‘The number nine bus, I heard,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Fucking Germans. Least in our day it was all over there.’
‘Where were you?’ Cook asked.
‘Wherever they told us to be. Most of the lads round here signed up. Wanted to get away, do our bit.’
He put his mug down and put one hand over the other, stilling the involuntary movement.
‘Doesn’t ever leave you, does it?’
‘The war to end all wars,’ Cook said.
‘I’ll tell you what I told everyone else who’s asked,’ the man said. ‘I haven’t seen him since he walked down that road with his kit bag, setting off for Portsmouth.’
He reached behind to a cluttered bureau and pulled out a piece of paper.
‘This was the only letter I got,’ he said. ‘From ... Amiens.’ He made a face as he read the place name, like Englishmen do when they know they should be pronouncing a French word in the French way but don’t want to show off their ignorance by getting it wrong. ‘Five months ago. Before Dunkirk.’
‘You haven’t heard from him since?’ Cook asked.
‘No,’ the man said, his face set like a mask. Quite possibly the least convincing lie Cook had ever been privy to.
‘Did he have plans to settle down with Ruby?’ Cook asked. ‘After all this?’
The man warmed up.
‘Course he did,’ he said. ‘Lovely girl, always helping out. She was out of Arty’s league. She could have her pick.’ He shrugged. ‘Arty’s a good lad though. Hard worker. Solid. Sensible. He’d take care of her.’
He got up and riffled through a stack of old papers. When he found what he was looking for, he brought it back to the table. A yellowing copy of a local paper.
‘Look at them,’ he said. There was a picture of a young couple, milking pails at their feet, smiling up at the camera. Even through the low-quality picture, no more than a collection of dots on poor-quality newsprint, Cook got a sense of Ruby. She was grinning, a lock of errant hair across her face, happy in the moment.
‘Can I borrow this?’ Cook asked. ‘Might want to show it to some people.’
‘Bring it back?’
‘Of course.’ Cook folded the page and put it in his wallet, along with the telephone number from Gracie.
‘You reckon he might have made it home and gone to pick her up?’ Cook asked. ‘Train up to Gretna Green, quick marriage. Hypothetically speaking.’
The man looked at Cook, trying to decide. He shook his head.
‘You seem like a good bloke, looking out for Ruby. And I’d tell you if there was anything I knew about her. But I haven’t seen Arty since he shipped out. God’s honest.’
The boy poked his head in the door.
‘Better be going if we’re going to get a place,’ he said.
The man nodded. Explained to Cook.
‘Dickins and Jones on Oxford Street,’ he said. ‘They’ve got the best shelter, but you’ve got to be there before six to get in line.’
49
Cook followed the man and the lad, both of them carrying bundles of bedding. He kept back as far as he could. The lad seemed sharp.
The lad’s father had done a good job of acting distraught about his son, but he knew he wasn’t left behind. Haw-Haw’s radio programme had been on, running through a list of names – British soldiers who’d apparently turned up in prisoner of war camps. Impossible to know if it was true or not, but if you were missing someone and you were desperate for news, you’d listen, and you’d listen very carefully.
But the father hadn’t been listening, which meant one thing. The father knew the lad wasn’t sitting in a POW camp, or working as slave labour in a German factory.
