Juliet pressed her hand to her mouth, struggling with her emotions.
It seemed an eternity before they were told a gap down one side of the curving stairway was clear enough for a First Aid unit to clamber down. A fireman led the way with a torch, followed by Dr Gearing. Clutching her case of emergency equipment, and crouching low, Juliet stepped forward gingerly, clinging to lumps of brick and plaster to steady herself. In the pitch dark, and choking from the dust that hung in the air like a veil, she followed the beam of light, until they were in what remained of the restaurant. Then she looked around, frozen with horror.
The balcony where people had been drinking as they watched others dancing below, had collapsed, instantly killing all those who were seated downstairs, having dinner.
‘This way,’ Dr Gearing said, shuffling cautiously forward.
Amid the debris, dead bodies were strewn, some half hidden. There were also body parts scattered about; a man’s arm still in a sleeve, a woman’s foot in a silver kid high-heeled shoe. Broken glass scrunched under their feet as they stumbled, fearful of standing on a face, or a hand, or a torso.
The girl who had cried out was miraculously unhurt except for a broken arm and some minor cuts because she’d been in the cloakroom when the bomb had fallen. Laura guided her out to the street to receive attention.
Juliet looked around wildly, finding it hard to breath. She noticed a man, lying crumpled on his side, bleeding heavily from a head wound. Another man was trying to get up, but one of his legs was trapped under some masonry.
Dr Gearing moved forward to attend to the first man while one of the rescue squad said, ‘Wait there, mate,’ to the second man, ‘we’ll get you out in a mo.’
‘Where are you…?’ Juliet heard a woman scream. She was scrambling wildly towards them from behind a cascade of brickwork and plaster, stepping and tripping over the bodies, her clothes torn off her body, her arms and legs cut, and her face scarlet with blood. ‘I can’t find my husband,’ she moaned, brokenly.
Juliet started with a mixture of horror and relief. ‘Rosie!’ she shouted above the din.
Rosie fell into her arms, almost bringing her to the ground. ‘I can’t find Charles… we were dancing, Oh, God! Where is he?’ she sobbed. She was turning her head this way and that, trying to see through the blood and mortar dust that covered her face.
Without answering, Juliet put her arm around Rosie’s waist, and led her forcibly up the half-shattered staircase, out through the narrow gap and into the cold night air.
‘Come along, Rosie. Let’s get you cleaned up,’ she said, amazed by the professionalism of her tone.
But Rosie swung away from her, clawing at the rubble, trying to go back into the ruins. ‘I can’t leave Charles,’ she screamed, hysterically. ‘I’ve got to find him. I’ve got to go back and find him.’
Juliet hung on to her tightly. ‘The others will do that. They’ll bring him out,’ she said, knowing it was probably a lie.
Once in the ambulance, Juliet saw that Rosie had a deep gash on her head, from which the blood was flowing down her face and running in rivulets down her body.
The doctor examined her scalp. ‘No sign of broken glass,’ he said. ‘See she has a compress on the wound, and then bandage it tightly. We’ll get her to casualty in a few minutes.’
‘We will?’ Juliet questioned in a whisper, following him out of the ambulance while Laura saw to Rosie’s injuries.
Gearing nodded. ‘I’m just going to check but I don’t think there are many more survivors.’
Juliet hurried over to the team who were already carrying bodies to the mortuary van.
‘My brother-in-law was in there,’ she told him. ‘He’d be in Guards uniform and his name is Padmore. Which mortuary are they taking them all to?’
‘Wherever we can get them in,’ he replied grimly. ‘There’s been a lot killed tonight, and not only at this incident.’
She nodded, sick at her understanding of what he’d said, and then hurried back to the ambulance, which was ready to leave for St George’s hospital.
* * *
‘Don’t leave me, Juliet,’ Rosie wept. She lay in one of the cubicles.
‘Rosie, I’m still on duty. I may have to go out again, tonight. I’ll telephone Daddy as soon as I get back to the Post, and he’ll come to you. I have to go now, darling.’
‘Will they bring Charles here, too? How shall I find him?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll leave all his details at the desk. Now, you stay here to get your head seen to, and as soon as I come off duty in the morning, I’ll come straight here, and take you back to Park Lane with me.’
‘Will Charles be there?’ Rosie pleaded.
‘I don’t know, Rosie. Try not to worry. Now I must get back to the ambulance. I’ll see you later.’
* * *
‘Dads?’ It was long after midnight, but Henry answered the phone immediately.
‘Juliet, darling! I was just having a nightcap with Ian, before we turn in for the night.’ He sounded relaxed and delighted to hear her voice.
‘Dads, I’ve got some bad news. Rosie and Charles were celebrating his birthday at the Café de Paris tonight, and it got a direct hit. Rosie is hurt, but she’ll be all right, but I think Charles may have bought it.’
‘Oh, no.’ Henry sounded deeply shocked. ‘That’s terrible. Where is Rosie?’
Juliet told him. ‘If you could go to her. She’s in a terrible state.’
‘Is Charles definitely dead?’
‘It’s always possible he’s still alive and severely injured, but I don’t think so…’ she paused, and took a deep breath. ‘It was carnage, Dads. Total carnage.’
‘Dear God.’ Henry groaned. ‘You shouldn’t be doing this job, Juliet. A young woman like you.’
‘Someone has to,’ she said drily. ‘I’ve got to go now. I think we’re about to be called out again.’
* * *
Henry strode into the entrance of St George’s Hospital. A scene of chaos met his gaze as his eyes swept around the rows of casualties waiting to be seen. Some were crying; others sat white-faced, in deep shock.
‘I’m looking for my daughter, Rosie Padmore,’ he told one of the harassed nurses at the reception desk. ‘She was brought in from the Café de Paris, a short while ago.’
‘You’ll find her through there.’ She pointed to a doorway, without looking up.
Henry walked into the next section. Through gaps in the green-curtained cubicles he saw people lying on beds; some looked half dead, others were covered in blood, most were moaning in pain, at the sheer misery of what had happened to them.
A stressed-looking nurse barged past him, a handful of bloodied bandages in her hands.
‘Excuse me,’ Henry said politely, ‘I’m looking for my daughter, Rosie Padmore.’
The nurse looked at him for a moment. He noticed her eyes had a blank expression, as if she were determined to deny the bloodbath and suffering that lay behind the curtains.
‘I think she’s in the end cubicle,’ she said, her voice expressionless.
Henry found Rosie lying quite still, her eyes shut and her face caked with drying blood. Her head was still roughly bandaged. The blanket she’d been wrapped in had fallen open, revealing her battered body and ripped clothes. She was covered in plaster dust and gore.
‘Rosie, darling?’ he whispered gently.
Her eyes flew open, bloodshot and startled. ‘Daddy!’ She started to cry, great wrenching sobs. ‘Have they found Charles yet? Is he here? We were dancing…’ Her hand, scraped and bruised, covered her mouth, to suppress the sounds.
Henry took her other hand. ‘I’ll find out as soon as I can, sweetheart. It’s always chaos after a bomb’s fallen. People get scattered, taken to different hospitals. Try not to worry. Have you seen a doctor yet?’
She shook her head. ‘I hurt all over, Daddy.’
‘I’m sure you do. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. I’ll stay with you un
til the doctor comes. Perhaps I can take you home to Hartley, when they’ve patched you up,’ he added hopefully.
She spoke with panic. ‘I can’t go until I know Charles is all right,’ she said.
‘Of course you can’t, darling. Now rest. There’s nothing to be done until they’ve seen to your injuries.’
* * *
Rosie refused to leave London. As soon as she’d been treated she insisted that Juliet and Henry take her back to Park Lane.
‘How can I leave when we don’t know what’s happened to Charles?’ she demanded.
Juliet, coming off duty, helped Rosie into a hot bath, filling the tub way beyond the regulation six inches deep and only once a week, as the government had stipulated. Her skin was ingrained with dirt and blood, and under her bandages, a section of her hair had been cut off and her scalp shaved.
‘Charles may still be trapped under the rubble,’ Rosie opined hopefully, rubbing the pre-war bar of luxurious soap into her arms.
Juliet said nothing. She’d heard seventy-nine bodies, including ‘Snake Hips’ Johnson, had so far been recovered; and many of those, because of their injuries, were going to be difficult to identify.
‘Would you like me to ask Dudley to prepare another bedroom in the house, for you?’ Juliet asked perceptively. ‘You might not want to…’
‘No.’ Rosie sounded decisive. ‘I’ll stay in the same room.’
‘Mummy’s on her way. She can stay here for a couple of days. Then you can go back to Hartley together.’
‘Only if they’ve found Charles!’ There was a note of hysteria in her voice. ‘I’m not going back to the country without him.’
‘That’s all right,’ Juliet said soothingly. ‘You can stay as long as you like. Dudley will adore to have someone else to fuss over.’
Exhausted, Juliet went to her own room as soon as Rosie was settled, and, stripping off her filthy and bloodstained uniform, had a bath and crawled into bed herself. She’d been on the go, under the most terrible strain, for the past twenty-four hours. Within moments she’d fallen into a deep but troubled sleep.
* * *
At six o’clock that evening, a tall burly policeman arrived, asking to see Lady Padmore.
‘Come in and wait here, please,’ Dudley said. The policeman crossed the threshold, looking as out of place in the elegant hall, as if he’d walked onto the set of a Noel Coward play.
Dudley hurried up the stairs. In the drawing room Rosie was lying on the sofa, with Liza and Juliet sitting nearby.
‘What is it, Dudley?’ Juliet asked, but she’d guessed the reason the moment she’d heard the ring of the front door bell.
‘It’s for Lady Padmore, Your Grace. It’s a policeman.’
Liza have a little shriek. Rosie sat upright, her face a painful mixture of hope and fear.
‘Have they found my husband?’ she whispered. Dudley didn’t answer.
Juliet rose, as if bracing herself for bad news. ‘Send him up, please, Dudley,’ she said, authoritatively.
With his helmet held in the crook of his arm, the policeman entered the room awkwardly. His tired eyes scanned the three fashionably dressed women will ill-supressed anxiety.
‘Which of you ladies is Lady Padmore, please?’
‘I a-am,’ Rosie croaked, getting to her feet.
He breathed heavily, and held forth a small Cellophane envelope. ‘Would you be able to tell me if this belonged to your husband, Lady Padmore?’
Rosie looked at a single mother-of-pearl and platinum cufflink, as if it might jump out of his hand and sting her. She recoiled violently, and drew a deep jagged breath. ‘I gave them to my husband for his birthday. Yesterday. Where’s the other one?’
The policeman swallowed, but did not speak. Juliet guessed this one cuff-link was probably all they had with which to identify Charles.
Rosie’s legs buckled and she gave a low moan, like an animal in pain, as she, too, realized the significance of only one cufflink. Between them, Juliet and the policemen caught her, and half carried her to the sofa.
‘Does that mean…?’ Liza asked stupidly.
Juliet silenced her with a fierce look. ‘Thank you, Constable,’ she said. ‘Let’s go downstairs.’ She led the way from the drawing room, down to the dining room on the ground floor. There were things that had to be said, but not in front of Rosie.
‘Captain Padmore was my brother-in-law,’ she began. ‘I was a nurse on one of the ambulances at the Café de Paris last night. You’d better give me all the details, because I don’t think my sister is up to it.’
Consulting his notebook, he told her all he could. Charles’s remains, such as they were, had been taken to Mortlake Cemetery, along with the bodies of the other eighty-two people who had, it was now confirmed, been killed.
When he’d gone, Juliet remained in the dining room for a few minutes, wanting to be alone; assessing what had to be done.
Charles’s regiment would have to be informed, his mother and sister told, and his death registered. Announcements would have to be put in The Times and Telegraph. Then there’d be the funeral to arrange.
Dudley slipped quietly into the dining room, and placed a glass of brandy at her elbow.
‘Your Grace, I’ve already taken the liberty of taking up some brandy to the drawing room,’ he said. ‘Is there anything else I can do?’
Juliet shook her head. ‘No thanks. I’ll need you to look after my sister and mother tomorrow, because I’m back on duty in the morning.’
‘Yes, Your Grace. May I offer my most sincere condolences to Lady Padmore and yourself, Your Grace.’
‘Thank you, Dudley.’
* * *
It was two o’clock in the morning, and Rosie was still talking. Unable to sleep, she was wound up like a clockwork doll as she sat on the edge of Juliet’s bed, able to speak more freely to her sister than their mother.
‘… The strange thing is, we were so happy during the last two days,’ she rambled on, ‘I think we’d come to a sort of understanding. We realized we could make our marriage work. I suddenly wanted that so much, Juliet. And even though I’ve been having an affair, I really wanted to create a proper home, with Charles and the children, after the war.’
‘Will your lover be able to comfort you?’ Juliet asked curiously.
‘I never want to see him again,’ Rosie replied decisively. ‘It would be disloyal to Charles, now, much more than it was when he was alive. Charles had really changed, hadn’t he?’
Juliet nodded.
‘I couldn’t believe how much he’d changed. I suppose Army life and all that discipline suited him. Anyway, I think we’d both, sort of, grown up, you know? He seemed more mature.’ She paused for a moment, her brow puckering. ‘What a good father he’d have made, too, wouldn’t he?’
The weight of longed-for sleep pressed down on Juliet’s head and eyelids, as if she’d been drugged, making her feel like screaming: stop talking! But she nodded again in silent agreement, propping herself up on her elbow, to try and stay awake.
‘… We made love the previous night,’ Rosie continued, almost dreamily. ‘For the first time I really enjoyed it. I was no longer repulsed by him. He asked if we could do it again in the morning, and I said yes. I knew he was longing to, and we’d no idea when we’d see each other again…’ her voice faltered, and she stopped talking for a moment. Then she said in a small voice. ‘I almost felt love for him, that second time. He said he loved me, and… I’m so glad now I told him that I loved him, too.’ She turned to Juliet, tears overflowing again. ‘What am I going to do without him?’ And she covered her face with her hands, sobbing piteously.
It’s strange, Juliet reflected, closing her eyes, how death beatifies a person. The newly deceased instantly become heroic; pronounced as good and kind, remembered for their love and loyalty, praised for their unselfishness and awarded almost iconic standing.
Rosie had loathed Charles before the war. Couldn’t wait to get away from him.
Hadn’t a good word to say about him. Seriously thought of divorcing him, and even had an affair with another man.
Then Charles comes home on leave, looks good in his uniform, and after a few days of having fun together, he’s killed. And suddenly he’s a saint.
Juliet’s last thought as sleep finally overtook her was: how much more noble and dignified it would have looked if Charles had died on the battlefield, instead of on the dance floor of a popular restaurant.
* * *
The next day Rosie’s sense of shock had faded, and reality had kicked in with a vengeance. While Liza fluttered uselessly, weeping as she watched her eldest daughter being torn apart with grief and guilt, it was Dudley who called the doctor.
Rosie was ordered to stay in bed for a couple of days, and the doctor prescribed bromide, to be taken every three hours.
‘For how long?’ Liza asked. She feared drugs in any form, but had herself taken to knocking back large amounts of gin, to alleviate what grief she felt for her late and unsatisfactory son-in-law.
‘For as long as she needs it,’ the doctor said firmly. ‘Take her back to the country by the end of the week; see she gets lots of rest. Remember, she’s been through the ordeal of being injured, as well as losing her husband.’
* * *
It was several weeks after the funeral, and Rosie, a scarf hiding where her hair had been shorn, walked slowly through the village to Speedwell Cottage.
When she’d first returned to Hartley, Freddie had tried to talk to her on the phone, and when told she was unavailable had written to her, expressing sympathy over Charles’s death. The letter was laced with phrases like, ‘I long to show you how much I love you,’ and, ‘You can count on me to look after you in future.’
This was the first time Rosie had felt strong enough to go and see Freddie, face to face. She wanted to tell him she couldn’t see him again. He’d try and persuade her, of course. Be deeply disappointed and hate the rejection; beg her to reconsider when she felt better.
The Granville Affaire Page 14
