At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  He looked in the direction of the knights. No message. No indication of where she was. London in the blackout. Millions of people, and Julia moving somewhere amongst them, threatened by the same bombs and shrapnel. Would she be alive in the morning? She did not know where he was either, but she didn’t seem to care. At least, she knew whether the places he was likely to be frequenting were being or had been bombed.

  He thought back to the vision of her naked and moon-tinted during that night. It was over four years ago.

  They had not spent a night together since.

  He lit a Woodbine (it was only a building after all) and made his way to the bomb shelter in the crypt.

  ****

  The sirens sounded more faintly in south London but were still audible. Catherine looked across at the bakelite telephone crouching silently in the corner of the room. He had not rung. He would not be home now. Was he safe? She switched off the radio and changed into a nightdress and dressing-gown. Only the distant rumble of aircraft and the sound of explosions broke the silence. She folded up her day clothes and placed them carefully in a drawer.

  What to do now? He promised always to ring if he was likely to be caught out in a raid. She wandered about the empty house, picking up his clothes and putting them away. She polished his shoes, went up to bed and turned out the light.

  She got up an hour later and switched the light back on. Opening her wardrobe, she got out her clothing for the following day and arranged it neatly over a chair. No word. She went down to check that the phone was properly on the hook. What to do? Opening a drawer in the kitchen, she took out a pile of letters:

  – Dear Mummy and Daddy …

  But the words blurred for her and she could not read on. She sat down to write to Deborah but could think of nothing that was capable of being said.

  Yes, one of millions of people in London under the Blitz that night. Adam knew where she was and how to contact her, but had not done so. He thought instead of Chippenham and how Julia had betrayed her husband.

  Chapter Eleven

  (Wednesday 18th December 1940)

  Few bombs fell around Westminster that evening and Julia and Antonia found time to wander into the room containing the Permanent Record Map. Eric, the Plotting Officer, was busy preparing a consolidated list of blocked roads. It should have been sent to the various fire stations almost twenty-four hours ago and he hardly noticed them as they entered the room. He was a rotund man who looked permanently baffled. He scratched at the few wisps of hair left to him and wrote in spasmodic bursts. Eric was the keeper of the maps, and he was as busy after the “all clear” as he was during the raids.

  Julia was an “in” telephonist at the Westminster Report Centre. Antonia, an old friend, was a Utilities Clerk. It was glorified secretarial work for both of them. Julia would receive and record all reports of air raid damage from Wardens’ Posts, Fireguards, Gas Identification Officers and others. Standing orders emphasised the need to use the right form and the importance of a well-sharpened pencil. All messages received had to be read back to the person reporting, in the interests of accuracy, and all messages would be kept on a clip and then passed onto a messenger for onward transmission. It was nowhere near as glamorous as Jeremy had made out at the Eaton Square party. But one did need to be trusted. Information about where bombs had fallen and the extent of any damage, human or material, was extremely sensitive, as was the whereabouts of the Report Centre itself. Julia had to differentiate between calls on exchange lines, on direct lines and those on TEM 0111 extensions. In all cases it was necessary to obtain details of the identity of the caller before giving out any information about herself or her whereabouts. Calls on exchange lines were answered giving her number. Direct lines were answered with “Westminster Control”, and calls on extensions with “Report Centre”.

  Each bomb that landed generated a secondary explosion of paperwork. All incidents were reported to Julia or the other “in” telephonists in the Report Centre and it was necessary for there to be multiple copies of every message received. There were standard instructions about the replacement of worn carbon paper. The messages would be passed on to the Plotting Officer, the Operations Officer, the Tally Board Officer, Special Action Officer, the Fire Clerk or the Utilities Clerk, depending on the nature of the report. Antonia’s job, as Utilities Clerk, was to receive supplementary reports notifying damage to gas and water mains, electric cables, sewers and telephone lines. Then she had to pass on the necessary intelligence to the utilities companies concerned, particularly if the damage was impeding rescue work. If a bomb fell within fifty yards of utilities services she had to ensure that the relevant company was notified. She, like Julia, had to hand all her message forms to the Plotting Officer both during and after raids.

  The pre-war sexual hierarchy was more resilient than the buildings and people being bombed. Women in the work place, particularly moneyed women, remained an anachronism. Duties were distributed according to gender rather than intelligence or initiative. The Plotting Officer’s role was pivotal. Antonia would have been more than able to cope, as would Julia, but the job had gone to Eric, a retired bank clerk who lived in Pimlico. It suited a clerical mind. He would give each new “incident” a number and mark its position on the Operations Map with a large pin. The incident number would then be marked on all the messages that related to it. It was his responsibility to distribute the message to the various officers and clerks affected by it. Smaller pins were placed on the Operations Map to denote fires (red pins), complete road blocks (blue pins), partial road blocks (pink pins), poison gas (yellow pins) and unexploded bombs (green pins). These were his duties during the raids and he had many others after the “all clear”.

  Eric did not look up. He was a shabby man of sixty-seven wearing last week’s shirt. He was having trouble cross-referencing the reports and looked more perplexed than usual. Julia or Antonia could have made a better fist of it and would have had a better understanding of what it meant for the capital. Perhaps that was in itself a good reason to disqualify them from the work.

  The Permanent Record Map was crowded with details of the bombings. Each mark was accompanied by a handwritten incident number. There were now almost twelve hundred of them. Eric’s delicate bank-job italic had become increasingly cramped as the raids continued. The Permanent Record Map had a bad case of measles. Public morale had been boosted by the increased noise from anti-aircraft guns in recent months, even though they had done little good and probably more harm than good. The damage to confidence if the Permanent Records Map, with its evidence of the bomb virus, had been made public would have been incalculable. Press reports were strictly censored and only those members of the public fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to work in the Report Centre knew how bad it really was.

  Antonia’s hair was pulled back under a colourless turban. She said:

  – I’m thinking of having an affair.

  – Is it anyone I know?

  – Just generally. Why should it be anyone in particular? It’s always dark and I wouldn’t have to know him. He’ll probably be dead after a few mornings anyway. Or I might be, clutching at my handbag.

  Julia’s interest was pricked. Antonia was conventional but she might have meant what she said.

  – Why have an affair with anyone?

  – It’s the dark. All this darkness. I’m lonely. I need to be held by someone new. Anyone new, I suppose.

  – They’re all pretty useless out there.

  – But they’re scared of dying.

  – I really don’t know why. This just accelerates things.

  – If everything is getting faster, then we have to act more quickly.

  – To achieve what?

  – I’m lonely. There must be so many lonely people out there. One of them might hold me. Just for a night. I don’t expect anything of them.

  – You’ll wake up the day after and you’ll still be lonely. We’re all lonely at the end. At the end we’re all alone
.

  – How long do you think it’s going to last? Could I fall in love with a German?

  – You can fall in love with whomsoever you want to. It’s a rational choice with irrational consequences.

  – But would it be wrong? To fall in love with a German, I mean?

  – If you do decide to fall in love with someone you must try and be sensible about it.

  – I only want to have an affair. Everyone else seems to be.

  – It’s all dust and wreckage. Not like the pictures.

  – I’m bored.

  – I wouldn’t have an affair.

  – Why?

  – You’d be swapping one boring man for another boring man.

  – He’d be boring in a different way and that would be something.

  – You’ll more than double your problems. The lying. You start by lying to your husband but it can never end there. If you lie to him you must lie to other people too. Sooner or later you’ll have to start lying to your lover – and somewhere along the way you begin lying to yourself. It’s inevitable.

  – Would you lie to your husband?

  – He’d never forgive me … and there’s everything else of course.

  Antonia paused and studied her fingernails, splaying her right hand out in front of her. The nails were long and bright red – the only part of her private life she brought to work. She adjusted the turban covering her long brown hair. Most women wore such headwear to conceal a lack of grooming, but Antonia’s hair was sleek and clean.

  – Do you mind if we make another pot of tea?

  – Not at all. I’ll go and put the kettle on.

  Julia reached down into her bag and pulled out a bag of tealeaves and her little flask of milk.

  – It’s one of the few consolations of this job – that you bring in your real tea and fresh milk; it’s a relief to get away from the powdered stuff. How do you do it?

  – Jeremy’s very clever like that.

  – Well, you know what I think of Jeremy … but he is very good with the provisions. That was a lovely party last Friday, even if we turned up late and I was dressed like a menial.

  – I did suggest that you bring along a dress to change into. I’m sure nobody noticed.

  Julia immediately regretted that. Antonia loved to be noticed. She and Julia had married in the same year and everyone agreed that, in marrying the Honourable Reginald, she had made a good match. But with their respective marriages and their successions of children they had drifted away from one another. It was an unspoken drift; the unsaid truth was that neither of them liked the other’s husband. Antonia thought Jeremy an old, self-important and pompous bore. To Julia, Reginald Badenoch was a shallow, worthless rich man.

  Antonia was still beautiful but it was a beauty blurred with sadness. Where once she was high-spirited and forthright, she had become acerbic and cynical. Yes, she was still beautiful, but it was true to say that she made very little impression at the Pembertons’ Christmas party.

  – Perhaps I should have worn one of your dresses. Jenny looked ravishing. She’s turning out to be quite a bright spark. She’s so different – forgive me – from Jeremy. Joan must have been very beautiful.

  – Oh. She was. Jenny is beginning to look more and more like the photographs of her mother.

  – Don’t you find that difficult?

  – Not really. I’m not Joan and I think Jeremy understands that. I can quite understand why he keeps photographs of her around the house.

  – I’d hate that. I know that you don’t like Reggie and I can understand why. But at least I’m not competing with a dead person. Don’t you find the age difference a bit of a bore?

  – Jeremy’s all right, you know. Although his circle of friends is a bit on the crusty side.

  – If I were you I must confess I would be tempted …

  But then Antonia checked herself and changed the subject.

  – It’s hard to believe that this time next week it will be Christmas Day.

  – Are you staying in town?

  – Probably. And you?

  – I’m hoping we can get out to spend some time with the children.

  – This is such an odd job to be doing. Don’t you ever wonder about the things we’re charting? Who’s under the bombs? If anyone we know has been killed? That sort of thing?

  – I try not to.

  – I find it so hard not to talk to people about it. I do think that they should know just how bad it is getting.

  – You just like to gossip.

  – Maybe. But when I read the papers and see all the things that they don’t say it makes me angry.

  Julia let the conversation drift over her. A nagging anxiety that had been scratching at her all day had returned. Jeremy always locked his study and his desk, but several years ago she had taken the opportunity to have spare keys cut. She kept them under a loose board in the pantry. That morning, after he’d left for work, she had used them.

  The study was as orderly as Jeremy’s mind. She knew why he had always locked it. A large partner’s desk with a red leather top dominated it. This was his space. There was a large photograph of Joan on the corner of it. A photograph of the two of them nestled amongst his books on a shelf at eye height. His reading was mostly political autobiography with the odd memoir from some long-forgotten silk. A long clock ticked in the corner, the golden pendulum swinging languorously. She looked around to see if he had a picture of her on display but could not see one. There were pictures of their children however.

  She had waited until the servants were busy downstairs. It was unheard of her to enter this room and it would be difficult to explain. At a distance she heard Samuels giving instructions. His loyalty, at the end, was to her husband.

  The desk key was slippery in her hands. She had never used it before. It caught in the lock. The central drawer was the obvious place to begin. With a wrench the barrels turned. There was a cache of letters, addressed to him in France in faded blue-black ink, and tied together with barristers’ red tape. She recognised Joan’s elegant hand. For a second she considered untying them and reading but thought better of it. More importantly she saw a large buff envelope of recent postmark next to them. Before removing it she looked carefully at its position in the drawer. She held her breath as she slipped the contents out and then read with growing alarm. It was a report from Jackson. Jeremy, through Jackson, knew far more than she had realised. How much more did he know than was contained in this summary? On a first reading, Adam was in very deep trouble. She seemed to be in the clear at one level, but her options were being closed down. She knew that she too was being targeted.

  Under the enquiry agent’s report was another envelope. It was from his solicitors. She had been in the study fifteen minutes now. With every minute the danger increased. But she couldn’t risk waiting until another day. She heard Samuels climbing the stairs. The study door was closed and the waste bin empty. There was no obvious reason why he would come in.

  – Gemma! Did you clean Mr Pemberton’s study?

  She saw the door handle turn down. There was nowhere to hide. In the distance she heard a muted girl’s voice replying. The handle wavered and then returned to its usual position.

  – Very well.

  And she listened, holding her breath, as he mounted the stairs to the next floor. She would not be able to leave the room in any event now until he had reached the next landing and moved on. She really had little choice but to read his solicitor’s letter. The envelope was made of expensive paper, as was the sheet within. The signature had an exotic flourish:

  The timing of the petition must, ultimately, be a matter for you. My advice is that there is sufficient evidence available for you to succeed, albeit that you do not, as yet, have a cast iron case. If you are correct in your assessment that Mr Falling and Mrs Pemberton are aware of your suspicions, then it is likely to become increasingly difficult to obtain conclusive evidence. My own view is that there is good cause for waiting at
least a few days longer. I say this because, in the first instance, it may be that Jackson will be able to obtain something damning. My second reason is more pragmatic and human. Next Wednesday will be Christmas Day. I know that you are particularly concerned about the effect that this will have on Jenny. I acknowledge, also, that you are concerned about Mrs Pemberton’s children who, whilst young, will be very affected by the course that you are intending to follow. A petition before Christmas will affect all the children, probably for the rest of their lives, far more than a petition in early January. My own advice …

  “Mrs Pemberton’s children”? That hurt her more than the imminence of the petition and the catastrophe that awaited her. She did not need to read further. She had known and accepted that she would have to take second place in his affections to Joan. But they were his children too. They were in no way inferior to Jenny. And he wanted to take them away from her. She took a deep breath and then lost control. An enormous sob broke from her, so loud that she was convinced that Samuels must hear it; her shoulders shook and tears fell onto the solicitor’s letter, staining the signature.

  She pawed it in an effort to clear away the damage but the signature just became more smeared. She bit her lip in an effort to stop the noise, and then held her breath. That was supposed to stop hiccupping. After a minute she drew her fingers across her eyes. There was a mirror in the corner of the room and she made for it. She was still beautiful. Her long blonde hair was less curly than Agnes’s. Her eyes were still blue but they were red-rimmed and bruised with tears. Dark shadows lay under them. It was not just the lack of sleep from the Blitz. The tears were still visible. She could not leave the room unless she was sure she had time to reach her own dressing room.

  She looked at herself and remembered what she was and how she had made herself into what she was. An old determination entered her. A battle lay ahead but she would win it. She knew what she needed to achieve. She knew what her priorities were. If Jeremy … if Adam … had to suffer … so be it. She wiped away the remnants of her tears and went back to the desk, replacing the letter in its envelope. She was careful to replace it beneath the enquiry agent’s letter. She locked the drawer again, struggling once more with the barrels of the lock. Her self-possession restored, she stood beside the study door and, satisfied that there was no one around, left the room, locking it behind her, and returned to safe territory …