There are a surprising number of men in their motley crew considering all men under 42 must be conscripted. Uh-oh, a wilted Julian thinks, he’s only 39, could he, too, be conscripted, before he remembers his missing fingers, his wonky eye, oh and that he has no ID and is not a British citizen. Never mind. Anxiety and logic make strange bedfellows.
With vigor, Duncan takes over hosting duties. He wants to be the one to introduce Julian to the girls, he says. “You got yourself well acquainted with Maria—as we can all attest—but we have other beauties with us, too, who unlike her are currently available. Here are the lovely Sheila and Kate. They’re sisters and nurses. They’re like sisters of mercy,” Duncan adds with a mischievous grin, “and I’ve been asking them for months to show me some mercy.” A bald thin smiling man in his sixties jumps out from a lower bunk and cries, “Duncan!” to which Duncan rolls his eyes and sheepishly says, “Sorry, Phil.” And quieter to Julian: “That’s Dr. Phil Cozens. He’s their dad, unfortunately.” He sighs. “Over by his side is their mum, Lucinda. When you talk to her, don’t mention the war.”
Julian smirks. Isn’t that line right out of Fawlty Towers? But Duncan is not joking. Lucinda, a stout, gray-haired woman, sits on a low bench, knitting to keep her hands busy and chatting to Phil about a trip to the country in the spring. If they book their travel now, she says, they can get a hefty discount.
Julian has no time to shake his head at the idea of planning a holiday for the coming spring while sleeping underground in the middle of 1940 London before he’s shoved in front of “sexy Shona,” the driver of the medical services truck, and Liz Hope, “who is a virgin,” Duncan whispers, dragging Julian away—past the mute woman working diligently on the jigsaw puzzle.
“Who’s that?”
“Frankie, the bone counter. Never mind her. She doesn’t like living human beings.”
“The bone counter?”
“I said never mind her!”
Peter Roberts, or “Robbie,” has his nose buried in a Learn French in Two Months book. He is a 60-year-old journalist on Fleet Street. Formal and stiff, he stands up to shake Julian’s hand. He is clean shaven and sharply dressed in a suit and bowtie, which he carefully adjusts as he gets up, even though it’s perfectly straight. After he shakes Julian’s hand, he sits back down and reopens the French reader. His posture is impeccable.
“Here, Robbie, let me fix that for you, it got crooked again,” says Wild, flicking up one end of the bowtie.
“When are you going to stop playing your games, Wild,” Robbie says, calmly rearranging his neckwear.
Robbie’s family is in Sussex, Duncan tells Julian, which is unlucky because recently south England has become “bomb alley.”
“Where is safe?” Julian says to no one in particular, glancing behind him for a glimpse of Maria’s amiable face.
“Here, mate,” Wild says. “Home, sweet home.”
Julian acknowledges the lived-in, semi-permanent appearance of their quarters, the books, the coats, the lamps. It’s like a college dorm. “You live here?”
“Nice, right?” Flanking Julian, Wild grins. “We’re by the emergency stairs, so we have our own private entrance. We have Phil on call, several nurses, who also happen to be his daughters, a chemical toilet at the end of the platform, and even our own warden. True, he’s not especially friendly, but if we throw him five bob, he watches our stuff when we’re gone.”
Julian clears his throat.
“No, no, whatever you do, don’t cough,” Maria says, flanking him on the other side, pointing at Phil Cozens. “Even if you’re choking. Even if you’re sick. Especially if you’re sick. Phil assumes it’s TB and good old Javert throws you out.”
“Maybe it is TB,” Finch says, hovering over Maria. “Also, he doesn’t like to be called Javert, dove.”
“She calls them like she sees them,” Peter Roberts pipes in, his nose in his French lesson.
“Hear, hear, Robbie!” says Wild—and the air raid siren goes off.
Julian’s heart drops. Except for the knitting Lucinda, everyone else stops talking and moving and listens alertly, though no one looks crushed like Julian. “Maybe it’s just a warning?” he asks.
“It’s always the real thing,” Wild replies. “Once or twice a day for some minor shit, and twice a night for the really terrible shit. For the stray bombs, they don’t even bother alerting us anymore. Last week, we had our first all clear day since September. The Krauts couldn’t fly. We were never more