The boyfriend wouldn’t have come home if he’d gone AWOL. Too much risk someone would be sniffing about. So he’d likely be lying low, somewhere in the city. Somewhere his dad and brother could meet him, bring him supplies.
The man and the boy walked up to the high road and waited at the bus stop. A problem for Cook. He couldn’t very well join them. There were only a couple of others waiting. It would be impossible for Cook to run up to the bus even at the last minute without alerting them.
The answer presented itself as two buses came along at once. Both number nine, both headed for Mortlake. Cook hung back, around the corner, watching as the man and thelad got on the first bus. He watched them up the stairs, and stayed hidden until the bus pulled away. Then he hurried to the stop as the second bus pulled in. It didn’t stop entirely – no need as the first bus had picked up all the passengers, but Cook raised his hand as he jogged to the stop. The bus slowed enough for Cook to jump on.
‘Where to?’ the conductor asked.
Another problem. The fare depended on the length of the journey, but Cook didn’t know where he’d be getting off, even if he was able to keep an eye on the bus in front.
‘How far to the end?’ Cook asked.
‘Seven pence,’ the conductor said, pulling out a ticket overlaid with a seven. He used a device to punch a hole on the start point and the end – Mortlake – and gave it to Cook.
The roads were quiet heading into town, and the two buses travelled in convoy, close enough that Cook worried he’d be seen if either the man or the lad decided to look out of the back of their bus. He kept to the lower floor, towards the back, where it would be hardest for them to see him. At each stop, he kept tabs on who was getting off, and was fairly sure he’d have seen them.
The number nine would go to Piccadilly Circus, then along Piccadilly, past the Lyons, then on to points west – Knightsbridge, Kensington and so on. The return version of the route the bombed bus was taking. If the man and the lad were going to Oxford Street, they’d get off at Piccadilly Circus, then either walk up Regent Street, or switch to another bus. If it was Cook, he’d have walked. The stopping and starting of the buses was annoying, and he got the feeling he’d get further if he was on foot, travelling at his own pace.
Everything was going smoothly until the bus drivers made it more tricky. Coming along Fleet Street, the bus in front pulled over. Cook’s bus didn’t slow. No one on board hadpulled the cord to alert the driver that they wished to alight, and after the first bus scooped up the people waiting, there was no other reason to stop. Cook’s bus sailed past the first one, and he turned his head away from the window, in case the man or the lad were looking out.
Now he was in front, in plain sight if the man or the lad were looking out the front of their bus. If he wanted to get off, he’d make the situation worse – walking to the platform on the back of the bus, standing there in full view. He got up and moved further to the front, into the shadows.
Piccadilly Circus was up next, according to the map posted above the windows. The man and the lad would be getting off, heading up Regent Street. Their bus was directly behind his.
He stayed on his own bus until the next stop, halfway along Piccadilly. When the following bus went by he tried to see inside. If the man and boy were still on it, he couldn’t see them. Most likely they’d got off at the last stop, to walk up Regent Street.
Cook realised he was across the road from where Irene’s bus had caught it. Easy enough to identify, going by the blown-out windows in all the surrounding buildings, boarded up now. The road had been repaired with a fresh topcoat of asphalt – the crater gone. Cook’s shoes crunched on the pavement, an odd sound, like he was walking on sandpaper. The paving slabs glittered with glass dust.
Further down the road, Cook saw the sign for the Lyons tea room. WhathadRuby been doing, if she hadn’t been working there? If he could answer that, he’d be a lot closer to working out where she’d gone.
50
The Lyons was as busy as ever. Cook had to wait ten minutes to get in. Everyone in the queue had a story to tell about the bombings, comparing notes about where they’d been on what night, what they’d heard, what they’d seen. There was a clear hierarchy. Seeing a bomb yourself was essential – if you’d seen one you had a story worth listening to. If you’d felt the blast, even better. Hearing one was second best. From the thirty-odd people in the queue, it seemed everyone in London had personally seen a bomb, and most had felt one. Stories were told with a giddiness, a sense of exhilaration at having faced the worst – the thing that every Londoner had been dreading for more than a year.
The same surly waitress seated Cook, evidently disappointed that she had to waste a table for two on one person. Cook did his best to make up for it with his order. Tea, kidney pie and mash, apple pie and rice pudding. Last time he’d been here, he’d had to dash off and leave his food. He felt like he was owed a generous meal.
The waitress was one of four on duty. None of them spent more than ten seconds with a customer, Cook noticed. They moved quickly and efficiently between the tables, shuttling stainless-steel teapots and refills of hot water. It was an impressive display of logistics.
‘You’re Ruby’s friend,’ Cook’s waitress said as she dropped off his tea things – teapot, extra pot of boiling water, small jug of milk, a tiny saucer holding two sugar cubes.
‘Good memory,’ Cook said.
The waitress flicked her eyes around, checking to see who was watching.
‘Drop your cup on the floor,’ she said, under her breath.
Cook understood. She needed cover. Couldn’t stand chatting with the customers without an excuse. He reached across the table for the teapot and knocked his teacup to the floor. It smashed on the hard lino.
‘I’m sorry,’ Cook said, bending down to pick up the pieces.
The waitress took a cloth from her pocket and knelt down, putting her head alongside his.
‘You didn’t hear this from me,’ she said. ‘But you might want to check out the bar at the Empire. From what I hear Ruby’s been doing a roaring trade.’
51
The farmer had been looking into things. Acting like some kind of detective. He said he’d be going back to his farm, but he didn’t seem like the kind of man who liked giving up. He had a quiet confidence. Brought back memories of an old sergeant major, used to stand at the top of the trench, pushing the men into no-man’s-land, then running alongside them as if the bullets wouldn’t ever hit him.
He filled the car from the ARP supply tank. He’d have to adjust the books, average out the usage, but that would be easy. He’d come to the realisation at an early age that he was smarter than most people. He thought quicker, and he saw things they didn’t see. Another thing he’d realised, most people play by the rules, and don’t think outside those lines. You could get a girl into your car, for instance, and they’d see you being a gent. Giving a girl a lift. Maybe picking up your daughter. Maybe you were sent to collect her.
