‘The whole place was painted strawberry pink, which looked horrible in daylight, but was somehow comforting at night, when the lights, also pink-shaded, were low.
‘The beer was terrible – Cora didn’t care. Where she got the other drinks from it was better not to ask. I don’t know how she did it but throughout the war when the pubs, even, would have to put up signs saying NO BEER, Cora managed something. There was almost always gin, whisky and brandy and sometimes there would be a miraculous arrival of wine, or plum brandy, or Calvados.
‘How Cora found the drink was one mystery. Where she got the band from was another. They started with an old pianist, Vincent Tubman, who had been an accompanist in his younger days for many famous singers, including, by his account, Dame Nellie Melba. He claimed to have stood in when her own accompanist was taken ill. However, the drink had got to Vincent. He wasn’t bad when he was sober but he often wasn’t. Sometimes I saw him carried unconscious from his piano stool. At first, too, there was a furtive saxophonist, who seldom spoke. He came and went guiltily each evening. Briggs thought he was a deserter who thought he’d be safest from detection in a place full of senior servicemen, what they called the “brass”. Pym’s theory was that he was a bigamist, hiding from several wives. The drummer was a tired young man who worked as a postman during the day – they couldn’t call him up because he had bad lungs. And, of course, there were Vi and Sally.
‘Pontifex Street had decided to turn out in force to celebrate the opening on the seventh of September. But at five o’clock the sirens went and the big raid began. The West End of London where we were was much less affected, but it was a shock. The bombers just came straight in through southern England, crossed the Thames and bombarded the docks, railway lines and homes of the East End.
‘People had never experienced this before and they were terrified. The fire services and ambulances weren’t properly prepared, the ack-ack batteries weren’t in place. There weren’t enough air-raid shelters. The bombers flew off and returned two hours later, when it was getting dark. The raids went on for twelve hours, until dawn next day.
‘It must have been about seven, getting dark, when I stood with Pym on the roof at Pontifex Street, and saw what we were to see often again – the sun setting in the west but appearing to set also in the east, where a glow of fire four miles away stretched along the whole horizon.
‘Then we heard the bombers coming back and the sound of the second attack. The sirens started up again. Puffs of smoke began to appear on the burning horizon. We heard some planes coming towards us. Pym said, “Bloody hell,” and we scrambled through the skylight into the attic, through Sally’s cluttered room and down the ladder to the upper floor of the flat. Then we fled into the shop below.
‘There was a cellar door set into the wall beside the back door and Pym hammered on this as the bombers droned overhead. There was an explosion that seemed near us, though it was perhaps a quarter of a mile away. Later we were to think of such a hit as distant.
‘“Louisa! Anne!” Pym was shouting. “Let us in!” These were the names of the two gentlewomen who ran the cake shop downstairs. But they had bolted themselves in and it was some time before they opened up, as if they thought the Gestapo was already there. When Louisa pulled back the bolts Anne was sitting on a crate, wearing her gas mask, just in case.
‘I was surprised to see Briggs already there, sitting on the dirt floor, leaning against the wall at the back, smoking a cigarette. “I strolled back to get a clean shirt,” he told Pym. “Otherwise I’d be safe and sound in our secret bunker miles below the earth.” This was the coal cellar of their offices in Baker Street. “It’s opening night at La Vie,” he added gloomily. “I was rather looking forward to it. You didn’t think to bring anything to drink, did you? The sirens went off just as I was opening the front door.”
‘“Is that all you can think of?” cried Louisa. “We’ve nothing – no food, no water – we could be here for days. We could all be killed.”
‘“Better to be drunk, then,” observed Pym.
‘A bomb whistled down outside. There was a great thump, some dust rose from the floor, some plaster came off the walls, the overhead bulb flickered but did not go out.
‘To me it sounded very close, but I couldn’t place where it was. Later we would learn how near, and where a bomb had landed and say, “There goes the post office.” But at that moment my fear of the unaccustomed bombardment was less than the fear of a German victory, invasion, my own capture and death. These seemed suddenly much closer. My freedom in Britain had always been conditional. I saw the prison gates, the grave.
‘“If this is going to happen very often,” Briggs said looking round, “we’ll have to do something about this place.” Pym looked a little tense, but Briggs showed no fear. Anne began to cry and had to take off her gas mask to wipe her eyes. Louisa tried to comfort her. The noise went on. The worst was not knowing what was happening outside. We sat there for about fifteen minutes until in a lull Pym said, “Sod it. I’m going out to see what’s happening.”
‘“Don’t do it,” Anne cried.
‘But Pym ducked out of the low door, straightened up outside in the dark and said, “Christ!”
‘“What’s the matter?” one of the women said in alarm.
‘Briggs stood up quickly and went out. I followed him. And there was Sally, standing in the yard in a tin hat, with a raincoat over her filthy evening dress, a blue number, but now dirty and torn. Her face was streaked black. Something was struggling in a grey blanket in her arms.
‘“Where have you been?” Briggs asked her.
‘It seemed she’d been in Kennington with her friends when the raid began. They were right under the path the planes were taking to the Thames. Bombs were already dropping.
‘All three had been bombed in Madrid, you see,’ Bruno said, signalling for the bill. ‘So apparently they dashed out of the house, got on their bikes – Sally borrowed one – and rode under the bombers down into the East End. There, they helped the rescuers. Someone said later they’d seen Sally, illuminated by the flames of a warehouse, digging frantically in the steaming rubble of a house.
‘She said, “It’s awful there. And my dress is ruined. But I don’t suppose Cora will want to open up. So depressing – my big night!” She dropped the bundle, and what appeared to be a cat streaked out and away somewhere.
‘I hope someone frightfully nice will adopt it,’ Sally said.
‘The rest of us were listening to the sound of a solitary bomber approaching.
Sally went on. ‘“Quite frankly, in Madrid the bombardment just made people angry and obstinate, like apes being furious when another lot of apes starts throwing coconuts on their heads out of the trees.” The noise of the bomber grew louder.
‘“Actually,” Pym said, “I’m so frightened all I want to do is fuck and fuck and fuck.” Then there was a massive explosion two streets away. The sky flared up, the ground shook. We all, except Sally, flung ourselves on the ground.’
Here Bruno paused to call for the bill, and now he and Greg went into the battle of the wallets. Greg knew early on in the struggle that Bruno, determined, would win.
Once the bill was paid and Bruno was tucking away his wallet, he told Greg, ‘Briggs said later, “You must admit it’s frightfully irritating, us hiding in a cellar while Sally digs people out of the rubble. And being so superior about having been bombed before – it’s almost intolerable.” Then Pym remarked that Sally was rather brave and there was an odd look on his face as he spoke, but I didn’t understand it at the time.
‘Well,’ Bruno said, standing up. ‘Thank you so much for your company. Where can I drop you?’
They walked out into the still gloomy afternoon. As they strolled towards the car Bruno said, ‘The raids went on, night after night, but La Vie opened a week later.
‘Vi was a nice singer – she had a clear soprano but with a few true deep notes. Sally’s voice was small and husky, but she
had the knack of putting a song over which made up for some of her deficiencies. When she sang “The Last Time I Saw Paris” I must say there were a few damp eyes and a bit of swallowing. She’d often end up singing “Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone”.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ Bruno said suddenly, as they approached his vehicle, ‘I can suddenly see her again, singing under the pink light, and all the time you could hear the crashes in the distance and the sounds of the fire engines coming and going.’ He smiled at Greg and walked towards the car, singing in his harsh, unmusical voice, ‘“Makes no difference how I carry on, Please don’t talk about me when I’m gone.’”
Chapter 16
Katherine Ledbetter and Greg leaned, side by side, over the bridge crossing the Cam near King’s College. Before them the college stood white, soaring, like Gothic Lego, in its acres of green turf. Rooks cawed and hopped on the grass.
A man in corduroys was propped at the other parapet, reading. Two ducks eddied, unresisting, under the bridge.
‘You shouldn’t have done this, Greg,’ said Katherine, in her clear voice.
‘I figured you planned to leave town before I came,’ he answered. ‘That’s sneaky too. Whatever else I am, I’m an old friend, aren’t I? Who’s the guy?’
‘What guy?’
‘The guy you’re having an affair with.’
‘Greg,’ she said, ‘it’s been six years. And it’s no business of yours.’
‘Just a friendly question. You haven’t changed a bit. Still evasive.’ Then he added, ‘Still beautiful.’
She was a tall, slender woman, with a long, pale face, very big brown eyes and a mass of shiny dark brown hair piled at the back of her head and secured by a tortoiseshell comb. She had a large, curving mouth. She wore moccasins on her feet and a long black linen dress with a brown coat over it.
‘Still beautiful,’ he repeated. ‘Still the same old snappy dresser.’ He put his arm round her. ‘Why don’t I buy you lunch? We’ll have some wine then go back to your book-strewn studio apartment for a cup of instant coffee in a chipped mug. I’ll say I need to pick your brains about the war-time cabinet but in fact I’ll be after your body.’ He put his arm round her.
‘No, Greg,’ she said.
He squeezed. ‘That’s not what you used to say.’
She pushed him away, saying more loudly, ‘No, Greg.’
The man at the other parapet slowly moved his book aside and turned. ‘Katherine,’ he said, ‘I didn’t notice you. Will you be at the Williamses tomorrow?’
‘I think so,’ she said. She introduced the two men. ‘Ken Jerome, Greg Phillips.’
Jerome nodded at Greg then said, ‘I’ll probably see you at the Williamses then.’ He put the book in his pocket and strolled off.
Greg glowered at his retreating back then bent over the parapet again. ‘Smug English bastard. Why didn’t he say “hi” when we came up?’ he complained.
‘He was reading. His attention was attracted by your trying to kiss me and my resistance. It’s the kind of thing people notice.’
‘He certainly gave me the evil eye,’ Greg said. He straightened up to face her. ‘Well, maybe it was a friendly, welcoming look. Perhaps I’ve been away too long to tell the difference.’
‘Fuck you, too,’ said Katherine. ‘You’ve been away six years, Greg. We broke up before you went, mainly because you wanted to go back to the States and I’d been offered a lectureship here – do you remember that? It was by mutual consent, but it cost me a lot to do it. It did, Greg,’ she said. ‘So now here you are again – “Look, I’m here.” You’re right, I was going to dodge you. But what did you expect me to do? What do you want?’
‘All right, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the opportunity of a lifetime here, to write this book, make some kind of a name for myself. I’m jumpy – OK? But I am glad to see you, very glad. Parting wasn’t easy for me, either, but what choice did I have? I didn’t have much of a future here. Shall we go get some lunch? Please?’
She softened. ‘Never refuse a meal,’ she said. ‘OK, let’s go.’
They walked arm in arm along King’s Parade, then turned off down a narrow street with colleges on either side. Huge gateways showed grassy squares inside the old walls.
‘How’s it going, the book?’ enquired Katherine.
‘So well I’m scared,’ he told her. ‘Everything’s right, nothing’s wrong and still I’m paranoid.’
‘Well, you know what they say about that,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t mean someone isn’t out to get me.’
A bird in a tree overhanging a wall cawed. ‘Lunch,’ he said, leading her across the street.
* * *
They were in bed in Katherine’s room in college. Student voices came up from the lawn below.
Greg, lying with his arms behind his head, said, ‘This is a lot better than the old days. Two whole rooms, big ones, all to yourself. Who does the furniture belong to?’
In her sitting room were a sideboard, some small tables and a picture or two, which did not look like standard college issue. Though who knew what these dignified foundations thought suitable for their staff?
‘They’re borrowed from a relative,’ she told him.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked.
She yawned.
‘Tired?’ he asked.
‘I’m trying to complete a paper about government regulations covering employment between nineteen forty and nineteen forty-one. It’ll be part of a bigger project, the effects on people of the civil measures taken in Britain during the Second World War. Oh, Greg,’ she said, turning to him, ‘I shouldn’t be doing this.’
‘Once more won’t make any difference.’
On the train back to London he was happy. The winter landscape streamed past him. Crows flew across dark, ploughed fields. There were grazing sheep, orchards, bare trees and hedgerows. There was something to be said for Britain, he thought contentedly. Quite a lot.
Chapter 17
Greg woke next morning under the pink coverlet from which his feet poked out. His gaze fell on the shaky, brown-stained wardrobe. He didn’t feel as cheerful as he had the day before, and was not sure why.
It was raining outside but, conscientiously, he took the underground to the British Library periodicals department and looked at the reports for the aftermath of the first big raid on London, hundreds killed, thousands injured, many more rendered homeless. The raids grew worse daily. By the end of September 1940 7,000 people had been killed and 9,000 injured. No panic, just stoicism, they said. Oh, yeah, thought Greg. He still felt gloomy and oppressed when he got up and went off to meet Bruno for lunch. This time it was to be his treat. They went to a pub and sat in a corner.
‘No panic?’ questioned Greg. ‘Britain can take it?’
‘Under constant bombardment? With tube stations, one of the safest places, barred and guarded by the police? People attacked the gates at Liverpool Street to get in during a raid. No panic? What do you think? People left the city and went and slept in the fields.’
‘What was happening at Pontifex Street?’ Greg asked.
‘Well, on the night of the first raid we got to sleep in the end. Briggs set his alarm as usual but when he got up he found the keys to his little car were gone from his dressing table. He ran out and found it had been taken. He set off to work on foot and found the car parked in a square not far away. The back seat was covered in clothing, including a fox fur. There were blankets and a lamp. Then Sally came down the steps of a nearby house, carrying an eiderdown. On top of it were lodged some pots and pans.
‘He walked up to her and held out his hand for the car keys. “I didn’t give you permission to take my car,” he said.
‘And Sally said, “I’m collecting for the East End.”
‘Briggs told her he didn’t care and made her unload the car. She had to heap everything up on the pavement and give him the keys, whereupon he stepped into the street and hailed a taxi. The dri
ver looked at Sally and the heap of clothes and bedding, and said, “I’m not a removal van. Get Pickford’s.”
‘Briggs,’ said Bruno, sipping his beer, ‘started threatening the man with the Hackney Carriage Office but Sally called that she was taking the stuff to the East End and the cabbie agreed to take her. She was loading the items she had collected into the taxi, the driver helping, when Briggs drove off. Sally yelled, “Property is theft,” after him but he didn’t hear – or didn’t want to.
‘Briggs couldn’t stand having his things used by others,’ Bruno told Greg. ‘It was pathological, almost. He returned to Pontifex Street and phoned Sir Peveril again, demanding that Sally leave the flat. It was strange that Briggs, who was so handsome and clever and privileged – I think his father was a senior clergyman at Salisbury Cathedral – reacted as violently as he did to Sally. I didn’t want her at Pontifex Street, either, but at such a time what could one do?’
‘You stuck by him, though,’ suggested Greg.
‘I had no choice,’ Bruno replied. ‘I was a refugee. Briggs was a British official of the class that can always pull strings. I thought he could have got me interned – anything. He was my protector. I was young. I suppose I loved him.
‘So,’ he sighed, ‘the raids went on, almost every night, for three months. We became experts at knowing the weather conditions that would keep them off and studying the phases of the moon – they couldn’t come when it was too cloudy and dark. The RAF recovered from the devastation of the battle of Britain, guns were mounted to fire on enemy aircraft – they were as good as useless, but it helped morale. Sally spent a lot of time in the East End. The Communists down there were very noisy, probably because they knew the rule “Organise”, so she spent a lot of time agitating about the tube stations which were now being used as shelters where conditions were horrible. Also about the rest centres where people went when they were first bombed out, and about housing the homeless people. They laughed at her at Pontifex Street. She went on working at Cora’s, though. It was the only money she had coming in and it wasn’t much – Cora was not a generous employer. And there was never any question of Sally’s family helping her. She never stopped talking about Theo Fitzpatrick, though, “the only man I ever loved”.
After the Cabaret Page 6
