Frankie was flushed from running around. He didn’t want to come in. Didn’t want the day to be over.
‘Got some news from London,’ Cook added. That got the boy’s attention.
Cook looked at the telegram as the boy stood by the kitchen table, juggling with his cricket ball. Nob sat in his armchair. Always watching.
There wasn’t any way to soften it, Cook realised.
‘It’s bad news,’ he said.
Frankie looked confused, suspecting some kind of prank.
Cook shook his head.
‘Your sister. Ruby.’
32
The church was full. Frankie’s mum worked her way down the aisle, holding hands, thanking. Like she was comforting them, instead of the other way around. Father Ryan followed, keeping a professional eye on her, keeping his distance.
It was bigger inside than Cook had expected. Ancient stone blackened by soot, bright beams of light through the stained-glass windows. Could have been any church, anywhere in the country, apart from the smells. Fish, tar, spices, and most of all – smoke. It reminded Cook of his time in Hong Kong, a lifetime ago. Two island ports on opposite ends of the earth, linked by a non-stop procession of ships. Something Hitler didn’t understand, if he thought he could intimidate Churchill. Britain wasn’t just an island across the English Channel. It was a spider in the middle of a web that spanned the globe. The largest empire the world had ever seen. Hitler may have taken most of Europe, but he’d still run short of the resources Britain could depend on.
Cook sat on the unyielding pew, calculating how quickly they could be on their way. There’d be some kind of gathering, back at the pub. An hour there, to be polite. Let the boy be with his people, then excuses made, back across Tower Bridge. The 17:08 from London Bridge if all went well. The 17:33 if they got caught up. Home before dark. Cook was aware of his responsibility – he’d promised to look after theboy, keep him safe from bombers, but here he was, once again sitting in the heart of the lion’s den.
It was a short service. Father Ryan evidently knew his flock, knew they wanted comfort but not preaching. Cook appreciated a clergyman who didn’t try to labour the point.
A short walk from the church, back to the pub. Washing hung from gantries spanning the high street. Only a week since Cook had been here, but the days and nights since hadn’t been kind to the island. More buildings were gone than left standing. The streets were empty. Many who’d survived the bombs had fled. Relatives in the country, or elsewhere in the city. Only the die-hards remained, and the men who relied on the docks for work.
Gracie had made sandwiches, neighbours chipping in their rations. Cook took a cup of tea from the barmaid, gave her a sombre nod of thanks.
‘How’s Frankie taking to the country life?’ the priest asked.
Cook nodded, looked about for Frankie. He’d spent the service fiddling with his cricket ball. Hadn’t let it out of his sight since he’d got it.
‘It was hard at first,’ Cook said. ‘For both of us.’
‘Gracie tells me you’ve been a good influence,’ the priest said. ‘It’s a great comfort.’
Cook didn’t know what to say. Gracie rescued him.
‘Got a job for you,’ she said. ‘Before you head back.’
33
Margaret had always enjoyed a late breakfast in a hotel. The luxury of it, watching the world go by, reading the paper, being waited on. But after a week the novelty had worn off.
The toast was cold. A tiny pot of butter, barely enough for a scrape. She cut it into soldiers and cracked her egg. It was hard boiled, and cold. No use trying to dip the soldiers. Still, she was lucky, she knew that. Millions of people on both sides of the Channel would have woken up hungry and would be going to bed hungry.
But really, how hard was it to boil an egg?
Bunny was late. A deliberate tactic, make her think she wasn’t important, not a priority.
He took his seat and the waiter brought another pot of tea, fussing with the cup and the saucer and the jug of milk and the extra pot of hot water until Bunny waved him off.
‘That chap there,’ Margaret said, waiting for Bunny to take a discreet look at a well-dressed man in his forties, red hair barely tamed by what looked like a whole tin of Brylcreem, breakfasting with a better-dressed woman in her sixties. ‘He’s a fraud. His suit’s too clean. Looks like he bought it last week. Came down from Manchester or some such place, got a wife back there. Now here he is, taking his tea with the Countess of Gwynedd. She knows he’s a sharp – she wasn’t born yesterday, so what’s going on?’
Margaret paused to let Bunny take a good look at the emerging situation.
‘You tell me,’ Bunny said.
