Goodnight from London

by Jennifer Robson

  “I am. Lead the way.”

  They hurried down the escalator’s stationary steps, first one long run and then another, drawn to the promise of light and refuge that beckoned, just out of sight, just around the corner. The platform was crowded, but Bennett, taller than most, spied a place where they might stand. It was at the very end, hard by the tiled wall that marked the beginning of the tunnel, and there was just enough room for the two of them.

  The crowd was pushing her closer and closer to Bennett, and though she tried to maintain some kind of a decent distance between the two of them, before long she would have to choose between him or any one of a half-dozen strangers flanking her sides and back.

  “Don’t be shy,” he whispered in her ear before gently pulling her forward. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  It felt so wonderful to lean against him and let her head loll against his chest. Never, in all her life, had anyone comforted her so, and even the kisses she’d enjoyed from would-be boyfriends had been offered without the solace of a supporting embrace.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin when the ack-ack guns started up. “We’re near a ventilation shaft,” Bennett explained, his voice calm and measured against her ear. “It amplifies the noise from outside.”

  “It was just . . . I was startled, that’s all.”

  “Of course. Now . . . what were we talking about before? I was going to ask what you had planned for New Year’s Eve.”

  “Nothing, to be honest. And you?”

  “The same. And I’m leaving London again for a bit, otherwise I’d offer to take you to dinner. To make up for tonight.”

  “I see . . .”

  “You know what we need? A diversion. Something lighthearted to talk about. Any suggestions?”

  “I’ve plenty of ideas, but none of them are lighthearted.” How was she meant to think of something joyful when fleets of bombers were doing their best to exterminate them?

  “You’re not making this easy. Let’s see . . . how about your favorite poem?”

  “My favorite poem?” It was such an incongruous thing for him to ask that she nearly burst out laughing.

  “You tell me your favorite poem, and recite it if you’re able. Then I tell you mine.”

  “I don’t have one,” she admitted. “We didn’t really study poetry in school.”

  “You didn’t? My ten-year-old self is exceedingly envious of you.”

  “I doubt that,” she said, and this time she couldn’t suppress a giggle.

  “It’s true. The horror of my childhood was being ‘set’ a poem. I was expected to memorize yards and yards of verse, and not only at school. My father was a great believer in making children memorize things.”

  “You poor dear. Do you remember any of it?”

  “God, yes. They might as well be burned into my brain. What would you like to hear first?”

  “Oh, you don’t have to—”

  “Of course I do. That’s part of the game. And how else are we to pass the time? Since our respective social calendars are all but empty.”

  “Fine,” she agreed. “Go ahead and pick something.”

  “Hmm . . . let’s start with some Milton.

  “The mind is its own place, and in itself

  Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.

  What matter where, if I be still the same,

  And what I should be, all but less than he

  Whom Thunder hath made greater?”

  He peered down at her inquiringly. “What do you think? It’s from the beginning of Paradise Lost.”

  “How long is it?” she asked cautiously, not enamored of the few lines he’d recited so far.

  “The whole thing? Goes on forever. I can only remember bits and pieces from the first book, though. How about some Shakespeare? There’s Sonnet Ninety-Seven:

  “How like a winter hath my absence been

  From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

  What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!”

  He really did have the most beautiful voice, deep and hypnotic and perfectly modulated, and very nearly transporting enough to make her forget where they were. In a courtroom, she imagined, his voice alone must have made him a formidable opponent.

  He finished that sonnet and recited a second one that spoke of love being a fever and desire feeling like death, and then, almost without pause, Keats’s “Ode to Autumn,” which she decided immediately was her favorite, and then a long poem by Wordsworth about daffodils. It was so comforting, the sound of his beautiful voice, and after a while, when the noise of the bombs had begun to lessen, and the smell of smoke wasn’t quite so choking, she began to hope that the worst might be over, or at least close to being over.

  “Did you learn about the Spanish Armada in school?” he asked suddenly. “No? The story has been polished and prettied until there’s hardly any truth to it, but I loved it when I was a boy.”

  He told her how Spain had tried to invade England when Elizabeth was queen, and how, when the enemy fleet had first been sighted, and Sir Francis Drake had been informed, he’d decided to finish the game of bowls he was playing before sailing out to engage the armada in battle.

  “It sounds too good to be true,” Ruby said. “As if someone decided it would make an inspiring story after the fact.”

  “You’re right,” he admitted, “but it also says something about the way people thought of the man. Just imagine what they’ll be saying about Churchill five hundred years from now.”

  “Is Drake your favorite hero? If you had to choose one?”

  “If I had to choose one person from history? I suppose it would be Lord Nelson.”

  “The man from the top of the column at Trafalgar Square?”

  “Him indeed. When he led our fleet into battle in 1805, he’d already lost an eye and an arm in previous battles. Can you believe it? And even though it made him a target for French sharpshooters, he insisted on wearing his full admiral’s regalia, along with all his decorations. Partly it was vanity, I think, but mainly it was his way of leading from the front.”

  “He won the battle, didn’t he? I do remember a bit of it from school.”

  “He did. It was a near-total rout of the French fleet, but he was shot through the spine before it was done. He died three hours later. One of the last things he said was ‘Thank God I have done my duty.’ When I read that for the first time I wept for hours. I was only six or seven, and my uncle had given me a children’s guide to history for my birthday.”

  “Do you think Lord Nelson was ever frightened?”

  “Undoubtedly. A truly courageous man is the one who knows what he is facing, is scared to death, and still does what he must—does his duty, as Nelson said. The man had many faults, but cowardice wasn’t one of them.”

  She meant to answer him, but she was so exhausted it was an effort even to stay upright. So she simply stood in his embrace, and after a while she wrapped her arms around his middle and rested her head against his chest, and he didn’t protest or move away.

  And she was so very tired. Even through the lull in bombing over Christmas, she hadn’t been able to settle into sleep. It had become a habit, the awful wakefulness that came with being blitzed, and although she was really good at taking catnaps during the day, and could sleep in a chair in a pinch, she longed for peaceful slumber the way a starving man might hunger for a crust of bread.

  The ground began to shake in earnest, really heave and tremble as she was sure it must do in earthquakes, and the stench of smoke and cordite and God only knew what else drifting down through the ventilation shafts spoke mutely of the fires that were raging above and around them. Even then the bombs kept tumbling from the sky, closer and closer until she held her breath in heartsick anticipation.

  “I thought I’d be braver than this,” she told him. A confession, while she still had the chance.

  He was a serious man at the best of times, but for some reason her words drew out his r
are smile. “Who’s to say you aren’t? Brave, that is.”

  “Just look at me. My hands are shaking. I’m shaking. I thought I would be brave, but I . . . I can’t stand it. I can’t.”

  “You can. You will. And you’re not the only one who’s afraid. We all are.”

  The crescendo of explosions climbed to a heart-stopping pitch, and along the length of the platform hundreds fell silent, waiting and bracing themselves and praying that this one, this next bomb, would fall somewhere else, anywhere else. Not here, not tonight. Not yet.

  “I’m so afraid,” she confessed through gritted teeth.

  His arms tightened about her. “I know.”

  “You won’t let go, will you?”

  “No. No matter what happens, I won’t let go.”

  He held her close and tucked her head under his chin, and with his quiet strength he soothed her through the long, endless hours that followed. Her brain knew she was no safer in his arms, but her heart, illogical organ that it was, told her otherwise.

  She lost track of time after that, for her next recollection was of the siren’s rising wail and Bennett’s soft touch as he brushed her hair off her forehead. “The all clear just sounded, Ruby. We made it.”

  His face was streaked with dust, all but hiding the bruising around his eye, and the cut on his nose looked so awfully sore. “I can’t believe it,” she said haltingly, her mouth and throat gratingly dry.

  “Shall we get you home?” he asked, and rather than answer she just nodded. He led her upstairs and outside, and though she was so tired that every step was a monumental effort, she somehow managed to climb the stairs and greet the day.

  It had snowed overnight, just enough to whiten the pavement and rooftops, and were it not for the fires still raging in every direction, she’d have been delighted by the sight.

  “The cathedral!” she cried out, remembering.

  “Look south—see? The dome still stands. It survived, as did we.”

  Gently turning her, he led them north, along sidewalks crowded with others making their way home in the first light of dawn. It was almost impossible to see anything beyond the backs of strangers’ heads and, far above, a sky still burnished red by fire. They were almost home, though, for they’d crossed over Manchester Avenue and—

  “Ruby,” he said, stopping short and pulling her close. “Oh, Ruby.”

  Only then did she look up and see. The Manchester was gone, and in its place was a smoking, devastated, and all-but-unrecognizable ruin.

  PART II

  Early September morning in Oxford Street. The smell of charred dust hangs on what should be crystal pure air. Sun, just up, floods the once more innocent sky, strikes silver balloons and the intact building-tops. The whole length of Oxford Street, west to east, is empty, looks polished like a ballroom, glitters with smashed glass. Down the distances, natural mists of morning are brown with the last of smoke. Fumes still come from the shell of a shop. At this corner where the burst gas main flaming floors high made a scene like a hell in the night, you still feel heat.

  —Elizabeth Bowen, “London, 1940,” Collected Impressions

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Gone, gone. All gone.

  Her knees crumpled, but Bennett was too fast for her. He held her up, held her close.

  All her clothes. Her books. Her last jar of peanut butter. Her camera. Her typewriter. The only photograph she had of her mother.

  All gone.

  And then, in a surge of panic, she remembered the people from the hotel. Maggie from breakfasts in the dining room and late nights in the shelter. Doris from the front desk. Betsy the maid, who lived in the garret with the other girls and always looked so tired. The other boarders—what had become of them?

  “Miss Sutton!”

  She whirled about to see Maggie rushing toward her, and without hesitating she swept the girl into a fierce embrace. Now was not the time to concern herself with respect for British reserve and propriety.

  “Oh, thank goodness. I’m so relieved. Was anyone killed?”

  “Not as I know of, though some people’ve been taken off to hospital.”

  “What happened?”

  Maggie’s pretty face crumpled at the memory, but she recovered her composure with admirable swiftness. “It was the incendiaries. They lodged in the roof and took out most of the building. Part of it collapsed straight off, and the warden says the rest will have to be pulled down soon. Your room, Miss Sutton . . .”

  “I know,” Ruby said, her last hope fading. “But I’m fine, and it looks like everyone else will be fine. That’s all that matters.”

  “If you go see the woman from the WVS, you can fill out a relief claim. She’s there at the corner.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ruby started walking toward the WVS official, but as she approached she saw the woman was busy with someone else. It seemed important to keep moving, though, so she turned the corner and kept going. She would walk for a while, and perhaps then her head would clear and she would know what to do.

  “Ruby—wait up!” Of course. She’d walked away from Bennett. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To work. I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  “Half of London is on fire. No one will be at the office.”

  She faltered, hearing this, but continued walking. “You’re probably right.”

  His arm wrapped around her shoulders, the weight of it oddly comforting. It would be so tempting to simply stop and let him carry her. He would do it if she asked.

  “Listen—just listen for a minute. I have a place for you to go. Come with me and I’ll sort everything out.”

  “I’ll be fine. I don’t need your help. I’m used to taking care of myself.”

  “I know you are, and I know I could probably walk away and you would be fine. But you shouldn’t have to manage on your own. I’m your friend, and I’d like to help. There’s no shame in letting me help, is there?”

  They had stopped walking a few minutes before, but she only realized it now. “I guess there isn’t. But only until I can find a place to stay.”

  She was being sensible, that was all. Only a foolish or stupidly proud person would turn down a ready offer of help. She would accept his help today, and tomorrow she would start over. Tomorrow, once she’d had something to eat, and had rested, and had washed away the awful smell of smoke and loss that clung to her hair and clothes.

  “Of course,” he said. “Let’s see if we can find a taxi, shall we? I don’t much feel like braving the Underground.”

  They walked west until he was able to flag down a cab. “Twenty-one Pelham Crescent in Kensington,” he said as they got in the car. “Just off Fulham Road.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, not really caring.

  “To my aunt’s. We both could use a dose of Vanessa right now.”

  “WAKE UP. WE’RE here, Ruby. Time to wake up.”

  Rather embarrassingly, she had slumped against his side. She sat up straight and rubbed at her eyes. “Are we at your aunt’s?”

  “We are. Give yourself a shake and let’s get out of this car.”

  They’d stopped on a gently curving street with large white-fronted houses along one side and a park or private garden on its other, the latter separated from the pavement by a high wrought-iron fence. After Bennett had paid the driver, he guided her up a short flight of steps and, not even bothering to ring the bell, ushered them both inside.

  “She never bothers to lock the door,” he explained, and then, “Vanessa? Jessie? Anybody home?”

  From the back of the house came an answering cry: “Helloooo! Coming!”

  The hallway where they stood was bright and spacious, its black-and-white marble floor softened by a long and rather threadbare Oriental rug. To their left was a sitting room, its tall, rather dusty windows crisscrossed with tape and hung with bottle-green velvet draperies. Nothing in the room was new or even vaguely fashionable, and some of the upholstery bore the signs
of a cat’s undivided and enthusiastic attention.

  Hanging above the mantel, flanked by a pair of intricately carved wooden masks, was a portrait that caught and held Ruby’s attention. Its subject was a young woman who wore nothing but a strategically arranged Kashmir shawl, her golden hair falling to her hips, and the expression on her beautiful face was both mischievous and beguiling.

  “That’s my aunt Vanessa,” Bennett explained. “Although she’s not really my aunt. My godmother, actually. The picture was painted when she was still performing.”

  “She was an actress?”

  “Yes. Vanessa Tremaine. Her husband was Sir Nicholas Tremaine.”

  Ruby turned to him in wonderment. “I’ve heard of him. He played King Richard in that film years ago.”

  “Winter of Our Discontent, yes. Here he was better known for his theater work. Vanessa retired from the stage after Viola was born.”

  “Did you ever see her perform?”

  “Sadly, no. I’ve heard that she was an unforgettable Lady Macbeth. I did see Uncle Nick in—”

  “Bennett! My long-lost Bennett!”

  Advancing toward them, her arms outflung in an anticipatory embrace, was an older version of the woman in the portrait. Vanessa Tremaine’s hair was streaked with white and had been tied back in a messy bun, and the skirt and blouse she wore had to be as old as Ruby, but her beauty hadn’t faded one bit. It was only reinforced by the dazzling smile she now directed at them both.

  “Bennett, my dear, and a new friend. Welcome, welcome!” Ruby was swept into a rose-scented embrace, kissed on both cheeks, and then gently released so Vanessa might do the same to Bennett.

  “I’ll explain all in a moment, but introductions first,” he said. “Miss Ruby Sutton, this is my godmother, Lady Tremaine.”

  “Oh, pffft—none of that,” the lady in question protested. “The title came along with dear Nick’s knighthood. The only time I bother with it is when I’m trying to reserve a table at Quaglino’s. Do call me Vanessa.”

  “We’ve been up all night—were caught out in the raid,” Bennett explained. “We sheltered at St. Paul’s Underground station.”