Goodnight from London

by Jennifer Robson

  She forced herself to sit down for breakfast in the dining room, which featured nothing more than strong tea, cold toast, and a very small amount of jam. The waitress, who introduced herself as Maggie, offered to make up a fish-paste sandwich for her to take to work, and it was all Ruby could do to maintain a neutral expression. Presumably it tasted nicer than it sounded.

  “Thanks, but I should be fine for today.”

  “Another cuppa before you go?”

  It took a moment before Ruby realized she was being offered a second cup of tea. “Oh, no. No, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself. If you want any of your tea ration back from your book, just let me know.”

  By eight o’clock she was en route, her bag and gas mask slung over her shoulder and her A to Z at the ready. With its help, and by following the landmarks Captain Bennett had pointed out, she found her way without too much trouble, though she was careful to pause every few hundred yards to check her bearings and take in her surroundings.

  London was a beautiful city—the war hadn’t changed that fact, at least not yet. Some of the buildings were ordinary enough, their bland facades quickly forgotten, but others reminded her of something from a fairy tale, with mullioned windows and crooked, cross-timbered upper floors that overhung the street below.

  The larger shops she passed had their windows banded with tape, she assumed to guard against flying glass in the event of bomb blasts, and a few had even replaced their picture windows with wooden covers into which a smaller pane of glass had been inserted. Compared to store windows at home, where abundance was the rule, the displays of goods were modestly arranged. One shoe shop had a lonely pair of black lace-up ladies’ boots, while a druggist’s window nearby held a first-aid case, its contents lined up in neat rows around it.

  And then she was standing at the corner of St. Paul’s churchyard. Before her was the great cathedral, somehow plainer than she had imagined, and yet also the most beautiful building she had ever seen. With its restrained ornamentation and measured symmetry, it felt . . . reassuring. It looked, she decided, as if reason had been embodied in architectural form. What was a brash new skyscraper compared to that?

  At last she was across Ludgate Circus, scurrying in the wake of other pedestrians to avoid being squashed flat in the street, and turning down Bride Lane. Just before the steps up to the churchyard, exactly as Captain Bennett had said, was number 87. A small, metal plaque was affixed to its bricks at shoulder height: PICTURE WEEKLY—RECEPTION FIRST FLOOR.

  She opened the door, which gave directly onto a staircase—where was the first floor?—and marched upstairs to the landing. She went through another door, this one unmarked, and found herself in a small waiting room. At the far end, a woman was seated behind a desk. Seeing Ruby, she stood and came forward, her hand outstretched.

  “Miss Sutton? Delighted to make your acquaintance. I’m Evelyn Berridge. We spoke on the telephone yesterday. Let me take your coat, and your hat, if you like. How was the crossing? Are you settled in nicely at the Manchester? Did Bennett meet you?”

  “He did. It was really nice of you to send him along.”

  “Oh, that was Kaz’s idea. Now, the editorial meeting starts in five minutes, so you’ve some time to meet the others. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thanks. I only just had breakfast.”

  “I hope they’re treating you well there. At the Manchester, I mean. It isn’t easy to find lodgings these days, but Kaz knows someone who knows someone—you know how it is.”

  As they talked, Miss Berridge led them along a short hallway that opened to a larger room with individual desks arranged around its perimeter and a big, round table, surrounded by stools, at its center. They went straight to a desk in the far corner.

  “This is where you’ll be sitting. You’ve a telephone of your own—we’ve ten lines going out, so you shouldn’t have any trouble placing calls—and a typewriter. I put pencils and a pen with a fresh nib in the drawer to the left, and there’s a bottle of ink, too, along with some other bits and bobs. Paper clips and so forth.”

  Ruby hadn’t expected much more than a dim corner and a shared telephone and typewriter, so her new working accommodations were a welcome surprise. “This is great,” she enthused, wondering if everyone at Picture Weekly would be as nice as Miss Berridge.

  “I’m so glad you like it. The meeting will start as soon as Kaz arrives—we sit at the big table.” Miss Berridge checked her wristwatch and frowned. “Do you mind if I run back to my desk? I just have a few things to sort out before . . .”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Everyone else looked to be busy, so rather than bother them right away, she sat down, pulled out her notebook, and stowed her handbag in the right-hand drawer. When she looked up again two people, a man and a woman, were standing in front of the desk. He was in his late twenties, she judged, with a slim build and pleasant face made almost memorable by a pencil-thin mustache. The woman next to him seemed a little younger, likely around Ruby’s age, and was a dead ringer for Betty Grable.

  “Are you the new girl?” the man asked.

  “I am,” she said, and held out her hand for them to shake. “Ruby Sutton.”

  “I’m Nell Fisher,” the woman said.

  “And I’m Peter Drury. We’re staff writers here.”

  “Pleased to meet both of you. I guess we’ll be starting the editorial meeting pretty soon.”

  “Soon-ish,” Miss Fisher qualified. “We’re waiting for Kaz and Nigel to arrive.”

  “Would you like us to introduce you to the others?” Mr. Drury offered. “We’ve been down to a skeleton staff for a while, so we’re pleased as punch to have you here.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Miss Fisher. “We’ve been counting the days since Kaz told us you were coming over. A year ago we had eight staff writers. With you, we’re back up to three.”

  “Three staff writers for a weekly magazine? How do you manage?” she asked wonderingly.

  “Some weeks it’s a hard slog,” Mr. Drury said, “but Kaz writes at least one big piece each week. So that helps.”

  “Our page count is down,” Miss Fisher added. “We were running at seventy-two pages an issue before the war, and most weeks now we’re only at twenty-four. Paper shortages, mainly. And we’ve fewer adverts, too.”

  “Do you have any photographers on staff?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Drury answered, “but only two. They usually hide out in their aerie upstairs—they’ve a studio and darkroom on the top floor. They’ll come down for the meeting.”

  “Do you—” she began, but was interrupted by a shout from the hall.

  “Morning!”

  “That’s Kaz,” Mr. Drury explained.

  “You really call him Kaz? Not Mr. Kaczmarek?”

  “Nobody does,” Miss Fisher insisted. “He’s just Kaz. And he doesn’t stand on ceremony.”

  “Nor do we,” Mr. Drury added. “We’re all on a first-name basis here. Come on—we’d better sit down.”

  She took the chair to Mr. Drury’s—Peter’s—right, and was surprised when the chair to her right was taken by a tall, rather shambling figure, his arms overflowing with folders and papers. He let everything drop on the table in an untidy heap before turning to Ruby. His eyes, much magnified by his eyeglasses, were a pale, almost icy blue, and gave her the impression he was the sort of man who missed nothing.

  “Miss Sutton? Ruby?” he asked, his voice as deep and warm as a radio newsreader’s.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, and shook his hand, which was nearly as big as a catcher’s mitt.

  “Delighted to meet you at last. Was my friend Bennett kind to you?”

  “He was, sir. Thank you for sending him.”

  “You and I shall have a chat later, but first—our weekly editorial meeting.” He sat back in his chair and surveyed the assembled company. “All present? Who are we missing? Ah. Just Nigel. Very well. While we wait I might as well introduce our new colleague, Ruby S
utton. Ruby—I do hope you don’t mind my using your Christian name—Ruby has been kind enough to abandon New York for the uncertainty of life with us here in wartime London, and for that we are most grateful. I believe you’ve made the acquaintance of your fellow staff writers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then let’s move on to our photographers, Frank Gossage and Mary Buchanan.”

  The table was too big for her to reach across and shake hands, so she simply smiled and nodded at them both. Frank looked a pleasant sort, unassuming and almost forgettable, but Mary was another matter entirely. She appeared to be in her late thirties, with sharp features, dark hair that was cut almost as short as a man’s, and a perfectly tailored trouser suit.

  “Welcome to Picture Weekly,” she said, her Scottish accent evident in every rolled r. “I look forward to working with you.”

  “Thanks,” Ruby answered, too intimidated by Miss Buchanan’s direct gaze and confident bearing to say more.

  “Now I should like to introduce you to Mr. Dunleavy, our librarian.” Ruby exchanged a smile with the man, who had to be at least seventy years old, and was so slight that a sudden gust of wind might easily knock him down. “Mr. Dunleavy has been with us since the magazine’s inception in 1935, and I daresay knows more about it than anyone else, myself included.”

  Another man came into the room just then, seating himself in the chair to Kaz’s right. He was in his early thirties, of an age with their editor, and was rather handsome, with light brown hair that fell forward into his eyes. He reached across to shake her hand, blowing smoke from the cigarette that dangled from the corner of his mouth, and offered up a mumbled hello.

  “Delighted you could join us,” Kaz observed dryly.

  “Sorry. Was on a telephone call. Is this Ruby from America?”

  “Yes, this is Miss Sutton. Ruby, this is Nigel Vernon, our assistant editor, who presumably was busy with something pressing.”

  “Sorry—had to finish off a call. Will tell you about it in a moment.”

  “I can’t wait. So, Ruby—our schedule. We start fresh every Wednesday while the previous week’s issue is at press. Everyone takes a half day on Saturdays, and we’re also off on Sundays, barring the need to chase down a story. Final proofs go out Tuesday evening, and then we start again the next day. Is that at all familiar?”

  “It is. At The American we go to press on Thursdays, but otherwise it’s the same.”

  “Then you’re used to working quickly. Good. With that out of the way, let’s begin. Nigel?”

  “I just spoke to a man who was on Guernsey last week, within days of the Germans taking control of the Channel Islands. He wants to show us some photographs he took. I gather they show some damage from the air raids that happened just before the invasion. The MOI will need to clear them, and they may turn out to be rubbish . . .”

  “Let’s see what they’re like,” said Kaz. “If they’re any good I’ll write up a piece on the decision to demilitarize the islands, the fate of the islanders who stayed, and so on and so forth.”

  “Right,” said Nigel, scribbling down notes between puffs of smoke. It was a wonder he could even see the paper in front of him.

  “The Arandora Star,” Kaz continued. “Thoughts?”

  Ruby took a deep breath and spoke before she could think better of it. “What about a piece on naturalized Italians—is that a term you use here? I mean people who were born abroad but have lived here long enough to consider themselves British. With so many being interned, there have to be stories of families torn apart. People with no ties to Italy, or anything beyond distant memories, being interned.”

  “We can’t get near the camps,” Peter said, “but we could go over to Clerkenwell. St. Peter’s will probably be holding some kind of service, and they’ve a parade of some kind—”

  “The Procession of the Virgin,” Kaz interjected.

  “Yes, that’s it. I’m fairly sure it’s this weekend.”

  “Good. That’s you started, Peter.”

  Ruby felt a twinge of disappointment, but Peter did know the area, from what she could tell, and the piece would be in better hands with him.

  “How did you know about the Arandora Star?” Nigel asked her abruptly. “It wasn’t in the morning papers.”

  “Captain Bennett took me to dinner at an Italian café last night. He spoke with the owners about the sinking.”

  “Of course. He loves that little wop café.”

  “Nigel,” Kaz hissed sharply.

  “Sorry,” Nigel said, though he didn’t sound especially apologetic. “I only meant to say that I wasn’t surprised he took you there. It’s a favorite haunt of our old friend. At any rate, we’ve only got enough to fill about eight pages so far. What else do we have?”

  “What about Brighton?” Mary asked. “They’ve closed the beach for the duration.”

  “Aren’t they blocking off all the beaches along the south coast?” Nigel asked. “Why a piece on Brighton in particular?”

  “Just think of the pictures. The piers blocked off, barbed wire on the beach, the Royal Pavilion ringed round with sandbags . . .”

  Kaz was nodding. “I like it. Let’s send you and Ruby. But not today—they’re calling for rain. And you’d best check in ahead with local government. Otherwise some busybody’s sure to peg you as fifth columnists. Ask Evelyn to help,” he advised, turning to Ruby. “Until then, have a look through some of our back issues—Mr. Dunleavy will share them with you—and get a sense of what we’ve been covering. See if there are any holes that need filling.”

  “Anything else?” Nigel prompted the table.

  “How about something on the extension of rationing to margarine and tea?” Nell asked. “Could take a man-on-the-street approach. Ask people which bothers them most. Might get some interesting answers.”

  “Agreed. You take that, Nell,” Kaz said. “Peter—any decent letters this week?”

  “Oh, yes. Plenty of outrage over our using photos that showed the sinking of the Lancastria. Height of insensitivity, doing Goebbels’s job for him, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “I think that’s enough to get started,” Nigel said. “I’ll ring up the chap with the Guernsey photos.”

  “And I’ll ring Uncle Harry for the all clear.”

  As her colleagues moved back to their desks, Ruby approached Peter, curious about Kaz’s last comment.

  “Peter? May I ask—who is Uncle Harry?” It had been such an odd statement for Kaz to make. Was he actually asking his uncle for permission to write about certain subjects? Who was his uncle, anyway?

  “Uncle Harry is our esteemed publisher. Harold Stearns Bennett.”

  “Oh. Any relation to Captain Bennett?”

  “His uncle. Hence the Uncle Harry. I’ve never met him—he lives out in the wilds of Kent, I think. Retired now, with pots and pots of money, and for some reason he wants to spend it on us.”

  “I see. Well, I guess I’d better get started. Which way to Mr. Dunleavy’s office?”

  “Straight through that door there.”

  Equipped with every issue of Picture Weekly since September 1939, Ruby read and made notes for the rest of the morning. At half-past twelve, just as her stomach was beginning to growl, her telephone rang. The noise so startled her that she almost knocked over a cup of room-temperature tea that Peter had brought to her several hours before.

  It was Kaz, calling from his office at the end of the hall. “Time for lunch,” he ordered. “We’ll go next door.”

  She fetched her hat and coat and followed him downstairs, out onto the lane and immediately up the flight of steps to the right of the door.

  “No lack of public houses on Fleet Street,” he observed, “but this is my favorite. The Old Bell. The stonemasons who built Wren’s churches used to drink here. Now it’s full of old hacks like me.”

  The Old Bell looked exactly as she’d imagined an English pub ought to be: dark wood everywhere, polished brass trim at the bar, low
ceiling beams to injure the unwary, and an unsmiling barman who regarded her with extreme suspicion.

  “Hello, Pete. Brought in one of my writers for a quick lunch. Ruby Sutton. Came over from America to work for me.”

  “Well then,” Pete said, his frown retreating by the smallest margin. “What’ll you be having?”

  “Cheese and chutney sandwiches, and—”

  “Run out of chutney.”

  “Plain cheese, then, and a pint of bitter for me. What’ll you have, Ruby? If you don’t like beer you could have a half of cider. Or they might have some sherry.”

  “Just the sandwich, thanks. I’ll have some tea when we get back to the office.”

  “So,” Kaz said after they’d found a table and he’d wolfed down the first half of his sandwich. “I don’t know much about you at all. Only that Mike Mitchell says you’re good.”

  “There’s not much to know. I grew up in New Jersey. Went to school there, too. When I was done I moved to New York. I was lucky to get my job at The American.”

  It was an answer she’d had plenty of time to think about and practice on her long journey from New York, and the words now unspooled with gratifying ease. Nothing she told him was wrong; it was all true, every word of it. She’d just left a few things out.

  “Mike Mitchell sent along some of your clippings. They’re good. Quite mature for someone of your age. I won’t be so rude as to ask, but presumably you’re still in your early twenties.”

  “I’m twenty-four.”

  “And how long were you at The American?”

  “About six months.”

  “Not very long. Mike Mitchell must have a lot of faith in you. Did you know he’s thinking of giving you a column?”

  “He did mention it. But only if he likes what I send back. He said he’s sick of the usual stories.”

  “Me, too. So don’t write the usual stuff.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He nodded, a faint smile playing about his mouth. “What did you do before you started at The American?”

  “I was a secretary at an insurance firm. I started there after finishing night school. I went to a secretarial college. Not university,” she added, wanting to be forthright about this one matter at least. The words were out before it occurred to her that he might have been told, by Mike Mitchell or someone else at The American, that she had a college degree. That he might be disappointed at her lack of education, or believe it meant she wasn’t good enough for a job at his magazine.