Aubrey indicated an antique breastplate and a length of unbleached linen. “Clytemnestra requires a little more,” he said. “I’ll sneaky-weaky off to change. There’s some wine.”

  Sure enough there was a bottle of sherry, heavy with sediment, on the mantel and a pair of strange cups like martini glasses that had been half melted and flattened. I took a good swig before checking the tub, which had, I noticed, a drain pipe and a water supply, though a big ceramic pitcher stood beside it on the floor as backup. Nice enough for a bath before the fire, though hardly reassuring for Agamemnon, given that Clytemnestra kills him in his tub. Another swig of sherry—it really was dreadful stuff and possibly adulterated. Detecting an unfamiliar aftertaste, I spat into the fireplace.

  But, as Nan likes to say, in for a penny, in for a pound. I took off my leather jacket, discarded my clothes. The heap of linen resolved itself into a kilt and an oblong cape with a big round fastening pin. Kilt first, short enough to expose tender parts to the breeze. Breastplate next, light and mercifully nonmetallic, as there was a distinct chill in the room where fire, and even the past summer’s warmth, were only distant memories. Papier-mâché with handy elastic straps, the breastplate was clearly some theatrical prop. The cape next. Over one shoulder, fasten with the big archaic pin. On the back wall, light wavered in a full-length mirror, and there I was, despite the pudding face and a tad too much lipstick: King Agamemnon, loyal brother, great warrior, bad husband, worse father.

  “Come to the door.”

  I turned. Aubrey was standing in the doorway wearing a full-length gown of some purple stuff trimmed with gold. He was adorned with several large necklaces and the dark-feathered headdress that to me was more Queen of the Night than Mycenaean. I walked to the hall. He held up his hand, pointing to a spot at the edge of the purple runner. When I was correctly positioned, he swirled his gown and with one imperious gesture, became Queen Clytemnestra.

  “But it is the conqueror’s part to yield upon occasion.”

  “You think such victory is worth fighting for?” Was that the line?

  “Give way. Consent to let me have the mastery.”

  “As I step on these sea-purples may no god shoot me from afar with the envy of his eye.” I couldn’t remember the rest, but I saw it did not matter. Clytemnestra was deep in the moment, her eyes fathomless, her motions ritualistic, perhaps drugged. I wasn’t feeling too steady myself. Down the carpet toward the fatal bath while my homicidal queen declaimed to the imagined audience in the foyer.

  “ . . . if only its master walk at home, a grown man, ripe.

  O Zeus, the Ripener, ripen these my prayers;

  your part it is to make the ripe fruit fall.”

  The whisper of sandals on the rug. We were obviously dispensing with Cassandra and the chorus of nervous and ineffectual elders. Clytemnestra stalked in and turned on the tap to fill the water pitcher. With many gestures, some doubtless inspired by the Kabuki theatre, she motioned for me to undress for the Returning Hero’s Ritual Bath, or RHRB in our modern, military-inflected terminology. I hoped Aubrey had remembered to put some coins in the water heater.

  Off with the cape. Off, with the queen’s assistance, the breastplate. I suspect the real Clytemnestra got on with things a bit faster than Aubrey, who seemed keen to explore my anatomy. No matter, the farcical, the erotic, and the sinister were now so intermingled that my head was spinning. Into the tub, cold on the bottom, in both senses. Water poured, lukewarm—might have been worse—then, suddenly, something rough and stringy over my head and arms, a net. Instinctively, I threw up one arm and tried to stand but I was struck in the middle of the back. I gave a cry, more surprised than hurt, Agamemnon’s lines forgotten. “Let me up!” I yelled as I tried to get my feet under me. Clytemnestra shrieked in response and a second blow knocked me back so that I slipped on the wet porcelain and struck my head on a tap. I had time to hear Clytemnestra breathing hard and to feel something wet and sharp against my chest before a woozy blackness obliterated the sense that I’d made a dreadful mistake.

  Breathing and gasping, stray shrieks of pleasure or pain dying into a silence broken by the rustle of some long, feminine garment. I was clearly not dead. There was a lump on the back of my head, and I explored it unhampered by the net. Not trapped, either. I opened my eyes and almost passed out when I saw the dark river spilling from my shoulders to my groin. A bad scare provoking bad, bad memories. Living on one’s own in early youth exposes one to violent lusts and the drift of one’s own blood. I was on the verge, balanced on the sharp edge of nightmare—the worst, the waking kind—when a quick check of my throat proved the skin intact. Belly, and all parts below, likewise. I was definitely not dead. A deep breath brought in the scents of Clytemnestra’s heavy perfume, bad sherry, a fair whiff of mildew and drains, but not the abattoir stench of blood, the authentic odor of the House of Atreus. A play then, all just a play, or say, rather, a fetish of the most elaborate type, and the darkness that had nearly pushed me into my own bad dreams was some dramatic trick, such as a man of the theatre like Teck would surely know. Another deep breath and I turned on the taps. Bad idea. Cold water poured down my back, so icy that I almost hopped straight out. But cleansing, definitely, as a wash of red stuff ran off my back and shoulders and swirled down the drain with a burp and a gurgle.

  Clytemnestra was nowhere to be seen. She had disappeared, along with Agamemnon’s costume. A pity, that, as there was no towel. I shook myself dry as best I could, untangled my bundled-up clothes, and dressed. I was debating whether to rouse the Lady of the House of Atreus or vandalize the lounge or give vent in some other way to all the disquiets of the evening when I discovered that several new pound notes had been left in my jacket along with a note: “Best production ever!!!!” I detest the excessive use of exclamation marks, don’t you? But the pounds looked good, and it was much in Aubrey’s favor that he paid both promptly and generously. Roy’s assessment came back to me: Daft, simply daft, darling. About right.

  “I don’t think he’s the one,” I told Arnold when I returned to our room very late, very damp, rather sticky. He was sitting up in bed, reading the newest Ambler thriller, and as I hung up my leather jacket, I heard him gasp. “You’re all-over blood!”

  “Damn, my shirt will be ruined.”

  Thoroughly alarmed, Arnold got out of bed. “All strictly theatrical,” I said, though when I took off my shirt, the better hotel light revealed a multitude of scratches from Clytemnestra’s long nails. “Quite safe, if thoroughly weird.”

  I washed myself in the sink and left my stained shirt to soak while Arnold recounted the much-less-dramatic nightlife of Hove.

  “No sign of Connie, I suppose.”

  “Not a peep. And you know, he may be using another name.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It may be the done thing,” he said, pointing to one of the many cards pinned up along the front: MISS CHERIE, FOR THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE. “How many English girls are christened ‘Cherie,’ do you think?”

  How many indeed!

  Chapter Seven

  Seagulls woke me a few hours later—another of the reasons one should avoid the shore and other natural habitats—but spared me the continuation of a bizarre and unpleasant dream. I was tempted to be incommunicative, to pick a quarrel with Arnold, to behave badly. He ignored me and rang for breakfast. When it came, wheeled in on a large tray replete with silverware and covered dishes, sparkling china and fine linen, everything steaming hot and smelling wonderful, I burrowed out from under the covers and decided to be cheerful. I love breakfast in bed at all times, providing the bed is luxurious and the company good, and now real jam, real coffee, real butter—once unconsidered trifles—were an epicurean feast.

  There were kidneys, too, in wine sauce, and haddocks swimming in butter, which I love, and two perfect eggs—wherever were they getting them?—and proper little hotel racks of nicely done toast. Arnold has taught me how to eat properly and to appreciate good food, and I have done him proud as a pupil. Of course, with the wartime shortages, one didn’t need anything elaborate to be amazed, just ordinary unadulterated food like the lovely poached egg I shoveled onto a piece of beautiful real wheat bread.

  I found it impossible to stay irritable after such a start to the morning. We went back to bed for a while, and when we got up, Arnold bought me a new shirt. Then, since we had several hours before our train, he wanted to visit the piers, where he’d come as a boy and brought his own children. He had happy memories of the arcades and ballrooms, and breakfast inspired me to make the best of it. As we drifted along arm in arm, I asked likely lads if they knew a boy by the name of Connie. “He wears garnet lipstick and long nails. Blond hair, a flyweight. Seen him?” I made it clear that I owed Connie money and was looking to pay my debt.

  A young sailor just off convoy duty seemed a likely prospect. We bought beer and meat pies and sat on a bench all together for a while. He said he’d gone deaf in one ear from the naval guns. He was nineteen and looked five years younger, no bigger than a child despite his rough, swollen hands and thick Navy sweater. I much admired his bright pluckiness and his claim that it was easier for a smallish sailor—that was his description of himself, smallish—to get around a ship. He told us about one’s life expectancy in the cold north Atlantic—thirty minutes tops—and the new dangers since the German invasion of Norway, but he’d never heard of Connie.

  We had no better luck in the seedy little pubs along the front, nor with a group of RAF mechanics stooging about one of the dance floors.

  “Most likely he never was here at all,” Arnold said. “He wasn’t the sort of boy to leave his home ground, was he?”

  Not likely, I had to admit, but then Damien’s death had unsettled Connie, who had maybe latched on to his friend’s piece of good luck. What circles might that entail?

  At two p.m., we caught the London train, crammed with khaki, found seats before Horley, and were only delayed twice with air-raid alarms, once outside of Preston Park and again near Three Bridges. We reached Victoria two hours late, not at all bad for wartime travel. Arnold hailed a cab for home, and I rode the Underground, figuring to call the inspector from the phone box near my stop, emphasize my diligence, and get excused from all further efforts. I had just left the tube station and was within yards of the phone box, when Moaning Minnie started. No matter how often you hear it, you feel a jolt when that infernal screeching starts. I broke into a run for home. Though I was sure this would be just another false alarm or minor raid, I didn’t like Nan to be alone, and I wanted her to know that I was back safely. With the siren still howling like the lost and damned, I opened our door and called, “All right, Nan?”

  “Is it planes, dear boy? I thought I heard engines.”

  “I can’t hear a thing except the siren.”

  “Look outside.”

  At the window I saw something metallic moving behind the trees. Out onto the step. Overhead were schools of silver fish. Row upon row of Heinkels, Junkers, and Dorniers with their fighter escorts. Don’t be surprised at my aviation expertise—wardens are trained in spotting enemy aircraft. Moaning Minnie was lost in the rumble of their engines, a sound beyond sound that shivered the pavement and vibrated every cell in my body. Already smoke was rising in the east, and people were running in the streets amid speeding cars. This was it, but I didn’t believe it. All the waiting, the barrage balloons, the false alarms, the minor raids, the jokes about the Jerries. We’d thought, I suppose, that this particular inconvenient, but tolerable, life would go on indefinitely. More astonished than frightened, I couldn’t take in the attack right away; then a shout, “Report to the post! The show’s on this time.” Liam, of course. Excited as a kid at Christmas. This was the big one after all.

  Back inside, I grabbed my uniform jacket and my tin hat. “I’ve got to report. You’ll need to get to the basement, Nan. They’re bombing the East End.”

  “Not likely to bomb Chelsea,” she said, but she picked up her mask.

  “Where’s the torch?”

  “You’ll need to take it.”

  I realized we’d never replaced the one I lost. “I’ll get you downstairs, and I’ll come back for you. If the lights go, don’t try the stairs on your own.”

  “Light, dark makes no difference to me,” she said, but she let me take her arm as I counted off the steps. “Down three, turn left. Down . . . five, six, seven, eight. You’ll be facing the door to the lumber room. One, two, three steps, handle on the right. Could you manage it yourself?”

  She shoved the door; on her second try it opened to the dim basement with piles of trunks, old bicycles, and rubbish. A thin gray light seeped in from one small, high window that had never been fitted for the blackout. Not that it mattered now; they’d found us anyway.

  “Stay away from the window. And use your mask at the first hint of gas. You’ll be all right, Nan?”

  “You go ahead, dear boy. Be careful.”

  I kissed her cheek, closed the door behind me, and raced up the steps to keep away bad thoughts about leaving her in the darkness. I was wheezing by the time I hit the street and saw the young secretary who lived upstairs, running full tilt in her high heels.

  “It’s a raid,” she shouted. “It’s real this time. It’s real; we’re going to die.” She was white around the nose and mouth and near panic.

  “Go to the basement,” I said in my best warden voice. “Nan’s there. Look after her for me.”

  Oh, the power of a tin hat and a badge: The girl took a big breath and got hold of herself.

  “Nan’s downstairs?” Nan was a general favorite.

  “Best place. You’ll be safe from a blast there.” I didn’t know about gas. If gas came, we might all be finished, masks or not. I actually stood there for a minute, calculating the time of exposure, the margin of safety, but I still wasn’t frightened. Except for anxiety about Nan, I didn’t feel anything. Not then.

  The young secretary shouted to a plump, flush-faced girl in a spotted dress—funny how clearly I saw the details, the white ruffle at her neck, the red buttons—who had run herself out of breath and was holding her side. No panic now in the magic of a plan, even one as defective as this. “Hurry up, Esther. We’re to go to the basement.”

  I hurried off though my sector, checking the rows of houses. Children running for home or gawking at the planes or clinging, weeping, to frantic mothers trying to maneuver infants, prams, purses, shopping bags, and favorite toys to safety. Men in shirtsleeves, disturbed at their Saturday chores or football scores, shouted questions. I shouted back, pointing, directing, dodging cars and bicycles. Shut off the gas. Electric, too. Leave house doors open for blast! A few were in hysterics, weeping with panic; most calm, needing only direction, a reminder of the nearest shelter; some carried masks like sinister piglets. Use your Anderson shelter. Go down to the basement, the tube station, the crypt. Go to ground like a fox.

  I hoped to hell that was right. Gas is heavy and falls like a blanket onto your chest, slides into your eyes, and coats your lungs. But bombs get you on the surface and hit the upper stories first: no good choices. There was the butcher in his striped apron—I sent him to our basement, dubious company for Nan!—and further on, discovered the newsstand boy huddled under the roof of the kiosk, still at his post. “Take cover! Now! Tube station’s closest.” Even then, in the midst of my warden’s duties, I was having trouble with the reality that we might all be minutes away from annihilation by some toxic cloud.

  By the time I reached the wardens post, having doubled back to be sure that there was no one left unprotected, thick columns of dust, smoke, and fire billowed to the east; they were hitting the dockyards. The sky was filled horizon to horizon with flights of bombers making a queer, uneven drone like a million drunken bees. Where were our guns? Our fighters? Nothing. Nothing but the floating barrage balloons as our guardians. I could smell the odd mix of sweet and sharp from the burning wharves and warehouses as the goods of London went up in smoke.

  Inside our HQ, a cramped room in the basement of the Geological Survey Museum, everyone was milling around, desperate to act but uncertain what would help and trying to look busy as commands and suggestions flew right and left.

  “Blackout’s not going to get done,” one of our wardens was shouting.

  “No matter now, they’ll navigate by the fires,” said Liam.

  “More important to get people into shelters.”

  “No good if there’s gas. We’ll need stretchers, burial details.” This was an old major, a veteran of the Somme, another for whom the Great War was an eternal presence.

  “Any reports yet of gas?” That was our head warden. Another vet, a sergeant, but younger, less marked; short, ordinary in every way, but a natural leader. He and his wife, Joan, ran the greengrocer’s on the corner and shared the work at the post. Calm and smiling, she made up gallons of tea and catered the baskets of sandwiches. He had the gift of organization; as soon as he took control, we fell into place—a talent, that. “Everyone’s sector checked?” We reported as he read off our names. “You all have your lists?” We did. If we took a hit, we’d use our lists to canvass the survivors and discover the missing.

 

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