James Herbert - ‘48

‘I only meant…The recipe was used by housewives all over the country.’

‘Oh yes, what a wonderful example you toffs set for us commonfolk. My-oh-my, if you lot could survive on Spam and powdered eggs quaffed down with only the scummiest vintage wine, then the rest of us peasants could easily get by on good old Lord Woolton’s bloody pie. God bless you, ma’am, if I had a cap, I’d doff it.’

The shine in Muriel’s eyes dimmed. She looked down at her knees, her weariness returned. In a softer voice she said, ‘My father used to take me to the River Room for lunch whenever he could find the time. We used to toast Mother’s memory with a glass of champagne before we even looked at the menu…’ Her words trailed off, but she remained in that position, head bowed, distracted, as if memories were continuing inside her head; and then Cissie was kneeling beside her, telling her quietly that she was sorry, hadn’t meant to be a cow, her arm sliding around her friend’s shoulder as she apologized.

I was impatient to get moving again. ‘The water’s still running,’ I told them, and Cissie raised her head, scowling at me, wondering what the hell I was talking about. ‘The hotel,’ I said. ‘There’s plenty of water. And the tubs are big enough for hippos.’

The thought of a bath, cold or not, soon changed Cissie’s mood. She examined her filthy hands and arms for a moment, took a token swipe at the dust on her slacks, then beamed a pure white grin from her sooty face.

‘Now you’re talking,’ she said, straightening up and bringing Muriel with her. ‘Come on, Mu, snap out of it. I’ll let you scrub my back if you promise not to go all ritzy on me again.’ She hugged her companion, then looked at me expectantly. ‘Tell me there’s tons of food, and not just Woolton Pie. I’m starving.’

‘If you don’t mind tinned stuff.’

‘So what are we waiting for? My tummy’s already screeching at me.’

I glanced across at Potter, who was still pulling in short, gasping breaths and looking unreasonably hot in his dark blue overalls. ‘You coming with us?’ I asked, and he returned my look with some sourness in those broad, sweaty features.

‘You mean I don’t have to? I can go on me own way if I want?’

‘Sure. It’s every man for himself.’

‘Oh, is it? That’s good to know, son. I’ll remind you of that next time yer stick a gun in me belly.’ He mopped the inside rim of his helmet with his red rag, then, with some dignity, placed it back on his head, tucking the strap under one of his plump chins. ‘Well, since my little hideaway has gorn up in smoke, I think I’ll indulge in a bit of luxury meself. The hotel was on my watch durin the Blitz, so I know a bit about the place. I was quite pally with a few of the staff in there too, ‘specially the volunteer ARPs and Red Cross nurses. Even had mugs a tea on the rooftop with the fire spotters. They were quite a bunch, I can tell yer. Heroes, the lot of ‘em. Old William Lawes from the Works Department use’ta ponce about in a two-hundred-guinea raccoon coat to keep out the chill when he was patrolling the roof. Left behind by an American guest in the Twenties who couldn’t pay his bill, so I was told.’ He gave a short nostalgic chortle, then became serious again. “Course, we can duck down the basement to the Lincoln Room when the mad bomber comes over next’

Before I could say anything more, Cissie cut in. ‘What are you talking about? What mad bomber?’

‘Eh? You know who I mean.’ Potter looked at her, perplexed.

‘They’ve been out of London for a while,’ I explained quickly, anxious to be on our way. Nostalgia and sunshine was okay at the right time, but this wasn’t it we were still in danger. But Potter had become rattled.

‘D’yer think I’m in uniform for the fun of it?’

Both Cissie and I stared at him. Behind Potter I could see Stern was also taking an interest

‘I’ll carry on me duty until it’s all over,’ Potter went on. ‘Nobody’s stood me down yet, and until they do I’ll keep on with the job I was given. We old ‘uns have got our uses, y’know. We can serve King and Country as well as anyone.’

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised – this old boy had been living in an underground bunker for the past three years, getting rid of the dead bodies that filled the place to make room for himself, when he could have chosen to live anywhere in the city. He could even have followed other survivors and fled to the hills around London, or beyond, away from the worst of the holocaust and constant reminders of what we had done to ourselves. This guy had gone crazy all right, but only mildly so; he seemed harmless enough – so far – and anyway, I hadn’t forgotten he’d saved our lives.

‘Okay, let’s get going,’ I said, unwilling to waste any more time.

Cissie was more than ready and Muriel seemed to have taken a hold on herself. ‘You’ll stay with us?’ she asked Stern, who still stood apart from the rest of us.

His pale eyes took us all in. ‘Of course. That is, if no one objects.’

Potter shuffled round to regard the German. ‘This feller’s foreign, ain’t he?’ he said suspiciously.

‘Forget it,’ I snapped. There was no time for a new debate. I did my best to sound neighbourly. ‘Okay, Willy, you stick with us’ – (like he had a choice) – ‘for now.’ Then to all of them: ‘There’s a stairway opposite that’ll take us down to the Embankment The hotel’s one block away.’

Our footsteps sounded hollow inside the covered stairway and I think none of us liked being in the gloom again. But it wasn’t for long and at the bottom I brought them to a halt.

‘What is it?’ whispered Cissie, her eyes wide and searching the road outside over my shoulder.

A finger to my lips quietened her. I stuck my head out and did a swift recce of the way ahead.

Warm air shimmered above the metal roofs of the scant traffic stuck there in the broad thoroughfare that ran alongside the Thames, but that was the only thing that moved. No noise, only our own breathing. Everything was abnormally normal. I stepped out, gesturing to the others to keep close.

We could see the modest riverside entrance to the Savoy a few hundred yards away, the narrow street it was located in rising gently, a small overgrown garden park opposite; a zigzag wall built during the Blitz to protect the hotel’s rear access and river restaurant windows ran along the frontage. Several of the vehicles in the street had been parked there by me, their tanks full, keys in ignitions, batteries fully charged. The MG two-seater was for speed, the black Austin taxi for manoeuvrability, the Bentley for comfort (never used so far), and the flatbed truck, a Foden diesel which took up most of the street’s width further down – well, that was for other purposes.

As far as I could tell, nothing had changed since my last visit three days ago – there were no new vehicles in sight and the single board I’d left leaning across the opening to the trench between the barricade and the hotel wall was still in place. But that didn’t mean the enemy wouldn’t be lurking inside the building itself, waiting for me to return. Until this morning the Blackshirts had never discovered any of my havens, so now I was extra wary. Hubble was stepping up his search, no doubt about that, and you didn’t have to be an Einstein to figure out why: I’ve said it before – time was running out for him and his bunch of blood scavengers. Today, of course, he had even more reason to intensify the hunt: he’d discovered there were three more possible walking blood banks in town.

The sun’s heat seemed raw after we’d spent so much time underground and soon the back of my shirt was sweat-soaked. I felt exposed and scared out there in the open, which may have added to the perspiration, but it didn’t take long to reach the cover of the barricade. Lifting the plank of wood aside, I indicated to the others to go through, and with one last look around, I followed. The revolving door into the entrance hall was stiff with disuse and while Cissie struggled with it I let myself in by the glass side door.