No, he needed to follow Aleida’s advice.
Under the shifting bluish searchlight beams, Hugh found an empty page, wrote the date at the top, and even underlined it as Aleida would do.
Hollow booms of antiaircraft fire sounded by the Thames in the ravaged East End.
After their first aborted date that tragic evening, Hugh hadn’t asked Aleida out again. It seemed wrong with bombers coming nightly. Besides, he now worked every night, and she had ARP duty one evening in eight.
However, he saw her at the Hart and Swan more often than ever, in the early evenings before the raids. The last two days, service at the pub had been atrocious. Mr. Irwin hadn’t come in, nor had he informed his staff of his absence.
Hugh frowned. It wasn’t like Irwin.
The bombers droned closer, and Hugh searched the skies for where searchlights “coned” enemy aircraft, trapping them in their beams and illuminating them for antiaircraft gun crews.
From his eighth-story perch, Hugh traced the streets to Aleida’s neighborhood. Had she gone to the shelter, or had she surrendered to the strange thrill felt by so many Londoners—by Hugh? Watching bombs fall like a child standing in the rain heedless of lightning.
Murrow went on the air, and a glowing cigarette jiggled in his free hand.
The Luftwaffe contributed to the punch of the broadcast, flying nearer as if homing in on Murrow’s signal, as if aiming for the American.
Hugh’s heart raced as he scratched down notes. Antiaircraft fire thumped, aircraft roared, bombs pounded a few streets away, the floor rumbled beneath him, and Murrow continued his slow, methodical report.
The raid seemed lighter than usual, maybe only a hundred aircraft, but what did that matter to those who would lose homes or loved ones?
When Murrow finished, the men on the rooftop began to depart. The raid continued, but one building was as dangerous as another. Hugh might as well take his chances in his own Anderson shelter, where he might be able to sleep.
He and Jouveau headed downstairs, then Jouveau headed east into the Soho district favored by European immigrants, and Hugh west to Mayfair.
By the filtered light of his shielded torch, he made his way through Oxford Circle past the Tube entrance. The authorities had quickly decided to let Londoners shelter in the Underground—after East Enders “invaded” stations.
Hugh turned down Oxford Street, which had been devastated in a raid only three nights earlier. At Hugh’s townhouse, the raid had knocked down artwork and plaster and sent Lennox skittering under Hugh’s bed.
Crews had cleared most of the rubble and broken glass on Oxford Street. A gaping black hole was all that remained of the John Lewis shop, but D.H. Evans and Bourne & Hollingworth were already close to reopening.
A yawn contorted his face. Like everyone in town, he received precious little sleep with air raids day and night.
Through a gap in the buildings, fiery red glowed to the south, silhouetting a handful of bombers. Now that the Luftwaffe had shifted their attacks from fighter airfields to London, RAF Fighter Command was rebuilding strength. Fields were being repaired, aircraft were no longer destroyed on the ground, and the pilots could sleep.
If only they could attack the bombers at night, but they simply hadn’t the means to locate the raiders in the dark. Only four German night bombers had fallen in September, and all to antiaircraft guns.
However, the Germans had made a critical strategic mistake. If Hitler had known how close he’d come to wiping out the RAF, he wouldn’t have switched to bombing London.
Hugh blew out a long breath and a grateful prayer, and he climbed the steps to the blacked-out townhouse.
A light shined from the sitting room, so Hugh quickly shut the door behind him.
“Mowrp.” Lennox trotted up to Hugh and rubbed against his leg.
“Good evening, sir.” Hugh let the cat sniff his fingers. As soon as he received approval, Hugh rubbed Lennox’s soft head, then down to his neck, over his arched back, then up the fuzzy gray pinnacle of his tail.
Perhaps the daily brush with death made Lennox more appreciative. Regardless, the affection made Hugh’s heart hum.
“Good evening, Mr. Collingwood.” Simmons stood in the doorway to the sitting room.
Hugh tilted his head at the butler. “You didn’t go to the shelter?”
“I was waiting for you.” Simmons’s face stretched long. “Your father rang. He wants you to ring him back, no matter the hour.”
No matter the hour? A hole as black and gaping as a bombed-out lot opened beneath him, tugging at his ankles and coattails. Had something happened to Mother?
