to see everything: walk along the banks of the Thames, picnic in the parks, go into St Paul’s …’
He laughed. ‘You can pray anywhere, Sally Brewer.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of praying, just seeing it, thinking of all the famous people who’ve been in there before me. London’s amazing. Every street seems to have something famous on it or some great doctor or writer or painter lived there.’ She stopped and looked up at his face. ‘Are you laughing at me?’
‘I was nowhere near laughing at you. I agree with you and was thinking about how much I take for granted. Tell you what, we’ll plan an itinerary. Every free day we’ll visit something.’
‘Ouch.’ Sally stumbled over a small obstacle, a tin lunch box that had lost its lid. Sebastian caught her around the waist so that she did not fall.
They stood like that for a few moments as Sally assessed the condition of her right ankle and Sebastian contented himself by holding her and enjoying the delicate scent of her dark silky hair.
‘I’m fine,’ she said after testing her foot on the ground several times, ‘and if you’re serious I’d love to walk around London with you.’
‘I’m serious, believe me, but right now I’d better take you home. Probably better to prop it—’
Sebastian did not finish his well-meant advice as the thick foggy atmosphere was rent by the chilling sound of the air-raid warning. His arms were still around her. Sally pushed her face against his ancient cashmere coat and, trembling in terror, threw her arms around his neck. It seemed that only seconds later, the dull, shadowy city was full of a familiar droning sound. It accompanied the sharp trills of whistles as wardens and patrolling policemen tried to shepherd pedestrians towards the nearest shelters.
Sebastian looked around. ‘We’ll find a shelter, Sally. Trust me,’ he said as he swept her up into his arms.
‘Underground’s nea …’ came from the bulky shape of a helmeted bobby, but anything else he said was drowned out by the terrifying roar of aircraft directly overheard. In spite of herself, Sally shrieked and clung even more tightly to Sebastian, who made soothing noises as he stumbled along.
‘The bastards,’ he shouted, almost dropping Sally. ‘They’re after St Paul’s.’
Sally struggled until he set her carefully on the ground muttering, ‘Max needs both your little feet.’
‘Never mind my feet, do something.’
Later Sally and Sebastian were to laugh together over what Sebastian called ‘the silliest thing said by anyone on that ghastly night’.
‘Do something, she says, as if I was being lazy, not trying hard enough. Do somsing, you fool,’ he shouted in an appallingly poor German accent. ‘Order zat Heinkel to go home zis very minute.’
At the time he said nothing and merely guided her as quickly and as safely as he could towards the nearest underground station. They stopped several times, ducking their heads each time as if that would make the slightest difference to the death-dealing monsters prowling above them in the night sky. They would choose to drop their cargo where they were convinced the worst damage would be done and woe betide anyone below them.
‘Not sure where we are, Sally; I always thought I could find my way blindfolded around London but the damned flames and smoke combined with fog and smoke …’ He shook his head. ‘No real idea, could be Blackfriars or St Paul’s itself, maybe even Bank. They could be after the Bank of England. Think of what that would do to international finance.’
‘And if they destroy St Paul’s? Oh, I feel so helpless, Sebastian. Couldn’t we get out and walk to the cathedral? Maybe we could be helpful.’
He looked down at her. ‘My brave little Sally. What could we possibly do? I’m a not-too-awful actor and you – well, you’re a beautiful girl who will one day be very good. If you survive, Sally, if you survive. To walk out there into carnage is just too bloody stupid; we’d be in the way.’
They stumbled hastily along, others crowding around them and, with relief, made it into an underground shelter. Sally had automatically taken a deep breath as they entered. She would never like being underground where the walls and roof seemed to press down upon her, but she accepted that here was their best chance of safety.
She hardly cared where they were as long as there was some shelter, some relief from the relentless droning, from the chilling sound of exploding bombs. Explosions spoke loudly of death and destruction. Better to flock together like sheep or starlings and take comfort from the proximity of another human being. Better to sing, to proclaim ‘There’ll Always be an England’, or to listen to that good-looking young fellow, who looked slightly familiar, declaiming speeches from Shakespeare’s plays, mixing them up, quite hilariously, with bits from Ivor Novello or Noël Coward.
Sally saw the admiration in even elderly eyes as they looked at Sebastian. ‘You’re wonderful, Sebastian, absolutely wonderful,’ she said.
‘I know he’s in pictures; seen him, I have. Even had a picture from a magazine pinned on the kitchen calendar. Can’t think; it’ll come.’
Sally listened and smiled. She could list Sebastian’s credits for them but knew that for the petrified woman in the shelter, trying to remember them was so much better than wondering if the little terraced house or shop would still be there when the all clear sounded. It never occurred to Sally that her or Sebastian’s could be the house that would disappear into a gaping hole.
They stayed in the underground until nearly five next morning. Sebastian had exhausted not only his voice, but also his long list of speeches and poems committed to memory. Others in the shelter had contributed in whatever way they could; children had slept; old men had tried, but at last it was over and they were safe to leave. They hesitated, like blind moles with their snouts at the edge of a hole, before taking their courage in both hands and stumbling out into …
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’
Startled exclamations rang across the landscape of flame and smoke, the noise of fire engines, the sudden thundering of stone on stone as parts of exhausted buildings collapsed. A sudden silence fell, followed almost immediately by joyful shouts.
‘It’s still there; they didn’t get it.’
‘It’s on fire,’ came a voice filled with horror.
‘No.’ Sebastian’s tired voice still had authority. ‘Trust me. Those flames are behind the cathedral.’
So it proved. St Paul’s Cathedral, that magnificent Wren creation, had sustained damage, but its world-famous dome still stood defiantly among the burning ruins around it.
Eyes stinging from the clouds of drifting acrid smoke, Sally and Sebastian began to walk. Again Sally stumbled over some debris and clutched at Sebastian’s coat. ‘I feel dirty, Sebastian, and I’m chilled. I’m going back to the boarding house for a bath and a change of clothes.’
He patted her hand protectively. ‘The theatre’s closer, Sally. We’re already late and we have only two days of rehearsal left. We’ll find the Red Cross or the WVS – remember the blessed WVS turned up at the theatre – and I bet we’ll find them at this disaster zone.’
They encountered a WVS tea van almost immediately.
‘See, Sally, the WVS are out with their vans. If it’s true that they’re at every underground station almost before the all clear has stopped sounding we should suggest to Max that we do a fund-raising concert for them.’
Sally took the roll with its scraping of – probably – home-made marmalade; the WVS, like housewives all over Britain, expected that soon jam would join the growing list of rationed goods. He handed her a cup of tea and she was surprised by how quickly she finished it.
‘Probably the best cup of tea I’ve ever had,’ she said. ‘What do