DEAN OF ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL, WRITING OF THE BLITZ
London—15 September 1940
THE NICE THING ABOUT TIME-LAG WAS THAT ONE COULD sleep lying on a cold stone floor with bombs crashing and anti-aircraft guns roaring. Polly even slept through the all clear. When she woke, only Lila and Viv were still there, folding up the blanket they’d sat on, and the sour-faced Mrs. Rickett.
She’s probably staying to make certain I don’t take anything when I leave, Polly thought, picking up her satchel and the “to let” listings, and wondering how early on a Sunday it was acceptable to show up to look at a room. She glanced at her watch. Half past six. Not as early as this. It was too bad she couldn’t stay here and sleep. She still felt drugged, but Mrs. Rickett, her thin arms folded grimly across her chest as she glared at Lila and Viv, was hardly likely to allow that.
They went out, giggling, and Mrs. Rickett started over to Polly. To hurry me along, Polly thought, putting her coat on. “I’ll only be a moment—” she began.
“You said you were looking for a room?” Mrs. Rickett said, pointing at the newspaper in Polly’s hand.
“Yes.”
“I have one,” Mrs. Rickett said. “I run a boardinghouse. I intended to put it in the papers, but if you’re interested it’s at 14 Cardle Street. You can come along with me now and see it if you like. It’s not far.”
And it was one of Mr. Dunworthy’s approved addresses. “Yes,” Polly said, following her out the door and up the steps. “Thank you.” She stopped and stared up at the building they’d come out of, its spire outlined against the dawn sky.
It’s a church, she thought. That explained the clergyman’s presence and the discussion about the altar flowers. The stairs they’d just come up were on the side of the church, and there was a notice board on the wall next to it. “Church of St. George, Kensington,” it read. “The Rev. Floyd Norris, Rector.”
“My single rooms with board are ten and eight,” Mrs. Rickett said, crossing the street. “It’s a nice, cozy room.” Which meant minuscule, and probably appalling.
But it’s only six weeks. Or rather five, with the slippage, Polly thought. And I’ll scarcely ever be in it. I’ll be at the store all day and in the tube shelters at night. “How far is the nearest tube station?” she asked.
“Notting Hill Gate,” Mrs. Rickett said, pointing back the way they’d come. “Three streets over.”
Perfect. Notting Hill Gate wasn’t as deep as Holborn or Bank, but it had never been hit, and it was on the Central Line to Oxford Street. And it was less than a quarter of a mile from Cardle Street. Mr. Dunworthy would be delirious. If the room was habitable.
It was, barely. It was on the third floor, and so “cozy” the bed filled the room and Mrs. Rickett had to squeeze past its foot to get to the wardrobe on the far side. The floor was liver-colored linoleum, the wallpaper was darker still, and even when Mrs. Rickett pulled the blackout curtains back from the single small window, there was scarcely any light. The “facilities” were one flight up, the bathroom two, and hot water was extra.
But it met all of Mr. Dunworthy’s requirements, and she wouldn’t have to spend valuable time looking for a room. She had a feeling Mrs. Rickett would be a dreadful landlady, but having an address would make it easier for the department stores to contact her. “Have you a telephone?” she asked.
“Downstairs in the vestibule, but it’s for local calls only. Five p. If you need to make a trunk call, there’s a pillar box on Lampden Road. And no calls after 9 P.M.”
“I’ll take it,” Polly said, opening her handbag.
Mrs. Rickett held out her hand. “That will be one pound five. Payable in advance.”
“But I thought you said it was ten and eight—”
“This room is a double.”
So much for the legendary wartime spirit of generosity, Polly thought. “You’ve no single rooms available?”
“No.”
And even if you did, you wouldn’t tell me, but it was only for five weeks. She handed her the money.
Mrs. Rickett pocketed it. “No male visitors abovestairs. No smoking or drinking, and no cooking in your room. On weekdays and Saturdays, breakfast is at seven and supper at six. Sunday dinner’s at one o’clock, and there’s a cold collation for supper.” She held out her hand. “I’ll need your ration book.”