The waiter glanced towards the bar, as if the answer was self-evident.
‘A specific girl,’ Cook said. ‘Name of Ruby.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t sell information. Just drinks.’
Cook took his wallet from his pocket. He’d seen this kind of thing in films. Never thought he’d be trying it out.
‘How much for the information?’
‘Perhaps you might like a bottle of champagne?’
‘How much?’
‘One pound, six shillings,’ the waiter said.
‘Fine.’
‘I’ll have it sent to your table, sir. Would you like an extra glass? In case you find your young woman?’
‘Tell me about Ruby,’ Cook said.
‘Sir?’
‘I asked about Ruby and you made me buy the champagne.’
The bartender looked blank.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Don’t know a Ruby. Is she a resident at the hotel? Perhaps the concierge could take a message to her room?’
Cook fumed. He felt like a country bumpkin who’d been taken in – like a tourist caught by one of the conmen on the street, promising a prize if you could identify which walnut shell hid the pea.
*
The champagne was delivered, and Cook drank it slowly, savouring his annoyance with the American and the waiter. He was getting nowhere.
He should have been in his local, The Cross, having a pint with his friend Doc, his usual drinking partner. Doc had signed up. Wanted to do the right thing. Cook knew the chasm between the chivalry a man thought about when he read the recruiting leaflet, and the reality of war. He thought he’d done a good enough job of letting slip enough details over the many years, and the many pints. But no man believes it until he’s seen it.
Cook was mindful of something his old CO, Blakeney, had liked to say. ‘There are two types of people in this world, those who wait for something to happen to them, and those who make things happen to other people.’ Cook was aware of his many faults, but he also knew his strengths. Making things happen was at the top of the list.
Cook walked towards the couple at the bar. The pilot officer was gesturing with his hand, his heroic exploits shooting down a Jerry, by the look of it.
The prostitute ignored Cook as he approached them, but the pilot watched him coming, moved his body slightly to protect his privacy. Cook ignored the move, and stepped between the two. They stopped talking, embarrassed by Cook’s awkwardness.
‘Dowding’s on his way in,’ Cook said. ‘Wouldn’t want to have a prostitute on your arm the first time you meet him. Assuming you’re even allowed to be here.’
The pilot looked at the entrance to the bar with alarm.
‘Best to slip out the back,’ Cook said. ‘Live to fight another day and all that.’
‘Thanks,’ the pilot said, gulping down what remained of his pint.
‘You owe me,’ the young woman said to Cook, once they were alone.
‘I’m over there,’ Cook nodded towards his table. ‘Join me for a drink.’
Cook returned to his table. The prostitute was angry with him. It was fifty-fifty what would win out – her anger, or her desire for money.
She left him waiting five minutes, no doubt proving to herself she was in control, then made her way towards him. Respectable men, having an early-evening drink with their respectable wives, pretended not to watch as she passed by.
