Goodnight from London

by Jennifer Robson

  Ruby was working on the sleeves now, the pins marching south along Vi’s slim arms. “Had you been engaged for long?”

  “Only since that Christmas. After he was killed, I wore the ring for a while, but it had been his grandmother’s, and it didn’t seem right to keep it. I gave it back to his mother.”

  “Do you have a photograph of him?”

  “Oh, yes,” Vi said, and the smile she gave Ruby was wide and tremulous. “It’s in my handbag. Remind me to show you before dinner.”

  “I’m all done. Let me help you out of it. Slowly now, so you don’t get stuck with any of the pins.”

  As Vi was changing back into her skirt and blouse, she paused for a second to wave her hand at the still-open trunk. “You should choose something. Please do.”

  “Oh, no. I already took too many of your things when I moved in with your mother. I don’t need anything more.”

  “Of course you do. Christmas will be here before you know it, and you’ll want a pretty frock. Oh—and I’ve a charity evening with my ENSA company coming up next week. You’ll need something nice for that. Did anything catch your eye earlier? Be honest—I really and truly do want you to have something.”

  “If you’re sure . . . perhaps that red dress? Only it looked almost new.”

  “If it’s the one I’m thinking of, I bought it on a whim and never wore it.”

  Vi delved into the trunk and emerged with the exact dress Ruby had admired earlier. It had a long, swirling skirt, not too full, with little puffed sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. It was a dark tomato red with tiny white polka dots, and had a row of delicate mother-of-pearl buttons down the front.

  “The color is awful on me,” Vi said, “but it will be wonderful on you. I insist you take it.”

  RUBY WORE THE dress, which had only needed the tiniest bit of alterations, to Vi’s ENSA show the following Friday evening. It was held at the Fortune Theatre in Covent Garden, just next door to the Scottish church where Mary’s funeral had been held. Vanessa came to the show, too, but was unimpressed when the usher at the theater’s entrance informed them they were sitting upstairs.

  “You’re in the upper circle, ma’am. Up the stairs and all the way to the top. Usher there’ll show you where to go.”

  “I hadn’t realized we’d be seated on Mount Olympus,” Vanessa grumbled as they trudged up the stairs.

  “Yes, but we’ll be able to see everything so well,” Ruby said brightly, too excited to care a bit where they were sitting. “Is this the same show Vi does on her factory visits?”

  “I believe it’s an expanded version,” Vanessa answered, a little out of breath from their ascent. “They’ve done it a few times for fund-raisers.”

  At the top of the stairs, a waiting usher handed them a program and directed them to their seats. It had been worth the climb, for they were seated in the front row of the upper circle, with a terrific view of the entire stage.

  “There she is,” Vanessa said, pointing to Vi’s name on the program.

  ENSA Proudly Presents

  A Variety Showcase

  In Aid of the British Red Cross

  Starring

  Danny Styles and His Swingin’ Syncopators

  Morton and Milly

  Arthur Latimer

  Eva and the Starlettes

  Jimmy Cole

  Miss Viola Tremaine

  ***

  There will be a brief intermission

  Refreshments are available at the bar

  Mr. Styles and his band began the show with a round of popular music, the highlight of which, for Ruby, was “Chattanooga Choo-Choo,” one of her favorite tunes. It was all she could do not to get up and dance in the aisle. The band was followed by Morton and Milly, a pair of tap dancers who offered a credible imitation of Fred and Ginger, and then by Arthur Latimer, who performed several brief but showy piano solos on a gigantic Steinway that was rolled out from the wings.

  After a brief intermission Eve and the Starlettes, a troop of acrobatic dancers, took to the stage, and then it was time for the comedian.

  “He’s awful,” Vanessa warned Ruby as the man took to the stage. “It’s the worst sort of jingoistic tripe. Why they keep him on I have no idea.”

  “Too bad Nigel isn’t here. He’d probably love it.”

  Vanessa wasn’t wrong. The man was a cretin, and after an especially distasteful limerick about “Japs, wops, and krauts,” Ruby was ready to put her fingers in her ears.

  “I can’t believe people are laughing,” she whispered in Vanessa’s ear.

  “I suppose he appeals to the lowest common denominator. But at least—oh, thank goodness. Off he goes.”

  As soon as the stage was empty again, the lights went down and the audience fell silent. A circle of light appeared at center stage. Out of the darkness, a lone figure appeared. It was Vi, costumed in the chiffon dress Ruby had altered, her hair swept back from her face to fall in loose curls around her shoulders.

  “Good evening, everyone. My name is Viola Tremaine, and I’m here to share some songs with you.”

  She paused, her hand coming out to steady the microphone on its stand. And then her voice rang out alone, sweet and true and achingly beautiful.

  “I’ll never smile again . . .”

  “I love this song!” Ruby hissed in Vanessa’s ear. From the cheers coming from the audience, she wasn’t alone in that opinion.

  Vi waited until the applause had died down, smiling and laughing as GIs in the audience called her name and shouted out song requests. Then she launched into “When the Lights Go on Again,” and the bittersweet yearning of its lyrics left Ruby struggling to catch her breath.

  Taking only the briefest pause, Vi moved on to “Why Don’t You Do Right?” and “I’ll Be Seeing You,” another standard that left Ruby hovering on the edge of tears.

  “Thank you, everyone, for your generosity in coming out tonight and supporting the work of the British Red Cross,” Vi said. “We’ve just enough time for one last song, and it’s a favorite of a dear friend who is here tonight. Ruby—this is for you.”

  “Somewhere over the rainbow . . .”

  This time, without any encouragement from Vi, the audience joined in, singing of lemon drops and bluebirds and happiness forever out of reach. The final bars of music faded, everyone leaped to their feet, and the rapturous applause that ensued was positively deafening.

  “Should we try and go backstage?” Ruby asked when the applause had died down and the audience was making for the exits.

  “We’ll never get through, I fear. There will be GIs ten deep outside the stage door. And we will be seeing her on Sunday.”

  Ruby had known Vi could sing—that had been apparent from their first sing-along in the shelter. But the woman she’d seen onstage tonight? She was a different sort of creature altogether, her talents so superior to everyone else who’d preceded her that it was almost laughable. Vi was Ruby’s friend, but Miss Viola Tremaine? She was a star.

  RUBY WAS STILL in a wonderful mood the next day, and not even the prospect of seeing Nigel could faze her. She left for work early, hoping to have some time to herself; Evelyn would certainly be there, but Nigel wasn’t likely to roll through the door until closer to nine o’clock, and perhaps even later since it was a Saturday.

  The office was silent when she arrived, and after hanging up her coat and hat, Ruby walked down the hall to Kaz’s office. She opened the door, but the chair behind the desk was occupied.

  Kaz had returned.

  She stared at him, tears gathering in her eyes. “I thought you weren’t coming back until the end of December.”

  He was marking up a piece that Nell had left for Ruby the night before, his head bent low, and when he did look up she was taken aback by the weight of sorrow in his pale, wise eyes.

  “I felt better,” he said, and smiled. “How are you?”

  “Seeing you at your desk? So much better than when I woke up this morning.”

 
“I see you’d set up shop in here. Do you mind if I reclaim my office?”

  “Of course not. And I only came in here when I needed a bit of quiet.”

  “Or to get away from Nigel?”

  “That, too. From time to time. Are you . . . are you better?” It felt wrong to ask, and yet it would be worse to pretend that nothing had happened.

  “I am, or as better as I’ll ever be. Losing Mary was a wound that won’t ever heal. I had to learn how to live with the pain. To accept that my life isn’t over and I have useful work to do. Not to mention friends who care for me and want me to be well.”

  “We do,” she insisted. “I ought to have made that clearer to you. We all should have.”

  He grimaced theatrically at this. “Remember that the rest of us are English, and we’d rather chew on broken glass than talk about our feelings.” His expression grew somber. “I read through the back issues this morning. I’ve a lot of damage to undo.”

  “I know you and Nigel are old friends,” she began, not wishing to offend or further distress him, “but it was awful while you were gone. Nell and I were counting the days.”

  “I’ve spoken to him, and he has tendered his resignation. He’s gone already.”

  “Oh,” she said, taken aback by the speed of Nigel’s departure. “Will you be able to find anyone else?”

  “I think so, but I wanted to speak with you first. The position is yours if you want it. If you see yourself turning away from writing, at least for the time being.”

  “Are you sure? It’s not as if Nigel gave me much to do.”

  “I am sure, Ruby, and once again I feel very badly that he was so obstructive. But the question remains: Do you want the job of assistant editor? Or would you rather be a staff writer?”

  It would be a step up, a big one. Certainly it would be sensible of her to accept. But she didn’t want to be an editor—she was a writer down to her toes, and that was the work she wanted to do.

  “If you need me to help with the editing, I’ll do it, but I really have missed the writing. Nigel preferred to bring in freelancers. I don’t think I’ve written an original piece since you left.”

  “I know, and PW has suffered for it. Consider yourself freed from editorial purgatory.”

  “Thank you. And I will stay on until you find someone else. You did say you have someone in mind?”

  “I do. An old friend. Czech by birth, but he spent most of his childhood here. He worked in Germany for a number of years—the man speaks half a dozen languages—and was imprisoned by the Nazis for a time. Fortunately, he had the good sense to come here as soon as he was released in early 1939, otherwise God only knows where he’d be now.”

  “Where has he been working since coming to England?”

  Kaz’s expression darkened. “Nowhere. He was sent to an internment camp last year, and despite my best efforts, and those of Harry and Bennett and a host of other friends, he remained in detention until earlier this summer. None of it makes any sense—Emil is the most fervent opponent of fascism I’ve ever met.”

  “There’s another story we should be covering—conditions in the internment camps. I’ve wondered about them before. How people are treated there.”

  “Emil says the camp where he was sent was pretty decent, but his point of comparison is a Nazi prison. I think for the average interned person, simply being deprived of his liberty is injury enough. We could put them all up at the Savoy and it would still be unjust.”

  “Have you asked him yet?”

  “No. I was waiting to speak with you. In case you wanted the job.”

  “Then what are you waiting for? Can you ring him up? See if he’s free for lunch one day soon? That way you can introduce him to all of us.”

  “And allow him to make an informed decision as to whether he wants to sign up to work in this madhouse?”

  “Yes, Kaz. Exactly that.”

  EMIL BERGMANN MET Kaz and Ruby at the Old Bell later that week. Slight and slim, with thinning hair that was carefully combed back from his brow, and elegant hands that fluttered around his face when he talked, he looked many years older than Kaz, though Ruby suspected they were about the same age.

  He was friendly but reserved, the sort of man who listened while others spoke, but when he did offer his opinions they were thoughtful and considered. He let Kaz tell him about the struggles the magazine faced, the need to reclaim readers who had been driven away by Nigel’s disastrous stint in the editor’s chair, and apart from nodding his head, and occasionally murmuring “of course, of course,” he remained silent throughout.

  “So? What do you think? Are you interested?” Kaz asked.

  “I am. As far as turning the magazine around, it will take time. To begin with, you need a big story. Something that gets everyone’s attention. Gets readers talking. But not in a reactionary way, as your previous editor attempted.”

  “Have any ideas?”

  “Yes. It is not an easy subject. I think your readers may find it difficult to read about. It will certainly be difficult to persuade the Ministry of Information to let you run it. But I think it can be managed. I think they’ll agree it will help the war effort.”

  “Go on.”

  Emil leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the dregs of his beer. “This past summer, the Catholic bishop of Münster gave a sermon that condemned the Nazis’ so-called euthanasia program of invalids, which was nothing more than the targeted extermination of innocents. The program has since been wound down, which is to say it has simply gone underground, and the bishop has been placed under house arrest. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up in one of their gas chambers.”

  “Gas chambers?” Ruby asked.

  “That’s how they kill them. Children and cripples and old people who’ve become senile. They kill them with poison gas. Tens of thousands under the official program. And heaven knows how many more are being killed in secret. We won’t know the full extent until the war is over, but my gut tells me it will be the stuff of nightmares.”

  Kaz took off his spectacles and began to rub at his temples. “Do we have any firsthand accounts? Anyone who can speak to the full extent of the horrors?”

  “Not as yet, but it’s only a matter of time. For the moment, I propose that we print a translation of the bishop’s sermon alongside your editorial. It will cause an uproar. It may even become a point of debate in the House of Commons. And it will remind readers that Picture Weekly is a force for good in this country.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  December 7, 1941

  Over the past few months, Ruby had gotten into the habit of sitting with Vanessa and Jessie in the library after dinner. It was smaller and cozier than the sitting room, and it also held the wireless, as Ruby had come to think of it, in its grand wooden case.

  That Sunday evening, Vi had been absent from dinner; she’d been performing at a Christmas party for factory workers somewhere north of the city. Beatrice left by eight, for she had an early start in the morning, and Jessie had gone off to bed complaining of a sore back.

  That had left Ruby and Vanessa alone in the library, quietly knitting and listening to the rather feeble programming the BBC supplied on Sunday evenings—church services, hymns, improving lectures, and the like. Ruby had turned down the wireless earlier, not caring for the nasal tones and banal remarks of the clergyman who’d been rambling away for the past quarter hour; but as the clock chimed nine she returned the volume to its normal level so they might listen to the evening news.

  “Here is the news, and this is Alvar Lidell reading it.”

  “Don’t you love that voice? ‘Here is the news,’” Vanessa intoned, mimicking the newsreader perfectly. “Can you imagine a plummier voice? It sounds as if he gargles with vintage port every—”

  “Shh, Vanessa. Something’s happened . . .” Ruby turned up the volume even higher, straining to hear.

  “. . . attacks on United States naval bases in the Pacific . . .”

  “My
God,” Vanessa gasped. “Can it be true?”

  “. . . from Tokyo say that Japan has issued a formal declaration of war against both the United States and Britain. The Japanese air raids were made on the Hawaiian Islands and the Philippines. Observers’ reports say that an American battleship has been hit and that a number of the Japanese bombers have been shot down . . .”

  “When did this happen?”

  “It’s happening now, Vanessa—hush!”

  “. . . Roosevelt has told the army and navy to act on their secret orders, has called a meeting of ministers, and is preparing a report for Congress. In London, Mr. Winant has seen Mr. Churchill and both houses of Parliament have been summoned for tomorrow afternoon to hear a statement on the situation. In further news . . .”

  Her fingers suddenly nerveless, Ruby let her knitting slip to the floor, grabbing for it just in time to feel an entire row of stitches pop off the needles. Clutching the tangled bundle to her chest, she stared sightlessly at the wireless. Could she have imagined it?

  “‘Further news,’” Vanessa muttered, switching off the wireless. “Unless Axis troops are landing in Kent, I doubt anything else can be of interest tonight.”

  It was so hard to believe. Tensions had been running high between the United States and Japan, but she’d never have imagined this. And for Japan to have declared war on Britain, too, was almost impossible to credit.

  “What are you thinking?” Vanessa asked softly.

  “That I can’t quite believe it, I guess. We’re at war with Japan, and probably with Germany, too. We’ll be fighting a war on two fronts, on opposite sides of the world. And yet . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “I feel relieved. Isn’t that awful? To be glad that my country is at war? And I’m not, not really. But to know that we’re your ally now, and that Britain isn’t alone, is such a relief. After all this time, after all this country has endured . . .”

  “Well, nothing much is going to happen overnight,” Vanessa said. “Put aside your knitting and go on up to bed. Kaz will have you run off your feet tomorrow, so you’d best get some sleep now.”