Ambulance Girls

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘Any more interesting rumours from Powell?’ he asked during Friday night’s call.

  ‘The usual. She is now convinced that German paratroopers have been landing here disguised as parsons.’

  ‘That one’s been around since September last year. She needs to find a new rumour to panic herself with.’

  ‘There’s an interesting twist to this one. It seems that her Aunt Minnie —’

  ‘What happened to Aunt Glad?’

  ‘Still looking for hairy nuns, I expect. Anyway, Powell’s Aunt Minnie is reliably informed that the fake parsons are coming here in order to kidnap healthy English girls and force them into German baby farms. Hitler likes the English bloodstock, you see.’

  Jim laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have thought we were pure enough for the Nazis. Britain is made up of a bit of everything. Anyway, don’t she and Aunt Minnie know that Nazis disguised as English clergymen invariably give themselves away when they stub their toe and swear loudly in German?’

  ‘Well, we all know that! But Powell is safe from the fate worse than death even in the absence of toe stubbing. She can identify a Nazi just by looking at him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Apparently, a German’s eyes are so cold that it is like death is staring straight at you.’

  ‘Er, by blood my mother is three-quarters German.’

  I thought of Jim’s steady grey eyes and smiled to myself.

  ‘I’ll have to introduce you to Powell. If she shrieks and runs away, we’ll know you’ve inherited the death stare. I swear one day I’ll jump up and shout “tittle tattle lost the battle” at the woman.’

  Our conversation inevitably arrived at Levy.

  ‘His parents have made enquiries at every hospital, in the hope that he was admitted without identification. And they contacted all the rest centres, in case he had amnesia.’

  ‘And nothing?’

  ‘No one of his description has turned up anywhere in London.’

  ‘Jim,’ I said hesitantly, ‘I’d like to visit Mr and Mrs Levy. But only if you think it would be appropriate. I don’t want to upset them any further . . .’

  ‘I’m sure they’d appreciate a visit from you. Can it wait until I return?’

  ‘Of course. I’d prefer to go there with you.’

  ‘Lily, I think we all accept now that he must be dead.’

  And that was that.

  * * *

  I lay in bed that night, wakeful and unhappy as the raiders droned overhead, and I imagined all the gruesome fates that might have befallen Levy in an air raid. And I brooded on what could have happened if he was not a Blitz victim. Both Knaggs and Mrs Coke had threatened him. What if one of them had followed through on those threats? And Sadler disliked him and made up tales about him. I thought I owed it to my friend to at least make some enquiries about these people.

  Bloomsbury was spared a major attack that night, but two aircraft passed low over St Andrew’s at around midnight. The swish of their falling bombs was loud and from the way the building shook, I knew they had dropped their load nearby.

  On my way to work on Saturday morning I discovered that the remaining houses in Caroline Place had taken another hit and most of the street was a pitiful heap of mud and rubble.

  I was gazing at the scene of desolation when I heard a squeak of bicycle brakes and turned to see that Fripp had pulled up next to me.

  ‘What an utter shambles,’ she said, nodding at the ruins. ‘London nowadays is like the last days of Pompeii or something. I doubt they’ll find much to salvage here. Better to pull it all down and start again.’

  ‘It’s sad, though,’ I said. ‘To lose the history, I mean.’

  ‘I hate old buildings,’ said Fripp. ‘I’d be happy to see the end of most of this city. Start again. Modern buildings. Fresh slate.’

  Fripp wheeled her bicycle beside me as we walked to Woburn Place, neither of us talking much. As we passed the rosy magnificence of the Hotel Russell I saw how its elaborate wedding cake exterior was chipped and battered after weeks of attacks. I couldn’t help smiling, though, at one of the carved putti holding a garland in its chubby hand. Levy had called the building a mishmash of Art Nouveau Gothic, and had chaffed me when I said I liked the hotel’s Edwardian magnificence.

  ‘Any news about Levy?’ asked Fripp.

  I shook my head briefly.

  ‘I think he’s another Blitz casualty, poor chap,’ she said cheerfully.

  ‘I thought you hated him.’

  ‘Hate is a harsh word, Brennan. I’m better than that.’

  Most of the day shift was already in the common room when we arrived. Everyone looked exhausted. It was the seeming interminability of the Blitz; it consumed our energy and dulled our wits. It destroyed our homes and it killed our friends.

  Armstrong was chalky white under the galaxy of spots on his face; the area under his eyes was purplish, so that he seemed to have been punched. Maisie darned a pair of socks with shaky hands and seemed near tears. Celia had lost weight, I thought. There were fine blue shadows under her eyes and the bones of her face were sharply fragile under her skin. Squire was turned away from me, hugging the heater, as usual, but he held his shoulders bent, like an old man. Sadler played one of his solitary card games with dogged intensity.

  ‘Any news of Levy?’ Maisie asked me, looking up from her stitching.

  As I shook my head Moray joined us. He had heard Maisie’s question. ‘No news at all,’ he said. ‘It’s been over a week now. After all this time there’s really no hope. We’ll be sent a replacement officer on Monday.’

  Maisie’s eyes were wide and her mouth trembled. She hid it with a shaking hand.

  Moray caught my eye. ‘Lily, I’m very sorry . . .’ His glance slid past me like a shiver and landed on a spot near my ear. ‘It’s best to keep busy,’ he said.

  He turned to Fripp and held up a chit.

  ‘You and Brennan take this. It’s a delivery of supplies to Great Ormond Street.’

  I spent the rest of the day with Fripp, driving back and forth between warehouses and Great Ormond Street Hospital, delivering medicines, food, bandages and other necessities.

  We returned to Woburn Place just before five. The night shift were arriving and what was left of the day shift were preparing to leave. Muttered conversations in the common room ceased as soon as I entered, and I deduced they had been talking about Levy.

  I decided to begin my enquiries.

  ‘Does anyone know what Mrs Coke is doing?’ I asked the room. ‘How long is she to be on sick leave?’

  Sadler looked up. ‘She’s already left the service. Personal reasons. I heard she’d got a job as a clerk for one of the ministries. More money, less stress, lucky bi—. I mean, she’s landed on her feet.’

  ‘Which ministry?’

  ‘Food. She’ll be one of Woolton’s pets. She won’t go hungry on three pounds five and six a week.’

  Mrs Coke had certainly landed on her feet. It seemed she had benefitted from being reported by Levy. In the circumstances it was unlikely that she would want to extract revenge and risk losing her cushy new position.

  But what of Knaggs? I opened my mouth to ask Sadler about him when the Warning sounded. Moray appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’ve been told it’s only a couple of German surveillance planes. It’s probably safe to leave.’

  I walked home in a haze of misery about Levy, wondering why I was still in England. Australia was heading into spring; the wildflowers would be putting on their brilliant display and the weather would be warming up for summer. My parents were desperate for me to return and I could be home for Christmas. If I returned home to Perth the ambulance station would soon find another driver to replace me, just as it had replaced Levy so quickly, and I could spend a lazy summer in the sunshine. I imagined lying on white sand with the clear blue Indian Ocean in front of me, and for a moment I could almost taste the salt spray on the wind.

  But I knew it was only a dream. I
would not leave London so long as the Blitz raged. If I did then Hitler would have defeated me, and I could not live with that. And I needed to know what had happened to Levy.

  The All Clear went as I crossed the road to St Andrew’s. I felt a few sprinkles of rain on my face and I sighed as I pushed open the door into the lobby.

  Jim was standing by the lift, I realised with surprise. The RAF uniform suits him, I thought, but he’s too tall and out of my league. I sighed to myself. There’s no point in continuing this. Then I remembered our easy conversations when he had rung me each evening that week.

  ‘I managed to snaffle some weekend leave,’ he said, ‘and I dashed down here before they could change their minds. Are you free for dinner?’

  My spirits lifted. Levy had thought I should give him a fair go. If Levy thought Jim and I were suited, then we must be. But I had no desire to go to the Ritz that night.

  ‘Of course, but nowhere fancy. I’m really tired. It’s been a horrid week.’

  ‘I know just the place. No dance band, just good simple food.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  He seemed to hesitate, then said quickly, ‘Look, if you feel up to it, Mr and Mrs Levy have said they would like to see you tomorrow afternoon.’

  I felt my stomach tighten.

  ‘Of course I’m up to it.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  David Levy’s good looks had come from his mother. Mrs Levy was a darkly elegant woman. She was lying on a chaise longue when we were shown into their suite at the Dorchester, where they had moved until they could find new accommodation. Her skin was flawless and she had given David her high cheekbones and heavy-lidded dark eyes. Those eyes were reddened at present and puffy with weeping. Her hands plucked constantly at the soft woollen rug that hid her legs.

  She made a vague gesture towards the rug. ‘I am very sorry not to rise, but the bomb . . .’

  Her accent was European. I would not have been able to pick from which country she had come originally if Levy had not told me it was Germany. She responded to Jim’s introductions with a smile that reminded me so much of Levy I felt tears flood hotly into my own eyes.

  The chairs she gestured towards looked too fragile to hold even my weight, but were sturdy enough when we sat down on them.

  ‘David spoke of you often, Lily. I may call you Lily?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I wanted to tell you how very – how much David meant, means—’ I swallowed and began again. ‘I wanted to tell you what a marvellous ambulance attendant David was, and what a good friend he was to me.’

  Mr Levy came into the room, a middle-aged man, dark-haired and soft-eyed, and as charming as his wife. His accent was English, as entirely English as his son’s had been. His sorrow showed itself in restless energy. He seemed unable to sit still and spent much of our visit stalking the room, adjusting the curtains, touching various small ornaments.

  I told them what I had wanted to say, about how good Levy had been to me throughout our time working together, his kindness to patients and his dedication to our work.

  ‘Thank you, Lily.’ Mrs Levy put out her hands and I rose to take hold of them. They were cold. I looked into her eyes and saw her haunted despair. ‘Thank you for coming. David told us so little about his work, but he spoke often of his driver, Miss Brennan. He told us that you were the bravest woman he had ever met.’

  I felt my cheeks flame. ‘He exaggerated, I’m afraid.’

  She smiled. ‘David could be – what is the English word? – ah, yes, prickly. He admired very few people, but he thought the world of Lily Brennan.’

  Hot tears filled my eyes. ‘Lily Brennan thought the world of him also,’ I said.

  We talked for a while longer about Levy, and I told them some amusing stories about him at work. The Levys told me that they now accepted that David was dead; Mrs Levy in particular mourned the fact that there was no body to bury.

  ‘We don’t know where he went after he left the house that day,’ said Mr Levy. ‘If we had some idea where he went then we would know where to look for his – for him.’ He glanced at his wife.

  ‘I have nightmares,’ she explained. ‘I dream that David is out there, calling to me, expecting me to find him.’ She began to cry, silently, unashamedly. Mr Levy came across to her and put his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Should I ring for a pot of tea?’ I asked, unsure of what else I could do.

  Mrs Levy touched her wet eyes with a lacy white handkerchief and waved her hand in a gesture I had seen Levy use many times, one of dismissal and contempt.

  ‘Tea. It is always tea with you English. You are a nation of tea drinkers.’ I flinched at the pain in her eyes.

  ‘I do not want tea,’ she said. ‘I want to hear the Mourners’ Kaddish sung for my David. I want the chazan to say “Kel maleh rachamim”. I want my boy back. I want to tell him I love him and tell him goodbye.’

  I ached with sympathy for her, and there was nothing I could say.

  ‘We are holding a memorial service for him,’ said Mr Levy. ‘It will be in the Hallam Street Synagogue on the Friday after next. You and Jim are welcome to attend, as are any of his friends at the station.’

  ‘Maisie Halliday and George Squire were friendly towards him,’ I said, ‘I’ll make sure they know.’

  ‘Let them all know. All who wish to attend will be welcome.’

  Jim and I left the Levys and the sophisticated glamour of the Dorchester and walked for a while in Mayfair’s bomb-damaged streets as the afternoon shadows lengthened into evening. The large houses sat smugly as ever behind their impressive porticos, despite the broken windows and the dust and debris that choked the elegant thoroughfares. Jim seemed very at home in this world – and I found myself feeling increasingly like a mere tourist.

  At the top of Curzon Street, we turned left towards Berkeley Square and Jim gestured towards the mansion beside us. Shrapnel and blast and fire had damaged but not destroyed the building. Chunks of the white Portland stone facade had been torn away and in its glassless windows hung the tattered remains of what had been delicate pink satin curtains, now flapping mournfully in the chilly breeze.

  ‘Lansdowne House,’ Jim said. ‘One of the last big private houses in London. It became a private club in 1935. The gardens were sold, but the house remains, thankfully.’

  ‘Eighteenth century?’ I asked, admiring the clean lines of the building.

  ‘Yes, and there’s a lot of Art Deco in there as well. It was decorated by the firm who fitted out the great Cunard ocean liners, the Queen Mary and the Queen Elizabeth.’

  ‘And the Titanic?’

  He laughed and shook his head.

  ‘What sort of club is it?’ I asked. All I knew about London’s private clubs I had gleaned from P.G. Wodehouse, where they appeared to be the haunts of wealthy old men who wanted to escape their wives to drink port and read newspapers, or wealthy young men who wanted to act like idiots.

  Jim shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s social, athletic and residential. The only private members club in London where women have equal standing with men.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose I had assumed they were all gentlemen’s clubs. Are there many women members?’

  He seemed surprised at the question. ‘I suppose so. Always seem to be a fair few when I go there.’

  ‘So you are a member?’ I thought he might have been, because he seemed to know a great deal about it and spoke with some pride.

  He nodded. ‘Since I came up from Cambridge. I’m very keen on foil and épée and the club has an excellent fencing master.’

  As we continued our walk my footsteps seemed to tap out a refrain: Too posh for me, too posh for me. Jim, my lad, you’re too posh for me.

  In Berkeley Square, branches had been ripped from the splendid trees and leaves were strewn over the road. Many of the exclusive little Mayfair shops in the streets around the square had been reduced to piles of dust-covered wreckage, jagged with splinters. At the furrier’s shop, furs sprawled in the
dust and grime like the carcasses of slaughtered animals, and in the milliner’s establishment next door all the pretty little hats perched, dusty and battered as bombed budgerigars. Behind glassless windows the plum-coloured carpet was so deep in grey dust that it looked like a lava flow.

  ‘At least Mayfair can look the East End in the eye,’ said Jim, as we walked past the devastation, echoing the words of the Queen after Buckingham Palace was bombed.

  Jim suggested that we dine early at Mirabelle, a restaurant in Curzon Street. I was wearing a suit of black lightweight wool that was one of my Prague outfits. It was perfectly acceptable for an afternoon visit, but Mirabelle was very smart. I gestured at my outfit.

  ‘I’m not really dressed for a place like that.’

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ Jim said. ‘Look, it’s close and I know the food will be very good. No one cares about that sort of thing nowadays.’

  With some trepidation I agreed.

  Mirabelle had been one of the most exclusive restaurants in London before the war and many celebrities had dined there: Vivien Leigh, Orson Welles and even Winston Churchill. Now, after months of Blitzkrieg, the canopy over the doorway was cracked and those windows that still had glass were criss-crossed with tape while the rest had been covered with board.

  The Warning sounded as we pushed through the heavy blackout curtain and handed over our coats, before descending the stairs to a restaurant that, despite the war-damaged exterior, still maintained an air of classic luxury.

  There were no more than five couples in the entire restaurant, but the dance band was playing with verve for a single pair – both in khaki – who twirled around on the pocket-handkerchief dance floor.

  As we perused our menus I noticed that a dapper little man was greeting the diners at their tables and holding up an ugly looking piece of shrapnel for their inspection. He came over to us eventually, introduced himself as the manager, Mr Ratazzini, and displayed the shrapnel piece to us with some pride.