Ambulance Girls At War

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘The old Studebaker was a good girl, though,’ said Celia. ‘Absolutely reliable.’

  ‘And incredibly uncomfortable.’

  Celia smiled and shook her head. ‘She got us through the fire and she saved us from the time bomb. It was worth a little discomfort.’

  We picked up five big crates from a warehouse near Euston and headed off along the potholed streets towards Fitzrovia.

  ‘By the way,’ said Celia, as she turned into the Euston Road, ‘I had a thought about your dilemma.’ She raised her voice to be heard over the sound of the engine. ‘You should speak to Jim Vassilikov, Lily’s husband. He’s in RAF Intelligence. If the Yanks are playing games, he should know about it.’

  ‘I can’t. I shouldn’t have told you as much as I did.’

  She smiled. ‘Oh, Simon and I are safe as houses. But I do think it’s wise to tell Jim. I could mention it for you.’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. Then, less firmly, ‘I don’t know, Celia. I’m not sure what to do.’

  ‘Think about it, anyway.’

  I did think about it, all that week, especially after Michael telephoned on Wednesday and asked me to dinner on Saturday evening.

  I hoped it wasn’t a goodbye dinner, because the thought of Michael going away made me feel utterly miserable. Especially as it was all my fault because I had let Lowell trick me so easily.

  I’d looked after myself since I was sixteen and thought I knew all the tricks men could play. But Lowell – and Michael – were different from any men I’d met before. Perhaps it was their training, or because they were American, or it was their personalities. All I really knew was that I loved one and loathed the other and the one I loved was leaving, perhaps forever.

  I walked back to the club on Friday morning after my shift through a chilly mist that matched my gloomy thoughts. By the time I reached Manette Street, hazy sunlight was valiantly trying to pierce the gloom and I tried to be optimistic. Perhaps they wouldn’t send Michael away after all.

  A man stepped out of a doorway and hailed me.

  I stopped dead and peered at him through the mist. Jim Vassilikov was standing there, tall, fair-haired, dressed in RAF blue. Moisture had settled on the wool of his greatcoat like tiny drops of mercury, and his face was damp.

  ‘Did Celia tell you to speak to me?’ I asked, annoyed.

  ‘Not Celia, Simon Levy. He was worried about you. Said you might want to talk.’

  ‘There’s a cafe nearby. Let’s go there.’

  The Victory Restaurant was almost empty. Edna was out on the streets somewhere, trying to scratch a living from men’s desires. I wished she had been there, as I would have asked Jim to buy her breakfast. She would never allow me to buy her so much as a cup of tea.

  We settled into a table near the back and Jim ordered a pot of tea.

  ‘What did Simon Levy tell you?’ I asked.

  ‘That you’re mixed up in something that concerns the US Department of State and the US War Office. Spy business. And that it’s worrying you.’

  I took a sip of tea. It revived me and banished some of the chill that the morning had put into my bones. I took another sip and felt able to face Jim’s questions.

  ‘What if a British citizen knows a secret that concerns both the American and British governments? Is she obliged to tell someone like you? What if the Americans have said that it should be kept secret?’

  Jim toyed with his cup, twisting it around in its saucer. He looked up into my eyes. ‘Secrets are best kept secret. Unless they’ve already been divulged. Then it’s best to work out how to minimise any damage that comes from that.’

  ‘Do you know Michael Harker?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Talk to him about it. I can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘I had a chat with Jim Vassilikov this afternoon,’ said Michael, as he ushered me into the Victory Restaurant on Saturday evening. It looked much as it had done the previous morning when I had been there with Jim: brightly lit, clean and utilitarian. Not in the least romantic.

  ‘Are you annoyed?’ I peered at his face, trying to read his emotions. ‘Simon Levy called him in, not me.’

  Michael glanced at me. ‘He told me that. Don’t worry. I think it was the best thing to do. Only, don’t tell anyone else about Lowell or about me. Please.’

  ‘I promise. What happened?’

  ‘Jim took me to see someone and we talked.’

  ‘And it’s all going to be sorted out?’

  He seemed to consider the question. ‘Maybe. It won’t be easy, though.’

  ‘Are you still going away?’

  ‘Yes. Heading out tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh. That soon.’ My eyes flew up to meet his. ‘You can’t say where, I suppose?’

  ‘Sorry, kid, I can’t.’

  I was quiet for a beat or two. ‘So this is a goodbye dinner.’

  He smiled. ‘And such a glamorous location, isn’t it? I thought it would be easier to say goodbye here, a place close to your home and well lit.’

  ‘Well lit?’

  ‘So I’m not tempted to become mushy.’

  ‘Mushy? You sound like a kid yourself. Are you tempted to pull my pigtails?’

  ‘Yes. And to ask to hold your hand and carry your books. You have that effect on me.’

  ‘Do I?’ My heart was thudding and I felt the heat flood into my cheeks.

  He leaned across to brush my cheek with a finger. ‘Why do you think I call you kid?’

  ‘To be irritating, obviously.’

  His mouth quirked up. ‘To remind myself how damned young you are. You’re a baby, despite that spectacular showgirl’s body. It’s hard to remember sometimes, when you’re near.’

  ‘I’m not a baby! I’m twenty.’

  ‘Some twenty-year-olds are going on thirty. You’re a complete innocent.’

  ‘I’m not! Why do you say that? I’ve been looking after myself since I was sixteen and I—’

  His smile became knowing. ‘It’s obvious. Look, honey, it’s a good thing I’m leaving because I …’ He paused, and looked away, over my shoulder. ‘Because I like you too much to take this any further. I’m in a line of work which, in wartime especially, makes my future pretty unpredictable. The last thing you need is me hanging around just long enough to break your heart, or make you hate me, or both. You find a nice English boy and settle down with him.’

  ‘But I—’ I stopped short and bit my lip as the waitress approached our table and stood ready to take our order.

  I let Michael order for me. Whatever I ate would taste like sawdust anyway. He did want me like that, but he was leaving. And even if he wasn’t leaving, he wasn’t going to take it any further.

  When the waitress had left, I looked across at Michael. ‘May I write to you?’

  ‘Better not.’

  I looked down, traced a line on the tablecloth. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Maisie.’ I glanced up, our eyes met and locked. ‘It’s best just to forget you ever met me.’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that?’

  He stubbed out the cigarette, leaned across and took my hand. ‘Honey, I met Vivian when we were both at college. She was eighteen, I was a year older. She was everything I’d ever dreamed of. Beautiful, cultured, lively and charming. Her family were well connected and they were willing to take in a miner’s son and treat him with affection. We married when she was twenty and I’d just turned twenty-one.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  ‘She was too young. Vivian changed. People do. They grow up and become different people. When she was twenty, Vivian thought I was perfect: the star quarterback from the other side of the tracks. By the time she was twenty-seven she was bored and miserable. She wanted a different man, but I sure as hell couldn’t change who I was. I tried. I really tried.’ He began to toy with the cutlery. ‘You’re only twenty, Maisie. The same age as Vivi was when we were married. You’ll change, grow tired of me. I can’t go through that again, watch l
ove slowly fade to misery.’

  ‘Not everyone changes. And I don’t think you’re perfect. In fact, I know you’re not.’

  ‘Aw shucks, you say the nicest things.’

  I gave him an irritated look. ‘I don’t care that you’re not perfect.’

  ‘I do. You deserve it.’

  My face was flaming, and I sent a silent apology to my mother as I stammered out, ‘We have tonight. We could—’

  ‘Maisie, with you it’s marriage or nothing. I accept that, but I’m not marrying a twenty-year-old again.’

  ‘We can—’

  ‘Wait? No. Not when I have no idea where they’re sending me, or when I can get back to England.’

  Anger washed through me and I pulled my hand away. ‘So you like me enough to consider marrying me, but won’t court me because I’m too young. That’s ridiculous. I’m not Vivian.’

  He looked at me with eyes that were quietly intelligent, and utterly forlorn. ‘I know you’re not.’

  ‘Celia says that the really important things are the same outlook on life, sense of humour and hopes for the future. Don’t we have all that?’

  He looked over my shoulder again, avoiding my eyes. ‘Maybe we do, but I’m heading off tomorrow. I’m not going to trap you into a situation where you don’t find a better guy because you think you owe something to me.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look, it’s my last night in London. Let’s just enjoy our evening and then wish each other luck and say goodbye.’

  I looked up at him, saw the misery in his face, and nodded. ‘All right.’

  Our soup arrived and as we ate we had a stilted conversation about nothing much. When we got to what was likely to go under the ration next I began to laugh.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I said. ‘Let’s pretend that you’re not going away tomorrow, that we didn’t have that little talk, and just enjoy our last evening together.’

  Michael smiled his sudden, devastatingly attractive smile. ‘Suits me.’

  ‘You won’t be able to see my movie. It’s being shown in early June.’

  ‘Shame about that. What’s it called?’

  ‘Ambulance Girls At War.’

  ‘Great title.’ He smiled. ‘Perry Denbeigh thought the camera would love you.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m much better at dancing than acting. And I love it, although it has ruined my feet.’

  He glanced down at my ankles, which were clad in the silk stockings he had given me. I was wearing my best shoes.

  ‘They look very pretty to me,’ he said.

  ‘The shoes hide it, but they’re both misshapen from dancing en pointe.’

  Michael laughed. ‘I’ll swap your misshapen feet for the jagged scar on my left thigh. I got it when I broke my leg in my second year of college. The result of an altercation with a linebacker. Like you, the thing I loved to do most – play football – was rough on my body.’

  I gave a dismissive wave and a smile. ‘Oh, a scar like that would make you look tough and masculine. It’s different for women. And I have scars, too, you know. From my dancing, on both my big toes.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll meet your puny toe scars with my smashed collarbone. It wasn’t set properly and left me with a bony knob sticking out. Here.’ He pointed to the left of his collarbone. ‘Had to miss the final game because of that one.’

  ‘Another altercation with a – um, linebacker?’

  ‘Nope. That would be a run-in with a safety.’

  ‘You know that those words mean nothing whatsoever to me?’

  ‘It’s a beautiful game, kid,’ he said with another smile. ‘I’ll explain it to you one day.’

  ‘I can’t wait. Um, Michael?’

  He put down his fork and leaned back. ‘What?’

  ‘Celia thinks Dan Lowell’s a committed isolationist, determined to keep America out of the war.’

  ‘Lots of people in the States hold that view. Some of them very high up in government. It’s our policy. Roosevelt may have pushed through Lend-Lease, but under the Neutrality Acts we still can’t send our ships into war zones. If Lowell wants to keep us out of the war, he’s got a lot of support behind him. John Casey, for one.’

  ‘I loathed Mr Casey when I met him. Do you think it was him who handed over what was in the locket, to Mr Egan?’

  ‘Dunno. What was in the fob was dynamite, handing it over was the act of a traitor. Casey is isolationist, but I don’t think he’s a traitor.’

  ‘Dan Lowell? Do you think Mr Egan was going to the Café de Paris to meet Lowell? He made a lot of asking me if Mr Egan had said who he was to meet that night.’

  ‘I doubt it. I think it was a British fifth columnist he was meeting. Like I said, what he had was explosive stuff.’

  ‘The letters between Churchill and Roosevelt?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Is that what the British are looking into? Who Mr Egan might have been meeting?’

  He shrugged.

  I tried again. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange that Dan Lowell hates you so much? Enough to trick me to get you fired.’

  ‘I put a few noses out of joint when I turned up at the embassy last year. I suspect he just dislikes me.’

  ‘And there’s nothing I can do to help?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  He walked me the short distance back to the club before the eleven o’clock lockout. It was a clear night; the almost full moon was extraordinarily bright and moonlight etched his face with shadows, highlighting the angle of his chin, the hollows under his cheeks. We stood for a while outside the door, holding hands and saying nothing.

  The Warning went.

  ‘That’s my cue to leave,’ said Michael. ‘Stay out of trouble, will you?’

  ‘And don’t you do anything fat-headed,’ I said, and looked up at the brilliant moon. ‘I’m worried about tonight. I think they’ll be over in force.’

  ‘Because of April’s full-moon raids?’

  ‘Yes. I think it’ll be bad tonight. Please promise me you’ll take cover.’

  ‘Sure, kid.’

  ‘Goodbye, then.’ My voice was creditably even.

  ‘Goodbye, Maisie.’

  We stared at each other. My heart beat a tattoo against my ribs.

  His mouth suddenly twisted and he seemed to shudder.

  ‘I really shouldn’t do this,’ he said, and seemed to hesitate. So I met him halfway by launching myself at him. His lean body was pressed hard against mine when I lifted my face to him, and then he kissed me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  When we could think again and drew apart slightly, I realised that the raiders were already over London. The drone of their engines was like the loud hum of a factory floor and the AA guns were firing. Not intermittently, as they usually did, but all at once. The thunder of that continuous barrage pounded against my ears and thumped in my chest. It could only mean that hundreds of raiders had been sighted.

  We both flinched as little cylinders fell around us with a tinny tinkle, to explode into balls of flickering blue-white light. The red flaring of oil bombs already lit the middle distance and further away high-explosive bombs were whistling down to earth, each explosion making a ‘crump’ sound. The raiders were upon us.

  ‘Better get inside, kid,’ said Michael. His face was tense and anxious.

  ‘Not until I know you’re safe. There’s a public shelter in Soho Square gardens, just over there. It’s under the pretty hut in the centre. Go there now. Please, Michael.’

  He pulled me hard against his chest as a raider roared low overhead. It released a bomb that shrieked as it plummeted down. We threw ourselves flat on to the footpath, covering our ears. The ground shook and a deafening crash sounded as it landed no more than five hundred yards away. I lifted my head to see a huge cloud of dust rise up from somewhere beyond Charing Cross Road. It rose in a pure white and compact curtain, like a solid mass, and it blotted out the moon.

  The wind blew i
t towards us as we staggered to our feet. Greek Street was soon enveloped by a thick dust fog that made us both cough and my eyes water. It was now impossible to see more than a foot in front of us. Above us, the roar of massed planes had increased to a maddening and constant noise. Incendiaries continued to rain down, landing with thuds on the footpath and bursting into balls of flame.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, pulling at Michael’s arm. ‘We need to get to a shelter. Now.’

  ‘How? I can’t see a thing.’

  ‘I know my way around Soho.’

  I took the lead and we ran together down Greek Street, holding hands like children, dodging shrapnel and incendiaries, heading for Soho Square. Fires had started. The smell of smoke competed with the choking dust, and the white fog that surrounded us began to flicker red.

  As we got closer to Soho Square the dust cloud diminished. I pulled Michael across the road and we had reached the edge of the garden when all around – Michael, the street, the garden and the fairy-tale structure in black and white at the centre – lit up with a brilliant white light. Above us, three chandelier flares descended slowly, dripping stars.

  As if in a nightmare, I was rooted to the spot, transfixed. I felt terribly cold and would have fallen had not Michael’s arm been like a steel rod, crushing me against his body, holding me steady. The light grew brighter and still brighter, until Michael’s face was as clear as if we stood in daylight. Streams of red and green tracer bullets rose up in colourful arcs towards the flares, and two were suddenly extinguished.

  ‘Thank God,’ muttered Michael, but the next wave of planes was already overhead, dropping high-explosive bombs that screamed as they fell and shook the ground when they landed. One was falling towards us and again we threw ourselves down. Michael covered me with his body and I tasted damp earth and grass as I again covered my ears. The screaming ended in a dull thud, as if an old enamel bowl with something in it had been dumped on the ground. There was a tremendous bang, a flash, a deep rumbling sound and, finally, silence. Michael got to his feet, hauling me with him. A solid white cloud of dust hovered over Dean Street, its edges pink with reflected firelight.

  ‘That was too close,’ I said, in a voice I scarcely recognised.