At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  Jeremy had chosen to take the rear right-side weight. To his left walked Preston. At the front were Storman and Chips Channon, perhaps, she thought, feeling guilty about introducing Jenny to the Café de Paris – perhaps because he had to be there anyway for the burial of Poulsen, he of the twenty-five thousand bottles of champagne and safe haven, who had also been killed that night. Ahead of Pemberton was Samuels. She did not know the sixth pall-bearer. Behind the coffin trailed Agnes, Stephen and Sebastian, separated from her now as they had been in the cortege from Eaton Square. A pre-figurement of what Jeremy intended for the years ahead. After the funeral she would have to move out. She fixed her eyes on Jeremy’s back and saw the bones of his shoulders moving in an exhausted rhythm under his mourning coat. The ground beneath his feet was smooth and bland and could not account for the way he stumbled and swayed as he walked. The mahogany coffin that he was helping to carry looked light and easy.

  Julia took a sideways glance at Simon Jenkins from beneath her veil. She had never seen him before that dreadful night (and only once afterwards) but Jenny, in all their conversations at the Ritz, had captured him well. He did not, however, resemble the photograph Jenny had shown her. That showed Julia a care-free young man with dark tousled hair and an enormous white smile, eyes dancing into the camera. The boy, for he was only a boy, next to her was not smiling. All his features were drawn inwards and his eyes – his whole being – had been hollowed out. He should still have been in the Westminster Hospital but he had insisted on being released for this. Julia watched him as he limped along next to her, his right arm encased in thick white plaster holding onto the crutch that he was using to support his right leg. He was wearing his uniform, the same one he had been wearing that night. He had attempted to clean it but Julia saw traces of dust and plaster on his back. The right trouser leg had been cut away to accommodate the plaster that ran up to his thigh, and he winced with every step.

  The coffin was approaching the grave now and the men began to unburden themselves, lowering it onto the waiting ropes. The headstone for Joan’s grave, black marble with gold lettering, had been balanced against a tree:

  Joan Pemberton (formerly Swift)

  b. 18th June 1895

  d. 6th December 1924

  Beloved wife of Jeremy and loving mother of Jenny

  “Death lies on her, like an untimely frost

  Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.”

  Julia felt her cheeks reddening as she thought back to the awful events of the previous Sunday morning. She had gone down into the cellar almost immediately after Jenny had left and read for a while. The bombardment was already very loud and she had been worried that she would not sleep that night and so had taken an extra dose of her sleeping draught at around nine in the evening. Everything that happened after that she heard from Annie. Jeremy had stayed upstairs for a little longer but by nine thirty he too was down in the cellar, as were Samuels and Annie. Annie said that he had been wearing blue and white striped flannelette pyjamas. She described how he had doused the gaslight from behind the curtains and everything became dark. Annie could not sleep and watched as that little bedroom behind the wine racks came back into some sort of gloomy focus. And she told Julia of the noise of the heavy bombardment, of which Julia had been totally unaware.

  Then, about an hour or so later, there had been a frantic banging on the front door, which no one had wanted to answer. It would not stop. Eventually Samuels stirred himself, put on his dressing-gown and made his way up to the relentless hammering. If he had been drowsy and resentful as he slouched up the narrow steps, his lamp making grotesque shadows on the walls, that soon changed. Annie had heard shouts and expletives, and then heard rather than saw Samuels, with Preston close behind him, rushing down into the cellar. Preston was shaking Pemberton awake. Initially fuzzy and angry at being disturbed, Jeremy had quickly realised that something unimaginable had happened. Julia had slept through all of this.

  Annie had heard some reference to the Café de Paris and to a bomb and then Pemberton was out of bed and heading upstairs in his pyjamas. He left his gold-rimmed spectacles next to the bed. Samuels had grabbed a dressing-gown for him as they left. How did Preston know that Jenny might be there? Julia tried to imagine all the conversations she was no longer part of. Preston had come by car and they had all tumbled in and headed towards Procter Street. The bombing was still going on but Pemberton had insisted they use the headlights to increase their speed.

  Of course, there had been nothing that they could do. By the time they arrived the area had been cordoned off and demolition workers were inside. The injured were being taken to Charing Cross Hospital and the dead were being lined up on the street outside. Samuels had told Annie how they had gone past the bodies and tried to get into the ruins of the night club only to be prevented by emergency crews. They saw enough though, even through the dust-cloud. Supper tables had crashed down onto the dancers, and you could see the reflection of starlight in the broken glass. Some of the dead were slumped around their tables with un-spilt glasses in front of them.

  Then they had been pulled out by the rescue workers, Jeremy in his pyjamas shouting, “Do you know who I am?” and demanding to be allowed back down the stairs. But then, as this fruitless argument raged, two members of the demolition squad started up the stairs carrying a stretcher. The body on it was lying face down but despite the thick dust one could see that the dress had once been red; despite the heavy plaster around the head and the swiftly coagulating pool of blood there, one could see that the hair had once been glossy and auburn.

  – Jenny!

  Pemberton had shouted at the corpse.

  – Jenny! Are you all right?

  And he had tried to hold her, to take her in his arms. The stretcher was still at an angle on the stairs and the carriers attempted to wrest it away from his grasp. Pemberton, thirty years older than they, squared up for a fight and it took Preston to wrap his arms around the older man and pull him away. Pemberton was forced to watch as Jenny’s body was laid down, face-up now, outside next to all the others before they were moved to the nearest mortuary in Procter Street. He saw her lying in line with so many beautiful people. Samuels told her that Pemberton had said, through tears, that Jenny was the most beautiful of them all. Julia had tried so many times in the last several days to imagine this. She had seen Jenny’s body lying in its coffin in the drawing room, where not so long ago they had a party, and she wondered how different what she saw was from the horror of late on that Saturday night.

  She had looked beautiful. Her hair had been washed clean and there was the smell of shampoo and of something acrid. Julia had found a quiet time to go and see her there, although it was not forbidden to go at other times. She needed to be alone with her. She – it – was beautiful. But it was no longer Jenny. This thing could no longer smile. It could not open its eyes. There was no love left inside it. All that was left were memories, her diary, Jeremy and Simon – perhaps her letters? She could not talk with it. There was no play of emotion across it as she thought these things. There would be no further discussion of areas to live or how and where to bring up children.

  Jeremy had tried to insist that she be brought “forthwith” to Eaton Square but Preston persuaded him that there were some bureaucratic necessities that required fulfilment. Julia attempted to imagine how ridiculous he would have looked railing against the war in his pyjamas, Preston trying to hold him back.

  Eventually Preston pulled him away. Samuels, according to Annie, said that he finally agreed to leave her if he were to be allowed to pick her up “one last time” and hold her in his arms. Pemberton had lifted the body up in his arms and held her “like Fay Wray”. Jenny’s limbs hung loosely and swung about as he spoke to her. He smoothed her hair and kissed her cheeks. Then he said sorry. Samuels said that he would not have let her go but for Preston’s insistence. They pulled him back to the car and made their way back home. There was blood on the flannelette pyjamas.


  It was after midnight before they returned and Pemberton was already wailing. Preston clearly needed an early night. By this time Pemberton had rounded on Preston for failing to warn him of this large attack. Preston blamed Blytheway for the debacle of a trial the previous week. Pemberton blamed Blytheway for distracting him with the upcoming contested divorce. This hopeless conversation of blame could have carried on all night and so, to end it, Preston, for the best of possible motives, suggested that Pemberton should have a whisky.

  It was almost three hours later that Julia had awoken to the sounds of his grief. She realised, in retrospect, that she had still been befuddled by the sleeping draught. She had not, to her shame, recognised in her befuddled state that if you love one person slightly more than you love another then you might as well not love the first person at all if their interests come into conflict. Because she did love Jenny. Or rather she had loved her more than anyone other than her own children. She had begun to understand how, insidiously, Jenny was replacing her in Jeremy’s affections. But that had never been Jenny’s fault or her intention. Jenny was probably entirely unaware of it.

  It was, obviously, impossible that the trial should begin on the following Monday. They had both been devastated by Jenny’s death, and, according to rumour at least, Adam was not fit to deal with a contested divorce hearing. Jeremy was clearly unwell although she was not able to assess the extent of this. In addition, she had heard that his trial for the following week had also been postponed.

  He no longer spoke to her at all, even at breakfast. But she could smell the whisky on his breath. She could also smell cigarette smoke and she knew that he was raiding his black-market supplies. Annie had told her that, after he knocked her unconscious, she had pulled her into her bed and then guided him upstairs. By now the raid was over. She tried to put him in the marital bedroom but he had become aggressive and argumentative and had insisted on sleeping in Jenny’s small single bed. He had slept there ever since, surrounded by photographs of Joan and of Jenny – and by empty whisky bottles and overflowing ashtrays.

  And so, on the Thursday after Jenny’s death, he had succeeded in bringing her body home. She lay in an open coffin, with incense candles burning behind the shades of the blackout. That was where Julia went to look at her beautiful corpse.

  And then the funeral itself. Jeremy must have spent all of the money he had been saving for her (approved) marriage on this. The cortege consisted of three Rolls Royces. The first, of course, contained Jenny’s coffin and led the procession, the roof topped up with flowers. White lilies with heavy scent. In the next car were Jeremy, Preston and Storman, together with Agnes, Stephen and Sebastian (brought up from the country), and finally there were Julia, Simon Jenkins, Annie and Samuels in the car behind. Jeremy had blamed Simon for Jenny’s death and had to be persuaded to allow him to be part of the cortege. Everyone else would take the tube to West Brompton and meet them there.

  The cortege had moved along Sloane Square and right into Sloane Street before turning left into Brompton Road, then Old Brompton Road, towards Brompton Cemetery. For a moment Julia forgot everything and saw the small line of black cars ahead of her, the car-roof flowers swaying in the wind, as taxis and other vehicles slipped by in the other direction. They had arrived at the North Entrance and headed, in a stately fashion up the Central Avenue to the chapel. Jeremy had somehow organised a string quartet and some singers to perform Stabat Mater by Pergolesi. Not an obvious choice for a non-Catholic, but beautiful nonetheless. He gave a halting eulogy, his voice cracking and his tongue stumbling over his words.

  And now the coffin was on the ropes and the last act in Jenny’s drama was happening. She had loved Jenny so much; but not enough. And she began to cry again and everything blurred out.

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  (Saturday 15th March 1941)

  The pall-bearers had put the coffin down and the grave-diggers were pulling on the ropes to make a cradle for it. Slowly they lifted it and, after positioning it, swaying slightly, over the hole, they began to lower it down and out of sight. Simon began to sob uncontrollably and covered up his face with his free left hand. Julia put her arm around him and hugged him to her side. Through her clothing he felt the warmth of her breast against his shoulder and subsided into her, still weeping. Gently she stroked his hair. Through his tears he saw the ropes now being pulled out from the grave and Jeremy Pemberton reaching for the shovel standing upright in a mound of soil. Simon felt a shooting pain run up his leg as he came to a halt for the burial.

  Jenny had spoken and written much to Simon about her father – and about the woman who was now holding him. He remembered that wonderful first time that they had gone to the Café de Paris. Jenny had told him of her father’s obstinate stupidity in thinking that Julia had betrayed him; of how, strangely, her father had called her “Joan” more than once during her interview with him that evening before she had met him on the steps of the house. Jeremy stumbled and nearly fell as he sought to make a shovel-full. He seemed older and frailer than the vigorous man Jenny had described, and his gold-rimmed spectacles sat lopsidedly on his nose. Steadying himself, he slid the shovel blade into the soil and then lifted it slowly, rivulets of earth falling from it as he turned to face the grave. He looked confused – as if he did not know where he was – before shaking himself erect, advancing to the grave’s edge and tilting the shovel. The soil thudded softly onto the lid as Jeremy turned slowly away and dropped the shovel. He stumbled again and fell to his knees, putting his hands to his face and bowing his head. Simon felt Julia holding him more tightly, so tightly that he could feel her heart beating. Behind Pemberton the gold lettering on Joan’s grave-stone glittered slightly in the apologetic sun. A little further away he saw a slim figure in a top hat gliding between the trees.

  She had been looking into his eyes when it had happened – looking into his eyes and smiling. He was the last thing she would ever see. He rippled his fingers along the handle of his crutch and tried to retrieve the sensory memory of the last time they had touched.

  He was unsure how long he had been unconscious although it had probably not been that long. The weight of Jenny’s body upon him had been far greater than he expected until he realised that a substantial part of the ceiling was lying on top of them both. He tried to move but his right arm and leg were pinioned. Above him he could see stars shining in, and the edge of the treacherous moon. Slowly he became aware of the screaming and moaning. He heard a woman saying again and again, “Take me to a hospital, take me to a hospital.” People were running across his body and a high heel punctured his ankle, causing him to gasp with pain. He felt an enormous panic rising with him and he had closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on Jenny. He felt her legs lying across his, her chest upon his stomach. He could sense no breathing; feel no heartbeat. Blood was beginning to ooze and drip from her down on to his arm.

  He had lain there for an age before what at first he thought a miracle began to happen. Jenny’s left arm began to move, slowly at first but then with increased intensity so that it was almost thrashing against him.

  – Jenny!

  He had called out her name and almost at once the movement stopped. There was a slight pause and then he heard a distinctive crack which he realised, almost instinctively, was that of a bone breaking, and then Jenny’s arm fell back down against him.

  – It’s all right, mate. We’ll get you out of there.

  It was a demolition crew. They pulled the remains of the rubble off Jenny’s body and dumped her unceremoniously face-down onto a stretcher. Even now he wished he had not looked. The back of her head was a dreadful mess and blood was dripping into her still-open eyes. The back of her red silk dress was torn and bloody and almost black from the debris that had hit her. They lifted the stretcher and her left arm swung free. He saw that her ring finger had been broken and the emerald ring that she had been wearing had gone.

  Eventually he had been placed on a stretcher and taken to
the Rialto Cinema, which was being used as a place for sorting out the dead and the dying from those who might still live. The man on the stretcher next to him had a leg so damaged that it swung like a pendulum as emergency staff tried in vain to fix a tourniquet. He looked down at his own damaged limbs and thanked providence that, with luck, he would be able to keep them. Then out of the mist that floated over his eyes he was able to make out a figure in dirty white approaching with a hypodermic syringe. He felt his trousers being pulled down and then a metallic sting in his left thigh, a warming sense of something, and then nothing at all.

  They had taken him to the Charing Cross Hospital, and, after a day or so, on to the Westminster Hospital. It was there that they fixed his upper arm and placed pins in his shin and thigh, although he had no memory of these things. He knew, of course, that Jenny was dead.

  On the Thursday he had received an unexpected visitor. A pretty nurse announced that Julia Pemberton was here to see him. She was wearing a dark purple tweed twin-set and had an emerald scarf covering her hair and temples. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and there were dark shadows under them. Her face had been heavily made-up but he could make out the bluish swelling on her jaw. She sat down by his bed and reached out to touch the fingers of his uninjured left hand, then looked into his eyes.

  – I’m so terribly sorry.

  And then she began to cry again. Haltingly she told him what she knew of what had happened that night.

  – So – she had concluded – Jenny would hardly have felt a thing. She didn’t suffer.

  And as she said these words Simon realised that she was trying as much to convince herself as she had been to convince him. She had told him of the plans for the funeral and Simon had insisted that he wanted to be there. She promised him she would arrange it. Then, after about forty-five minutes she rose to her feet, stroked his hair and bent over him to kiss his forehead. Then she left.