Bless ’Em All

by Saddler, Allen

  The best thing about it was that she had come to no harm. The bombs had fallen miles away. She had heard someone talking about a landmine in Peckham, caught up in telephone wires and swinging back and forth in the wind while everybody held their breath. Even if there had been an element of danger, it was probably better than being on her own all day and night. She liked people. Tom knew that. He used to fall asleep when she was speaking to him. ‘You’re a right old chatterbox,’ he used to say.

  Of course, when it was all over all the people would go back to leading their own separate lives, and it would be back to ‘good morning’ and ‘good afternoon’. What she really wanted was someone to say ‘good night’ to.

  13

  BERNARD viewed the destruction of Green’s with an equanimity bordering on grim satisfaction. Nobody had told him. He went there that afternoon to collect some supplies, and found himself viewing the ruins. He was surprised at the complete destruction: like Green’s had never been there. There were buildings on either side, badly damaged but still standing. He immediately thought of compensation. There was a fund for war damage, wasn’t there? But they weren’t likely to get it until the war was over – that is, as long as Britain was on the winning side. In the meantime, could the business function? Well, his side of the operation certainly could. He didn’t need vast storage space. His area of the business was quite compact. Not more than a hundred titles in all.

  Bernard had never felt a part of the Green’s enterprise. It was Maurice’s domain, Maurice’s castle, which he had run as though it was some kind of noble calling. Bernard had only been a hanger-on. He had never been given any standing. His contribution had been largely ignored and disapproved of, even though it brought in a healthy return. Now he could run that side on his own. It was obvious that Maurice’s part of the business could not continue, but the stuff that Bernard dealt in was in and out. He could run it from his big garage at his house in Ealing. He could load books into his car and carry on with the distribution of the select titles. It seemed like providence had intervened, as the whole area to one side of St Paul’s had been destroyed, but the other side, which housed the publishers that Bernard dealt with, was still intact. All the purveyors of religious works, bibles and prayer books had been wiped out, but the publishers who dealt in the racy stuff were still there. Whose side was God on?

  Once Bernard realized that he was in control of his own destiny he felt a sense of release. He had never had much regard for Green’s standing in the trade. He had always thought that Maurice made too much of their reputation for reliability and service. After all, they were in business to make some real money, not just the few coppers scraped from reluctant publishers’ profits that they got servicing lazy booksellers. To make anything out of such an arrangement you had to sell in large quantities, as he was doing on his Leicester Square run. It was quick profits and quick returns.

  Bernard had no intention of consulting Maurice about his plan. It wouldn’t be a part of the Green’s enterprise. He was going to strike out on his own. A new business using all his old contacts. He would call it something else, Star Books or something, and register it in his own name. The bombing of the claustrophobic old firm could be a new start, away from his stuffy brother.

  Having decided on a course of action Bernard thought that he ought to celebrate. He thought about the Hostess Club but dismissed it. There were no surprises there, and, besides, he fancied something with a bit more class.

  He got on a bus. By God, the passengers all looked fagged out: white-faced and hollow-eyed, all in a sort of cloud of collective misery. Where was the cheery cockney, full of optimistic wit – down maybe but never out? Where were the joyful pearly kings and queens, doing the Lambeth Walk? Where were the spivs, dazzling money into their pockets by sheer force of personality? Where were the buskers, working themselves into a lather while their bottler collected the dibs? This lot looked tired, frightened and defeated. They looked as if they had been up all night praying but did not have the faith to expect a result.

  It was a depressing time, but Bernard did not feel depressed. He was at the start of something good. Soldiers and sailors, away from home, read a lot. Tucked up in their little barrack beds or bunks they liked to read about life in an Istanbul harem, about lowlife in Paris, agonies in Egypt and downright degradation in South America. The life of an American gangster was a damned sight more interesting than the memoirs of some crusty old general. Who wanted to know what Marx said or Freud and Byron, Shakespeare, Darwin and all that crowd that Maurice was so keen on? You couldn’t read the stuff, even if you wanted to. People wanted something in their own vernacular, something they could relate to, something that would add to their nightly fantasies. He got off the bus in Coventry Street and strolled, feeling relaxed and triumphant, until he got to Piccadilly Circus.

  It had been no use boarding up Eros. Was it a symbolic gesture, to put away the nation’s pleasures until the war was over, to concentrate minds on the job in hand? Was it to hint that you should put away anything that detracted from the war effort? Well, it hadn’t stopped anyone’s feelings, yearnings. And there was more activity in the sex business than ever before. The troops thought of London as a Mecca. London, after all, was a garrison town.

  He turned into Piccadilly and saw barriers across the road. There was no traffic moving, but there were fire engines, ambulances and police cars, parked at odd angles all over the road. There was only a narrow passage to walk along on the Green Park side. There was dust and black soot everywhere. He walked along until he saw a big crater in the road. People were scrambling in it, calling hello. ARP men swarmed over the big hole like ants, frantically lifting concrete slabs with their hands, throwing bricks over their shoulders like a dog digging for a lost bone. Sometimes they would all stop, and someone would call out ‘Quiet!’ and it seemed as though everybody in the area, the birds in the Green Park trees, even the buildings, were holding their breath, for any sound of life from below the rubble.

  Something big had happened here. There were gaps where buildings should have been and a putrid smell invaded the whole area. It was as though a child had tipped up a whole box of bricks, flung them in the air for fun, and they had landed forming odd shapes, leaving caverns and caves in between. The ARP men continued with their frantic efforts. They had constructed a tunnel, with stout wooden props like they did in a coal mine. Men crawled down into the tunnel, doubled up, and emerged, black-faced, with just their white eyes showing, like minstrels in a ragtime revue. If some poor beggar were under that lot they wouldn’t have much chance.

  Bernard continued, shaken, and up a side street he spotted Claridge’s. It was a bit up the scale from what he was used to, but suddenly he felt that he might have gone up the scale a bit himself. He was the managing director of a newly formed business. A one-man band run by a real live wire who didn’t have anybody to answer to. In any case, what did that sort of thing matter any more? They were all in it. Class barriers had been swept away by the common sense of danger. It didn’t really matter if a fire-bombed corpse was a duke or a ragged-arsed tramp.

  He walked through the imposing doorway into the hotel vestibule. The hall porter spotted him right away. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  ‘A drink,’ said Bernard. ‘I’ve just dropped in for a drink.’

  The hall porter looked at his watch in an elaborate gesture. ‘We seem to be out of hours, sir, don’t we?’ and he winked heavily. ‘Of course there are soft drinks, or tea if you would prefer, but I suspect that you’re a soft-drink man, aren’t you, sir?’ And he winked again, as though the wink was a code that Bernard would know.

  ‘All right,’ said Bernard, somewhat confused, and he was led into in inner bar area, with large leather sofas, elegant mirrors on the walls and portrait paintings of some bosky eighteenth-century notables, who all seemed to have puffed cheeks and red noses. The bar was inhabited by some very smart men and women, all of whom looked as though they might have fallen out of the
pages of the Sketch or Bystander.

  Bernard saw nothing for it but to order a lemonade, which was brought to him on a silver tray. He wished he hadn’t come into the place. A lemonade. He picked up the glass and sipped and immediately discovered the reason for the pantomime wink. The drink was heavily laced with gin. So, there was life in the old town if you knew where to find it. When he finished the laced lemonade he immediately ordered another.

  ‘Hot day,’ he murmured to the waiter. Then he started to make calculations. He had been on a salary at Green’s with only 5 per cent overriding commission, but buying and selling direct, with no rent or upkeep and no staff, he would be taking a third and a bit more if he could retain Green’s terms. Maybe he could afford a small premises and perhaps someone to help him. He thought of the staff at Green’s. That Miss Tcherny was a sensible girl and she knew the business, especially the accounts. She would be looking for a job, but how was he to find her? Would they be on the telephone, the Tchernys? More people were nowadays. If she was signing on, perhaps the Labour Exchange people could find her?

  He suddenly became aware that a woman was looking at him. She was, he was certain, trying to catch his eye. She was at the other side of the room, sitting alone. She had an aristocratic face, high cheekbones and full lips, with a dark, lacy dress and a fur stole. She looked away, her mission accomplished. He got up and moved over to the table where she was sitting.

  When he got close to her he could see that she was very smartly turned out but older than he had thought, more like thirty-five than twenty-five. Her face was skilfully produced, with arched eyebrows and the high cheekbones shaded in, the full lips painted on, entirely different from any of the women he might have met at the Hostess Club.

  ‘Haven’t we met before?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said, seemingly amused at the crude approach, ‘but it doesn’t matter. You may sit down.’

  He sat down. ‘Are you having the lemonade?’

  She laughed. It was a musical laugh, not spontaneous, but controlled, produced. There was something entirely artificial about this woman, and he found this exciting.

  ‘Bernard,’ he said.

  ‘Well how are you, Bernard?’ she said, with a hint of irony in her voice.

  ‘Not bad’, he said, ‘for a chap who’s just seen his business blown up.’

  She frowned. ‘That’s terrible. What will you do?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll manage somehow. Start up again. Out of town, I think. And what about you?’

  She smiled and showed a row of perfect teeth. ‘Me? I’m out of work.’

  He signalled to the waiter and two drinks were brought to them.

  ‘Out of work? What kind of work is that?’

  ‘I’m an actress.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. It all slotted into place.

  ‘Theatres closed: no work.’

  ‘I see. Bad luck.’

  ‘So that’s why I’m sitting here, trying to get some kind man to buy me a drink.’

  ‘It’s a terrible business,’ he said. ‘It’s hit all of us. What’s your name?’

  ‘Gloria – well, that’s what I’m known as. It’s not my name.’

  He smiled. A West End actress, down on her uppers. ‘Well, Gloria,’ he said. ‘Do you know any place where we could get a decent dinner?’

  Maurice had got down as far as Bush House. He didn’t expect Betty still to be there, three hours after their appointment, but he didn’t seem to have anything more sensible to do. He crossed the road to Waterloo Bridge and stared into the muddy river. It was a bright day, an autumn day, a day for walking briskly, producing enough heat to keep warm. Well, they couldn’t bomb the Thames, could they? The river would at least be there when all this nonsense was over. He supposed that he ought to call a meeting. Bernard and Bella would have to be consulted. Was there any point in starting up again? He needed to talk to somebody. Betty would have been perfect. It was unlikely that she would have made any sensible suggestions, but out of his ramblings there might have emerged a picture, a plan.

  It was certain that Clare wouldn’t listen. She was too wrapped up in her own affairs; and Bernard, well, Bernard might be concerned. Bernard would need to find some other way of earning his living. Maurice had wanted to talk to his solicitors about insurance and government cover, but the telephone lines were down and he couldn’t get through.

  Suddenly he thought of that dreadful club where Bernard had taken him. That was where he first met Betty. He didn’t think she went there any more, but they might know where she was, her address or a contact telephone number. Could he find the place again? It was behind Cambridge Circus, wasn’t it? If he went there he might be able to retrace his steps.

  So he wandered slowly along the Strand. The Savoy Guild was still displaying smart clothes. There were servicemen everywhere, the officers looking as though they were in the chorus of a musical comedy, but the other ranks looking like bagwash tied around with string. The armed forces did not inspire confidence at all. They weren’t soldiers, just ordinary chaps pressed into service in an emergency. They looked lost and bewildered. He reached Trafalgar Square. There was a crowd outside St Martin-in-the-Fields. That woman Myra – what was her name? – Hess was playing there during the day. It was a defiant gesture, and even people who didn’t like classical music went in to see this woman serenely playing, and they seemed to get some comfort from the music and the gesture.

  In Charing Cross Road the dusty old bookshops where he had spent many hours of sheer joy seemed somehow irrelevant. There was no time for that sort of thing now. All the civilized pleasures of life had been obliterated. Even books were on emergency rations. He went straight on until he reached the Palace and then plunged into Soho.

  As soon as he got into Greek Street he felt vaguely apprehensive. It was the very foreignness of the place. So many nationalities, some looking cheerful but just as many looking evil: dark-skinned men with curly hair who could have easily been Italian. Weren’t they all interned?

  Was it near a market? He seemed to remember a row of stalls selling fruit and vegetables, and racks of clothes in distinctly un-English styles. He wandered up narrow streets, full of mysterious offices and warehouses. It was said that the police only ventured into this area in pairs. There was an air of menace, as though anything violent could happen as a matter of course.

  He stood on a corner watching a hefty prostitute smiling at prospective clients in a manner that suggested she would strangle the first one who refused to take her on, and suddenly he saw the place. It wasn’t drawing attention to itself, but those who wanted to find it would know where to go. There was no sign outside. Just a brick building, trying to be anonymous.

  He stood outside, wondering whether to go in. A big grey Humber pulled up outside. The door opened, and the blonde, hard-faced bitch that had been there with Betty got out. She was more awful in the daylight than she had been in the shaded light of the club. My God, she was brassy all right, all bosom and tight skirt.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, but she ignored him. He touched her arm, and she turned to him and switched on a ghastly flirtatious smile. ‘That woman who was with you, Betty, do you know where I could find her?’ The woman looked puzzled but then assumed an expression that indicated that he had said something quite outrageous. She took his arm and pulled him towards the entrance to the club.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Betty. Do you know where I could find her?’ The woman smiled uncertainly. Was she loopy or something, or foreign? She couldn’t understand plain English. She pushed open the door and stood there, as if daring him to follow her. When he made no move she just glared at him, and then, as if giving him his last chance, smiled invitingly.

  Across the road Tim Melrose observed the little cameo with mounting fury. So this was the man who had been knocking Bunty about, sending her home bruised and scratched. Well, he wasn’t going to get away with it. It was Tim’s duty as a husband to see that he didn’t. His eyes went dull and slightly cra
zed. He was like a bull, aroused to a fury by repeated taunting. With a roar of uncontrollable rage Tim sprang across the road in a tight ball of fury. He grabbed Maurice around the throat, pressing his thumbs into Maurice’s windpipe. Tim was smaller than Maurice but he was stocky and fit, and he had the added element of surprise. Maurice saw the woman’s eyes registering alarm, as he felt the juddering thud of Tim’s knee in his stomach. He bent double with the pain. What was happening here? Where were the police? Did they take fights as par for the course in these dangerous streets? He had been set upon by a madman. What for? For his wallet? The crazy man had got his arm up between Maurice’s shoulder blades and was forcing him into the back of a small van with ‘Water Board’ painted on the side. The woman was trying to stop the madman, but he brushed her off. Maurice was in the cramped space of the van, with various iron tools, damp sacks and hosepipes. Now the madman was forcing the woman into the front seat as she struggled and hit him about the face and shoulders. The man’s face was set. It was clear that there was no reasoning with him. The only thing that would stop him was a strait-jacket. The man got into the driver’s seat and started the van. The wheels jerked and skidded over the cobbled road. The man at the wheel drove steadily. There were many obstacles, some roads closed, but he carried on, determinedly, like a man on a mission.

  Maurice soon recognized Cheapside and Aldgate and then Commercial Road. The further they went into the heart of London, the less there seemed of it, and when they got into East India Dock Road there was devastation on every side. Whole areas were flattened. An area as big as a couple of football pitches with hardly any buildings standing, just the odd chimney stack with a drunken pot lurching precariously on top. There were odd snapshots: a china cup, unharmed, looked surprised that it had landed on a mossy patch on the top of the single wall left intact; a washing-line with scorched and burnt clothing still flapping in the breeze; a brave geranium still flourishing in a broken window-box; and rhubarb growing on the top of an Anderson shelter. There were groups of people, all looking dazed and helpless. Some were walking, carrying suitcases and bags, with gas-mask boxes around their necks. Some were loading barrows with furniture and clothes. There were lorries and carts with crazy heaps of belongings snatched up quickly and piled on to any form of transport. This was an evacuation. These people were refugees, a sight often seen on newsreels in some foreign country but never before seen in England.