Ambulance Girls At War

by Deborah Burrows

  Once I’d quickly checked myself over I was satisfied that he’d not taken any further advantage of me. Apparently the man had some scruples. Stockings were useless without shoes, and they were one of the precious silk pairs Michael had given me, so I slid them off and undid my garter belt. I pulled the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around me like a toga, then stalked across the room to the door. It was locked, unsurprisingly. I switched on the light.

  As well as the bed, the room contained a tallboy, a washstand, lamp and a chair. A china jug stood in a large bowl on the washstand. Those items usually had a companion piece that sat discreetly under the bed. I checked and it was there. I used it and felt a lot better.

  The blackout blind was in place over the single window. I stumbled over to it and tore down the blind. Two strips of plyboard had been nailed across the window frame. Grunting with the effort, I managed to prise one loose, then rip it off completely, only to find that the glassless window was barred. The sun was still high in the sky and with the double summer time, it would be light until around eleven-thirty. My watch confirmed that it was nearly nine o’clock, so I must have slept for seven hours. I wished I could sleep for another fourteen, but I forced myself into a semblance of alertness.

  A stone wall faced the window, around five feet away. Below the wall, filthy paving stones covered in broken glass led to a stone staircase. The footpath or street was at least fifteen feet above me. No railings, but I knew they would have been taken down for scrap at the beginning of the war. I was obviously in a basement flat, but I had no idea where.

  I turned away from the window and went to the tallboy. The wash jug held water. I poured some into the bowl and splashed my face, then quickly splashed the rest of me because the thought of Dan Lowell’s hands on my unconscious skin was almost unbearable. I used the sheet to dry myself.

  It was a warm day, but I did not favour the idea of escaping barefoot and dressed in brassiere and scanties. Wrapped in my now damp sheet, I made a fruitless search of the room for my clothing. My blue linen frock – a favourite of mine – and my best pair of shoes were nowhere to be found. Nor was my handbag. ‘Nazi scum,’ I muttered.

  I sighed. I’d have to wear the dirty sheet. It was old and wafer thin in parts and easily tore in half. I tied one half around my waist like a filthy sarong, and felt like a cut-rate Dorothy Lamour. The corner of the tallboy helped me to tear three holes in the remaining half. I pushed my head and arms through the holes et voilà, a sort of blouse. Not a fashionable ensemble, but I would be decent enough if I managed to escape. My main concern was having to go barefoot when the streets were covered in so many little shards of glass.

  I returned to the door and rattled it, then gave it a shove with my shoulder. It didn’t budge. Barred window, locked door. Bare feet and barely legal outfit. It wasn’t looking promising for an escape attempt. I returned to the window, pulled off the other plyboard and stared forlornly at the wall opposite.

  Tippy tappy footsteps sounded on the footpath above me.

  ‘Hello,’ I called through the bars. ‘Whoever is up there. Please, I’m locked in. Help me, please.’

  The footsteps quickened and faded away.

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ I muttered.

  I stared at the wall opposite and pondered my next move. Lowell had obviously left me alone in the flat, or my rattling and yelling would have brought someone in to shut me up. Lowell had said he was going to get back the microfilm. Presumably from Moray. Which was exactly what Captain Temple wanted him to do. Why did it all seem so wrong then?

  Because what he had done to me was madness. We were in Britain. Lowell couldn’t get away with drugging and kidnapping a girl. Would the new ambassador grant Lowell diplomatic immunity? I doubted it. Kidnapping me would be such a scandal, a diplomatic incident. Was Lowell intending to leave the country? Maybe that was exactly what Captain Temple wanted him to do. In the meantime, I did not want to be in the flat when Lowell returned.

  I got up and went back to the window. ‘Help,’ I screamed again. ‘Help me.’

  A tentative voice came from above, a woman’s voice. ‘Wassa matter, love? This a joke? Or you really in trouble?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in trouble,’ I bellowed. ‘I’ve been kidnapped. Help me.’

  A face appeared over the side of the wall. A woman’s face, with a feathered hat perched above it. ‘What’s up?’ she said.

  ‘I’m trapped in here. A man kidnapped me. Could you get the police?’

  She jerked back, saying, ‘I don’t mess with no rozzers.’ I could see from her face that she was re-thinking her impulse to help me.

  ‘Wait, please don’t go,’ I said. ‘Where am I?’

  She gave me a surprised look. ‘Soho, of course. Archer Street.’

  What was Dan Lowell doing with a Soho flat? This whole escapade was becoming crazier by the minute. I looked as closely as I could at the face that peered down at me from the street above. She was heavily made up and the hat was awfully gaudy.

  ‘Do you know Edna?’ I ventured. ‘Or Rosie? Edna’s patch is on Greek Street; Rosie’s usually to be found in Soho Square.’

  Her look sharpened. ‘You one of us then? I don’t know yer face.’

  ‘No. I’m a theatre girl, from the club in Greek Street. But Edna and Rosie are my friends. Would you get one of them for me? Tell them Maisie’s in trouble.’ I put more urgency in my voice. ‘I really am in trouble.’

  ‘Saw Rosie a while ago,’ she said, uncertainly. ‘I’ll see if she’s still there.’

  She disappeared and all I could do was hope that Rosie had not found a punter and disappeared with him.

  After a long fifteen minutes a new face appeared, peering down at me from the street.

  ‘Maisie, love?’ said a tentative voice.

  ‘Yes,’ I shrieked. ‘Yes it’s me. Is that you, Rosie?’

  ‘Wotcha doing down there?’

  Rosie scrambled down the steep stairs and stood outside my barred window. ‘Is that scrawny fella still bothering you? Is it him whats got you locked up?’

  ‘No. It was another man. I’m locked in. Could you get the police?’

  She shook her head. ‘No need for the rozzers. I’ll get Edna.’

  Frustratingly, Rosie then ran up the stairs and disappeared before I could ask her to bring me some clothes, and more importantly, some shoes. I spent the next half-hour pacing my room in increasing desperation until I heard a familiar voice at the window. ‘Maisie love, you there?’

  Edna’s face was peering in through the bars.

  ‘Rosie says a madman locked you up in here. That right? He hurt you, love?’

  ‘I’m fine, but I need to get out of here before the man who drugged me comes back.’ I grabbed the bars and gave them a tug. ‘The window’s barred and he locked the door to the room I’m in. Could you get the police? A friend may be in trouble.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that,’ she said. ‘I’ll get Ned Jenkin.’

  ‘What?’ But she’d already disappeared.

  Rosie’s head appeared at the window. ‘Ned’ll know what’s what.’

  ‘Who’s Ned Jenkin?’ I asked.

  ‘One of the Tolmer Gang. Do anything for Edna, would Ned Jenkin.’

  ‘The Tolmer Gang?’

  I’d heard of the Hoxton Mob, the most dangerous gang in Soho. But not the Tolmer Gang. Tolmer’s Square was at least a mile from Soho, across the Euston Road.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rosie. ‘Ned’s a screwsman. Best in the business, they say. He can get into any house, anywhere. Thinks the world of Edna, does Ned, and he’ll have you out in the wink of an eye.’

  It all sounded right dodgy to me, but who was I to judge? I spent another frustrating half-hour waiting for Edna to return. It was after ten-thirty when I heard the sound of a motorbike pulling up on the street outside. Edna came down the stairs with a man in tow.

  ‘Hullo, Ned,’ said Rosie, and he smiled at her.

  ‘Maisie,’ whispered Ed
na, ‘this is my friend Ned. He’ll get you out.’

  Ned Jenkin was a small, slightly built man with bow legs and a cheerfully wrinkled face that reminded me of a wise monkey. That is, if a monkey were to wear a leather motorcycle coat, leather helmet and tool pouch. He gave me a grin and a wave.

  ‘Have you out in a jiffy, Princess. Any friend of Edna’s …’

  He was as good as his word. I couldn’t see exactly what he did, but the front door opened in less than a minute.

  ‘My word, you’re a tall one, Princess,’ he said, as he threw wide the bedroom door. He looked me up and down. ‘Interestin’ outfit. A sheet?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’d a brought some schmutter if I’d known the asterbar what left yer here had nicked yours. He put the hocus on yer?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I said.

  ‘No ones and twos neither?’

  I’d been in Soho long enough to know my slang. Schmutter was clothing. The hocus was drugging someone. As for asterbar, well, it’s a backwards word, more polite than bastard. Ones and twos meant shoes.

  I shook my head.

  Ned frowned. ‘Yer too big to carry and there’s glass all over outside.’

  He disappeared, and I remembered to grab my precious stockings and garter belt. Ned chatted to Edna. She removed her shoes and sat on the top stair as he brought them to me. They were high-heeled and a couple of sizes too small, but I shoved my feet into them and minced painfully across the glass-strewn path and up the stairs.

  Edna and Rosie stared at me. ‘Whatcha wearin’?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘The remains of a sheet. He took most of my clothes.’

  Edna frowned. ‘Did the blighter take advantage?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. Really, he didn’t. He drugged me to get information and left me here to sleep it off.’

  Ned stroked his chin. ‘It’s an old trick.’

  ‘It’s a dirty trick,’ responded Rosie.

  ‘It’s not right,’ said Edna, ‘Maisie here is straight-cut.’

  Ned looked at Edna, then at me. ‘You want me to put out the word on him?’ he asked me.

  ‘No, please don’t bother. But thanks for the offer.’

  He gave me a wink. ‘If you change yer mind, I knows people.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for getting me out,’ I said.

  ‘It were a pleasure, Miss. I appreciate the chance to keep me hand in.’ Ned leaned closer and said in a confidential tone, ‘The trouble with this here Blitz is that no one needs me special skills no more. No need to screw open doors when the boys can just walk in through broken windows.’ He gave me another wink and gestured towards his motorcycle. ‘I’d better drop you off home. Yer not dressed for the street.’

  Ned had a point. My outfit was ludicrous and the footpath was strewn with glass and litter. I’d not make ten yards in bare feet.

  ‘I live at the Theatre Girls’ Club,’ I said. ‘In Greek Street.’

  Once I was up behind Ned on the motorbike Edna gave him a kiss. ‘You take her straight home now,’ she said to him, then turned to me. ‘No need to worry about Ned. He’s staunch.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ I said with a smile.

  Ned let out the throttle and the bike roared off down the road. I could only imagine what we looked like, the scrawny little cockney in his leathers and up behind him a barefoot female of Amazonian proportions, dressed in a dirty, tattered sheet, whose long black hair streamed out in the wind behind them.

  He dropped me outside the club. I thanked him with a kiss on the cheek and carefully picked my way on tiptoe through the debris on the footpath to the big front door. It was opened by Millie, whose eyes became wide as saucers when she saw me.

  ‘Costume party,’ I said firmly, before she could speak, and pushed past her into the hall. I took the steps two at a time, ignoring the shocked and amused looks I got from girls I passed on the stairs. My luck held. I did not encounter Miss King.

  I threw on a pair of slacks, a dark shirt and sensible brogues and then I paced my room, wondering what to do. Moray would have met with Lowell hours ago, but I wanted to know that Moray was all right. Should I visit Moray’s secret Soho flat?

  I’d first seen Moray coming out of the basement flat in a building on Soho Square in June 1940. When I asked him if that was where he lived, he’d told me that he’d been visiting someone in the flats. I’d spent many years in Soho, and I well knew that those flats were haunts of prostitutes. All I could assume was that he’d been paying one of the girls a visit.

  After that I’d seen him quite often in the area. That made me think he might have set up a lover in the flat. So I was surprised when he was alone in the Soho gardens air-raid shelter. Now I knew more about the world of espionage I had a better theory. If Mr Temple could direct his agents from a flat in Pimlico, why shouldn’t Moray rent a Soho flat for spying purposes? I’d lay London to a brick that if Moray had arranged to meet Lowell, it would have been at that Soho flat.

  Think, Maisie. What if Moray had everything in hand and my turning up ruined a Secret Service operation? But what if Lowell had hurt Moray? I thought I’d at least go to the Soho flat, check if he was all right.

  The sun was setting but it was still light as I strode down Greek Street. I had just reached the corner when someone grabbed my arm. I twisted free and whirled around with my hands in fists, ready for a fight.

  ‘Easy, kid,’ said Michael.

  If it hadn’t been a public place I’d have thrown my arms around him. I settled for squeezing his hand very hard.

  He was unsmiling. ‘What’s going on? You were in a real peculiar get-up when you got off that motorcycle. And why were you on the motorcycle in the first place?’

  I drew in a breath, wondering how to explain without him wanting to kill Lowell. A few versions of the story ran through my mind, but I had to accept that he would want to kill Lowell no matter how I explained it.

  ‘Lowell drugged me and kidnapped me,’ I said.

  Sure enough, Michael became very still. His pale eyes were cold as ice. ‘He drugged and kidnapped you?’ he said, in a quiet voice.

  ‘He slipped, um, pento-something in my water.’

  ‘Pentothal? Sodium Pentothal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he manage to put it in your water?’ Michael’s voice was very quiet, controlled.

  ‘He asked me to lunch. Jim and Captain Temple said I should go. Lowell must have slipped the drug in my water when I went to the ladies’ room, because it took a while to work. He asked me questions and then left me in a flat in Archer Street. I slept for hours there.’

  ‘Why were you dressed in a sheet? Where were your clothes?’

  I’d never seen him look like that before, and it scared me.

  ‘He didn’t touch me – not like that, Michael. Truly he didn’t. But he took my clothes.’ I grabbed his arm. ‘Not my underwear, just my outer clothes. He didn’t hurt me.’

  I began to babble, desperate to stop him looking like that.

  ‘I tore up a sheet to wear and yelled out of the window. A – a woman found me and she got Rosie. You don’t know Rosie. She’s a friend of Edna’s. You must remember Edna, you bought her breakfast. Rosie told Edna where I was, and Edna got her friend Ned to help. Ned’s a screwsman. He’d do anything for Edna.’

  I managed a smile. ‘Oh, Michael, it was champion. He opened that door in ten seconds flat. Nice man, too. Said he would have brought me some schmutter if he’d known that the asterbar had nicked mine. And because I didn’t have any ones and twos, he offered drive me back to the club on his motorcycle. Edna said I needn’t worry because he was staunch.’

  As I chattered away, the frighteningly cold rigidity left Michael’s face. His expression softened, almost to a quizzical smile. An eyebrow rose. ‘A screwsman?’

  ‘He opens doors and windows to let housebreakers in. Ned’s part of the Tolmer Gang, from across the Euston Road.’

  ‘Schmutter?’ />
  ‘Clothes. Ones and twos are shoes. And staunch means reliable.’

  ‘I take it Lowell’s the asterbar.’

  ‘A complete and utter asterbar.’

  ‘You’re sure he didn’t … take liberties, when you were asleep.’

  I reached across to touch his face. ‘I’m sure. Really, I am sure. He’s an asterbar, a Nazi, but he’s not a villain.’

  Michael took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Sounds like you saved yourself, kid. With help from your friends. Remind me to do something to thank Edna and her friend. Rosie, was it?’

  ‘Yes, Rosie. And Ned, too.’ I nibbled my lip. ‘Michael, why are you here in the street? I thought your return was a secret.’

  ‘As from tomorrow I’m back at the embassy. A word was had in someone’s ear and I had a long chat with the ambassador this afternoon. Tell me more about your lunch with Lowell. So he drugged you and asked you questions?’

  ‘Yes. I tried not to answer but I felt as if I had to be helpful, tell him what he wanted to know.’

  ‘What did he want to know?’

  I told Michael what I could remember about Lowell’s interrogation.

  ‘And when I asked him what he was going to do, he said he was going to get back the microfilm. I’m worried about Moray. What if Lowell hurt him? Can we check on Moray?’

  ‘Do you know where Moray lives?’

  ‘I think he would have seen Lowell at his secret flat.’ I explained about the flat, and Michael nodded.

  ‘Makes sense he’d meet Lowell there. But the meeting was probably hours ago, honey.’

  I looked at Michael. ‘I need to know that Moray’s all right.’

  Michael frowned. ‘All right, we’ll go there. But you follow my orders, okay?’

  ‘I will.’

  We walked to Soho Square in the deepening twilight. As daylight faded into cool grey dusk, a single star appeared.

  Moray’s secret flat was in the basement of what once had been a very grand building. Beside a magnificently carved doorway with pillars were stone steps leading down to the flat’s entrance door. In the dusk the stairs seemed ominous, enticing us down to gloomy danger.