‘What time is it?’
‘Half past seven.’
‘I’d better rouse myself, I suppose.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to it, Susan? You can have some time off, if you want.’
‘I’d rather work than – well, brood.’
‘Good girl,’ Basil said. ‘Viv will fix you up with some clothes and, of course, you’ll stay with us – unless you have other plans.’
‘My flat,’ Susan said. ‘How did you know it had been hit?’
‘You told me.’
‘Did I?’
‘Just before you sailed off to the land of Nod,’ Basil said. ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘Actually, no. I was in rather a state, wasn’t I?’
‘Indeed, you were,’ Basil said. ‘I think things caught up with you all of a sudden. Not surprised you had a fit of the vapours. Nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘What else did I tell you?’
‘Nothing of any consequence,’ Basil said.
She raised herself on an elbow and looked around the studio. There were half a dozen men in the room and two women, fully dressed, whom she didn’t recognise and who paid her no attention at all.
‘Are they broadcasting from here?’
‘Morning service at ten fifteen,’ said Basil.
‘I’d better get up.’
‘We’ve loads of time,’ said Basil. ‘Your clothes are just behind you. Matron would have had you in the first-aid room overnight but I thought you’d be safer here.’
‘Was the building hit?’
‘Some external damage, nothing too serious,’ Basil told her. ‘The Langham Hotel copped it, though. We won’t be boarding guests there for quite some time, I fear.’
‘Many injured?’
‘I really don’t know.’ Basil stooped and lifted a blanket from the mattress beside her, shook it out and folded it neatly. ‘There’s a cloakroom reserved for ladies just across the gangway; you can wash and dress there.’
‘Where’s Robert?’
‘Bob decided to make a run for it as soon as he saw that you were all right.’
‘Make a run for where?’ said Susan.
‘The Lansdowne, I suppose. He said he had work to do.’
‘Another piece for us?’
‘He’s already delivered a tail-end for Friday.’
‘Is it good?’
‘Very good,’ said Basil. ‘Very relevant.’
Holding the blanket in front of her, Susan sat up. She had a slight headache and just for an instant the room swam. She drew in a few deep breaths, got to her feet and wrapped the blanket around her.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from my husband?’ she said.
Basil did his best to look surprised. ‘Oh, is he in town?’
‘I told you that, too, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, I believe you did mention it. And, no, Susan, I haven’t heard from him, though it’s early yet and last night’s raids were very intense.’
‘You don’t have to make excuses for him, Basil,’ Susan said. ‘What you can do, if you don’t mind, is stand me breakfast.’
‘Delighted to do so,’ Basil said. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Starved,’ said Susan.
By ten o’clock there was a bit of a breeze and it was cooler than it had been of late but there was no sign of cloud cover and ‘softening-up’ raids before nightfall seemed inevitable.
Council officials and billeting officers had arrived early at St Vee’s to record details of families’ needs and attend on the spot to cases of extreme hardship. Some items of essential clothing, mainly underwear and shoes, had been brought down from a Salvation Army depot but dealers in second-hand clothes had been quick off the mark and a tidy little market had sprung up in the side street that bordered Pound Lane.
There were only two lavatories in St Vee’s and no washing facilities apart from a couple of hand basins, but a functioning tap had been unearthed in the wreckage of Roach’s Garage and a hose run out to provide clean water to fill buckets and tubs.
Not a man to dawdle when his mind was set on something, Matt had hobbled off for the union offices to find out how the land might lie in respect of compensation and, Danny suspected, enquire about steamer services to Ireland.
Billy was fractious and clingy. Even a slice of fried bread dipped in egg yolk and a cup of weak tea didn’t settle him. He hung on to Breda’s skirt, cried when it dawned on him that Danny was leaving and was not consoled by Danny’s promise that he wasn’t going off to fight the Germans and would be back in no time at all.
The Tube turned out to be impossible. Lines were closed on many of the routes. It took Danny the best part of two hours to wend his way by bus as far as Victoria, hoof along the King’s Road and cut over to Rothwell Gardens.
It had been in his mind that if Susan had moved in with the American, he might billet Breda and company in the flat; a tight squeeze for four but a lot more comfortable than camping out in the church crypt. As soon as he rounded the corner into the Gardens, however, that half-baked scheme went up in smoke.
The area around the block was cordoned off by policemen who were watching two men on a turntable ladder outlined against the sky.
‘What are they doin’?’ Danny asked.
‘None o’ your business. Move along.’
Danny handed over his identity card and BBC pass. The policeman carried them off to show to two men who had replaced their helmets with bowler hats and who, after checking Danny’s name against the tenants’ register, gave the copper the nod to let Danny through.
His first reaction to the sight of the torn building was fear, fear that Susan and her lover had been together in bed when the bomb had fallen.
As he approached the crowd of builders, salvage men and tenants who flanked the crater on the park side of the street the ladder swung away and a huge slab of concrete crashed down through three floors and buried itself in the debris by what had once been the doorway.
Everyone stepped hastily back, turning their heads away and covering their eyes as a cloud of dust billowed across the street. An elderly woman clad in a fur coat, who Danny recognised as a neighbour, let out a shriek. Two rather effete young men who lived in the flat above hugged each other and sobbed as the ladder swayed and a slice of polished wood flooring slipped from its moorings and followed the slab to the ground, bringing with it an antique chiffonier, three tapestry chairs and a beautiful swan-neck standard lamp.
‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God, Dickie! We’re losing the lot,’ one of the young men cried.
Wiping dust from his eyes, Danny sought out one of the bowler hats from the letting agency.
Danny said, ‘When did this happen?’
‘Monday night,’ the agent told him.
Danny let out his breath: he no longer had to worry about Susan. ‘What’s happenin’ now?’ he said.
‘The building’s being inspected to make sure it’s safe.’
‘Safe?’ Danny said. ‘Safe for what?’
‘Salvage work. If you have possessions you wish to reclaim I suggest you wait with the others on the off-chance the crew will be able to fetch stuff out.’
‘What about the lease?’
The agent was in his fifties. He had a small dark moustache, probably dyed. His eyes were pouched with fatigue.
‘Too early to say. The building may not be redeemable, in which case you should apply in writing for reimbursement of rent paid in advance. Contents, of course, are not our responsibility.’
‘How long will all this take?’
‘For ever,’ the other bowler hat put in. ‘For bloody ever.’
The ladder moved closer to the third floor where a corner of the gable wall remained in place. The man on top of the ladder stretched across the gap and shook what appeared to be the end of a joist which instantly released another heavy shower of debris. The man on top of the ladder stooped and spoke to the chap three or four rungs below him who, in turn, swung out one-hand
ed and shouted, ‘No go this side. I ain’t no expert but it looks ter me like a demo job.’
The man in the bowler hat swore loudly.
‘What does that mean?’ Danny said.
‘It means we’ll have to pay a specialist to take the building down,’ the agent told him, ‘and nobody’s going to get anything out of it.’ He stroked his moustache with his forefinger. ‘Have you got anything in there you really can’t live without?’
‘Only my Sunday best suit.’
‘You what?’
‘No,’ Danny said. ‘Nothin’ I can’t live without.’
She expected Bob to turn up full of concern for her welfare. When he hadn’t appeared by noon she was tempted to telephone the Lansdowne to make sure he was all right.
She was more in control of herself now than she’d been in quite a while and applied herself to typing up the letters that Basil dictated and – a monthly chore – compiling a budget to send round to the Accounts Department in the building in Duchess Street; a building that had not escaped unscathed and within which, according to Basil, a certain amount of papery chaos currently reigned.
There had also been damage to the west wing of the House and part of Portland Place had been closed off to traffic but Susan hadn’t been outside to see for herself, and had no desire to do so. Whether it was the lingering effects of the sedative or a sign that she was adjusting to life under nightly bombardment she couldn’t be sure, but she felt safe within the walls of Broadcasting House and protected by the anything-but-humdrum routine of putting together another edition of Speaking Up for Britain. It occurred to her in a rueful moment that if she could persuade someone to collect her laundry she might pass the duration of the war here quite peacefully.
Basil was solicitude personified. He had a page-boy – sixty if he was a day – fetch coffee and sandwiches from the canteen and when he saw that Susan was having difficulty with some dolt in the Censors’ Department discreetly took over the call.
It was a little after noon. Susan had just popped out to the cloakroom when the message came up from the reception desk. Basil had barely replaced the telephone receiver when she came back into the office.
He looked up, frowned and said, ‘There’s someone waiting to see you in the front hall.’
Robert, she thought, first Ronnie and now Robert, and experienced a fleeting moment of dread.
‘Who is it?’ she heard herself say.
‘Your husband.’
‘Danny? Why doesn’t he come up?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Basil. ‘He wants you to go down.’
‘He’s been to see Rupert Talbot, hasn’t he? He’s been interviewed for a posting in the News Department and now he wants to tell me—’
‘Susan, calm down,’ Basil said.
‘What? Yes, of course, of course.’
‘Go and see what he wants,’ Basil said. ‘If he’s looking for a place to lay his head he is, of course, perfectly entitled to stay here overnight. He is staff, after all.’
‘Yes,’ said Susan. ‘I do tend to forget that. May I … ?’
‘Go, go. For God’s sake, go.’
The hall was even more crowded than usual and had lost all semblance of orderliness. Workmen on ladders were repairing the wiring that fed the lifts and some of the big square lights that topped the columns of English marble were flickering frantically. By the doorway four charwomen, tails in the air, were scrubbing at a huge black stain that had mysteriously appeared on the floor, while refugees from outlying offices stepped cautiously over and around them. To the left of the reception desk, in one of the nooks between the columns, Danny and Bob Gaines were chatting.
Bob was smartly dressed in a plaid jacket and dark blue flannels and had exchanged the grubby fedora for a soft felt hat with a feather in the band. He carried a scuffed pigskin briefcase plastered with luggage labels and, Susan noticed, had neglected yet again to burden himself with a gas mask.
‘Susan,’ he called out. ‘Come and join us.’
Danny turned and watched her approach. He seemed, she thought, rather annoyed at her intrusion. He looked skinny, almost waif-like in a raincoat that was miles too long for him. He wore no hat, his hair needed washed and his shoes were filthy. At his feet were two plump brown paper parcels neatly tied with department store string.
He said, ‘I know you’re busy. I won’t keep you long.’
She waited for one or other man to kiss her but neither of them did. She said, ‘What are you doing down here, Danny? Why didn’t you come upstairs?’
‘Same question I asked,’ said Bob. ‘Look, I’ll leave you to it. You obviously have things to talk about. I’ll be up in the office when you’re through, Susan.’
No matter how urbane she pretended to be, she could not meet her lover’s eye while her husband stood by. She nodded, saw the men shake hands and Bob give Danny’s shoulder a little slap, the way men do, before he hefted up the briefcase and headed for the stairs.
Danny watched him go.
‘Nice guy,’ he said. ‘You could do worse, Susie.’
It occurred to her that whatever had brought her husband to Broadcasting House it wasn’t a meeting with Rupert Talbot or anyone else from the News Department. Even Danny wouldn’t turn up for a crucial interview looking like a ragamuffin.
Danny said, ‘I wasn’t sure I’d find you here.’
‘Where else would I be?’ Susan said.
‘I thought maybe you’d taken shelter with Mr Gaines.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve been here all night.’
‘Then you don’t know about the flat?’
‘Oh, that!’ she said. ‘Yes, in fact I do know about the flat. Have you been down there this morning?’
‘Aye,’ Danny told her. ‘About an hour ago.’
‘How soon can we move back in?’
‘Are you kiddin’? The block’s been declared unsafe, same as Stratton’s. Chances are it’ll be demolished.’
‘What about my stuff?’
‘The salvage crews won’t risk their necks for your stuff, or mine, or anybody’s else. Anyroads, there could be another raid tonight – probably will be – and who’s to say another bomb won’t finish the job. The flat’s still in your name so you better do the paperwork if you want some money back on the rent. There’s insurance on the contents, too, isn’t there?’
‘Why must you always be so bloody practical, Danny?’
‘Badly brought up, I suppose,’ Danny said. ‘Are you gonna lodge with Gaines?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’
‘There’s always Vivian to fall back on if you have to.’
‘What about you, Danny? Do you have somewhere to go?’
‘Back to Wood Norton.’
‘I mean tonight,’ Susan said.
‘I’ll stay at St Vee’s,’ Danny said.
‘You can stay here if you wish. You’re staff, after all.’
He shook his head, stooped and brought up one of the brown paper parcels. ‘I brought you a few things I thought you might need. Knickers, stockings an’ the like.’
She took the parcel and hugged it to her chest.
‘Don’t tell me you walked into Marshall and Snelgrove’s ladies’ department and—’
‘Crossland’s: you know what a cheapskate I am.’
‘No, never that. Whatever else, never that,’ Susan said. ‘Thank you. I mean it. Thank you very, very much.’ She looked down at the parcel at his feet. ‘Is that one for your girl?’
‘My girl?’
‘Your girl in Evesham.’
‘I don’t have a girl in Evesham.’
‘I thought you said …’
‘I didn’t say it; you did.’ He bent down, picked up the parcel from the floor and tucked it under his arm. ‘Look, I’ve done what I came here to do so I’d better push off.’
‘Who’s the other parcel for, Danny?’
He seemed surprised that she even had to ask.
‘Breda,�
� he said. ‘Who else?’
30
It was only after Danny went back to Evesham that Breda began to accept that Ron was dead. There were too many loose ends, nothing but loose ends, and the biggest loose end of all was that she would never see Ronnie again, never hear his voice or see his face or feel him inside her and that her bed, wherever her bed might be, was empty without him.
She tried not to feel sorry for herself and she certainly wasn’t idle. Her hands, fortunately, were almost healed and she’d had the bandages taken off. She had plenty to do – too much, in fact – but there was no pattern to her life, no centre now that Stratton’s, her house in Pitt Street and, of course, Ron were gone.
She was interviewed by council officers. She filled in forms. She took Billy to a First Aid post to have his dressing changed and helped Nora compose a letter to the aunts in Limerick. She gritted her teeth and ventured up to Oxmoor Road to set in motion the process of obtaining a certificate from the Fire Service that would allow her to register Ron’s death and claim a little bit of money from the government.
What troubled her more than lack of income, though, was the effect the nightly bombings were having on Billy.
When the siren sounded, as it did every evening, he would throw himself upon her, drag her to the bunk and cower under the blankets, fists clenched and face pressed into her breast. He could not be persuaded to join in the boisterous games Father Joe organised to amuse the children, or sit cross-legged in a circle while one of the nuns told the story of Moses or Noah, how Daniel survived the lions in King Darius’s den or how Jesus made a crippled man walk again.
He shunned Nora, avoided Matt, and refused to be bribed with sweets, comics or even an ice cream that his grandfather had limped half a mile to fetch for him.
When his head ached, which it did quite often, he stuck his fists in his mouth and closed his eyes so tightly that it was all the tears could do to squeeze out from under the lids. And when Breda finally took him back to the First Aid post to have his stitches removed, he screamed and struggled and had to be held down until the deed was done and, afterwards, kicked Breda’s shins as if the pain were her fault.
All Breda had to hang on to in that dismal week was the postcard Danny had hidden in the parcel of clothes he’d brought back from town. The postcard had a pretty picture on one side: a thatched cottage with apple trees in the sunny garden and a creature that was either a dog or a lamb peeping out from under a rose bush.
The Wayward Wife Page 25
