There was silence on the other end of the line. Cook had expected some kind of surprise. The silence was surprising, almost like this wasn’t new information, more like confirmation.
Silence. Then a sigh.
‘Reynolds,’ Gracie said.
More silence. The phone pipped again, hungry for more coins. Cook fed it, listening to the silence.
‘You’d better come with me,’ Gracie said. ‘Stop me from killing him.’
‘I’ll be with you in an hour,’ Cook said.
‘Meet me at the Tilbury Shelter.’
‘Where?’
‘Number nine bus, then follow your nose.’
64
Cook sat on the bus, pressed against the window on one side and a coughing soldier on the other, a kit bag on his lap.
Somewhere along The Strand, the coughing soldier got up, and Cook felt the momentary relief of having the seat to himself. It didn’t last long. The next person to sit next to him, a grimace of apology as they situated themselves, held an armful of bedding that smelt like it hadn’t seen the inside of a laundry copper since the day it was turned out of the mill. Not the only passenger with a blanket. The contingent of passengers had almost entirely changed since Piccadilly, only half a mile back. There, people had been hopping on the bus to get home from work, or perhaps from an afternoon’s shopping. They’d worn smart coats, carried umbrellas and briefcases, or shopping bags with store names on them. They’d sat upright, ready for their stop. Nearly home at the end of the day.
The replacements were different – dressed more casually, ties loosened. Besides bundles of bedding, they had baskets. Loaves of bread. Flasks of tea.
An elderly man climbed on, made his way back along the rows. He took a seat in front of Cook, nodding to his new neighbour, a woman with a baby wrapped in a sling.
‘All right, Al,’ the woman said. ‘You going up Tilbury?’
Al coughed, a wet, sickly noise. It took him a while to work it through.
‘All right, lass,’ he replied at last. ‘Thought you was trying Dickins ’n’ Jones.’
‘Didn’t get in,’ she said. ‘Got there at dinner time, queued ’til they opened, but they said they was out of space.’
‘You going up Tilbury too?’ Al asked.
‘Reckon I’ll have to,’ she replied.
‘Heard they give out tea and cakes up West,’ Al said.
The woman laughed. ‘Give ’em out? You’d be lucky. Tuppence they’re charging. Lovely though. Rock cakes. Got one for me and the lad the other night. Good to have something to nibble on when those bombs is coming down around you.’
The bus passed St Paul’s, working its way east.
65
The lobby was quiet. The lift attendant stood aside to let Margaret in, and the two pilots followed close behind. They stood, one on each side, as the lift attendant took their instructions.
‘Fifth floor,’ Margaret said.
‘Same,’ Todd said.
The doors closed, and the lift attendant pulled a lever. The lift started to ascend.
‘This has been lovely,’ Margaret said. ‘Two heroic pilots, all to myself. But I’m afraid this is as far as it goes. It’s been a very long day and I’m going to need my beauty sleep.
Todd didn’t reply. He slipped an arm through hers. A gentlemanly enough gesture.
