‘Is it true, about Ruby?’ the barmaid asked, as she put three glasses and a bottle of whisky on the table.
‘I think so,’ Cook said.
Reynolds opened the whisky and poured three glasses.
‘Has she stopped out like this before?’ Reynolds asked.
Gracie was polishing the bar, a thick wax that smelt of linseed, reminded Cook of cricket bats and summer.
‘Not since that lad went off to France.’
‘What if he came back?’ Reynolds suggested.
Gracie shook her head.
‘Didn’t get off the beach at Dunkirk.’
‘You sure?’
‘Since when did anyone on this island do anything that wasn’t known by every other bleeding person.’
Gracie took a glass. Reynolds had poured generously, but she didn’t pause – downed it and put the glass back in front of him, wanting more.
‘Thank you,’ she said to Cook. ‘I can’t tell you.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m going to give her hell when she walks in though.’
‘What’s this?’ – a new voice. Cook turned to see Beaumont, the ARP man.
‘You got the clock back?’ he noted, with an approving nod towards the mantelpiece.
‘Cook found it,’ Gracie said. ‘He’s got some good news. Reckons Ruby wasn’t on that bus. So she’s all right.’
Beaumont took a stool at the bar, nodded to the barmaid who brought him a glass. Cook didn’t like him being there. Sitting above them, slightly apart. It could have been deference, not wanting to join the family unit, but it felt to Cook like he preferred to keep his distance.
‘You got proof of that?’ Beaumont asked.
‘I’d say the best proof’ll be when Ruby walks in through that door,’ Gracie said.
‘Quite,’ Beaumont said. ‘But what if she doesn’t?’
‘The odds suggest she’s alive,’ Cook said. ‘Several million people in the city. A few hundred killed every night, do you reckon?’
‘Few thousand,’ Beaumont retorted. ‘I can’t share the exact details.’
‘Call it three thousand,’ Cook said. ‘A quiet day on the Western Front. Three thousand out of three million, that’s a ninety-nine point nine per cent chance of surviving each night of bombing. So the starting assumption should be that she’s alive.’
Beaumont didn’t answer. One of those men who didn’t like to be proved wrong.
‘You said Ruby had a boyfriend?’ Cook asked.
‘Arthur,’ Gracie replied. ‘Went to France last year, soon as war broke out.’
‘She ever hear from him?’ he asked.
Gracie shook her head.
‘Not that she told me.’ She picked up a chamois, buffing the wax off the bar.
‘What if he came back?’ Cook said.
