Chapter 18
The water was choppy, small waves hitting the front of the boat as they made their way back downriver. Ahead, the sky was orange. A false sunrise, caused by the blazing docks. A flock of pigeons wheeled above them, confused by the light.
Cook thought about the wreckage of the bus. They’d had to detour through the backstreets alongside Piccadilly, the main road closed. As they’d crossed the top of Sackville Street, he’d looked down to the other end of the road. An ARP warden had been laying blankets on the ground, covering bodies.
Cook pictured a busy bus. A young woman running to catch it. Jumping on as it pulled away. A lone bomber, an excitable Luftwaffe pilot, either gone rogue, or following a new kind of order – a deliberate attack against the civilian population.
But why would Ruby be running along Piccadilly if she didn’t work at the tea shop? Enough of a question for Cook to keep quiet. Let Gracie run through her own thoughts, in her own time.
If Ruby had been on the bus, they’d find out sooner or later.
How would it be done? A telegram? A policeman, most likely, tasked with delivering the news.
They’d have special training. A script developed.
Hundreds of thousands on the first night of proper bombing they said.
There’d be some kind of pre-printed government notice – a condolence from Churchill.
They passed back under Tower Bridge. It had been two hours since they’d left to find Ruby, and still the bombers were coming.
Gracie pointed at the nearest formation.
Bombs fell delicately, like seeds from a dried seedhead, glinting as they reflected the setting sun.
Cook heard a distant rattling, like a sewing machine.
Short bursts. A flare of light in the sky – one of the bombers was hit.
The plane, still little more than a dot in the distance, dropped out of formation, towards the skyline, a thread of smoke trailing behind it.
It went out of sight, behind distant warehouses far downriver. A puff of smoke went up, then the sound, following behind. An explosion.
Soon, all Cook could hear was their own outboard motor, and the planes. The drone of the bombers drowned out all other sound from the city.
Still the planes came, and still the bombs fell.
Gracie nudged the tiller, taking them in towards the shore. Cook made out the spire of the church almost invisible against a pall of thick, black smoke. It seemed like the whole island was on fire, and the closer they got, the fiercer the heat.
Cook looked for defensive gunfire. Where was the ack-ack? Had there been a plot to take out the gunners on the ground? A co-ordinated attack? Perhaps parachutists, dropped earlier in the day, or spies lying low, ready for the invasion.
A Spitfire dropped out of a thick cloud, directly above them. It circled furiously, trying to shake off a pursuer. It flew back up the river, underneath Tower Bridge, then lifted back into the sky, almost vertically. Rejoining the fight.
And still the bombers came.