William Boyd - Waiting for Sunrise

Half a gable-end had come down here and the way forward was blocked by a wall of tumbled bricks six feet high. He could hear women screaming and the shouts of police in Wellington Street bellowing, “Keep back! Keep back!” He scrabbled up the brickwork and slipped, bashing his elbow. He tried again on the north side of Exeter Street where he could at least gain some purchase from the opposite façades. Glass shone here, glittering shards of orange-diamond jewels — every window in the street blasted out. He was thinking of the Lyceum, where the dressing rooms were — his father had played there all the time in the eighties. Maybe it hadn’t been the interval — Blanche would have been safer on stage — but he hadn’t seen the wretched play yet so he had no idea where she would have been.

He hauled his way up the sliding brick wall. At the top the gas flare made his shadow monstrously huge on the building front, flickering and undulating. The crater was immense, ten feet deep. More bodies and bits of bodies were scattered about it — the pub at the corner, The Bell, was ablaze. People went to the pub from the Lyceum at the interval — the bomb had caught it at its fullest. Beyond the blaze he could see the police forming a cordon to keep the appalled but curious onlookers away from the soaring flames of the venting gas main.

He heard bricks falling to the road, a sharp egg-cracking sound, and looked up just in time to see a window embrasure topple outwards and drag down the half wall beneath it. He flung himself out of the way and fell awkwardly down the slope to the pavement, winded. Lights were flashing in front of his eyes as he struggled to regain his breath. He hauled himself to his knees and saw a figure a few yards away across the street, standing still in the shadows, apparently looking straight at him.

“Give us a hand, will you?” Lysander shouted, wheezily.

The figure didn’t move. A man with a hat and the collar of his coat folded up — impossible to see anything more with the street lights gone. The man was standing at the right angle of Exeter Street where it turned down to the Strand, where he’d seen the first dead bodies.

Lysander rose to his feet shakily, perturbed, and the figure stayed where it was, apparently staring directly at him. What was going on? Why was he just staring, doing nothing? The gas main flared again and for a moment more light was cast — the figure raised his hand to shield his face.

“I see you!” Lysander yelled — not seeing him but wanting to provoke him, somehow. “I know who you are! I see you!”

The figure immediately turned and ran around the corner — disappeared.

There was no point in chasing, Lysander thought, and anyway, he had to find Blanche. He climbed up and slithered down the other side of the brick pile and ran up to the stage door of the Lyceum. A policeman was sheltering inside.

“The actors! I’ve a friend —”

“Can’t come in here, sir. Everyone’s gathered down on the Strand.”

Lysander realized there was no way through by Wellington Street so he had to go back the way he’d come. He picked his way cautiously up the brick wall and saw now that there were policemen and ambulances collecting the bodies. Safe. He ran past them and down to the Strand heading for Aldwych. There was a big surging crowd here. The Strand Theatre opposite had emptied and the streets were full of well-dressed theatre-goers milling about, smoking and chatting excitedly — bow ties, feathers, silk, jewels. He looked around him. Where were the actors?

“Lysander! I don’t believe it!”

It was Blanche, a mug of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Someone’s overcoat was thrown around her shoulders like a cape.

He felt weak finding her like this, unmanned suddenly. He went towards her and kissed her cheek, tasting greasepaint. In the rippling light from the gas main she looked almost grotesque in her white Regency wig — a painted loon with dark, arched eyebrows, a beauty spot and red lips.

“Were you caught in the blast?”

He looked down at himself. He was covered in brick dust, the left knee of his trousers was ripped and flapping, he had no hat, a knuckle was dripping blood.

“No. I was working and saw the bombs and so came looking for you. I was worried…”

“Ah, my Lysander…”

They hugged each other, held each other close. Her whole body was shaking violently, trembling.

“You can’t go home in that state,” he said, softly, taking her hands. “Come to my flat and tidy up. Have a proper drink. It’s two minutes away.”

Blanche has gone. It’s nine in the morning. She sent to the Lyceum for her clothes. The newspapers say seventeen people died in the raid — the ‘Great Raid on Theatreland’. Bizarrely, I owe everything to the pilot of that Zeppelin — my first night in 3 / 12 Trevelyan House was spent with Blanche. Blanche. Blanche naked with her wide low-slung breasts, her jutting hips, long slim thighs like a boy, her white powdered face, the beauty spot, lipstick kissed away. How she slipped her fingers in my hair, gripping, and held my face above hers, eye to unblinking eye, as I climaxed. Deliverance. Relief. Watching her cross the room naked to find my cigarettes, standing there, pale odalisque, lighting one, then lighting one for me.

Question: who was that man in the shadows watching me?

Only now do I sense the after-shock, feel my nerves set on edge. The Zeppelin, the bombs, the dead bodies, the screams. Seeing Blanche again, being with her, made me push everything else to the back of my mind, including that strange meeting in Exeter Street — part of the madness and horror of the night. Was somebody trying to frighten me? A warning? Vandenbrook was in Folkestone, in theory — but I can’t believe that he’d ever try anything so self-destructive, so against his best interests. I’m his only hope.

I sit here and re-run the seconds’ glimpse I had of him sprinting away. Why do I think of Jack Fyfe-Miller? What makes me think that? No — surely mistaken identity. But, this much is clear, someone was waiting outside the Annexe, saw me dash out and followed me as I ran towards the bombs…

♦

Last night as we lay in each other’s arms we spoke.

Me:

I still have the ring — our ring…

Blanche:

What are you trying to say, my darling?

Me:

That, you know, maybe we should never have broken off our engagement. I suppose.

Blanche:

Am I meant to read that as a re-proposal of sorts?

Me:

Yes. Please say yes. I’m a complete fool. I’ve missed you, my love — I’ve been living in a daze, a coma.

♦

Then we kissed. Then I went and took the ring from the card pocket inside my jacket.

Me:

I’ve been carrying it with me. Good luck charm.

Blanche:

Have you needed a lot of luck, since we split up?

Me:

You’ve no idea. I’ll tell you all about it one day. Oh. Perhaps I should ask. What about Ashburnham?

Blanche:

Ashburnham is a nonentity. I’ve banished him from my presence.

Me:

I’m delighted to hear it. I just had to ask.

Blanche [putting ring on]:

Look, it still fits. Good omen.

Me:

You won’t mind being Mrs Lysander Rief? No more Miss Blanche Blondel?

Blanche:

It’s better than my real name. I was born [Yorkshire accent] Agnes Bleathby.

Me [Yorkshire accent]:

Thee learn summat new every day, Agnes, flower. Happen.

Blanche:

We’re all acting, aren’t we? Almost all the time — each and every one of us.

Me:

But not now. I’m not.

Blanche:

Me neither. [Kissing renewed fiancé] Still, it’s just as well that some of us can make a living from it. Come here, you.