‘First time?’ Gracie asked, with a grin.
*
Gracie kept the boat close to the north bank of the Thames as they motored under Tower Bridge, past the tower itself – the Norman keep almost a thousand years old, its white stone glowing in the moonlight.
‘Traitor’s Gate!’ she shouted cheerfully, above the noise of the engine. Cook eyed the barred gate warily. He could feel the despair of the men and women who’d been taken through there on their final, one-way trip.
From behind them, further east, Cook watched as black smoke rose into the evening sky. Specks of light glinted in the smoke. The longer he looked, the more things resolved. He could make out bombers, black specks flying in formation. The higher, looping specks must be fighters, ours or theirs. Cook wouldn’t have wanted to be in a bomber, relying on your comrades high above, waiting to get the job done so you could turn for home. Give him solid ground beneath his feet and a rifle any day, no matter how desperate the mission.
Gracie tied the boat off at a dock on the far side of Blackfriars Bridge, opposite the Oxo Tower. They cut through the Inner Temple, its gardens and courtyards entirely unflustered by the war. It was late on a Saturday but smartly dressed, grey-faced men hurried between law offices, bundles of legal documents in their hands. Everyone was dressed lightly, suit coats held in crooks of arms. The newspapers were already calling it an Indian summer.
Cook felt like an intruder, but Gracie clearly knew where she was going. She led Cook through passageway after passageway until they emerged next to a dingy pub, opposite the black stone gatehouse to the Royal Courts.
Traffic was light, heading west towards Trafalgar Square. Buses passed them, and Gracie peered anxiously into each one.
‘She could be up top,’ Cook said.
But Gracie shook her head as if he didn’t understand.
Cook peered into buses as they hurried past, curious about the mass of humanity, living lives he had no knowledge of. Growing up in a small town, he’d got used to knowing people’s business, recognising them on the street. Here were thousands of people passing each other in complete anonymity. A lonely place. Cook’s eyes settled on a row of shoppers sitting next to each other on a bus, studiously ignoring each other, reading their papers.
They crossed Trafalgar Square and took an alley next to the National Gallery, up through Leicester Square. Gracie cut through the crowds without slowing, a woman on a mission.
But the momentum was lost at Piccadilly Circus. Traffic was stopped, and police constables were directing traffic down Haymarket or up, along Regent Street.
Gracie hurried across the road, trying to squeeze past a wooden barrier, but she was stopped by an ARP warden – a civilian with a steel helmet and an armband.
‘Road’s closed,’ the warden said. ‘Bomb damage.’
Behind the warden, Piccadilly was eerily quiet. The road and pavements were empty, apart from a few parked cars. In the distance, Cook could make out what looked like the remains of a bus.
A direct hit, by the look of it.
16
The Lyons restaurant was busy with the evening crowd. Cook hadn’t been in this branch, but since all branches were exactly the same, he felt a sense of déjà vu. Lyons were taking over the tea shop business with ruthless efficiency. Cook had read an article. They had a team of people who did nothing other than count the seconds it took a waitress to carry a pot of tea from the counter to the table, that kind of thing. The tone of the article had been scathing. Taking the human element out of the experience and all that, but it was evidently working.
A harried waitress nodded them towards a table just vacated, plates scraped clean of the evening special – pie and mash.
‘We’re here for Ruby,’ Gracie said.
‘You’re here to eat, or you’re not here,’ the waitress said. Cook knew sergeant majors, veterans of several years on the North-West Frontier, who could have learnt a thing or two from her command presence.
‘Tell Ruby her mum’s here,’ Gracie said, as she allowed herself to be guided to the table. Cook followed.
‘Two specials,’ Cook said. ‘And tea.’
Mollified, the waitress left them to go and put in their order. Gracie craned her neck to look around the crowded restaurant.
‘Looks busy,’ she said. ‘Must have kept her late.’
Cook didn’t respond. He was thinking about the reason they’d had to take a detour around the backstreets. Piccadilly closed. The wreckage of a bus. A civilian target, a couple of miles away from anything remotely military or tactical. Hitting the docks was one thing – denying vital food and materiel had always been a cornerstone of military strategy – but outright targeting of civilians was beyond the pale. Even Hitler had said it was a line he wouldn’t cross.
‘A long way to come every day,’ Cook said.
Gracie shrugged. ‘She says she likes it better up west.’ She looked around at the clientele. ‘She couldn’t wait to get off the island, ever since she was a kid.’
She folded her arms, watching the waitress bringing their tea. Cook was impressed. The clock-watchers had done a fine job.
