‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘We’ve got all night.’
*
The hotel was quiet. The dining room was dark, and a skeleton staff remained in the lobby.
‘Guests are sheltering in the basement,’ the man behind the desk said, as he handed Eleanor her key.
‘No, thank you,’ Eleanor replied. ‘The people of New York want to know what’s going on as the bombs fall. Can’t do much reporting from a basement.’
The desk clerk glared at Cook.
‘He’s not welcome here,’ he said to Eleanor.
‘I’m paying for a room,’ Eleanor replied. ‘I’m allowed to have any guests I want.’
‘Not him,’ the clerk replied.
‘Perhaps I should do a story about the prostitution racket you’re running out of the bar,’ she said, taking out her notebook. ‘My readers love that kind of thing. What’s your name?’
She leant forward, theatrically, peering at the clerk’s name badge. She wrote it in her notebook.
‘Or maybe we should both mind our own business. What do you think?’
*
Eleanor’s room was a world apart from the box room Cook had been given. A luxurious four-poster bed faced a floor-to-ceiling window. Eleanor pulled a cord by the window, and the curtains parted.
It was like watching the war on a cinema screen. Searchlights panned across the clouds, catching the highest buildings as they traversed the sky. Cook didn’t know the city well, but St Paul’s was unmistakable, its dome higher than any of the surrounding buildings. Beyond, he could see the steel skeletons of cranes, watching over the docks.
The clouds themselves were alight, pulsing with explosions. The order had come from Churchill himself – every available anti-aircraft gun in the country had been sent to defend the capital. Every gun was to be firing non-stop.Cook didn’t know how effective they’d be, but he had to admit it felt comforting.
The eastern sky was orange as once again the docks burnt.
Eleanor poured two glasses of whisky, handed one to Cook.
‘Cheers,’ she said.
They drank. Cook checked his watch, calculated the walk to catch the last train. He’d have to be going, if he was going.
Eleanor finished her drink with a second gulp and hurried into the bathroom, leaving the door open behind her.
‘You said you’re here to describe it,’ Cook said. ‘But which side are your readers on? You must have just as many immigrants from Germany as from England.’
‘We’re still deciding,’ Eleanor shouted out of the bathroom. ‘Churchill’s doing everything he can to lure us in, but there are still lots of people in power who think this whole thing has nothing to do with us.’
Cook stood at the window, like having a balcony seat for London’s final act. It was obscene, of course, but no more obscene than anything else in war. Certainly a lot more comfortable than sheltering in a trench as the bombs flew, or cowering in a cave overlooking a mountain pass.
‘What doyouthink?’ Cook asked.
There was a creak from the bed behind him. Cook looked at the reflection in the window. Eleanor had returned from the toilet and kicked off her shoes, and now she lay on the bed, on her front. Watching him, watching the war.
‘I think we should put this bed through its paces,’ Eleanor said.
‘Are all you Americans this forward?’ he asked.
‘I can’t speak for the entire population,’ she said.
‘I thought you wanted to hear my story,’ he said. ‘Why I’m in London, and not on my farm.’
