Goodnight from London

by Jennifer Robson

  The desk clerk’s answering smile was warm and genuine, and immediately elevated Ruby’s estimation of the hotel. “Welcome to England, Miss Sutton. I’m sure you’re tired, so I’ll go over things quick as I may. You’re on half board here—breakfast and supper, and do let us know if you’ll be missing a meal. Breakfast is from half six to half eight; supper’s from half five to eight o’clock. Bed linens and towels changed every Saturday. Front door is locked after ten each night but you can ring the bell if you’re late in. Here’s your key—you’re in 312. We’ve a shelter in the cellar, with cots set up but no blankets or pillows. Bring those down with you if you’ve got time after the siren sounds. And don’t forget to keep your draperies well shut. If we’re fined by the warden, we pass it on to you. There’s a limit on hot water, so don’t run the bath past the mark in the tub. And I’ll need your passport, identity card, and ration book, please and thank you.”

  At this, Captain Bennett reached into his coat and pulled out a folded card, which he handed to the clerk. “Sorry. I ought to have given this to you straightaway. This is Miss Sutton’s temporary ration book. She’ll pass on her permanent one as soon as it arrives, together with her identity card. Until then I hope her passport will do. Miss Sutton?”

  Ruby quickly handed over the document, anxious to be finished and off to her room, and was gratified when the woman did no more than page through it and note down its registration number.

  With no bellboy in sight, if that was what they even called them in England, Ruby was resigned to lugging her cases to her room; but once again Captain Bennett gathered them up, together with her precious typewriter, and led the way up the nearest staircase.

  “Avoid lifts whenever you can,” he advised without looking back. “The mechanics who used to maintain them won’t be back for the duration.”

  Her room was a narrow, dim chamber, made darker by the blackout curtains swathing the single window. A metal-framed bed stood along one wall, while a chest of drawers and small desk occupied the other. In one corner, to the left of the window, was a wall-hung sink. It wasn’t fancy, but it was clean and private and about a thousand times nicer than the dormitory she’d shared with a score of other girls until she was fourteen.

  Ruby went to the window and was relieved to see it faced over a warren of side streets; she’d take a quiet room over a pretty view any day. She turned, intending to shake Captain Bennett’s hand and send him on his way, but he spoke first.

  “No doubt you’re tired, but will you let me take you to dinner? The place I have in mind is far nicer than the dining room here. If you need a few minutes, I can wait downstairs.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time than—”

  “Very sure,” he said, and there was something in his expression, something she couldn’t quite pin down, that put her at ease. Perhaps a glimmer of humor behind his reserved and somewhat starchy veneer?

  “That’s nice of you. Is five minutes all right?”

  “Take as long as you like. I’ll be downstairs.”

  She shut the door behind him and went to the sink to wash her face, only there was no soap. Unlatching the smaller of her suitcases, she fished out a bar and ignored the siren call of the jars of peanut butter buried beneath her supply of Lifebuoy.

  There was no time to change, and her clothes would all be creased anyway, so she washed her face, brushed her hair and teeth, applied powder and lipstick, and was downstairs exactly five minutes later.

  “All set,” she declared.

  “Do you mind walking?” he asked, holding open the front door. “It’s not far—about a third of a mile.”

  “Not at all.”

  She wasn’t an especially short woman, but Captain Bennett was at least six inches taller, with correspondingly long legs, and he walked at a pace that left her nearly breathless. They continued on for five minutes or so, with the captain occasionally drawing her attention to points of interest, and then turned onto a side street that got progressively narrower and darker, the early evening sun ignoring it altogether.

  “We’re heading toward Clerkenwell,” he explained, as if that ought to mean something to her. “You’ll never see it mentioned in the guides for tourists, but it’s one of my favorite parts of London. And this is one of my favorite places in it.”

  They had come to a halt in front of a narrow storefront. “The Victory Café,” Ruby said, reading the lettering that adorned the window. Inside, past blackout curtains that had yet to be drawn, she could just glimpse a handful of tables, each draped in a red-and-white-checked tablecloth. Bennett opened the door, ushering her in, and they were instantly enveloped in the mouthwatering aromas of Italian cooking.

  Until that moment, she realized, she’d been expecting him to take her somewhere that served traditional British food, like fish and chips or roast beef with, well, whatever British people ate with roast beef. He couldn’t have known that her favorite place to eat in New York had been a little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant around the corner from work, and yet he’d brought her here, to a place that, judging by the smell alone, served exactly the sort of food she liked best.

  “Bennett!” came a voice from the back. An apron-clad man came rushing forward, his careworn face wreathed in smiles, and shook Captain Bennett’s outstretched hand with unaffected enthusiasm. “It is so good to see you, my friend. We were worried—”

  “No need, no need. Jimmy, this is my friend Ruby Sutton. Miss Sutton has just arrived from America, and she had a hard voyage over. I thought she deserved a good meal.”

  “The best meal in London—that’s what you get here at my café,” Jimmy promised, shaking Ruby’s hand only a fraction less vigorously. “Welcome, welcome. Come and sit, and I’ll bring you some of Maria’s bread.”

  “I’ve been coming here for years,” Bennett explained. “Jimmy and his wife, Maria, run the place. It was her father’s until he retired. He—”

  Jimmy was back, with a basket of bread that smelled like heaven and a pair of handwritten menus. “You’ve heard the news?” he asked Captain Bennett, his expression solemn.

  “I have. It’s an awful thing. Did you know anyone on the ship?”

  “One of Maria’s cousins. We’re so worried. Vittorio, you know, he’s almost eighty.”

  “They’re in Scotland still?”

  “Last we heard.”

  “I’ll ask around,” Captain Bennett said. “If I find out anything, I promise to let you know.”

  Jimmy’s face crumpled, and for an awful moment Ruby thought he was going to cry. “Thank you, Bennett. You are so good to us—so good to my family.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. Your family has fed me well over the years. Oh, before I forget—do you have any wine?”

  “Not much. A few bottles of Sangiovese, and one Brunello di Montalcino. What would you like?”

  “May we have some of the Sangiovese? Say a glass each?”

  “For you, Bennett, anything.”

  Captain Bennett waited until Jimmy was out of earshot before he spoke again. “He and I were talking about a ship, the Arandora Star. It was sunk by a U-boat off the west coast of Ireland this morning, probably around the same time your ship was docking safely in Liverpool. It was heading for Canada and was packed full of interned Italians, never mind that most of them were born right here in England.”

  “That’s awful,” she said, her appetite withering. “All those innocent people . . .”

  “It’s been a rough time for Jimmy and his family since Mussolini threw in his lot with Hitler. Maria’s father and brothers were sent to a camp in Scotland—Jimmy was spared because he married into the family and isn’t Italian himself. And the restaurant’s name? It’s the Victory Café now, but it was Vittorio’s until a fortnight ago.”

  “They changed it to sound more patriotic?”

  “They changed it because some pack of cretins tossed bricks through their front window on June tenth. T
he next week, a bucket of black paint was thrown over the boarded-up front.”

  “It’s brave of them to start over.”

  “What choice did they have? Still, enough people in the neighborhood know and like them . . . they should survive. At any rate, you must be famished. Do you see anything you like?”

  Ruby scanned the menu, which was short and not very descriptive. “‘Baked pasta with Italian sauce’—do you suppose that’s lasagna?”

  “It is. Most Italian restaurants anglicize their menus, I assume for the benefit of xenophobic patrons. Shall I order it for you?” At her nod, he waved Jimmy over. “Miss Sutton and I will both have the lasagna.”

  Jimmy returned minutes later with two large plates, each one bearing a slab of lasagna at least four inches square and two inches deep. It tasted as good as it smelled, despite there being more carrots than meat in the sauce, and although she burned her tongue with her first mouthful, Ruby didn’t pause, methodically eating bite after bite until nearly half her plate was empty. Only then did she force herself to slow down. After all, no one was waiting to take it from her if she didn’t eat fast enough.

  “Good?” Captain Bennett asked.

  “Very good.” She took a sip of wine, the first she’d ever tasted apart from Holy Communion, and tried not to wince. Like tea, red wine was something she’d have to learn how to enjoy.

  “So,” she began, “are you from London?” It wasn’t curiosity that made her ask, only her natural interest in a close friend of her editor. The fact that he was handsome and interesting and had excellent taste in restaurants had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.

  “I am. I grew up not far from here.”

  She waited for him to elaborate, but he only sipped at his wine and watched her, his expression unreadable. “Were you in the army before the war? I mean . . . that is an army uniform, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I’m with the fourth battalion of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry. Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it? Easier to just say the Ox and Bucks. I joined up last fall.”

  “And before that?”

  “Before that I was a barrister. What an American would call a lawyer.”

  “Why did you decide to become a barrister?”

  “I didn’t, not really. It was a family thing, I suppose you could say. And what about you? Where are you from?”

  “New Jersey. Although I’ve lived in New York—the city, I mean—for years.”

  “Really? You don’t have much of an accent. At least not one that I can detect.”

  That was a relief. “Do you mean like Jimmy Cagney? ‘Youse guys’ and all that?”

  “I suppose so. I do beg your pardon if that seems rude of me.”

  “Not at all. Besides, a lot of New Yorkers do sound like that.”

  “But not you,” he said with a quick smile, and turned his attention back to his dinner.

  She looked to her own plate, and was surprised to see that she’d finished her lasagna. “I guess I must have been hungry.”

  “Did you enjoy it? The lasagna?”

  “I did. It was much nicer than my lunch—all I had with me on the train were some stale crackers. I thought about opening one of my jars of peanut butter, but they were at the bottom of my—”

  “Butter mixed with peanuts?” he interrupted. “Who on earth thought up such a thing? It sounds revolting.”

  Ruby couldn’t help but laugh at the look of horror on his face. “It’s not revolting at all. Just peanuts, made into a kind of paste. We use it as a spread. I put it on toast and crackers, and sometimes I even eat it with sliced apples—”

  “Good God—stop right there,” he pleaded, and drank down the last of his wine. “Peanut butter,” he muttered, his voice warm with suppressed laughter. “You Americans and your strange notions of what constitutes food . . .”

  “Says the man from a city where they eat jellied eels.”

  “A great delicacy, I assure you. Now, let’s talk about tomorrow. Kaz asked me to tell you that he wants you there for half-past eight. Take your passport with you, and ask one of the staff photographers to take your picture. After work you can go to the police station on Bridewell Place, just to the south, and sort out your identity card. They should also be able to give you a gas mask.”

  “You don’t have one,” she observed.

  “No, but you probably ought to carry one with you, if only because it’s still considered an offense to leave home without one. Never mind that the Germans will never bother to gas us if a common or garden-variety bomb will do.”

  “What about my press card?”

  “For that, you’ll go to the MOI—the Ministry of Information. Kaz can help. And as I said at the hotel, your ration book is already being sorted. Got it?”

  “Yes,” she said, hoping she managed to remember everything he was telling her. It would be a shame to be deported because she’d forgotten to fill in a few forms.

  He then produced a small book from his inside coat pocket and set it in front of her. On its cover was an abstract design of crisscrossing lines and the title A to Z Atlas and Guide to London.

  “This is a map of every street in London. We call it the A to Zed—not ‘Zee,’ if you please. Guard this with your life, since it’s next to impossible to get new ones.” He thumbed through it rapidly, revealing page after page of detailed maps, before spreading it open on the table between them. “Here’s the hotel,” he said, circling it carefully with a pencil he’d pulled from his breast pocket. “You may have noticed that most of the street signs have been taken down, so try not to stray from the main roads just yet. To get to work tomorrow, you’ll walk south,” he explained, tracing a line with the pencil, “turning here at the cathedral, and then you’ll walk west, along here, to Fleet Street. Bride Lane will be on your left. Turn onto the lane and you’ll see some steps on your right. They lead up to the churchyard for St. Bride’s. Just before the steps is number eighty-seven, and that’s where you’re going.”

  “Right. Number 87 Bride Lane.”

  “No, sorry—it’s 87 Fleet Street. I should have said. There’s a sign on the door, or rather just to the side of the door, around shoulder level. Just go upstairs; I’m sure they’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Is all of London this confusing?”

  “Nearly all of it,” he admitted with a quick grin.

  Just then Jimmy came by to clear their plates. “I’d offer you coffee, but I haven’t been able to get my hands on any for weeks now,” he said apologetically.

  “That’s quite all right. I really ought to be getting Miss Sutton back to her lodgings.”

  The bill for dinner, which Jimmy had written out on a piece of scrap paper, came to three shillings and sixpence. “Has anyone explained English currency to you?” Captain Bennett asked.

  “No,” she admitted. “I had to ask the ticket agent at the station in Liverpool to show me which coins to use.”

  “It doesn’t make much sense to foreigners. I’ll tell you on the way back to the Manchester.”

  They said good night to Jimmy and began the journey home. As they walked, Captain Bennett patiently explained pounds, shillings, and pence to her, and after a while it did begin to almost make sense.

  It was rare for her to feel so at ease with someone on such short acquaintance, but there was something very reassuring about Captain Bennett. Perhaps it was the air of solid, dependable competence he projected, which she had to admit was really comforting on her first day in a new country. Certainly it didn’t hurt that he was one of the handsomest men she’d ever met. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up batting her eyelashes at him and tripping over her words like some doe-eyed ingénue.

  “I meant to ask earlier,” he said as they waited to cross Long Lane, “if you know about the blackout.”

  “I do. I mean, they had one in Halifax on my way over. I know to be careful with the curtains.”

  “Yes, there’s that. You should also be wary when you’
re out after dark. On cloudy or rainy nights, or ones without any moon, it is really and truly dark. You wouldn’t believe how many people have been injured or killed by tripping over a curb, or getting knocked down by a car. And you’re more at risk than most. Never forget to look to your right. That’s where the cars are coming from—your right, not your left.”

  “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  They had arrived at the front door of the Manchester. “Good night, Miss Sutton,” he said, and shook her outstretched hand. “Good luck tomorrow.”

  “Good night,” she replied, and then, before she could stop herself, “Why are you being so nice? I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just wondering why you went out of your way to help a complete stranger. That’s all.”

  “Simply my impeccable English manners,” he answered, and even though he didn’t smile, she had a feeling he was teasing her, just a little. “Of course, if you’d borne the slightest resemblance to a grizzled old hack like Kaz, I’d have left you standing at the station.”

  “I’m relieved you didn’t. Thanks for tonight.”

  “You’re most welcome. If you do have any trouble getting on, please let me know. Kaz knows how to find me.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ruby awoke at dawn, and after rubbing the sleep from her eyes and muttering a prayer of thanks for a night spent in a real bed on dry land, she put on her robe and slippers and tiptoed down the hall for a quick, tepid bath. Twisting her hair back from her face, she secured it firmly with bobby pins and willed it not to frizz up, then turned her attention to her clothes for the day. They’d needed a pressing when she’d unpacked them the night before, but it had been too late to go in search of the hotel laundry, or to ask if such a thing as an electric clothes iron was available in England.

  Instead she’d sponged her jacket, skirt, and blouse with a dampened facecloth and arranged them on the desktop to dry overnight. That had served to take care of the worst of the creases; and it wasn’t as if anyone at the magazine would be expecting her to have stepped out of a bandbox.