The Nurse's War (18 page)

She blushed. She was enjoying the power of the dress, but she hadn’t quite bargained for its full effect.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be too facetious,’ he cautioned. ‘There was a serious incident yesterday, possibly the work of spies, although as yet we don’t know.’

She took a cautious sip of the martini and felt it kick against her throat. ‘Where? What happened?’

‘A kidnapping. Or rather an attempted kidnapping.’

The alcohol was loosening her mind to wander unexpected byways. The incident in the Strand came back to her with force. Surely not.

‘It happened on Kingsway. Chandan Patel, you remember the Congress chap I mentioned. He was on his way to Whitehall. He was due to have a preliminary meeting there with a junior minister when he was pounced on. Apparently, a saloon car overtook his cab and forced it to a halt.’

She took an even longer sip of her drink. ‘And were they successful, the kidnappers?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.

‘As it happens, no. Patel was lucky. Or rather we were. A fire engine just happened to be racing from the opposite direction to answer a call, and found its way blocked. And behind the fire brigade was a police car—it must have been a serious fire. Our would-be kidnapper took fright when
he realised what he had to deal with. He spun his car and sped off before anyone thought to stop him.’

Grayson gestured to the waiter, and two more martinis glided gracefully on to the table.

‘I know,’ she said quietly.

When they were alone again, he leaned towards her. ‘What do you mean, you know?’

‘I was there.’

‘Good grief!’

‘I was on my way back to Barts from meeting you, and just crossing over from the Strand when a car nearly knocked me down. It must have been the kidnapper’s car.’

‘Did you see anything?’ Grayson was eager. ‘Anything at all that might suggest a clue to the man’s identity? We’ve given Patel extra security, but we still need to find the blighter.’

‘He wasn’t alone. There were two of them, there was a passenger in the front seat,’ she said. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘And?’

‘I thought the driver looked familiar.’

‘Go on.’

‘That’s all, really. I thought I might have met him somewhere but I’ve no idea where. Nothing else.’

Grayson looked deflated.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I only saw him for an instant—when the car flew by on the opposite side of the road. I thought he snatched a glance at me as he sped past, but that was probably imagination.’

He took her hands and held on to them tightly. ‘Think for a minute, Daisy. We need this man behind bars at Latchmere House. We need to question him. And soon. Intelligence that’s stale is like food, it does more harm than good, so we must strike now. Where could you have seen him?’

‘I really don’t know.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help.’ Then, ‘I wish this was all over.’ The words came out sounding more anguished than she’d wanted.

He stroked the hand he was holding. ‘It will be over very soon and I’m sorry to have pressed you.’

He relaxed back into his chair. ‘I presume Gerald knows by now that you’ve secured his future.’ She heard the slight note of bitterness that he couldn’t quite conceal.

‘I wrote to him straight after you left the café and gave the note to an ambulance driver who lives in Gerald’s district. He promised to deliver it, and I’m sure he’ll have done so.’

The head waiter materialised beneath the nearest mahogany arch, his podgy hand waving graciously in their direction and beckoning them to follow.

‘Good. Food at last.’ Grayson got to his feet and again offered her his arm. ‘Let’s go and eat. I’m ravenous.’

They followed the black-suited mâitre d’ through several adjoining rooms, each eerily quiet, and then down several flights of steps with naked brickwork on either side. The staircase they were descending was badly lit, increasingly so, and soft carpet soon gave way to a rough
drugget and then to unadorned stone. At the bottom of the staircase, a passage stretched before them, bare and deserted, punctuated by a series of grubby doors. Here and there sandbags had been packed against scaffolding poles painted in the colours of the Union Jack. It seemed an extraordinary way to begin dinner, and Daisy began to wonder if this was some kind of joke. If it was, then Grayson was in on it. They came to a halt outside a closed door at the end of the passage. The head waiter inclined his head towards them, then opened the door with a flourish and instantly they were engulfed in noise: a deluge of chatter and clatter and music, vibrating around and through the cavernous space.

‘La Popote,’ the mâitre d’ announced.

‘What?’ She looked startled, unsure of where she was.

‘It’s the grill room,’ Grayson explained. ‘All the posh hotels have these underground restaurants. I imagine the space used to function as a store for provisions, but it’s got a new role now—as a safe place to eat.’

The walls of the room were thickly padded, she noticed, and packed with more sandbags kept in place by wooden props and naked metal struts. Candles burned in the necks of empty wine bottles sitting atop utility tablecloths. A candlebra of more bottles lit the modest space allocated for dancing. A miasma of expensive cigarettes swirled in the air. They were shown to a table a little distance from the band, but on the far edge of the dance floor. Behind the stage where the musicians were playing, a mural of the
Western Front in 1914 had been painted, and on another wall, caricatures of Hitler and Goering.

‘We won’t make this a late night, I promise. I imagine you have to be up at first light.’

‘I’ve some of the morning free in fact.’ A blissful nine o’clock start, Daisy remembered. ‘But several hours of fire duty after my shift. That means a long day.’

Everyone had been forced to fire-watch since the government made it compulsory. But the rota was not popular, particularly when nurses had to take their turn after a gruelling day on the ward.

Grayson frowned. ‘I’m surprised you have to do it. Surely it would be better for porters and orderlies to be on the roof?’

‘It probably would, but there aren’t enough of them. There aren’t enough men in the hospital. The doctors are spread thinly and, of course, there aren’t any male nurses so we women have to do our share. And it’s not too bad—now the hospital is better equipped. We’ve a roof full of sandbags and stirrup pumps, and last month they gave us helmets to wear, just like real wardens.’

A waiter glided sideways up to their table and with a flourish produced two glass bowls, piled high with something that Daisy thought looked exciting. He served the iced dishes alongside neat quarters of bread and butter.

‘It looks pink,’ she said, peering intently into her bowl. ‘What is it, do you think?’

‘Lobster cocktail would be my guess.’

‘Goodness!’ and without another word she gave herself up to the pleasure of eating. For once, it was food she could savour. Restaurants allowed diners to eat off ration, she knew, and the food was always going to be far superior to anything served in canteens or indeed in a nurses’ dining room. They ate in companionable silence, until Grayson put his cutlery down and gave a small sigh of pleasure.

‘That was good. And there’s partridge with bread sauce to follow, and all kinds of vegetables—though hopefully not a turnip in sight. We don’t get anything like this at Baker Street.’

‘Nor at Barts,’ she added with a smile.

He was leaning forward to speak again, when the band struck up a foxtrot. She could feel her toes begin to tap beneath the table, but tried hard to appear indifferent. The music was too reminiscent of their nights on-board the
Strathnaver.
Such memories, though, held no fear for Grayson. He laid his napkin to one side and got to his feet. ‘The main course will be a while yet. Let’s snatch a dance before you have to flee the ball.’

She started to find an excuse, but had mumbled only a few words when he strode around the table and lifted her out of the chair. ‘Come on, Daisy, it’s one dance, that’s all.’

Several other couples were already swaying their way around the small space, clearly enjoying the sounds and rhythm of a top-class dance band. Everybody it seemed was out to have fun, bent on thrusting a monochrome world aside and, for a short while, splashing themselves in colour.
And she was no exception. She would enjoy sinking deep into this haven of pleasure, enchanted by the candles’ soft light, the bubble of conversation, the sparkle of the women’s jewels. It wouldn’t be for long, she decided. It would be fun to dance steps she hadn’t practised for a very long time, to lean into the music and allow its seductive melody to wash over her. But then she would lead the way back to their table, eat another delicious plate of food, and leave with the papers tucked in her handbag.

Grayson was a good dancer. She’d forgotten just how good, and they’d made several turns of the floor before she was even aware of him holding her, or aware of the harmony of their steps. But then, as he moved closer, she smelt the tangy freshness of his skin, the smell she remembered so well from all those months ago in India, and she felt herself begin to lose her determined control. It was fortunate that before her body could wander into dangerous territory, the foxtrot came to an end. She should prompt him to return to their table, she knew. But, almost immediately, the band began to play again and this time the music was sweet and smoky and languidly soft.

‘One more dance?’ he said quietly in her ear.

Before she could refuse, he’d pulled her close. She liked the feel of him so very much and wished she didn’t. His face settled against her dark curls, his mouth brushing her cheek. Neither of them spoke, and she allowed her body to float, her feet to flow by instinct. Round and round the small floor they drifted, their bodies growing closer, their
limbs shadowing each other. They seemed to be dancing in a dream. With every minute, she felt herself melt a little further, felt herself absorbed inch by inch, two figures slowly transforming into one. She had lost any strength to fight back. Every dormant nerve, every fibre that had slept for months, was kicked into life and craved satisfaction.

He had both his arms around her and she laid her head on his chest. If she looked up she knew she would meet his smile. He would be looking down and his lips moving towards her. He would kiss her. She wanted that kiss. She looked up and there was his smile, his lips. His head bent towards her, but the kiss never came. The air was rent. A siren, two sirens—one must be the Ritz’s own, she thought, dazed by the sudden shattering of the moment. Their piercing wail brought the scene to a close. The band stopped playing. Dancers stopped dancing. Waiters abandoned food on the nearest tables and began ushering their customers across the room to a second doorway. Along with everyone else, she and Grayson were hustled into a passage, almost identical to the first, and with a similarly large number of doors leading from it.

‘Dormitories,’ Grayson said briefly, as they passed empty rooms to right and left. ‘The hotel wants to ensure its customers stay safe.’

The head waiter emerged from out of the crowd and tapped Grayson on the shoulder. ‘Mr Harte, this way please.’

They followed him into a much smaller room. It was sparsely furnished: a table, several chairs and two camp
beds which, to Daisy’s astonishment, were dressed in matching sheets and pillows of blue and green linen.

‘Why have we been put in here?’ She felt uncomfortable.

‘I imagine for reasons of security,’ Grayson answered easily. ‘The management know why I’m here. They’ve a good idea of their clientele, but there’s always a very small chance that a rogue might slink through their defenses, particularly when there’s a raid on.’

Her eyebrows formed a question mark. There had been no mention before of security being a problem at the Ritz.

‘It shouldn’t worry us too much,’ he reassured, ‘but since the attempted kidnapping, I’ve gone up the scale as a potential target. My interest in Patel will be pretty widely known in some quarters.’

She wasn’t sure if she was reassured by this. ‘The Ritz know who you are? I mean, that you work for SOE?’

‘They do. They had to. The game has recently become a little more urgent, and I needed to take a few precautions. This playpen we’ve been allocated is about as secure as you can get.’

‘And where is everyone else?’

‘You must have noticed how many rooms there are. People will have been given beds here and there, and I guess most of them will make a night of it. No doubt the women have brought a nightdress and toothbrush with them. Nowadays it seems quite the thing for girls to go out to dinner equipped for an air raid.’

‘I didn’t,’ Daisy said faintly.

The sight of the beds, narrow as they were, was reinforcing how foolish she’d been. Tonight was supposed to have been a pleasant dinner and a swift return home. Instead, she’d allowed herself to be persuaded onto the dance floor, and then behaved like a moonstruck girl in the throes of her first passion. She had clung—it was the only word she could use—clung to the man who now stood just yards from her. Lifted her lips to him, craved his touch.

‘The raid will be over soon, I’m sure, but for now we’d better stay put.’ Grayson’s voice was soothing and cut across the unwelcome thoughts. She was certain that he’d read her fears. ‘As soon as the all-clear sounds, you must be on your way.’ He shrugged himself out of his jacket and draped it around a nearby Windsor chair. ‘It’s sad we missed the partridge, though.’

But the raid wasn’t over soon. It was the worst they’d endured for months, in fact the worst she could remember, so overwhelming that even in this bunkered room, she could feel the thud and groan of the bombs as they fell. They were miles below ground and she ought to feel safe, but she didn’t. In this windowless room, she felt trapped, the sound of danger muffled, but its assault on her mind intense. If only they’d remained in the bar, she would have had a grandstand view. She would have seen what was happening, seen the devastation taking place and somehow it would have felt better. Her eyes would have
told her to accept the very worst, rather than suffering the frightening images her imagination was building. Minute after minute, from every direction, the dull crack of massive explosions breached the room’s false calm. Several times, she felt her pulse grow erratic and had deliberately to slow her breathing.