Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

The ranting continued all the way up to Green Park. A Police Constable looked at them with some interest at one point but let them move on without interference. When they got to the hotel, Vos walked in under his own steam and they managed to get him up to the room without crashing into too many things. Thankfully there was no ranting or raving to disturb the other guests or cause any other problems. They dumped him onto the bed and looked at him. He curled up into a ball on the mattress and rambled to himself.

  “Will you be okay?” Carter asked Woods.

  “I’ll watch him. As long as he doesn’t snore I’ll let him live till morning,” replied the big Canadian.

  Carter went back to his own room and got into bed. He didn’t bother pulling the curtains, he liked watching the night sky through the window as he fell asleep.

  The following morning, the light streaming through the window woke him up. He stretched, felt his neck go crack and then rolled over. He peered at his watch on the nightstand and nodded. It was ten o’clock, there was plenty of day left over to do things. He went next door and knocked. There was no response and he pushed the door open. He sneaked his head round to see both of them were spark out. He threw a pillow at Vos and kicked Woods bed.

  “Up, bed slugs.” There were groans of protest. “Up. I’m going for breakfast.”

  He left them to it and went downstairs. He took his time over his powdered eggs and toast while he perused a two day old newspaper and sipped his tea. He checked his watch. Thirty minutes was long enough. He traipsed back upstairs to see what kind of shape they were in.

  Woods was up. He was busy looking at himself in a wall mounted mirror while he sorted his tie out. The other bed was empty. Woods nodded towards the bathroom. Carter found Vos kneeling over the toilet bowl. He looked up as the door opened. He was green around the gills and there were massive bags under his eyes.

  “Morning!” Carter said, brimming with good cheer. Vos groaned and put his head back over the bowl. “Come on, old son. Lets get out and embrace the day.”

  “G’way,” Vos choked. “I drank too much.”

  “Yes, you did,” Carter agreed. “Come on. A quick wash will sort you out. You’ve got ten minutes.” He put the plug in the sink and span the taps. He chucked a towel over Vos and retreated to the bedroom. He lay down on Woods bed and whistled to himself while the Canadian finished getting ready.

  “That was a bit harsh,” Woods said.

  “Nonsense, he needed a boot up the arse to get moving, otherwise we’d never leave here till this afternoon. Besides, I don’t want to give him time to wallow in self pity. Whatever happened yesterday upset the apple cart. We’ve got today to sort him out.”

  Vos emerged from the bathroom, looking a little better. His eyes were still red rimmed but he was up and walking which was something. Shaking fingers fastened the buttons on his shirt.

  “I need a drink,” he said, running his tongue over dry lips. His head was thumping. Most of the evening was a mild blur. He remembered going to the cinema but he had little recollection after that. Jamming his peaked cap on his head he followed Woods and Carter out of the door. His stomach rebelled when he caught a whiff of food from the dining room. He quickened his pace to get outside and was thankful when he got to fresh air. He sucked down big lungfuls of it and it helped his headache. Woods clapped him on the back.

  “Feeling better?”

  “A bit.” Vos wiped a sleeve across his mouth. “I’m hungry.”

  Woods laughed. That was a good sign. Any man who could contemplate food after what he had put away last night was on the road to recovery. They asked a pedestrian if there was somewhere decent for a late breakfast. They were pointed towards a tea room near the Albert Hall that opened early. Carter stuck with a pot of tea while Woods and Vos demolished a rack of toast and a bowl of porridge each.

  “What shall we do today?” he asked them, his tone upbeat. Woods ruminated on that while he spread butter on his last slice.

  “Wide open spaces,” he said.

  “Something with a view,” Vos demanded. Carter bent some thought on that. Greenwich was the wrong side of the river so that was out. Richmond Park, Hampton Court and Kew were all quite attractive but again a bit on the far side. Hampstead Heath wasn’t far, neither was Regent’s Park.

  “I think we can accommodate that,” he told them.

  They took a bus to Regent’s Park. No one was interested in going to the zoo. Seeing a bunch of animals in cages held little attraction and they cut across the road to Primrose Hill. It was a gentle climb to the top and they sat on the benches for a while. Vos lit up his last Woodbine.

  “How on earth can you like those?” Woods asked, his nose wrinkling in distaste. Vos looked at the cigarette and regarded the glowing tip. “Can’t get Gaulois, this is the next best thing.”

  They enjoyed the view of the city spread across their line of sight to the south. They could just make out St Paul’s Cathedral on the horizon. The breeze coming up the hill was nice and fresh and it helped clear their heads from the previous nights booze.

  Woods dearly wanted to ask Carter about his first tour but it felt gauche to talk shop. Instead, he asked Vos about Holland, probing around the edges of his escape and how he came to England.

  Vos sat up, cleared his throat and told his tale. He told them about the day the Luftwaffe came over and wiped out his airfield. When Belgium had surrendered at the end of May 1940, he had gathered a few like minded colleagues and commandeered a military truck. Taking the coast road they beat it as quick as they could. Amongst all the chaos and confusion in France, no one was particularly interested in a few Belgian strays, so they took the next available ferry to England.

  Vos smiled when he remembered the little piece of comedy at the RAF recruitment office in Dover. The Sergeant thought they were yanking his chain when they marched in wearing their Belgian Air Force uniforms demanding to join up. Vos could laugh about it now, but at the time it had gotten quite heated, until an officer came out of an inner office to find out what all the shouting was about.

  When they found out he was a radio instructor he nearly found himself permanently grounded. He had fought tooth and nail to be made operational. He had come to England to fight, to play a part in defeating the Nazi’s so he could go back home, not waste his time teaching trainees to bash out Morse in a classroom.

  He thought back to the day before. He had been a fool to think he could find out about his family. He just had to accept that they would be a dream in his mind until the day he got back home again.

  They rode the underground back to Piccadilly Circus. Even in wartime conditions, it was a riot of colour, advertising boards attached to buildings and the road stiff with traffic, the path choked with pedestrians.

  They found a serviceman’s club and got a mid afternoon snifter. Vos had recovered his vigour by then, but he took it easy, restricting himself to a half of bitter. They got a steer to a restaurant a few streets away from all the bustle.

  It seemed dubious as they followed the directions. The route took them down a narrow sidestreet away from the bustle. A few ladies of the night emerged out of the gathering gloom. They spotted the officer rings on their shoulders and moved in for the kill. A ripe brunette tried her luck. Vos pleaded ignorance and sputtered a load of French at her as they retreated to the other side of the street. That bounced them into range of a trio of girls. Vos was about to shout at them when one of them spoke to him in French. She was a skinny little thing with dark hair, red cheeks and a thin summer coat wrapped over her slim frame.

  “Qui es-tu?” he asked, ‘who are you?’.

  “Denise,” she told him, her voice nervous. Grateful to hear French, Vos stopped walking and she approached him. She flowed across the pavement, her lithe legs shown to advantage by a high heel and a skirt cut just above the knee. She stared up at him and shivered as she rubbed her hands up and down her arms.

  Carter called to Vos to hurry up. The Belgian stared at her, almost transfixed
. Carter called again and Vos shook his head, walking after his pilot and navigator. As he got to the corner he looked back to see the girl standing in the middle of the street watching him.

  The restaurant was one of those hidden gems that survived on word of mouth. There was little in the way of signs on the outside, just a green door that led to some stairs and a waiting area. The place was heaving. Small tables were everywhere and patrons had been shoehorned in to maximise the floorspace. They squeezed their way through the crush and were shown to a table by a window that overlooked the street at the back of the Apollo Theater. While they perused the menu, Carter asked if there were any shows the waiter could recommend.

  “Depends what you want, sir,” was the reply wrapped in a thick London accent.

  “Music and something easy on the eye,” Woods told him. The answer was quick.

  “The Palais has a musical. The Palladium’s got a cabaret show, London Review,” he rattled off the cast list. “Dusty Miller, Mercy Daniels, The Jersey Dolls.”

  “That’s for us,” said Carter. The waiter sucked on his teeth, playing his part well.

  “Difficult to get in that one,” he said, beginning his pitch. “Popular show.”

  “How much?” asked Carter, cutting him off, not fazed by the patter.

  “Ten bob, plus the ticket price on top,” the waiter informed him, not missing a beat as he gave him his best smile.

  “Done,” said Carter without hesitation.

  The waiter beamed. A nice easy transaction for tickets he already had burning a hole in his back pocket.

  “I’ll have the tickets in half an hour. Now what can I get you gents? We’ve got some nice things off menu, if you catch my drift?”

  For three men fresh off an airbase where the food was passable but limited, he’d just said the magic words.

  “Give us something resembling a steak and you can have my first born and a nice tip, you catch my drift?,” said Woods.

  “Perfectly, sir. Rapidly.”

  They watched him weave his way through the press of bodies to the kitchen.

  Dinner was a treat. There was no starter but they got a plate with a thick bit of meat, mushrooms, a selection of vegetables and some chips. Vos asked for some Dijon mustard and got a funny look from the waiter. A pot and small spoon was produced that had English mustard in it. Vos made a face.

  “What’s that?” he asked the waiter.

  “All we’ve got, sir. There is a war on.”

  “We noticed,” said Carter tartly. The waiter diplomatically withdrew from the field.

  It wasn’t a real steak, but the chef had worked some magic and it certainly tasted okay going down. Considering the food being served, Carter couldn’t believe the place was still operating. He was half expecting the Police to bust down the door any moment and arrest all the staff for being black marketeers.

  The theater tickets arrived with dessert. Money changed hands and they found they had three seats from the upper circle near the front off to the right. Good enough. The bill when it came was suitably indecent. Carter got a raised eyebrow in return when he asked if a cheque was okay.

  “Oh well, it was worth a try,” he sighed as they fished in their pockets and dumped coins and notes on the small tray.

  They headed off to the London Palladium and got there with ten minutes to spare. Vos paid sixpence for the program and was looking through the pages when the lights went down. It was a good show. Dusty Miller was the headline comic, there were some good singers like Mercy Daniels and June Fields and there were French girls doing the Can Can. Mercy Daniels had everyone singing along with her. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when she had finished her turn. There was lots of noise, laughs and attractive girls to catch the eye.

  Miller got three slots, one of them a skit with him as a member of the Home Guard, a spy and a good looking girl. His jokes ranged from tame to the outrageous while he asked the audience which they preferred. The audience would shout out their choice and it was almost always something risque.

  The show finished up with the entire cast on the stage doing a final musical number and then taking their bow. Somewhere in the middle of all that, Vos had slid out unnoticed. Carter and Woods only realised he was missing when the lights went up. They waited ten minutes thinking he had gone to the little boys room. Woods offered his opinion of Mercy Daniels while they waited.

  “She’s a dream.”

  Carter looked at him and smiled that lopsided smile of his, the scar on his cheek making him appear cruel.

  “She’s got a good pair of lungs on her,” Carter agreed. He blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. Woods eyebrows went up. “No I mean it. She’s got a strong voice. What did you think I meant?” He smiled more warmly, his tone teasing. “I thought she was a bit plain.”

  “Come off it, skipper, the gals a doll.”

  When Vos failed to show, Woods just shrugged. They had no idea where he had gone and no idea when he’d left. He was a big boy, he knew where the hotel was, they’d just have to see him later.

  12 - Lost Souls

  Vos had left during Dusty Miller’s second turn on stage. Everyone had been laughing with tears running down their faces but Vos couldn’t get into it. Miller’s style was to talk fast, a constant patter with words flying like a machine gun. Vos could speak English quite well but this rapid fire delivery was all too much for him. He suddenly felt a very long way from home.

  He slid out unnoticed and just started walking. The cold air was a shock to his system after the stifling heat in the theater and he huddled inside his greatcoat as he followed the crowds.

  He hated London. The crush of the buildings bore down on him. Everyone was on top of each other and he felt hemmed in. He needed someone to talk to. A stray thought made a connection and he retraced his steps from earlier in the day. He found her near the corner he had first seen her. She saw him approach, not recognising him in the dark. She stepped out from the doorway, her arms crossed across her chest, her breath frosting in the cold air.

  “Denise,” he said. She stiffened at being called by name. Six feet separated them. She looked back over her shoulder to see other women looking at her. Vos became very conscious that he had an audience. He stuck to French.

  “Voulez-vous un verre?” Do you want a drink? he asked her. She nodded, her eyes wide, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

  “D’accord.”

  He grunted acceptance and he walked away, half turning and motioning for her to follow him. She fell into step next to him, matching his longer stride, her heels clicking on the pavement. There were mutters of disgust from the other toms as they missed out on some business.

  Vos steered towards a pub he could see at the end of the road. He walked in and the girl followed him. The barman took one look at her and was about to voice a protest when Vos produced a ten shilling note. As the barman reached for it, Vos grabbed his hand and looked him in the eye.

  “Two glasses and a bottle of something strong; no questions.”

  The barman snatched back his hand and rubbed it before taking the note and shoving it in his pocket.

  “Back of the room,” he muttered.

  Vos motioned for the girl to go ahead and he caught a whiff of perfume as she went past him. She took a seat next to the radiator and sat close to it, trying to absorb the heat. She was shivering and flinched when Vos reached across the table towards her. He withdrew his hand and sat back when the barman brought two glasses and a small bottle of gin. The barman was robbing him but Vos didn’t want to cause a scene. He cracked the seal on the bottle and poured for both of them.

  She didn’t touch hers. He knocked his back and poured another. The gin burned on the way down and was like petrol to his tastebuds. He would have preferred to drink Jenever but hadn’t seen a bottle of that since leaving Belgium.

  “Francais?” he asked her and she nodded dumbly, her hands worrying the front of her skirt.

  “Qui, Saint Omer,” she bit
out, her voice quiet. In the dim light of the pub he could see she was young, her small elfin features set off by deep green eyes. She had a long face and round chin. Whatever puppy fat she may have had had been starved away and her cheekbones stood out on her face. She had added too much rouge to her cheeks to give herself some colour. He couldn’t decide if she was naturally pale or just frozen from being outside.

  He asked her where she lived. She told him it was none of his business. He asked her again more firmly and she told him she lived in a small bedsit in the East End but did not elaborate further. She was a long way from home in this part of London late at night. Vos asked her how she was going to get back. She said she would walk whenever he was finished with her. That last she said with slight venom.

  She hitched her chair round and grabbed his hand, pulling it over so it rested on her knee. She forced his hand down and moved it along her leg, making him touch her. He snatched his hand back.

  “Non, non. I just want to talk,” he said. Her eyes flared and her lips pulled thin. He was playing with her. She pulled away and began to stand up, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her getting any further. She was about to swear at him to let her go when she saw his face and she paused. His eyes were pleading for her to stay. Hesitantly she sat back down again, unsure.

  She had been doing this for a while, but this was the first time someone had not gone straight to the main event. When their lips brushed her skin she would think of something else. When they used her she would think of other things, making noises in the appropriate places by rote. When they were done she would get a few more coins to maintain her meagre existence. She had sunk a long way since coming to England out of necessity and circumstance.

  Fleeing the chaos of France, a family in London’s East End had found space for her while their son was away at war. The Blitz made her homeless when the family was bombed out. She was left with the clothes on her back and a few salvaged valuables with nowhere to stay. A volunteer society helped for a while and found her a secretarial job at a company that made belt buckles for the army.