I didn’t know whether to laugh or be indignant. The latter won out. “Look here, Officer,” I said, “I was only trying to make my way to my friend’s house and I must have taken a wrong turn. I had no idea I was anywhere near the river.”
“If you say so, miss,” he said.
I was tempted to tell him that it was “my lady” and not “miss,” but I was feeling so uncomfortable now that I just wanted to get away. “If you could just direct me back in the direction of Knightsbridge,” I said. “Or Belgravia. I came from Belgrave Square.”
“Blimey, then you are out of your way. You’re by Chelsea Bridge.” He took my arm and escorted me back across the Embankment, then up what he identified as Sloane Street to Sloane Square. I refused his renewed offer of a cup of tea at the police station and told him I’d be all right now I knew which street I was on.
“If I was you, I’d go straight home,” he said. “This is no weather to be out in. Talk to your friend on the old blow piece.”
Of course he was right, but I only used the telephone in emergencies, as Fig objected to paying the bill and I had no money to do so. I realized it would have been more sensible today, but actually it was human company I craved. It’s awfully lonely camping out in a big house without even my maid to talk to and I’m the sort of person who likes company. So I set out from Sloane Square and eventually made my way to Belinda’s mews without further incident, only to find it was as I suspected and she wasn’t home.
I tried to retrace my steps to Belgrave Square, really wishing I’d taken the policeman’s advice and gone straight home. Then through the fog I heard a noise I recognized—a train whistle. So some trains were still running in spite of the fog, and Victoria Station was straight ahead of me. If I found the station I’d be able to orient myself easily enough. Suddenly I came upon a line of people, mostly men, standing dejectedly, scarves over their mouths, hands thrust into their pockets. I couldn’t imagine what they were doing until I smelled the boiled cabbage odor and realized that they were lining up for the soup kitchen at the station.
That was when I had a brilliant idea. I could volunteer to help out at the soup kitchen. If I volunteered there the family would approve, in fact the queen herself had suggested that I do some charity work, and at least I’d get one square meal a day until Binky and Fig arrived. I hadn’t been able to afford decent food for ages. In fact there was a horrid empty sick feeling in my stomach at this moment. I started to walk past the line to try to find somebody in charge when a hand shot out and grabbed me.
“ ’Ere, where do you think you’re going?” a big, burly man demanded. “Trying to cut in, weren’t you? You go to the end and take your turn like the rest of us.”
“But I was only going to speak to the people who run the kitchen,” I said. “I was going to volunteer here.”
“Garn—I’ve heard every excuse in the book. Go on, to the back of the queue.”
I turned away, mortified, and was about to slink off home when the man behind him stepped out. “Look at her, Harry. She’s all skin and bone and anyone can see she’s a lady, fallen on hard times. You come in front of me, ducks. You look like you’re about to pass out if you don’t get a good meal soon.”
I was about to decline this kind offer but I caught a whiff of that soup. You can tell how hungry I was when boiled cabbage actually smelled good to me. What harm could there be in sampling the wares before I offered my services? I gave the man a grateful smile and slipped into the line. We inched closer and closer and finally into the station itself. It had an unnaturally deserted air, but I heard the hiss of escaping steam from an engine and a disembodied voice announced the departure of the boat train to Dover, awaking in me a wistful longing. To be on the boat train to Dover and the Continent. Wouldn’t that