At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  – I’m sorry, Adam. First things first. There will be plenty of time to talk of the trial. I must find you a proper rail for your suits and I’ll get Caldwell to bring around a spare iron … and an ironing board. This will not do you know!

  Then, after a pause:

  – And don’t worry about the trial. Everything is under control. I have a feeling it may collapse under its own weight. But I’ll speak to you about that again over the weekend. Now, I must go. I have rather a lot of documents to read for my conference tomorrow morning.

  And he left. Adam did not know what exactly Blytheway was alluding to, and although Roly’s sang-froid calmed him down to some extent, it did not do so entirely. Nothing seemed to stress him. He had nerves of ice.

  He had not seen Roly on the Friday, although when he returned to his room at the top of Dr Johnson’s Building towards the end of the day he found that the five suits that had been given to him had been placed on a small coat rail; and there was an ironing board leaning against the wall in the little kitchen, and a steam iron with a little pink bow made out of the legal tape more usually used to tie up briefs to counsel.

  On the Saturday morning Adam had tried to do some preparation for the Bateman case. He’d slipped into Lamb Building and worked steadily in his room there. The Bateman trial was due to begin a week on Monday, and whilst on one level he could not imagine surviving the week immediately ahead, he reminded himself, as all barristers do, that even the worst week of a professional career will come to an end.

  It was an unseasonally warm morning, and as lunch-time approached he decided to go out and treat himself to a pint of beer in one of the Fleet Street pubs. He stood up and stretched, closed his notebook, picked up a novel and pulled on his jacket. Very few people were about and his footsteps echoed on the fading yellow stone as he made his way towards the Tudor Street exit. A heavy layer of dust lay across the ground and broken glass crunched under his feet. The Punch Tavern was on the junction of Fleet Street and Ludgate Circus and was named after the satirical magazine that was published from that place.

  The bell tinkled as he pushed open the door, made his way into the smoky interior and ordered a pint of bitter, putting his coins on the marble bar. The beer was slightly weak. He took it to a quiet corner and opened his novel – Eyeless in Gaza by Aldous Huxley. A group of journalists were at a nearby table, talking loudly and drinking heavily. Adam overheard snatches of their conversation and it became clear that they were expecting a heavy raid that night. Their copious consumption was fuelled by a tangible anxiety. He had no idea where they could have got such intelligence from, but, he thought, if you trade in bananas you have access to cheap bananas, if you work in the City you have access to cheap money, and so, he supposed, if you worked in gossip and news it was reasonable to assume you would have readier access to information. He tried to concentrate on his novel but the loud and gloomy pronouncements kept intruding. A worm of worry burrowed into his mind. He drained the pint, closed the novel and trudged back to the Temple. He needed distraction, not that.

  The sky was clear and blue and, as he passed Lamb Building and headed up Inner Temple Lane he heard carefree laughter floating over from Temple Gardens.

  Delia was running around in little circles and mewling. She had spent too much time shut in the room. He picked her up, put her in her cage and took her down the stairs. She attempted to put her claws through the bars and made little sighs of apprehension. Adam made his way through Cloisters and past Crown Office Row down to the Gardens. Children and families were playing there. Although the lawns were still carefully tended there were bomb craters, and trees, smashed and uprooted, lying upon the grass. The Thames was drifting muddily by beyond the Embankment. He made his way to the middle of the garden and opened Delia’s cage. She came out cautiously, looking around and sniffing the air. Adam had never taken her into the Gardens before. He found a twig and began trailing it around her paws, making her pounce on it, then swirling it around her in circles so that she jumped and ran after it. Two of the children came running over to play with his cat and so he handed over the twig, lay back on the grass and pulled a Turkish cigarette from its flimsy packet.

  Finishing his cigarette he closed his eyes, listened to the sound of the children playing with Delia, and felt a slight breeze drifting across his face. Then he fell asleep. The air, turning colder, eventually woke him and he opened his eyes to find that the children were gone and the sky was darkening. Delia was asleep in her unlocked cage. He rose slowly to his feet and brushed himself down. He felt a twinge in his back. A full moon was beginning to rise like a spectre in the turquoise sky. He stretched and yawned before picking up Delia and the cage and making his way back to his room.

  It had been on his return there that he found Roly’s note and the two packets of Embassy. He put up the blackout shades, turned on the lamp and lit the electric fire. Delia had worn herself out. Then he picked up one of the packets, pulled back the foil and made to put a cigarette in his mouth. Before he could do so there was a knock at the door. It was Barry, wearing blue overalls and a helmet and carrying a bucketful of sand and a little jug of milk. Adam’s shoulders sagged. He had completely forgotten that he was on fire-watching duty that night.

  – I’ve bought some milk for the cat. But you better get a move on, sir. We’re late as it is. Save the fag till later.

  Adam climbed into his overalls and put on his regulation-issue helmet whilst Barry fed the cat. Ruefully, he put the cigarette back in its carton and tucked it in his pocket.

  He, Barry and an elderly porter by the name of Roberts made up the fire-watching team responsible for looking after Hare Court. They made their way onto the roof and organised their buckets of sand and water and the stirrup pump, and then tried to make themselves comfortable between the cold slate valleys. It was getting dark. Adam made to light a cigarette but was shouted down by Roberts.

  – Oi! You can’t light that. There’s a blackout on!

  – But no one will be able to see me. We’re completely hidden from the ground.

  – It’s being seen from the air that I’m thinking of.

  – Look. Everyone smokes. I’ll put it out if any planes start coming over. But we haven’t even had a siren yet.

  – It’s not right, sir.

  Adam sighed and put away the cigarette, then stood up to look out on the city. It was a clear night and the sky was full of stars. Moonlight reflected down onto the Thames, and although no electric lights could be seen across the ghostly, smouldering district the river shone like a bright ribbon laying bare the structure of the target. He sighed again and slumped back down against the slate. Thank goodness Roberts had a weak bladder!

  It was getting on for 7 p.m. now and still there had been no sirens or signs. Roberts excused himself and went down into Hare Court to use one of the toilets. Adam lit up almost before Roberts had left the rooftop. Barry looked on.

  – Are you sure you should be doing that, mate?

  – Roberts is a fool. No one can see me and I’ll put it out if I have to. But look at the river. Look at the sky. We’re sitting ducks whether I smoke or I don’t smoke.

  – If you don’t mind me asking, sir, what’s happening with your trial?

  Adam sighed again.

  – I thought everyone knew what was happening with my trial.

  – Well, sir, I suppose we do. It’s been the main topic of conversation amongst the Benchers for weeks. Can’t help overhearing things.

  Adam started, before realising that it had been inevitable that this would be the case. He had been too much immersed in his own problems – and the Novak and Bateman trials – to think it through. Of course, he had been aware of the looks he received, some censorious and some quietly approving, but he had not thought that the Benchers of the Inner Temple would be discussing him over dinner.

  – It starts on Monday – I think. I have Mr Blytheway representing me. I’m sure you know of him?

  – Who doesn�
�t, sir? He’s got himself quite a reputation one way and another.

  – What do you mean by that?

  – Well, sir. They may have been talking a lot about you in the last few weeks but they’ve been talking about Mr Blytheway for years and years.

  – Oh really? And what have they been saying about him?

  – It’s mostly not very nice, sir, though Mr Storman seems to like him. Mr Blytheway’s all right as far as I’m concerned. Always been polite to me. And doesn’t have any airs and graces like some of them do.

  – And why don’t they like him?

  – Well … you know … sir. Well … it’s just that … I’m not sure it’s my place to say, sir.

  – Do they think he’s no good? Or dishonest? Something like that?

  – Not at all, sir. They couldn’t say that. They can’t help but say he’s good at what he does and that he doesn’t cheat. It’s just, well, his way of life that they seem to object to. I know this: they’d never let him become a King’s Counsel – or a Bencher for that matter.

  Adam imagined how Blytheway would smile, insouciantly, at this gossip, but then corrected himself when he realised that of course Blytheway would be perfectly aware of it – as he seemed to be of everything.

  – Well. I think he’s an excellent barrister, and if we get a chance tonight I’ll tell you how he helped me out last week. The funny thing is, though, I don’t feel I know that much about him at all. I don’t suppose you know much about him?

  – Not really, sir, no. But there is one bloke in the kitchens – Eric – who did know him quite well during the Great War. He told me the story once but I can’t rightly remember it properly. All I know is that he and Pemberton had some big falling out in the trenches. It was about saving someone, a private, who was stuck in No-Man’s Land. Well, Blytheway went out there and pulled him back. But Pemberton wouldn’t help. That’s it as far as I can remember.

  Adam shuddered.

  – I don’t think that I could ever do anything heroic. It’s probably just as well I got invalided out.

  – Your chest, was it?

  – ‘Fraid so.

  – You’re looking a lot better than you were a couple of months ago.

  – Fingers crossed. Have you been working in the Temple long, Barry?

  – Three or four years. Used to be a cabbie but business was poor in the mid-thirties. Still got the cab garaged up in Norwood just in case. Jean – my wife – and I live down that way still – when I can get home that is.

  Heavy breathing on the steps alerted them to Roberts’s return, so Adam stubbed out his cigarette and made some ineffectual waving movements to try and dispel the smell of the smoke. Roberts wrinkled up his nose and would have said something, but at that moment the sirens began to sound and a heavy ack-ack bombardment began. Searchlights were coning the air, and the insistent ominous drone of the bombers rumbled high above them and to the east. Adam saw enormous flares of light carpeting in their direction, followed by the aftershock of explosions. The sound intensified. Artillery from the ground, the sound of the planes, the explosions as they approached, and all around the wail of sirens. It was going to be a long night.

  Roberts adjusted his helmet.

  – All right, lads. Let’s get ready.

  – Let’s hope we don’t cop a direct hit.

  Barry put into words what they were all fearing. If, however, Adam had had the time to think about it, he would have realised that an indirect hit – or even something that missed them altogether – could still have enormous consequences.

  – By the way, Barry.

  – Yes, sir.

  – Call me Adam.

  Chapter Sixty-five

  (Saturday 8th March 1941)

  Snakehips Johnson took to the small stage again and his West Indian Orchestra struck up behind him. He had been there the last time Jenny and Simon had come to the Café de Paris in January. He was tall and slim and wore an elegant white suit with a bright flower in his lapel.

  Their table was close to the dance floor but still felt intimate. Jenny was almost unaware that anyone else was there. She ran her fingers over the crisp white linen tablecloth, then looked into Simon’s smiling eyes and raised her glass. They clinked glasses and took another sip of champagne. The bottle stood empty in its ice bucket. All through dinner Jenny had had this sense of expectation, but so far Simon had said nothing to suggest that he would in fact pop the question that evening. Neither of them dared to talk about the future or their plans for it. Simon seemed uncertain, and perhaps a little apprehensive. Her champagne flute, as she put it down, hit her side-plate and toppled over and it was all she could do to stop it falling to the ground and smashing. But she had spilt the last mouthful.

  – I’m so sorry. I’ve never drunk more than one glass before.

  – Don’t worry. I’ll get us another bottle.

  – But Simon. No. It’s too expensive. You can’t possibly afford that on top of dinner and everything else.

  – Oh, I can afford it. I’ll happily live off bread and water until I can see you again!

  Jenny relaxed and smiled warmly at him as he raised his hand to attract a waiter. His words were all the proof she needed. She looked at her watch. It was only twenty past nine. There was another bottle of champagne to drink. There was still plenty of time.

  Another bucket and bottle arrived, with fresh flutes, and Simon poured for them both. He gazed into her eyes and she caught a glimpse of his heart.

  – Here’s to us,

  he said, and smiled.

  – Yes. Here’s to us!

  – Come on. Let’s dance.

  He rose from their table and helped Jenny to her feet. She was a little unsteady and he took the chance to hold her around her waist. Her body, warm under the soft red silk of her dress, relaxed into him and his heart leapt. He felt in his jacket pocket for the little casket that he planned to offer to her before the evening was finished.

  She was so beautiful, he thought, and so good. And he was the luckiest man alive.

  Several miles away in the Temple a firestorm was threatening. Adam saw massive fires out towards West Ham and along the docks. There were high explosive bombs, and small one-kilogram incendiaries that rattled in their hundreds down onto the rooftops like malevolent autumn leaves being blown along a gutter. The noise was deafening and the bright moonlit sky was filled with the man-made stars – shell-bursts – and searchlights attempting to catch the bombers in their cones. So far they had been able to extinguish any incendiaries that fell on their patch, or kick them off the roof into the courtyard below where they fizzled out. But the attack was getting fiercer and the bombs continued to drop.

  – Barry! We need more sand!

  – We’ve run out! I’ll have to go down and break open some sandbags.

  – Roberts! Go and fetch some more water. I’ll try and deal with any that land while you’re both away.

  – Very good, sir.

  As Barry and Roberts headed back down into the building Adam took the opportunity to have his second Embassy. What possible difference could his match and the glow of his cigarette make tonight? Looking out from the parapet across the City he saw sheets and curtains of flame cascading down into the streets, the little silhouettes of firemen holding hoses and aiming tons of water into the fires. So great was the noise that he felt as though he heard nothing and was watching a silent film; but in black and red rather than black and white. An incendiary clattered into his valley of slate and he ran across and booted it down into the courtyard before it could catch. He felt his chest constricting and had to sit down and recover his breath. We can’t survive much more of this, he thought. I certainly can’t!

  But in the Café de Paris, safely below ground, the crash of the bombs around Coventry Street was no more than background noise. Snakehips Johnson led the band into “Oh, Johnny” and played a little louder to drown out the sounds of war. Simon and Jenny were dancing cheek to cheek and he had his arm around
her waist again. He could feel her ribs moving under the thin silk. They looked into one another’s eyes and smiled again as though the future was bright and endless. Jenny danced a little away from him, still touching him by her fingertips, as though to let him have a better view of her. Her red silk dress swayed as she moved her hips and her long dark hair gleamed under the chandeliers. She was smiling at him.

  Had he heard something before it happened? He was never entirely sure. Did he hear a screaming noise like metal in agony ripping down towards them? It all happened so fast. There was a massive double bang. Jenny was still holding onto his fingers. In his memory at least she was still smiling. But the explosion didn’t stop and just seemed to get louder. Time slowed down and everything was engulfed in an eerie silence. He tried to pull Jenny towards him and watched as the ceiling collapsed in on them in slow motion. He saw Snakehips Johnson take the full force of the ceiling across the side of his head before the singer disappeared under the rubble. Jenny was blown into him and on top of him and her body, as it hit him, felt as boneless and as lifeless as silk. Then everything went dark as he lost consciousness lying under the body of his beloved.

  Chapter Sixty-six

  (Sunday 9th March 1941)

  Julia struggled into wakefulness from a fitful dream. It was dark and still and it took her a few seconds to realise that she was in her bed behind the wine racks. What had woken her? There was a once-familiar smell floating in the air around her. Whisky! She strained to see around her and gradually her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. There was the shadow of a man on the bed next to her. It was Jeremy. She was able to make out that his shoulders were hunched and his head bowed. Something was not right.