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  Eventually they came out at the side of Balham Station and were able to join the main road. All the time Rosa and Charlie were absorbed in peering out of the windows. Charlie seemed to have gone to pieces, muttering unintelligibly to himself. Rosa felt protective towards him. Next week this stumbling awkward lad would be one of Britain’s brave soldiers, and a few weeks later he would be lost in the thick of fighting in a foreign country far from home. She put her arm around him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  After a long weary search the driver found the Tcherny home. Rosa found her key. Charlie settled with the driver.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Christ knows,’ said the driver.

  ‘Two pounds,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ve only got three and I’ve got to get back yet.’

  Charlie followed Rosa into the house. In the sitting-room there was a big white shape under the table.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s my mother. She’s in the Morrison.’ The Morrison was an alternative to the Anderson. It was an indoor shelter for people who did not have gardens. It was a steel cage that fitted under a table. The sight of Rosa’s mother like a large white rabbit in a cage cracked Charlie into hysterics, but there was no humour in his insane cackle.

  Rosa’s father was standing at the back door. ‘Is that you, Rosa?’ It was an educated foreign voice, somehow calming in its steadiness.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Rosa called.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said the voice. ‘It’s crazy. You should have come home.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do. It wasn’t easy.’ Rosa wasn’t apologetic, Charlie noticed. She was an equal in this house.

  Rosa relaxed. It was illogical. She was in as much danger here as anywhere else, but it was her home. If a bomb fell on the roof, so be it. It was much better than being stranded somewhere strange. She took Charlie’s hand.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’ll be all right here.’

  It seemed strange, sitting at a table with a woman crouched down underneath.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘No!’ came a shriek from under the table. ‘Don’t start the gas.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Rosa. ‘They’ve gone over.’

  ‘No all-clear,’ said the muffled voice.

  ‘Well, I know what I’m going to do,’ said Rosa. ‘I’m going up to bed.’ She took Charlie’s hand and led him up the stairs into a bedroom at the back of the house. ‘I’d just as soon die in bed than under a table,’ she said lightly.

  They sat on the bed, in the dark, holding hands. Charlie was completely unnerved by the turn of events. ‘Won’t your mum mind me being here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about your dad?’

  ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Wha –’ A hand came over his mouth. A face was next to his.

  ‘This is what you wanted, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘We can chance it, if you like.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ she said.

  10

  BERT Penrose did what he always did at the end of his day’s work: he flung the sticky dishcloth against the wall, where it stuck for a few moments before it peeled away and fell. It was a moment of triumph and a moment of disgust.

  He’d been looking around, making enquiries. There might be a porter’s job going at the RAC Club in Pall Mall. Surely Claridge’s would give him a reference after his dutiful service as a KP in their stinking basement? He’d been around to the Mall for an interview, and he was in luck. He was the same size as the bloke who was leaving, so they wouldn’t have to order a new uniform. He would be well down the pecking order of hall porters, only just above the page boys, but it was a new start. It took years to work up to the plum job of head porter, the one who shot up the umbrella and pocketed five bob for his pains.

  Bert put on his jacket and lit a fag. It was late tonight. There’d been a whole shipload of bosky admirals and their starchy wives. They made mountains of washing up. Must have had fourteen courses. Where did they get the stuff from? Of course, Claridge’s wouldn’t get anything from the black market, but they had their sources: gentlemen farmers on day trips to London, sporting fishermen with boats in quiet estuaries. It all came in through the back door. Even if they were questioned, which was unlikely, they had people in high places that would soon put a lid on it.

  In Bert’s mind the RAC Club had one drawback: it was strictly a men’s club. Women were allowed in, just for a meal, but they couldn’t be members and they couldn’t stay the night. Despite this monastic prospect Bert had decided to make the move. It all depended on the reference.

  He liked to just relax a minute with a fag before he left. There were still sounds of jollity from upstairs. They’d be doing the rugby scrum bit before midnight, falling about like schoolboys after their first taste of cider. He patted his pockets to locate his keys, and then he noticed a bunch of keys on a table. It was a big bunch of important-looking keys. Not to a safe, surely? He picked them up. Good pair of knuckle-dusters these would make. He tried one in the door. It didn’t fit. Then he tried them in various cupboards, with no result. He then went into the passage outside and tried them on the cold-larder, and the lock turned, as sweet as a nut.

  He peered in curiously. It was dark and cold. There was a fanlight over the window letting in a faint breeze. He ran his hand along the shelves. There were serving plates, all covered over with wire-mesh covers. He lifted one of the covers. Christ. A hand of ham, that was. He could smell it. The next was a chicken, and the third smelt like fish. They ate well, did the people who came to Claridge’s. No rationing or restrictions for them. And, of course, none of them thought otherwise than that they were entitled to be fed better than the rest of their fellow countrymen.

  Bert fingered the fish dish. It wasn’t kippers, that was for sure. It could be salmon. He had never tasted salmon, except from a tin. He pulled a large piece out and ate it. It was delicious. Best food he’d ever tasted. It wasn’t like cod or rock salmon or haddock. It was smooth and had a subtle flavour and melted in the mouth like ice cream. He pulled off another big slice. Hey, what was this? A knuckle of bacon? Bacon was something that Bert missed. The scrimpy little rashers that Edie got weren’t even a taster. He wanted gammon. Good thick slices of it. This knuckle of bacon, it wasn’t very big. Would anyone miss it? If they did, were they in a position to say anything?

  It was under his arm, under his coat. Suddenly he shivered. It was cold in here. Best to be off home, after he’d had another slice of that salmon. He locked the door and put the keys back where he found them. And then upstairs and out the back to the tradesman’s entrance and off down the road.

  It was nearly ten o’clock. In a couple of hours Jerry would be over again. He was all right in the West End. Jerry wouldn’t disturb the smart hotels and palaces. He’d be stone bonkers safe in the RAC. The fact was that most of the toffs agreed with Hitler, especially about the Jews, and Hitler would be handy to see off Stalin and them Bolsheviks. Britain and Germany ought to be on the same side sorting out the Russians. It was wishy-washy Chamberlain that had landed Britain in the soup, and, now he was gone, there was no hope with this Churchill who seemed to enjoy the whole business, dancing around in a siren-suit like a big romping baby. Hitler knew who his friends were, and he didn’t want to upset people who lived in posh houses in Mayfair and Belgravia. There hadn’t been a single bomb dropped in Whitehall or Chelsea or Kensington. No. He’d concentrated his attack on the East End because he knew that that was where all the Jews lived. The docks were a convenient excuse to do what he wanted.

  Bert made his way to Green Park station. The gates were across. He rattled them and shouted, and a porter appeared.

  ‘Open up, mate. I’ve got to get home.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s orders.�
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  ‘Don’t be bloody silly. I can’t stand out here all night.’ The porter hesitated. ‘I’ve not been out on the razz. I’ve been working. At Claridge’s.’

  ‘There’s not many trains,’ said the porter. ‘Where do you want to get to?’

  ‘Clapham North.’

  ‘No chance.’

  Bert briefly considered finding a bench in Green Park, but he knew that the park was full of dossers who might strip you naked and only give you fleas in return, so he wandered along Piccadilly towards the Circus. Piccadilly Circus: it was a joke. A place where visitors came to gawp and wonder, where fathers used to bring their children to see the sparkling coloured lights, where hundreds looked up to see Moussec being poured into a cocktail glass and figures skiing in Biarritz. It was a magical place, epitomizing the centre of the whole mad merry-go-round, the hedonism and raffishness of London on the spree, but now dark and gloomy, with slow muffled traffic proceeding at a funereal pace, and Eros, the symbol of wild excesses of body and mind and spirit, boarded up for the duration.

  Even though it was getting near Christmas, there was little sign of seasonal good cheer in the shops. It would be a halfhearted Christmas, almost as if it was something to be hushed up, like it was in some way unpatriotic.

  There were still people about. Nightlife seemed to continue. It was a patriotic duty to get out and about. These toffs weren’t going to let Hitler stop them whooping it up. In the dark it was much more fun. There were some people making a packet out of the war, and they were determined to spend it. The war had cured the unemployment that had preceded it. Even the working class had money. The joke was that there wasn’t anything for them to spend it on. So many men had been called up that they had left thousands of jobs vacant. He wouldn’t even need a reference.

  A bag of rags staggered towards him, a tramp. He smelt vile. ‘Could you?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t,’ Bert said viciously.

  ‘Thanks,’ said the hoarse voice. ‘God bless you, guv’nor.’

  ‘Hello, love,’ said a voice from a shop window. They were still there. They made Bert sick. The man who spent most of his days and nights visualizing sexual activity could not bear to have it degraded to a simple cash transaction. The woman came close. He stared into her face. Bloody hell. She looked about ninety. She looked like a man done up as a woman, a pantomime dame. He felt a wave of disgust.

  ‘No. Go away.’

  ‘Didn’t mind me asking, dear, did you? No offence.’

  He was walking in the direction of home. There used to be all-night trams from the Embankment. Maybe he could catch one. He knew the way, although he had to look out for familiar landmarks. But he didn’t relish the thought of walking around six or seven miles.

  Further on he saw two sailors holding on to one another as though each thought that the other was a lifebelt. One fell down and the other fell over trying to pick his companion up. They ought to be on the Halls. Then he heard the planes. They seemed to be coming from all directions. They were low and threatening. He started to run like they were following just him. He stopped and told himself that they were just passing over, on their way to their target in the East End. How long was this going on?

  He was only vaguely aware of the bomb that fell only fifty yards in front of him. There was a sound like the devil whistling through his teeth and a lightning flash, and a crumbling sound like a granite statue grinding its teeth. Great clumps of masonry thudded into the road. One piece seemed to knock his legs from under him: LBW in a crazy cricket match played by giants. He went down, and a shower of dust covered him and got into his mouth. His legs hurt. His shoulder hurt. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He’d lost his knuckle of ham, which had fallen down inside his coat and rolled away to safety.

  He didn’t know how long he lay there. He presumed he was dead. He didn’t see any angels, and he didn’t hear any tinkly music or choirs, it was just quiet and peaceful. God knows how he was going to get on upstairs. He’d done some things. He’d not been a good husband. He hadn’t had the breaks. Nothing had gone right: no good luck, only bad. It wasn’t his fault. But God was merciful. That’s what they said. He would understand, wouldn’t he? Of course, it could all be nonsense. Nobody had ever been back to tell. On the other hand, it didn’t do any harm, in the circumstances, to offer up a little prayer?

  Then he heard a shout. ‘Anybody down there?’

  Down where? Someone was scrambling about above him.

  He shouted, ‘Yes’, but nothing came out. His mouth was full of sand. He tried to spit it out.

  ‘Quiet! There’s somebody here. Down there. Hold on, mate. We’ll get you out.’

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He was alive, but then it hadn’t been much of a life. He wouldn’t have really minded if it had been all over.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  The call from above needed an answer. He tried to clear his throat, and managed a dry ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now listen. We can’t get you out just yet. There’s an unexploded bomb just up the road, so we’ll have to wait until bomb disposal have dealt with it. It’s a big ’un. Might be a landmine. But chin up. It’ll be all right.’ He wanted to laugh. It was marvellous. Bloody marvellous. It was like Mona Lott in It’s That Man Again, who, after relating string of disasters, would always finish up by saying in a doleful voice, ‘It’s being so cheerful that keeps me going.’ It was a scream. You could die laughing.

  Mrs Bennet had just made herself an Oxo. She’d had a tin of Oxo cubes for ages, since long before the war started. She supposed that you couldn’t get them any more. She sipped the hot fluid. It was just like hot water. Maybe keeping them so long had made them lose their flavour. She sprinkled some salt into the cup, just to make it taste of something. The planes had been rumbling around all night, like summer thunder. How did they expect a person to sleep with all this going on? They didn’t have all this fuss in the first war. It was all overseas. In France and Belgium. Her Tom came back and told her all about it. Wars and fighting was for men. They liked it. They liked the dressing up and firing things off. It wasn’t right to drag women into it. She wondered whether them upstairs were asleep or those funny people underneath. He went out in the evenings, to work, he said, but she had her doubts. He was a funny little bloke with a moustache like Charlie Chaplin. If you were going to have a moustache you might as well have a proper one like her Tom had had – right across his face and curling into his ears, not that little toothbrush bristle just under your nose. She took up a broom and banged it on the floor. After a few moments there was a bang back. That’d be Edie. She went into the passage and to the top of the stairs that led to the basement.

  ‘Is that you, Edie?’

  ‘Yes,’ came a muffled reply.

  ‘Is hubby home?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Do you want to come up?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Please yourself, thought Mrs Bennet. Only trying to be friendly. No use banging on the ceiling. That Bunty couldn’t hear anything, poor thing, although she kept herself cheerful did Bunty. More than her husband did, miserable little bugger.

  Who would have thought that the war would start up again after all those years? Surely it was all done for. Old Kaiser Bill made a run for it, and then they signed up to say that they wouldn’t do it again. But there it was, rumbling around in the background all the time. Those Germans never knew when they were done for.

  She looked out of the window. What a red sky. It was way in the distance, but it was bright, like the sun going down after a summer scorcher. The red glow seemed to get larger and then to shoot out beams. It must be a fire, but there was no sound of fire engines. She felt vaguely disturbed. She pattered out to the passage again and banged the broom handle at the top of the stairs.

  ‘You there, Edie?’

  ‘Yes. Hello.’

  ‘Can I come down? I don’t like it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everything.’


  ‘Come down if you like.’

  Mrs Bennet peered down the stairs. There was a banister, but she couldn’t see the stairs very well. Edie appeared at the bottom, holding a candle. Mrs Bennet made her way slowly and carefully down the stairs. When she got down she was surprised to see all her neighbours down there. There was Bunty in her dressing-gown, and her Tim, who was talking earnestly to young Mrs May; Mrs May looked like she was embarrassed about something, while her husband smoked a fag as if the whole business of hiding in a basement was beneath his contempt.

  ‘I didn’t know we were having a party,’ Mrs Bennet said.

  ‘Well, it’s been going on a bit,’ Edie replied, ‘and Bert’s not home yet. I expect he’s decided to stay where he is.’ Edie’s face, above the candle, was scared to death.

  ‘He’ll be all right, dear, you’ll see,’ said Mrs Bennet. She was pleased to be included in the company. Them Mays were a stand-offish pair. Bunty was all right, although Tim was a pig. Whatever he was saying to Mrs May, she was looking uneasy. Surely he wouldn’t be trying something on, right there in front of her husband?

  The planes had stopped humming above, but there was no all-clear. Edie found a card-table and a pack of cards, and they started a game.

  ‘’Ere, I’ll tell your fortunes if you like,’ Edie volunteered, but nobody took her up on the offer. Instead they played New – market, with pennies and ha’pennies, hardly speaking, just going through the ritual in a moody, listless fashion. Bunty scooped the pool, then dashed upstairs and came back with a bottle of port. Bunty was always keen to make a night of it. It was funny, Mrs Bennet thought, these people hardly spoke to each other most of the time, but there they were, huddled together, around two candles, as cosy as could be. They gave her a glass of port. This was a bit of all right: a drink, and company.

  She had been alone since Tom passed away. Her son Norman left soon after his father died. He’d got fed up with not getting a job, so he went to Australia. He must be getting on all right because he never wrote. Of course, she was all right. Tom’s pension from the Army for having a busted foot and his bit from the town hall kept her going. She didn’t want a lot. She didn’t always use up her rations. She didn’t really want anything you could buy. She wanted company. Someone to talk to. In this house full of people the only one who responded to her in a friendly way was Bunty, who couldn’t talk at all. She was sure that Bunty was at it. Couldn’t blame her in a way; she was a fine figure of a woman, and that Tim didn’t seem to appreciate her.