ‘My flat is just there. We can talk about it after you’ve had a cup of tea. And then I’ll take you to lunch.’ There was a quick, embarrassed smile, almost a grimace. ‘If you’d care to bathe, the gas was put back on this morning. The flat’s a
trifle chilly because I haven’t had time to cover the windows, but at least the water will be hot.’

  I opened my mouth to say more about Levy, but closed it again. First things first. I had to make myself presentable, and I needed to use his facilities.

  ‘I’d love cup of tea. And a bath. Thanks.’

  He touched my arm lightly. ‘It doesn’t mean much, Lily. He simply didn’t turn up for work. I survived being shot at twenty thousand feet, and David’s much tougher than I am. Anyway, you can tell me about it when you’ve freshened up.’

  He got out and came around to open my door. It was raining heavily so we ran to the shelter of his building’s portico where I stood for a moment to look at his street, because I loved the Wodehouse books and it was Bertie Wooster’s street. At one end was the spire of a large church, at the other was Green Park. It was a place of obvious wealth, but not of grandeur or even pretension. I liked the look of it. The houses seemed eighteenth century and were a pleasant mish-mash of styles. The blast had blown out most of the glass in their windows but they seemed otherwise untouched. It saddened me to think that they would all fall like sticks at the first hint of a serious bomb, and that when they fell not even Jeeves would be able to put them together again.

  Jim pushed open the door and ushered me into the lobby. I had the impression of cool checked tiles, a wide staircase, elegant mouldings and general opulence. An elderly uniformed porter came out to greet us.

  ‘Good afternoon, Greenfield,’ said Jim. ‘This is Miss Lily Brennan. She’s an ambulance driver and has just come off duty after a very hard night. I’ve offered her a bath.’

  Greenfield was a little bull of a man, whose wide smile revealed two rows of glistening false teeth. He did not seem in the least surprised that Jim had offered me a bath. The gas was off so often these days that baths were at a premium and were a very acceptable form of hospitality.

  ‘Bless you, miss,’ he said. ‘You’re such a tiny scrap of a thing to be driving one of those ambulances in an air raid. It surely was a bad one last night.’

  ‘It’s much easier to be out in the fuss, than sitting home listening to it,’ I said.

  ‘I know what you mean, miss. It’s why I like to get up onto the roof each night to do my bit of fire watching.’

  Jim waved towards the staircase. ‘I’m on the first floor, and there’s no lift,’ he said. ‘Can you make it?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll make it.’

  We climbed the stairs slowly. At first I thought it was out of consideration for me, but it soon became clear that it was Jim who needed to take it easy and I wondered how he had managed to carry me to his car if he was so weak. When we reached the first floor landing he drew in a ragged breath and gave me an apologetic smile.

  ‘I’m much improved, but I find stairs still somewhat challenging.’

  He opened a door into a tiny hall, where we hung up our dripping raincoats. This led into a large living room. Several excellent engravings in narrow pearwood frames hung on the whitewashed walls. Crimson brocade curtains framed long, glassless windows and I shivered a little in the chilly air. A delicate writing desk stood between the windows and on it was a bronze of Diana the huntress with the crescent moon on her forehead. The floor was covered with a faded Turkey carpet. Alabaster lamps sat on low tables. A pair of chintz-covered armchairs by the fireplace looked soft and welcoming, and a more formal brocade-covered sofa was heaped at each end with cushions. In a corner was a glossy piano with sheet music scattered over the top. The overriding impression was one of irreproachable taste, and of old wealth.

  He waved towards the passage. ‘Bathroom’s through there. I’ll get you a towel. If you leave your shoes outside I’ll clean them for you. When you’re finished, sing out and I’ll put on the kettle for tea. Then we can talk about David.’

  Once I was in the bathroom I gave a tentative glance into the mirror and grimaced at my dirty, bloody face and flat, greasy hair. A huddle of bath salts in fancy jars was on the shelf by the bath and I sniffed a few, chose the one that smelled the most delicious and tipped a generous amount into the water that was filling the bath. I picked up a bottle of scented shampoo and decided that Jim’s mother’s friend could spare a dollop for a tired ambulance officer to scrub her hair free of the grime of a long night shift.

  After a lengthy soak in the hot water I smelled of roses and felt pampered and drowsy. I was imagining Jim’s long fingers trailing over the piano keys, playing Debussy, when a sharp rap on the door jolted me awake.

  ‘Don’t fall asleep in there. One of our boys nearly drowned that way. Tea’s made.’

  ‘I’m awake,’ I yelled. ‘Just a minute and I’ll be out.’

  Although I was now clean, there was little I could do about my clothes. My blue cotton coat had protected them to some extent, but they showed all the signs of a hard night’s work. I took the flannel I had used in the bath, wrung it out and wiped away as much grime as I could from my jumper and trousers. When I rinsed the flannel in the bathwater it remained stubbornly streaked with a medley of brown and grey stains. I wrung it out and guiltily set it to dry on the side of the bath, before pulling the plug.

  The bathwater swirled and disappeared with a nasty shriek that echoed my state of fractured, sleep-deprived uncertainty. I opened the door and prepared to face Jim.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  My shoes were outside the door, cleaned and polished to RAF standards. As I put them on I heard the rattling of cups and I followed the sounds to a kitchen that was so tiny it was really a kitchenette.

  Jim filled the small room, so I stood in the doorway and watched as he poured water into the teapot and placed it on a tray together with the cups and saucers, sugar bowl, milk jug and a plate of digestive biscuits. He carried it into the living room and we sat facing each other in the two big armchairs with the tray on a low table between us.

  ‘You look much improved,’ he said, then gave a slight, embarrassed start, possibly at my grimace in response. ‘I mean that in the nicest possible way. You looked quite done in before.’

  ‘I looked like a Morlock.’

  ‘And now you look like an Eloi.’

  I had read The Time Machine, and I wasn’t sure that being compared to those small, childlike creatures was my preferred compliment, although as Wells had described the Eloi as having a Dresden china-like prettiness, I gave a brief smile in response.

  ‘Actually I simply feel human again,’ I said. Then I blurted out, ‘I don’t know where to look for Levy.’

  Jim glanced away from me. ‘Would you care for a spot of Lady Anne’s fine French brandy?’

  Now I was confused. ‘Lady Anne?’

  ‘The owner of this place. My mother swears by brandy when the nerves are shot.’

  I dithered, which he obviously took for assent, because he rose and went over to a table on which were various bottles. He came back with one and poured a large tot into my teacup and another into his. He raised the cup and said something that sounded like, ‘a fstrye-tchoo’. A Russian toast, I assumed.

  I raised my cup in similar fashion and took a sip. The alcohol burned in my throat. I took another sip and enjoyed the sensation.

  ‘You’ll have me tipsy,’ I said, and put the cup down with a more decided thump than I had intended. As I did so my stomach gave a gurgle. I snatched up a digestive biscuit and took a quick bite.

  ‘When did you last eat?’ he asked.

  ‘Um . . .’ I tried to remember. I had been so worried about Levy the night before that I’d not had my usual supper and breakfast at the station. ‘With you? Yesterday lunchtime?’ I finished the biscuit.

  He took another sip of his brandy-laced tea and for politeness’s sake I did also. I was used to the burning sensation now and the alcohol was dissolving my tense fear for Levy. Each sip caused a delightful warmth in my stomach and a jittery happiness.

  ‘Drink up,’ he said. ‘It’ll do you good. Then we’ll adjourn to a nearby tearoom for a spot of lunch.�
��

  ‘We have no time. Levy’s—’

  ‘What’s all this about David?’ he asked.

  My words tumbled out. ‘I don’t know if Levy was in his parents’ house when – if – it was hit, or if he was actually in Soho like Sadler said. But Fripp said there was no raid there.’ I paused, confused. ‘How would Fripp know anyway? She lives in Kensington.’ I stared at Jim and shook my head slightly to regain my train of thought. ‘Or Levy may have been the man from Holborn Underground and if he was then he may have been attacked, not bombed. But I think that’s the most unlikely scenario. I must sound like a lunatic, do I?’

  Jim shook his head, as if he hadn’t understood a word.

  ‘Soho?’

  ‘Sadler – he works at the ambulance station – said that Levy had been caught in a raid in Soho on Thursday night, but I think he was just teasing me. Moray said he was, and Fripp said there was no raid in Soho on Thursday, but I still can’t see how—’

  ‘Holborn?’

  ‘Sadler said his friend said Levy was a communist, handing out anti-Churchill propaganda in Holborn station and he – Sadler’s friend – was going to attack him.’

  I took another hurried sip of tea, savouring the warmth of the alcohol as it slid down my throat.

  ‘He was going to attack Levy, not Churchill,’ I added quickly. ‘But I don’t think it was Levy he saw. Because Levy likes Churchill and hates Hitler and he wants total victory at all costs. So, it’s all terribly confusing, I know. We just have to find Levy.’

  Jim was watching me with a quizzical look.

  ‘What it all means,’ I explained carefully and slowly, ‘is that Levy did not turn up for duty yesterday. Moray tried telephoning his parents this morning but there was no answer and the operator thought the line was out of order. It may be that the line is just down, but they may have been bombed out. I’m so worried, Jim, because of the nasty things Sadler was saying. I don’t know what is true. I thought I’d come over here to see if you knew where his parents lived, so we could go there together. Even if they have been bombed out, maybe someone can tell us how to contact them, to see what they know about Levy.’