One London Night

by Denise A. Agnew

  Sylvie held her hand up. “Mr. Parkins, why don’t we sit in the corner over there? We can talk undisturbed.”

  Parkins nodded, and she drifted away with him. As they settled at a small table built only for two, the remainder of Parkins’ men congregated across the room. Other hotel patrons looked on, expressions reflecting outright fear or nervousness. James walked among the men, talking with them and no doubt obtaining his own story.

  Eager to get Parkins’statement, she opened her pad and found her pencil in her pocketbook. Before she asked him questions, she watched the man scan the room. He looked a bit younger than Annie Hollister and too young to have served in the Great War. His blue eyes held a sharp intellect. His clothing was respectable and clean.

  He took off his cap and laid it on the table. “I guess with a fine establishment like this, I should take off my hat.”

  She smiled as nervousness took over her stomach. “Are you the type of man who worries about that sort of thing?”

  He laughed, but the sound didn’t overpower the steady conversations around them. “No. I’m not.”

  “I didn’t think so. So, Mr. Michael Parkins…you’re a communist?”

  He scratched his evenly shaped nose. “I am.”

  “And you organized this protest?”

  “I did.”

  “What did you wish to accomplish tonight?”

  He shifted back in his chair, which lay against a wall. He rubbed his hand over his narrow jawline. “To find you and to sit in this fine establishment.”

  “So you’ve accomplished both things. To what end?”

  His gaze had been traveling over the crowd with shrewd attention, but now he bothered to pinpoint her with those blue eyes. “Are you a capitalist, Miss Hunnicut?”

  The question threw her off. “Yes. Why?”

  He peered at her intently. “I’m not sure you’re the right journalist for this story.”

  Her pride stood up. “I pride myself on objectivity.”

  Doubt filled his eyes. “So even if you’re an American and a suppressor of the poor, you can write my article.”

  She reined in her reaction to his needling. “I don’t personally suppress poor individuals, Mr. Parkins.”

  “You do if you accept there are the rich and those without.”

  “My political leanings are of no consequence.” She decided to head him off before he poked at her again. “Why did Betty Parks send you to me? She could have written your story herself.”

  Another smile made him seem approachable. “Let me give you a little of my background, Miss Hunnicut. I was born in the East End in 1910. My father was killed in the war, and my mother raised us four boys under the worst circumstances. She became a prostitute to make enough money to feed us.”

  “I’m so sorry she had to do that.” The journalist in her demanded she ask, “Is that why you’re a communist? You think if England had been like Russia, you would have lived well as a child?”

  He grunted, his gaze sharp and critical. “Are you angry with me, Miss Hunnicut?”

  “No more angry than you are with me.”

  He laughed again. “Good point.” He leaned forward. “If you explain to the American people that the people of Britain are being bombarded by bombs every night, they’ll help us. Americans may be a greedy lot, but they do like to help their old enemies out from time to time.”

  She scribbled rapidly. “True. Tell me, Mr. Parkins, do you believe the world would be a better place if all the rich just gave all their money to the poor?”

  “It would certainly help.”

  “And how realistic do you think that is of happening?”

  “Very little.” He snorted. “Even more so here in England. The monarchy isn’t going away, the aristocrats aren’t asking us to live with them in their mansions. They’re shutting down their bloody country houses and coming here. They don’t have to shelter with thousands of people in the Underground with buckets for toilets. They don’t have to suffer the way most people do.”

  She scribbled furiously, wanting to record as many of his words as possible.

  When he stopped, she asked, “What do you want to see happen? What needs to be different, in your estimation?”

  He waited in what she could only assume he thought was a dramatic beat and then answered. “The government needs to help people. The poor.”

  “All right. How exactly?”

  He spewed a litany of ideas, most of them half-formed and ill-designed.

  She concluded her questions with, “So if all the rich people would simply stop being rich and give away all their money, the world would run properly? What about the obvious failures of communism in places such as Russia?”

  “We’re not Russia, Miss Hunnicut.” His eyes went hard and his voice crisp.

  Sylvie kept her voice low, not wanting to alienate the man. “I understand. Do you believe in pure communism?”

  “Eventually,” he said.

  “Hmmm.” She continued to write quickly. “A classless society? That has never been shown to work forever in any historical context, has it?” Her question seemed to catch him off guard. She continued. “Should we be like Plato suggested in The Republic, where people share all their property, wives, and children?”

  His nose twisted. “Of course not. This isn’t the French Revolution, either.”

  “That’s good. Because in that case, I’ll never have a husband and children.” He looked angry this time, and she knew she’d stepped into the deep end of the pool. “What does your group propose, Mr. Parkins? A harmonious, classless society?”

  He nodded. “Eventually, yes. At the very least, the poorest would have a safe place to go when bombs fall.”

  She finished writing. “Thank you, Mr. Parkins. I’ll write this story up as soon as I can.”

  The man didn’t look pleased, or at least not ready for the story to be finished yet. “Is that disdain, miss?”

  “Not at all. It will certainly be a good story for our paper.”

  “You are a true capitalist?”

  “I know I am,” she said.

  He sighed. “I doubt you’ll give the story a true chance. I’d be surprised to even see it reported in a paper.”

  “It will be reported in my paper. If you want more Americans to hear about your cause, I suggest you interview with more than one American paper.”

  He nodded. “Very well. A good idea.”

  “I don’t write things just because I agree with them or not write them because I don’t.” She didn’t give him a chance to rebuke her. “Did you give Betty Parks a story?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Betty Parks is a friend of mine. A very special friend.”

  She almost said it—lovers. Perhaps he was the woman’s lover, and she’d given him many advantages and newspaper stories. “What I find bizarre is that Betty gave me an opportunity for a bigger story. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It doesn’t.” He stood slowly. “I’d be wary of it for that reason. We’re special friends, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see her faults.”

  She stood as well. “She confesses them to you?”

  “No. But our long acquaintance makes it easy for me to see them.”

  “I suppose I should thank you for warning me.” She wouldn’t tell him she already knew what kind of person Betty was. No, she didn’t want to give Betty more excuses to mess with her. “I’ll leave you to your rest,” she said, not wanting to spend more time with the man than she already had.

  He shook her hand. “I thank you for your help.”

  “Don’t be so sure it’s help. I could hurt things, you know.”

  “How?”

  “By telling the truth.”

  “The truth as you see it.”

  She started to walk away. “What I see. Just the facts and no more.”

  She found a table nearby without anyone sitting there, a small feat with the number of people now sequestered in the shelter. James still spoke with th
e other men who’d come into the shelter with Parkins. The sirens stopped a short time later, and the hotel staff insisted the men leave.

  After they departed, James returned to her side and sat next to her. “How did that go?”

  She explained what she’d learned, and James gave her tidbits of what his story would be like.

  “I think Betty has something up her sleeve, but it worries me I don’t know what,” she said.

  She didn’t have to wait long to find out. The manager crossed the room.

  His voice was gruff and a little imperious. “I’m afraid there’s a problem, Miss Hunnicut.”

  Apprehension tingled a path up her spine. “What is it?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the hotel.”

  Sylvie’s mouth popped open, and for a few seconds she didn’t know what to say. “Why?”

  The manager crossed his arms. “You were the one he came to see.”

  Alarm danced inside her. “I didn’t ask him to come here. I never met him before tonight.”

  “He was looking for you.”

  “Betty Parks, who is also a resident here, told him to seek me out.”

  The manager placed his hands on his hips. “I shall have to take this under further consideration.”

  “Please do. The newspaper pays for my stay here.”

  He nodded. “Very well. I’ll let you know the decision in the morning.”

  With that the man turned and departed.

  James returned to her side. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve just been kicked out of the hotel.”

  “Where are you going to stay?” James asked.

  She thought quickly. “I’ll call Annie and see if she wouldn’t mind if I stay with her for a night while I find another hotel.”

  * * * *

  Annie opened her door to Sylvie and James, her expression grim. “Come in.”

  Sylvie stepped inside with James in tow. He carried her two bags as they’d walked the short distance to Annie’s flat.

  “I’m so sorry about this, Annie,” Sylvie said.

  Annie closed the door and turned to them. “It’s all right, dear. It’s not your fault.”

  Annie’s flat was modest, but she’d decorated it in art deco with sleek lines and modern sensibility. Sun came in from a large window seat in the reception area.

  “Ladies, I’m going to head farther into the city to see if I can get any other stories. Nose around,” James said.

  “I could come with you…” Sylvie said, mostly out of a desire to ignore her situation.

  James waved one hand. “No, don’t worry. You’ve called in your story, so it’ll go out. Rest here.”

  With that James was gone. She figured he’d return to the Savoy later.

  “I’ve made tea.” Annie said.

  “Oh, no. Thank you. I think going to bed is the best idea. I need to think what to do in this situation. This is not good.”

  After Annie had shown Sylvie the tiny closet-sized bedroom she’d stay in for now, Sylvie said, “Thank you so much. I’m not sure what to do right now. I’m tired and angry.”

  Annie smiled. “Dear, don’t be angry. Yes, the manager at the hotel is treating you shamefully. I’ll admit that. You’re not in a nice suite at the Savoy, and that’s a shame in itself. But this is your home for as long as you need it. You’ll get things right with the hotel tomorrow. We’ll sleep on it, and maybe a solution will present itself.”

  Sylvie hugged her friend. “You know what to say.”

  Annie patted Sylvie’s shoulder as she released her. “Only because I’ve experienced frustrations like this before.”

  “You got kicked out of a hotel once for writing an article?”

  “Believe it or not, yes.”

  Annie walked into the living area and settled on the couch. Sylvie followed and sat in a nearby chair.

  “Did you get back into the hotel?” Sylvie asked.

  “No.” Annie laughed. “But here’s what happened. It was during the Great War. Actually, right before the Great War. I was staying in a different hotel in Manchester. I was reporting on a peaceful gathering outside a politician’s residence. About thirty women had formed a protest because at that time contraceptive information wasn’t widely available to women.”

  “It still isn’t…is it?”

  “Not really. But it isn’t as taboo as it was then. The women were tired of having dozens of children, and they wanted some laws changed. They got arrested instead.

  “Oh. Anyway, one of the women…the leader…she came back to the hotel so I could write her story. Luckily the paper I worked for was very open about controversial subjects. When the hotel found out what I’d written about, they kicked me out of the hotel for what they termed indecency.”

  Sylvie sighed in disbelief. “Oh my goodness.”

  “I had harsher words for it than that, I can assure you.”

  “Well, I hate to admit it, but your tale makes me feel better.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable. You have to find a way to get back into the hotel.”

  Sylvie pushed her hair back away from her face. “I agree. Don’t worry. I don’t plan to camp out here forever.”

  “It’s all right, dear. You can stay as long as you wish.”

  But Sylvie made up her mind right there and then she wasn’t letting the Savoy push her out. “May I borrow your phone?”

  Sylvie discovered Benjamin at the office, of all places. His reaction when she explained about the Savoy was fierce. “You’ve been kicked out? That’s insane.”

  “I was hoping you’d call the hotel and explain…I mean assure them it’s a good idea that I stay.” She decided to tell him her suspicions about Betty. “I think she sent this Parkins man my way to try and cause trouble for me.”

  “Well, you got the story turned in, right?” Benjamin asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then I wouldn’t complain about it. I’ll call the hotel and assure them it wasn’t a plan to cause them a problem. But listen here…watch yourself. If you start to be a problem for me at the paper, I won’t have the slightest hesitation in sending you straight back to the United States. There are other reporters we can get here that won’t cause problems.”

  She almost…almost gave him the what for and then thought the better of it. Now wasn’t the time, early on in her work here, to make waves. At least not these kinds of waves. “Of course. I appreciate your help.”

  When she hung up, Annie said, “He is quite the tosser. The best you can do is agree with him to get the job done, and the rest of the time stay as far away from him as possible.”

  Sylvie was grateful for a place to stay and hoped she’d still have a job in the morning.

  Chapter 7

  News Of The Day

  New York Herald Tribune

  The largest-yet German formations flew over London and the southeast yesterday. Twenty-four Fighter Command squadrons operated on the day and mostly broke up the two formations. Everyone considers this a victory. Attacks also occurred on Portland and Supermarine Spitfire works at Woolston, Southampton, but both were thwarted. London and the Midlands were raided in the evening. Losses: Luftwaffe, 60. RAF, 26. It is estimated that two-thirds of London’s population is getting less than four hours of sleep a night.

  * * * *

  Monday, September 16

  Alec dove into Monday morning with his mind mixed up from less than five hours of sleep and his heart aching. His discussion with Sylvie Saturday night had twisted his insides. He hadn’t handled their discussion well and hadn’t wanted to talk about his past. When she’d told him she was having a meal Sunday night with that American, his gut had gone sour. He quickly reminded himself he didn’t have a claim on her. Shouldn’t have a claim on her. As he’d told her, she was here for a short time, and he knew getting any more attached to her than he already was didn’t bode well.

  He’d stayed away from the Savoy most of Sunday, just so he woul
dn’t see her dancing with Pendleton. No, that would have made him consider doing things he shouldn’t, animalistic and ridiculous things like dragging her out of Pendleton’s arms. He shouldn’t care whether she was with him. He couldn’t afford to care. At the same time, he knew he shouldn’t have snapped at her when she’d asked him about the AFS.

  He started today a new man, ready to take on challenges he’d never taken before. When he was done with his forty-eight hour shift, he’d apologize for being such a git. He’d given up his room at the Savoy.

  Immediately upon finding his way to the Fleet Street Station, he had an acute flash of anxiety and doubt that made him stop in the doorway. He was on time; his friend Daniel had dropped him off and promised to take good care of the Bentley. Of course the way he smiled as he drove off made Alec a bit anxious. Yeah, Lester might take care of the car, or he might dent it. The man drove too fast.

  Alec shrugged off the nerves and moved into the older building a couple of blocks away from Sylvie’s newspaper office. No, he wouldn’t think about her the rest of the day. Based on his confusion, he decided his forty-eight hour shift would ensure he had no time to dwell on how he messed up relationships in his life. He smoothed his hands down his uniform.

  The old warehouse building looked worn out, with rusty nails in hazardous places, broken boards, a high ceiling, and bays for two steel-framed lorries attached to two Beresford pumps. He’d already learned that each pump was filled with up to a thousand gallons of water. He’d read the large book outlining policies, procedures, and everything else he needed to know about being in the AFS. He’d studied it extensively on Sunday until he got a headache. Alec knew he had a lot to learn yet.

  “Plan on blocking the door all day?” a cheerful female voice asked behind him.

  He started and turned around. “Sorry.”

  As he moved to the side, a young woman in her early twenties, dressed in the female AFS uniform, walked into the building.

  “You must be the new chap,” she said, her voice smooth and chipper.

  He returned her smile. “I don’t know. Do you have more than one new recruit coming in today?”

  “Not so far as I know. But they don’t tell me everything here, even if they should.”