Ambulance Girls At War

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘Have you been back often?’

  ‘Not since I left when I was twelve.’

  ‘Not even to see your grandparents.’

  I hesitated. ‘To tell you the truth, I didn’t get on with them. I send them money regularly, but I’m happy not to see them.’

  ‘Treat you badly?’

  ‘My grandmother isn’t well and my granddad is a very religious man. They didn’t really appreciate having me or my mother around.’ I looked up and gave him a hard stare. ‘And I’m not saying anything more about it.’

  Another sip of bitter tea made my stomach lurch.

  ‘Do you think this class stuff will change after the war?’ he asked. ‘You’re all pulling together now against the Germans.’

  ‘I think this Blitz is breaking down class barriers at the moment, but as to whether it will last …’ I shrugged. ‘Who knows. It runs pretty deep in this country. I hope so.’

  ‘I think it’s screwy.’ He finished his cup of coffee. ‘Look, it’s too early to eat, so what about checking the news for an hour or so and then grabbing a bite?’

  I accepted this offer, too. I wanted to get to know Michael Harker better, to understand more about the negatives and why he wanted them. That was what I told myself, anyway.

  The news cinema was almost full. It was common for people to pop in after work, to check what was happening in the war.

  We saw film of fierce fighting by the Greek army on the Yugoslavian frontier. Then our own British army which, despite heavy enemy attacks, was steadily making headway to Keren, in Ethiopia.

  ‘My knowledge of geography has certainly improved with this war,’ I whispered to Michael. He breathed a laugh.

  The next item was the widespread, but as yet unconfirmed, reports that the Japanese planned to send a hundred thousand troops to Thailand, from where they would head towards British Malaya or turn north-east, towards the Burma border.

  ‘Japan is the great unknown in this war,’ Michael whispered to me. ‘You Brits think that Singapore is impregnable, but I have my doubts. The Japanese army is a tough, well-trained opponent, one that you continually underestimate. I think America does, too.’

  The final story was the American Lend-Lease Bill, which had been just signed into law by President Roosevelt.

  ‘What does the Lend-Lease Bill mean?’ boomed the announcer. ‘Is it a financial transaction? Is it purely a declaration of warm friendship between Great Britain and the United States? Actually, it enables weapons and munitions to be handed over in various ways – by transfer, exchange, selling, leasing and lending.’

  The magnitude of the Lend-Lease plan was staggering. America was to begin filling British orders for war supplies worth £750,000,000, including fifty thousand planes, nine thousand tanks, nearly four hundred warships and vast quantities of munitions.

  ‘See,’ said Michael, as we left the cinema, ‘America is trying to help you as much as it can.’

  I was sceptical. ‘Your munitions factory owners are making a lot of money while you’re doing it.’

  ‘The important thing is that you don’t have to pay for it right now. Lend-Lease gives you what you need, even though you can’t afford it.’

  ‘We’ll have to pay for it all eventually, though.’

  ‘Everyone has to pay for everything eventually, kid.’

  ‘The way I see it is that Britain will have a huge national debt at the end of the war. I just hope your so-called American generosity doesn’t bankrupt us.’ My voice became higher. ‘I wonder if Roosevelt is really on our side with this Lend-Lease scheme, or just lining the pockets of his wealthy industrialist friends.’

  I’d been brought up in the Steel City, and such talk came easily to me. ‘Never trust a wealthy factory owner’ had been taken in with my mother’s milk. So I wasn’t prepared for Michael’s response.

  He took my arm in a tight grip, pulled us closer to a sandbagged shop front and swung me around to face him. Our sudden stop meant that a few people bumped into us, gave us puzzled looks, then walked on hurriedly, their faces turned away. Michael ignored them. The sun had set, but in the twilight I still could make out his tight mouth and the deep crease between his eyebrows.

  ‘You criticise my president without any understanding of what he’s up against.’ I flinched at the bitter edge to his voice. ‘You have no idea – absolutely no idea – how much Roosevelt is putting himself on the line for your country. He’s risking almost everything to try to help you Brits.’

  After a beat or two he dropped my arm. He reached into his jacket, took out a packet of Player’s and shook out a cigarette. He didn’t light it. Instead he played with it the way he had before, running it through his fingers in the way a magician played with a card before he made it disappear. I watched him, worried about his sudden angry mood. Then he looked at me and smiled. It was somewhat forced, but a smile.

  ‘We can talk about it over dinner,’ he said.

  I agreed, telling myself yet again that I wanted to know more about this Michael Harker, and more about what I was holding. But I think I knew he wouldn’t let me leave unless I agreed to hand over what I’d found in the watch fob. Like the Japanese Empire, Michael Harker was a tough opponent, and one I dared not underestimate.

  He laughed when I suggested that we go to a British Restaurant, and vetoed the suggestion immediately.

  ‘Why?’ I demanded. ‘Are you a snob? The food is filling and good quality. You can get a three-course meal for 9d.’

  ‘That’s not the problem. It’s too well lit. And you’re wearing …’

  ‘A woollen suit.’

  ‘That’s been sprayed on to you.’

  I ran my hands down the side of my jacket to my waist and swept him a look through my eyelashes. ‘This old thing?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘That doesn’t work with me, kid. But I’m worried you’ll start a riot if we go anywhere that men other than me can get a good look at you. Haven’t you been noticing the looks you’re getting, even in the blackout.’

  I gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘No, I most certainly haven’t. I do think you’re exaggerating.’

  As I spoke a man twisted around to look at me by moonlight and banged into the corner of a brick surface shelter that jutted out on to the footpath.’

  ‘See. You’re a war hazard, a danger to the men of London.’

  I shrugged, in the French manner, but dispensed with the pout. ‘I suppose I’m used to it. The Tiller Girls always caused a lot of interest in Paris. Men would follow us down the street, calling things out. We learned to ignore it. It was only a problem when the men thought they had a chance and made a nuisance of themselves. We learned how to deal with that, too.’

  ‘And they didn’t have a chance?’

  I laughed. ‘You have no idea how strictly chaperoned we were in Paris. Miss Barbara scrutinised every girl’s potential boyfriend. And if she didn’t approve, he was out.’

  ‘And what did she think of your potential boyfriends? Rejected all of them, I hope. You would have been, what? Sixteen?’

  ‘I’d put my age up. They thought I was eighteen when I arrived.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe your mother let you head off to France alone when you were only sixteen.’

  ‘Mam didn’t know. She … died suddenly. And then I decided to go to Paris.’ My voice faded, and I swallowed. ‘It was her heart, they think.’

  His voice was gentle. ‘I’m sorry. It’s tough to lose your mom so young.’

  I swallowed, blinked a few times, then managed another shrug. ‘If you won’t take me to a British Restaurant,’ I said briskly, ‘then where?’

  ‘I know a place in Soho, close to your Theatre Girls’ Club. Nice and dark with good food.’ He looked around. ‘We’ll never get a taxi, so it’s the bus.’ He shrugged off his raincoat. ‘Put this on, will you? I’m tired of the attention you attract. It’ll come to blows soon.’

  ‘My hero,’ I said, in a mocking voice. But I shrugged
on the raincoat he was holding out to me. It was warm and subtly scented with his cologne. An Englishmen wouldn’t be caught dead wearing cologne, but Americans were different. I liked the spicy, rather oriental, scent.

  The bus that stopped for us was smartly coloured, in cream with wide blue stripes.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Michael. ‘Your eyes are wide as saucers.’

  We climbed on board and, sure enough, a sunken aisle was down one side with the seats up a little step. I brushed away a tear.

  ‘What is it?’ repeated Michael.

  I pulled out my hankie and blew my nose when we’d sat down. ‘It’s silly really. This is a Sheffield bus. London buses are red all over, but they’re running out of them because of war damage, so they’ve begun importing buses from all over the country. I was on a Manchester bus the other day, but this is my first Sheffield one.’ I waved at the advertisement for Stone’s Bitter. ‘No Londoner would have heard of that.’ I blinked away more tears, and tried to laugh. ‘You must think I’m such a chuff – I mean a fool – for becoming sentimental over a beer advertisement.’

  Michael smiled and shook his head. ‘I don’t think anyone’s a fool, or even a chuff, because they feel homesick once in a while.’

  We got off in Soho and walked down Dean Street, past the York Minster pub, that locals now called the French House. Loud laughter and some singing floated out from behind the blacked out windows, and I deduced that, as usual, it was overrun with Free French soldiers. About halfway down the street Michael found a discreet doorway and ushered me inside. I pushed through the blackout curtain to find he’d brought me to a little French bistro that reminded me achingly of Paris, especially as the only language I could hear being spoken was French. Like the French House, it was obviously a Free French haunt.

  The patron, whom Michael addressed as Leon, assured him that he could find Monsieur ’Arker a table in a quiet corner.

  ‘Leave the raincoat on,’ hissed Michael, as I began to take it off.

  Leon winked at him, said something in French and deftly peeled the raincoat off my shoulders. He hung it on the coat stand by the door and turned back to me, gazing appreciatively, in the way that only a Frenchman can manage. It’s somehow a compliment, a leer, a question and a promise, all at once. Michael grimaced, grabbed my arm and hauled me through the crowded restaurant to our table.

  As it was full of Free French soldiers, I was ogled extensively and came in for lascivious looks, whistles, wordless cries and a few pithy remarks. Michael’s scowl was truly fearsome, which made me feel like giggling. So I smiled, and the comments, whistles and shouts increased in volume.

  ‘I pity the man you end up with,’ he said, when we finally made it to our table.

  ‘They’re just being French. It’s a game with them.’

  ‘You’re used to that sort of thing?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘It was like feeding time at the zoo.’

  ‘You learn to ignore it. They think it a compliment. Englishmen, and perhaps Americans also, are mainly interested in a woman’s face. French men look at the whole picture. They appreciate a woman’s figure, and also how she walks, carries her clothes – her style. You may not like my suit, but it flatters my figure and I look stylish in it. The men were telling me that. I appreciate why they do it, but I don’t particularly enjoy it.’

  ‘I don’t think they were whistling at your style.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And you were enjoying it. I saw your smile.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, on a huff of exasperation, ‘chorus girls are just like any other girls. We do a job. Part of that job is to be a fantasy, and so we smile. But that’s not necessarily who we are. The reason I don’t have much of a social life is because men assume … well, you can guess what they assume. And, to be frank, I’m not that sort of girl.’

  He leaned back in his chair and gave me a straight look. ‘What sort of girl are you, Maisie Halliday? The sort that steals important information? Maybe you’re the sort that wants money to give it back?’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I couldn’t breathe: it was as if my entire body had been doused in icy water. Goosebumps tingled on my arms. Then thought returned.

  How dare he? How dare this man, who had been so friendly, laughing with me, so protective and so – so nice that I had revealed private things to him, how dare he insinuate that I was a cheap little money-grubbing … How dare he?

  I swallowed, took a breath, and sat up straight. Then I looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’ll leave you now,’ I said, very quietly. ‘I’d rather take my chances with a pack of rowdy Frenchmen than spend a minute longer—’

  He grabbed my arm in a hard, uncompromising grip. ‘No. You stay right here, Maisie. You can leave after we’ve finished our chat. I’ve upset you? I’m not sorry for that. Often it’s the way to be sure about somebody. I’m now pretty sure that the thought of payment had never entered your head.’

  ‘It didn’t.’

  ‘Does it now? I’m authorised to offer a substantial amount of money to you for the safe return of the, er, object.’

  My eyes widened. I stared at him, then found myself laughing. His hand dropped away and he sat back, watching me through narrowed eyes.

  ‘No, Mr Harker, it doesn’t. I’ll give it to you if I think it’s the right thing to do. Don’t mention money again, please.’

  ‘Then what? What should I mention? What would it take to get you to give it back?’

  ‘Tell me about the dead man?’ I asked. ‘Why did he have the, er, thing?’

  ‘His name was Harold Egan. He was American and a clerk at the embassy. That’s all I can tell you. What Egan had, why he had it, is not your business. It belongs to the American government, Maisie. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘Then we’re at a stalemate.’

  Michael stared at me for a few beats, frowning furiously. He sucked in a deep breath, picked up the menu and spent some time glaring at it. Then there was a swift glance up at me.

  ‘Says they have chicken in their stew. Want to risk it? Might be pigeon.’ His voice was pleasant, a polite enquiry.

  The change in his manner disconcerted me. It was as if our previous conversation had never occurred.

  ‘I’ll risk it.’

  As Michael ordered our meal, I thought about what had happened. The way he had behaved reminded me of men who wanted to get me into bed. Just like Michael Harker they had only one goal, and to get it they were prepared to lie, cajole, flatter, feign interest in me as a person. Michael’s single goal was to obtain the negatives. How could I trust him? I didn’t trust him.

  I felt dizzy, unsure of what my next step should be. Michael said I’d stolen the negatives. Inspector Wayland would probably agree, and that worried me. I was not a thief. But who did they really belong to? Why did Mr Egan take them to the Café de Paris? Who was he meeting there? Why was Michael so determined to get them? I had thought I could sum up a man’s character well, but Michael Harker stumped me.

  His voice broke into my thoughts. ‘I’m going to order some wine. What’s the drinking age here?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  He ordered a carafe of wine. It arrived quickly and he poured me a glass of ruby red liquid. I resolved to drink it slowly. I’d need all my wits about me in dealing with Michael Harker.

  I took a sip of wine. It was deceptively smooth, far too easy to drink, so I put the glass back on the table. I didn’t trust him, and getting a girl drunk was the oldest trick in the book.

  ‘I repeat,’ he said in an easy voice, ‘what would it take to get you to give it back?’ His expression sharpened. ‘Have you told anyone about what you took?’

  ‘Not told, not exactly,’ I said. I hoped that the answer was vague enough to be worrying. If he thought others knew about the little package then perhaps I’d be safer.

  ‘What do you mean?’ His voice was sharp, worried.

  I was saved from replying by the arrival of our food. We were quiet for a while as we ate. I enjoyed t
he rich stew and didn’t give a fig if it was pigeon or chicken.

  Eventually I looked up. ‘What about you? Tell me about yourself,’ I asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to know who I’m dealing with.’

  He stared down at his wine, seemingly fascinated by its ruby depths, then raised his head to look at me almost defiantly.

  ‘Not much to tell. I’m from a small town in western Pennsylvania. My dad was a miner, and his family from way back, and my mom’s family. Mom’s mom is from Ukrainian stock, which is where I get these –’ he pointed to his eyes ‘– and these.’ He touched his cheekbones.

  ‘You said you were poor.’

  ‘We were. It’s a tough life in the coal towns. Especially in the Depression. The company owns everything, your town, the shop where you spend the money you earn in the mine, your house where you raise another generation to work in the mine. Eventually the company owns your soul. After a few holiday stints down the mines I decided that I never wanted to end up a miner.’

  ‘How did you escape?’

  He gave a wry smile. ‘I used to be mighty good at American football. What they call a quarterback. My family made sure I stayed on at high school and then I got myself a football scholarship to college – the University of Pennsylvania – where I majored in English literature.’

  ‘Charles Dickens?’

  ‘Among others.’

  ‘And now you work for the American Embassy in London.’

  He put his fork down and leaned back in his chair. ‘I work for the United States War Office, not the embassy.’

  ‘So it’s the War Office, and not the embassy, that wants … what I might have?’

  ‘What you have is dynamite. Be careful not to blow yourself up. And yes, it’s the War Office that wants it. The embassy wants it too, but I’d prefer that it didn’t get it.’ He took another sip of wine. ‘What I don’t get is why you took it in the first place.’