Ambulance Girls Under Fire

by Deborah Burrows

I couldn’t immediately reply because a waiter had appeared with the white wine. We paused as he poured it into our glasses and after he had left I raised my glass in a provocative toast. ‘Victory at all costs.’

  ‘At all costs,’ he replied, and took a sip of wine. ‘I suspect, however, that we refer to a different sort of victory. Mine is victory over that bombastic fool, Churchill.’

  Shocked, I glanced at the tables around us. No one appeared to have heard. ‘You can’t say that, Cedric.’

  He gave me an irritatingly indulgent smile. ‘This is England. Quaglino’s. No one here would be impolite enough to listen to the conversation at a neighbouring table. And really darling, you’d be surprised how many agree with me.’

  ‘Yes, I would be surprised,’ I said tartly. ‘I’ve been in London since the Blitz began and you’ve been here, what, a week? I think I’m aware of the popular mood and believe me, it’s not in favour of the Nazis, no matter how much you might like to think it.’

  Cedric was quiet as our grapefruit was served.

  ‘I only want what’s best for my country,’ he said, once the waiter had left. ‘All this destruction, death and misery could cease in a moment if England would just listen to reason. It’s Churchill’s insane stubbornness that is the sticking point.’ He paused to spear a piece of grapefruit and eat it. Then he laughed, a bitter sound. ‘The man sees himself as an absolute monarch.’

  ‘Unlike Hitler?’ I asked sweetly.

  Cedric threw me an irate look. ‘Churchill has never ridden on a bus, you know,’ he said. ‘He never carries money. The man is perpetually drunk. He’s a throwback to an earlier century but we’re stuck with him. And he’s letting London burn to bolster his own megalomania.’

  I took my time in sprinkling my grapefruit half with sugar, trying to work out how to reply. Personally, I thought that Churchill was the very prime minister we needed at this moment in Britain’s history, and I was grateful for his speeches and his dogged determination to win at all costs.

  ‘Darling, obviously I can’t discuss it here,’ Cedric went on. He took a mouthful of wine. ‘Just be aware that the invasion is coming. And when it happens this country will be open and ripe for the picking, laid out just like that delicious grapefruit.’

  There was an almost boyish air of excitement about him. It showed in the flaring of his nostrils and his small, cruel smile when he asserted that my country would be invaded and subjugated within months.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ I speared a grapefruit segment and popped it into my mouth, enjoying the tart-sweet flavour.

  ‘You’re my wife. There should be no secrets between us, darling.’ His voice was muffled by a mouthful of grapefruit. ‘Our marriage will be the envy of England, and Hitler will adore you.’

  ‘You’ve said that before,’ I said sharply. ‘I’ll never meet Hitler, Cedric. There will be no invasion. Not now. We have control of our skies, and of our shores. Britain can defend itself.’

  I wished I really believed it. We were all worried that the invasion would be on us as soon as the weather improved. Hitler had taken all of Western Europe and it was well known that he wanted Britain as well.

  Cedric’s face became vexed. ‘Look around you. Look at the ruins of London.’ His expression intensified. ‘Control of the skies? What nonsense. Germany will be here come spring, and a good thing too.’ He finished his glass and poured more wine for himself.

  My heart began to thud in my chest. What Cedric was saying was treason. If I reported him he would be questioned and probably locked up again. Or would he simply deny it all? As his wife I couldn’t give evidence in court against him, which would mean that there could be no proof that this conversation had ever occurred. I wondered if Cedric were mad, drunk or simply deluded. I decided to treat it as a joke.

  ‘Honestly, Cedric, you sound like Fumf, when he says, “Fumf has spoken.”’

  He looked puzzled, then frowned. ‘Fumf?’

  ‘The German spy on It’s That Man Again.’

  His frown became petulant. ‘The silly wireless programme?’

  ‘The Royal Family listen to it. Just about everyone does. And Fumf is a marvellous caricature. He makes pronouncements and says “Fumf has spoken” as if that’s all it takes to carry them out.’

  He regarded me with a narrow look. ‘You’ve changed.’

  I took a sip of water. ‘Of course I’ve changed.’

  ‘You’ve lost something. A certain sweetness.’

  My patience with him fled. ‘Of course I’ve changed,’ I repeated. ‘In the past months I’ve driven ambulances in the middle of the worst aerial assault in history. I’ve had to treat shockingly injured people – ordinary people – and I’ve held their hands as they died. Last night I took a woman to hospital who had been trapped for several hours beneath her dead husband’s body in a buckled Anderson shelter. I’ve recovered bodies and parts of bodies from bomb sites. Children, babies. How can anyone go through that and not change, Cedric?’

  We were both silent as the waiter returned to whip away our grapefruit. It was replaced by lemon sole, swimming in a buttery sauce. The waiter topped up our glasses and left after Cedric ordered another bottle of wine.

  ‘Eddie Hollis does not approve of your work at Bloomsbury House. Nor does he approve of the company you keep.’

  ‘It’s none of Eddie Hollis’s business what I do in my spare time.’ Or yours. ‘I don’t like being spied upon by that man, Cedric.’

  Cedric gave me a long look, as if summing me up. ‘Eddie can become a trifle overenthusiastic about what he thinks are my best interests,’ he said, as he picked up his cutlery. ‘I really don’t think you need to go to Bloomsbury House any more. It won’t be long until the Germans are here and it would be better if you were not associated with a Jewish organisation when they arrive. I understand that you want to help children, but there are other, better ways to do that, ones more in keeping with your position in society.’

  I put down my fork. ‘I don’t have any social position, Cedric. Not since your arrest. And I don’t care if you or Eddie or Adolf Hitler himself doesn’t approve of my work at Bloomsbury House. I’m not about give it up.’

  He smiled again, but this time it was with an obvious effort. ‘I’m trying to be patient. Let’s be civilised, please.’

  He began to eat. I stared at my plate, wondering if I should even attempt to eat the fish through my rising nausea. What Cedric was saying was making me sick. Mechanically I picked at my sole. It might as well have been cardboard for all the enjoyment I got out of it.

  ‘You’re not eating,’ said Cedric, ‘which is a shame because you have become painfully thin. Try to eat, darling.’

  ‘I want a divorce.’

  The words were out before I could stop them, and the effect they had on Cedric was immediate and terrifying. His eyes narrowed and his mouth thinned. Before I knew what he was going to do he had leaned across the table and taken hold of my hand. It was no lover’s grip. He squeezed it. Hard. Painfully hard. My wedding ring cut into the fingers beside it and I felt a sharp pain at the base of my thumb, where it met the index finger. It was all I could do not to cry out. Instead I sat there and kept up the façade of calm good humour while he held my hand in a way that to a casual observer would have seemed lover-like, but which was slowly crushing the bones and sinews in my left hand.

  Why didn’t I get up and walk out of the restaurant? Why didn’t I cry out that he was hurting me? The English hatred of a ‘scene’ was part of it. Also, it was hard to comprehend that it was really happening. Someone who knows about such things told me later that in that moment I had reverted to the eight-year-old child being bullied by her father and I was as powerless as I had been then. All I know is that I sat there and let my husband cause me intense physical pain in a restaurant full of people and I did nothing about it.

  Eventually he released me. I tucked my hand under the table and rested it on my lap, where it throbbed painfully. Cedric retu
rned to eating his fish as if nothing had happened.

  ‘You know,’ he remarked, ‘I was worried that Quag’s might have lost some of its style in the war, what with the rationing, but this is really excellent.’ His tone was terrifyingly even. ‘No divorce, darling. Only death will part us.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, really excellent fish.’

  The waiter took away our plates. Lamb kebabs were placed before us. Cedric tucked in, while I sat looking at mine, trying to conceal with a straight back and expressionless face that my hand was so painful I doubted I could wield a fork. In any event my appetite had entirely disappeared.

  Why didn’t I get up and stalk out and never see Cedric Ashwin again? Looking back, I think I was in shock, unable to believe it had happened. I simply couldn’t believe that my husband, who had impeccable manners and was a lover of women in every sense, could have caused me such pain. And so I sat opposite him and watched him eat.

  Cedric laughed. ‘I do share a love of good food with Churchill. Like him, my tastes are simple. I am easily contented with the best of everything.’

  The lamb in front of me was removed untouched, as was my pudding. Cedric appeared to have enjoyed the meal enormously and had kept up a running commentary on the excellence of the dishes. As we sipped our coffee he informed me that I would be accompanying him to the Ritz that evening where we would be meeting old friends.

  I began to demur, but he stopped me with a cutting gesture. ‘Darling, I don’t like to hurt you, but if you behave like a child…’ He drew in a deep breath, and smiled as he exhaled. ‘You are my wife, Celia. You will accompany me, because if you’re not with me then I must make excuses for you, and I don’t want to have to do that. I will not be embarrassed by my wife. Or by her absence. We’ve been apart for many months. I accept that it may be difficult to pick up where we left off. I’m willing to give you time.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Good coffee, this.’

  I desperately tried to think what I could do. Negotiate terms. Try to strike a deal, regain the initiative. My voice was harsh and higher than my usual pitch, but I thought I managed to sound calm and non-committal.

  ‘What do you really want from me, Cedric?’

  ‘I want you to act appropriately.’

  ‘I don’t know what that means. Cedric, I can’t return to the marriage.’

  ‘Pretend then. For a while.’ He twisted the coffee cup around in its saucer. I will not be embarrassed by you, Celia. I need to re-establish myself in Society and to do that I need you by my side. I would … lose face, if it were known that you had deserted me.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘If you still feel the same way in two months, then I’ll divorce you. I give you my word.’

  ‘Two months?’ My heart began to pound. ‘I have your word on that?’

  He held my gaze. ‘You have my word. If you still feel the same way in two months, then I will take the usual steps to enable you to divorce me.’

  ‘Let’s be very clear on this, Cedric. On April the first, you’ll provide me with the usual affidavit?’

  ‘April Fool’s Day. How apt. If you still want a divorce, on April Fool’s Day I will swear an affidavit admitting my adultery.’

  My hand was throbbing painfully, but I scarcely noticed. A divorce. He had promised me a divorce. I lifted my head and took a deep breath.

  ‘I will be pleased to accompany you to the Ritz tonight,’ I said, ‘if it’s really that important to you.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  ‘But Cedric, I will not live with you. Not even to allow you to save face, as you put it. No one need know that we’re living apart.’

  He didn’t answer for a moment, but sat there eyeing me with a cool, rather clinical gaze in his ice-blue eyes. There were pale pouches in the skin beneath them, criss-crossed with fine lines. They had not been there before his incarceration and they gave him the look of an ageing roué. Which is exactly what he is, I thought.

  I said, in a firm voice, ‘I will accompany you to social events but am not prepared to live with you as your wife. Is that clear?’ I doubted that he would want for female company if I weren’t interested in obliging his needs. ‘And I’m deadly serious about the divorce. I’ll pretend to be your wife for two months, but on April the first I’ll expect that affidavit.’

  He stared at me while he considered this, and then he smiled. ‘Come spring, all will be different anyway. Then you may find that you are very pleased to be Cedric Ashwin’s wife.’

  His smile became calculating. ‘That boy. The one who was in your flat when I came to visit you?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Eddie discovered his name. Leonhard Weitz, isn’t it? It would be a shame if…’

  He took another sip of coffee, and laid the cup back in its tiny saucer.

  A thrill of fear rippled through my belly.

  ‘A shame if what?’ My voice was too high and strained, too obviously worried. My hand was still throbbing painfully and as I watched his face a thought flashed into my mind, If he can hurt me, his wife, with such ease, what would he do to a small Jewish boy? I took a small breath and lowered the pitch of my voice, made myself sound cool and calm.

  ‘Whatever do you mean, Cedric? He is a child who wished to visit my pet parrot. What has the child to do with anything?’

  He went on as if I’d not spoken. ‘And that Jewish doctor you’ve been seeing far too much lately. He’s the son of the banker Jonathan Levy, isn’t he? They live in Montague Street, Eddie tells me.’

  I stared at him. ‘What are you saying, Cedric?’

  ‘Why? What do you think I’m saying?’ His look at me was veiled, but again I saw the hint of something swirling in the clear, pale depths of his eyes. ‘So dangerous,’ he murmured.

  ‘What is?’ The give-away tightness in my voice had returned.

  ‘London, right now. There are so many dangers, it’s a wonder anyone survives.’

  Cedric motioned for the bill, which was brought to him by a waiter with a flourish.

  ‘It’s been delightful. So glad we had our chat. I’ll pick you up at eight, shall I?’

  His manner was now perfectly civil, even pleasant, but there was no love, no tenderness in the look he gave me. He had made sure that I would do what he wanted and now that he had, he would treat me with calm cordiality. So much for his protestations of undying affection, I thought.

  ‘Wear something lovely,’ he said. ‘I want to show you off.’

  I found myself longing for the bombers to arrive, because it seemed that nothing but a full-on air raid would allow me to avoid dinner with Cedric that evening. My hopes were dashed when by eight the weather had worsened and no raiders had appeared in the sky. As ordered, I wore my most stylish frock, a pale silver silk sheath, and I carefully applied my make-up. I did my hair with some difficulty as my hand was beginning to swell and discolour, but I thought there were no broken bones. It hurt to pull my evening glove on to the sore hand, but I managed. The best I could hope for was that I would be home early. Head high, walk tall.

  Cedric arrived at eight in a taxi and I greeted him in the lobby. He leaned in for a kiss.

  ‘Darling, you look exquisite. We could make a night of it. You could stay at the Dorchester with me tonight.’

  ‘No, Cedric.’

  He gave an elegant shrug and a smile. ‘Can’t blame a man for trying, darling. You do look ravishing.’

  When we stepped outside it was clear why no Warning had sounded. Thick clouds hung low above us in a protective layer. It was a bitterly cold evening with sleety snow driven by a gusty wind. I shivered in my coat. For yet another night, London would be protected by the English weather.

  I had rarely ventured out to the West End on a social outing since I’d begun my work with the ambulance service, and I had not been to the Ritz since the start of the war. When we arrived, it was almost shocking to find Piccadilly in utter darkness, because it had always seemed to me to be a place of light and laughter. Few people were on the
streets. Silence was heavy around us and we found the entrance by the light of our masked torches.

  Cedric had told me we were meeting another couple in the below stairs Grill Room, a place we had visited often before the war. I had read that it had been rechristened La Popote du Ritz. As we descended the stairs I saw why. Popote was French for army mess, and the old Grill Room had been altered to represent a stage setting of the Great War trenches. Instead of glittering chandeliers, a candelabrum composed of old bottles now dimly lit the dance floor, and it swayed above the sea of khaki and blue serge.

  Sandbags packed the walls, kept in place by wooden props and naked metal struts. The ceiling was apparently shored up with mighty beams. Check tablecloths, rather than white linen, adorned the tables, and on each was set a candle pushed into an old bottle – champagne, brandy, liqueur or beer. The band was playing dance tunes on a large stage, in front of a panoramic mural of the Western Front in the early days of the Great War. A similar mural adorned the wall of the adjoining bar, where the Siegfried Line wound its way past caricatures of Hitler and Goering. To complete the illusion, graffiti – in the best of taste, of course – had been scrawled on the woodwork.

  We were led to a table set against the wall.

  ‘Who are we meeting?’ I asked. ‘Do I know them?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Cedric seemed preoccupied. ‘We’re meeting the Ramsgates. Archie has some clout in the War Office, I’m led to believe. Could be useful to me.’

  I let my gaze drift around the room and was electrified to see Simon on the dance floor with a dark-haired girl in a WAAF uniform. It seemed at first glance to be the girl I had seen him dancing with at the Dorchester after Lily’s wedding. There was a look of Lore Rosenfeld about her, so I thought it must be Miriam, his oh-so accommodating girlfriend. I gave a mental shrug. Who Simon Levy danced with was not my concern. I hoped he was very happy with the girl. I could only pray that Cedric did not see him, as my husband’s veiled threats against Leo and Simon had been playing on my mind all afternoon.

  ‘Ah, here they are,’ said Cedric.

  I turned to see that the Ramsgates, a couple we used to know quite well before the war, had arrived. Cedric rose and smiled and greeted them and deftly drew them within the circle of his charming presence. He greeted them like dear friends, but I remembered that he had always referred to them disparagingly as the Irish setters, because they were both tall and slender with strawberry-blond hair. Captain Archie Ramsgate MP was around Cedric’s age, in his early forties, with a toothbrush moustache and a receding hairline. He greeted me with a hearty handshake that made me fear for my undamaged right hand.