Goodnight from London

by Jennifer Robson

  “‘Dover Beach.’ Written almost a hundred years ago, though Matthew Arnold might have been talking about the present war. Listen—here’s the last few lines:

  “. . . let us be true

  To one another! for the world, which seems

  To lie before us like a land of dreams,

  So various, so beautiful, so new,

  Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

  Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

  And we are here as on a darkling plain

  Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

  Where ignorant armies clash by night.”

  “How wonderfully festive of you,” Vanessa observed, and Bennett, looking a little embarrassed now, did a mock bow. They were saved from further awkwardness by the timely delivery of mincemeat tarts and tea. Only after everyone had been served, and a single pie remained on the platter, did Ruby notice that Bennett had vanished.

  “Did you see where Bennett went?” she asked Kaz.

  “Likely the garden. If not there, then the library.”

  She found him in the same spot he’d been when they’d arrived, sitting on the bench, a nimbus of cigarette smoke hanging around his head. In all the time she’d known him, she’d never seen him smoke or smelled it on his clothes. For some reason it disappointed her, even though half the people she knew were smokers.

  “Since when do you smoke?” she asked.

  “Hardly ever,” he said. “It’s a nasty habit I thought I’d left behind years ago.” He dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. “Vanessa will have my head if she finds out. It’s what killed Uncle Nick, you know. Poor man was dead in six months. That’s when I stopped for the first time.”

  “I have to agree with Vanessa,” she said as she sat next to him. “Any length of time sitting with smokers and I feel ill.”

  He turned to grin at her. “I’d no idea you were such a delicate flower, Miss Sutton.”

  “Why are you out here?”

  His smile vanished. “I am forever misjudging the mood of the hour. I love that poem, but it was idiotic of me to recite it like that. As if anyone needs a reminder of how grim our lives have become.”

  “I wouldn’t say it was idiotic. Although the king’s message was perhaps a touch more hopeful than your poem.”

  “You would think that,” he muttered. “You writers are all dreamers at heart.”

  He tilted his head back, as did she, and together they surveyed the infinite dome of stars blanketing the night sky.

  “Makes you think, doesn’t it? How insignificant we are. How little our cares and worries mean to the universe. We’re specks of dust, and all our dreams . . .”

  “What of them?” she whispered.

  “They come to nothing, don’t they? As all dreams must. I . . .”

  She waited and waited, the silence between them stretching tighter than a bowstring, until she couldn’t bear another second of it.

  “When are you off again?” she asked. A stupid question, since the answer was sure to be some variation of “soon.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Will you be back for New Year’s? Vanessa was so hoping you—”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Is what you do dangerous?”

  “Don’t do this. Please, Ruby.”

  “I’m not asking what you do. Only if I ought to worry.”

  “I’m not worth your worry. Swear to God I’m not.”

  She reached out, through the dark night that separated them, and set her hand on his knee. “It’s not your decision to make. You can’t stop me from worrying.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “What do you think is going to happen now?” she asked, letting her hand fall back onto her lap.

  At last he twisted around to face her. “Now, as in this evening? Or now, as in the foreseeable future?”

  “The latter.”

  “I’ve no idea. Only that the war won’t end next year, or even the year after. The rot I’ve heard over the past few weeks—as if it’ll be a cakewalk from here on in. As if we’ll be walking through Berlin by the summer.”

  “I never thought—”

  “If ever we do get a real toehold in Europe, we will have to fight for every yard, every inch of ground. The years to come will be drenched in blood, and we haven’t even begun to plumb the horrors of what is happening to civilians in Axis territory. That article you ran in PW about the Nazis’ euthanasia scheme was only the tip of the iceberg. If I told you all I know, you would never sleep again.”

  “Bennett—it’s Christmas,” she pleaded, her heart aching for him. Could he not let the weight of the world slip from his shoulders, if only for a few short hours?

  “I know, I know. But how can I find it in me to be cheery, knowing what I know? How am I meant to care that smoking will kill me twenty years from now?”

  “I care,” she whispered. “And there are things to be cheerful about.”

  “Name one.”

  “Christmas puddings that taste almost like the real thing. Hand-knit scarves. A sky bright with stars. Friends that love you.”

  “Don’t. Just . . . don’t.”

  It was hard to answer him, after that, without her voice wobbling. “I won’t, then. But Merry Christmas. Happy Christmas, I mean.”

  He didn’t answer her right away, and simply to sit there and wait and wonder what was going through his head was unbearable. She stood, ready to flee to the warmth and certainty of the sitting room and their waiting friends, but his hand upon her sleeve stopped her.

  “Ruby—wait. I’m sorry.”

  He rose to his feet and kissed her fleetingly, fitting his lips to hers for the length of a heartbeat, no more. “Happy Christmas,” he whispered.

  Then he was gone, past the blackout curtain and into the house, and she was alone in the garden, sheltered only by stars, her world turned upside down.

  PART III

  At the Savoy on Monday night, the American correspondents had everybody worked up to slapping backs and singing “O say, can you see . . .” On Thursday night, there was little emotion and no singing. Instead, there was a feeling that the war was going to be tougher from now on, that it would certainly be longer than people had expected, and that this country and America may easily have to take some knocks which will make the loss of a couple of capital ships seem like chicken feed.

  —Mollie Panter-Downes, columnist for the New Yorker

  (December 20, 1941)

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  April 1942

  It was six o’clock on a Friday, at the tail end of a long week that had featured very little by way of good news, when Ruby’s phone began to ring.

  “Picture Weekly, Ruby Sutton speaking.”

  “Ruby. Dan Mazur here. How are you?”

  The last time she’d seen her colleague from The American, at her farewell party, he’d been three sheets to the wind and about to usher one of the secretaries into a coat closet. She hadn’t spared more than a passing thought for him since.

  “Very well, thank you. When did you arrive? I assume you’re calling from London.”

  “Sure am. Got in a couple of days ago. Hell of a crossing. Don’t know why they wouldn’t cough up for a plane ticket. Anyway, I’m at some rinky-dink hotel on Cockspur Street, wherever the hell that is—”

  “Near Piccadilly,” she told him. “Not a bad place to be. You’re around the corner from our embassy, and Whitehall is just down the road.”

  “If you say so. Haven’t actually left the hotel yet. So, where was I? Oh—Mitchell said I should look you up. Said you might have some pointers for me on how they do business here. I know you’ve been stuck on the women’s pages and all, but—”

  “Picture Weekly doesn’t have women’s pages, Dan. I work on the same stories as anyone else. Not to mention my column in The American.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that. No room for filler during a war. Mit
chell’s looking for hard news, not—”

  “I’d hardly call reporting on the Blitz ‘filler,’ Dan.”

  “All right, all right. Calm down. You know I didn’t mean anything by it. So what do you say? Do you want to meet up somewhere?”

  “How about Monday evening?” she said after a pause. She’d had to unclench her teeth and remind herself that he was a colleague and it was only civil and courteous to help him. Not that he’d ever have done the same for her. She recalled, suddenly, how he’d once delighted in asking her to fetch him cups of coffee, even though the percolator had been within arm’s reach of his desk. “I can spare some time after work. There’s a Lyons Corner House not far from you, at the junction of Coventry and Rupert. I’ll meet you there at half-past six.”

  “Sounds like a plan. See you then.”

  She left work early on Monday, having explained her obligation to Kaz, and arrived exactly on time.

  The teahouse was packed to the rafters, and from what Ruby could tell, the war hadn’t slowed down business one bit. It helped that restaurants were off ration, and since the set menu was a reasonable one-and-six, it was a popular destination for families and young couples alike. She’d been a few times, most recently with Vi, and was always impressed with the efficiency of the waitresses in their black-and-white uniforms and smart little caps. For some funny reason they were called Nippies, perhaps because they nipped from table to table so swiftly.

  At twenty minutes to seven she made eye contact with a passing Nippy and ordered a cup of tea, a soft-boiled egg, and two slices of buttered toast. She had nearly finished her egg, the first one she’d eaten in weeks, by the time Dan made his appearance at a quarter past seven.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, after shaking her hand and taking his seat across the table from her. “I got turned around. Guess they never got the hang of the grid system here.”

  “I guess not. Although that’s often the case with cities as old as London.”

  “Fair enough. So what do they have here? The food at the hotel is god-awful.” He opened his menu, read it swiftly, and turned it over. “Is this it?”

  She glanced at her own menu; it was the same as his. “I’d say you’re spoiled for choice. It’s a set menu, so for one-and-six—that’s one and a half shillings, which is about thirty cents—you get a main, a dessert, and a cup of tea or coffee. You could try the vegetable hot pot, or there’s the sausages and mash if you want something a little more filling.”

  He made a face and scanned the menu again. “I was hoping for a steak, or at least a couple of pork chops. I’m ready to chew off my own arm.”

  “Well, meat is in short supply here, and has been for a while. You do realize this is an island, don’t you? An island that’s been under siege for two and a half years?”

  “Ha, ha. Explains why everything looks so run-down. Fine, then.” He flagged down a passing Nippy and placed his order, though not before questioning her closely on the composition of the sausages.

  “I’ve heard stories about the sausages over here. Full of sawdust and horsemeat.”

  The Nippy’s bland expression crystallized into a rictus of extreme horror. “I assure you, sir, that our sausages contain nothing but the finest—”

  “Please excuse him,” Ruby interjected. “He’s new in town. I’ll set him straight.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  “So,” Ruby said, turning her attention back to Dan. “You said you wanted my advice on how to get around.”

  “It was Mitchell who suggested it,” he said, his expression reminiscent of a disgruntled adolescent. “Said you’d show me the ropes since you’ve been here awhile.”

  “And I’m happy to do so. Let’s start with the basics. Do you have a press card yet? No? Then you’ll need to head over to the Ministry of Information and get that sorted.”

  “Sounds straightforward enough.”

  “You’ll also need an identity card and ration books for food and clothing,” she continued. “I’m not sure where the nearest police station is, but the staff at your hotel will know. Food in restaurants is off the ration, but if you decide on half or full board at your hotel, you’ll need to give them your ration book.”

  “What do you do?” he asked. “Are you in a hotel?”

  “Not anymore. I live with friends and we pool our rations. It’s cheaper than eating out all the time.”

  Their Nippy delivered his supper, which looked and smelled wonderfully appetizing, and after poking at the sausages several times Dan overcame his initial doubts and began to eat heartily.

  “In terms of clearance for your pieces,” Ruby plowed on, “you’ll have to talk it through with your information officer at the MOI. I have to admit I’m not sure what the process will be for approval.”

  “I’ll need British government approval for pieces being published in an American magazine? You’ve got to be joking.”

  “Dan, listen to me. I am not joking. None of us like having our work censored, but it’s a fact of life here—and I’ll bet a year’s pay that it’ll soon be a fact of life back home, too. My work goes through the MOI as a matter of course, so the pieces that end up in The American have already passed the censor here. Do not, under any circumstances, try to send anything back to New York without approval. That’s the fastest way to get your press card pulled—I guarantee it.”

  “So I’m supposed to work with some government pencil pusher breathing down my neck?”

  “There’s no point complaining. Just find out what your information officer expects and don’t try to do a workaround.”

  “How do you stand it? All these controls over what you can write—over what you can eat, even.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” she said. “So why bother whining? Now, if you don’t have any more questions I had better get home.”

  “You’re going to leave me alone to eat my mystery-meat sausage? And drink this sludge they call coffee?”

  “I am, but I’ll let you in on a little secret before I go. People here have been through a lot. For that matter, I’ve been through a lot—and I’m not complaining. I’m just stating a fact. In 1940 I lived through fifty-seven straight nights of bombing, just like most of the people sitting in this restaurant. I lost everything I owned when my lodgings were blitzed that December.

  “But I’m getting on with it. I’m managing without coffee or chocolate or any one of a hundred little luxuries I used to accept as my due. And I am not going to whine about it, because there’s no point. It just wastes time and irritates people.” She stood, ready to summon a Nippy and pay her share of the bill. It was getting late, she was exhausted, and she would much rather be at home with Vanessa than sit with Dan Mazur for one more minute.

  “Ruby, hold on. I’m sorry. I really am. It’s just . . . well, I’m a little nervous, that’s all. It’s my first time overseas, and I didn’t think it would be so different here, you know?”

  Ruby sat down, took a deep breath, and reminded herself that she, too, had been nervous and uncertain when she had first arrived in England. “It is different,” she agreed, “but those are surface things like accents and unfamiliar words and warm beer. The important stuff is the same. The questions you’ll ask are the same. ‘How are you doing?’ ‘What do you think?’ ‘How does this work?’ It’s really pretty simple, when you boil it down.”

  “I guess you’re right. You know, Ruby—and don’t take this the wrong way—but I was surprised as hell when they sent you here. You’d hardly written a thing for the magazine, and you looked like you’d faint if anyone said boo to you. I couldn’t figure out why Mitchell chose you.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Let me finish,” he said, holding up his hands defensively. “That’s what I thought then. But I’ve been reading your pieces as they come in, and they’re good. They’re really good. And, well, I’m glad Mitchell sent you. Even if it’s only because that means I know one person in London now.”

  “You
do, and you’ll make more friends in no time. Just try to keep a lid on the complaints, at least until you know people better.”

  By the time she got home, her irritation had faded. She sat in the kitchen with Vanessa and told her everything, and only then did it occur to her that she might have inadvertently stepped on just as many toes upon her arrival in England.

  “I do hope I wasn’t that annoying.”

  “I doubt it,” Vanessa said calmly, “otherwise Bennett or Kaz would have set you straight.”

  “And Mary,” Ruby said, smiling at the memory of her friend’s inability to suffer fools gladly. “For that matter, can you imagine if she’d been there tonight?”

  “Nothing less than a bloodbath, I expect.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Oh, Vanessa—if you could have seen the look on that poor Nippy’s face when Dan accused the restaurant of serving sausages made of horsemeat and sawdust. She didn’t know what to do, poor girl.”

  “For my part I’d have thumped him, and been sacked for my troubles. Oh, well—you set him straight, and in far nicer a way than anyone else would have done. Good for you.”

  Dispatches from London

  by Miss Ruby Sutton

  April 14, 1942

  . . . People here don’t complain, and it’s something worth remembering as America gets used to life during a war. They may whinge, which is their term for letting off steam, but they don’t whine. They just get on with it, which means darning their socks until they’re more darn than sock, and drinking their tea without sugar or milk most days, and some days without much tea at all . . .

  THE NEXT MORNING dawned bright and fair. The sun was shining, it was warm enough for her to go without a coat for the first time that year, and best of all, she’d been successful in her quest for new stockings. Vi had rung up to say that Selfridges had new stock of both cotton lisle and rayon stockings, and even though Tuesdays were the busiest day of the week at PW Ruby hadn’t hesitated: she’d been waiting when the department store’s doors had opened that morning at eight o’clock, and had managed to buy three pairs—enough to get her through the summer and even the autumn if she was careful with them.