He picked up a tea tray. He’d put it down on a wooden chair, next to the door, while he’d lit the lamp. Now he brought it to her. Set it down on a bedside table. Like she was in hospital. The tray had a faded picture of a coronation on it. Ruby’s mum had the same design. He’d brought two cups of tea, delicately balanced on saucers. A small plate – two slices of brown bread with a scraping of margarine, and a jar with two sticks of celery.
‘It’s happening,’ he said, ‘he’s bombing London.’
No need to ask whohewas. Hitler. The man who’d dominated everyone’s thoughts, every conversation, for the last year. When’s he going to invade? What will he stop at? Who’s going to stop him if we can’t?
Ruby sat up, confused. Under the blanket, she was dressed in a nightie. It wasn’t hers. Silk, she thought. Who’d put her to bed? Who’d undressed her?
‘I should go,’ she said. ‘Mum’ll be worried.’
‘I telephoned,’ he said. ‘Told her you’re safe.’
‘She’ll need help,’ Ruby said.
‘The best thing you can do is stay safe,’ he said. ‘They’re hitting the docks. Your mum was heading out to the shelter. Everyone’s sheltering. Same as us.’
He put his hand on the blanket where it covered her leg, halfway up her thigh.
‘Have some tea,’ he said. ‘I’ll come and see you later.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Got to keep an eye on things,’ he said.
‘I think I’d like to leave,’ Ruby said.
He looked annoyed. She’d said the wrong thing.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said, ‘and the tea, but I should be with Mum. Frankie’s come up.’
His hand didn’t move.
‘No,’ he said.
Ruby waited. It didn’t really make sense.
‘In the morning, then,’ she said. ‘When we get the all clear.’
‘No,’ he repeated. He took his hand off her leg, and stroked her cheek, pushing a strand of hair off her face.
‘You’re going to stay,’ he said. ‘We’ll shelter together. Keep each other company. Make the best of it.’
She shrunk back. A flash of annoyance on his face.
‘You think I should have left you out there, to die in the raid?’ he asked.
‘It’s not that,’ she said.
‘You don’t think you owe me even an ounce of gratitude?’
He let his hand drop from her face, brushing her shoulder, then lower, to the curve of her breast.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
His hand moved quicker then. Her face felt like it had been pressed against a frying pan, seared hot, before she even realised he’d hit her. The crack echoed in the small space, the domed Anderson shelter, corrugated iron arching over the bed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Ruby was rigid. Even breathing felt like an act of will.
