The Streets of London

Two drifters, off to see the world,
There's such a lot of world to see.

Johnny Mercer

Cecilia Armitage and her Horatio sat next to me on the train. She was bouncing with excitement and Horatio's feathers were all a-twitch. In fact she was so wound up that I was beginning to wonder if I should have told her my plan.

I hadn't told her all of it. I wasn't quite as silly as that. What Cecilia thought was that I had met a boy in the summer holidays. Darren, I called him, and his shrew-daemon's name was Maura. Cecilia's eyes glowed as I described his handsome face, his long brown wavy hair, the special way he had with animals, his soft lilting voice and his knowing hands. In fact, after half an hour of this kind of talk I was quite fancying him myself.

'Ooh, Sunny!' Cecilia gasped at intervals. Meanwhile, I was making notes in my head. I could just see Darren taking a leading role in my next story.

It was a fine Saturday morning, and we had a whole week off for half-term. Cecilia and I had bagged a compartment to ourselves in the green Southern Railways train that was taking us up to London. A porter had put our cases on the racks overhead and touched the peak of his cap respectfully. Ceely had given him sixpence for his trouble. I had given him nothing. I couldn't spare any money, not yet. I didn't know how long the four pounds, six and sevenpence-halfpenny in my purse would have to last me.

'And so,' Cecilia giggled, 'your people think you're going to Argyll with me, when really you're going to be in Lowestoft with Darren. Aren't you afraid that you'll... get, you know? Preggers?'

'Oh no,' I said airily. 'We'll take precautions. Darren knows all about that. After all...'

'Yes?'

'They worked before.'

'Ooh, Sunny!'

Good grief. When would this girl stop giggling?

'Now, Ceely, don't forget. I've given you two letters to post. Send one off as soon as you get to Glen Bruce. That'll tell Aunt Sybil I've arrived safely. Send the other one Wednesday afternoon. It's full of stuff about the moors, and shooting and riding. She'll read them and think I'm romping around in Scotland with you.'

'While all the time...'

'Yes!' I grinned. 'Ooh, Ceely! I can't wait!'

We parted at Crècy station. Cecilia headed for the taxi rank while I pretended to be waiting for Darren who, I'd said, would be wearing grey flannels, a brown tweed jacket and a green tie. Aunt Sybil's last letter was still in my blazer pocket. It read:

Dear Sonya,

I must say that I am deeply disappointed that you will not be coming home for the half-term. There are many things that we have to discuss - serious things to do with your future. You should not have accepted the Armitages' kind invitation without consulting me first. While your father is at sea, I am your legal guardian and responsible for your safety and welfare.

I shall write to your Housemistress expressing my disapproval of your actions and I should not be at all surprised if you were not deprived of some of your Sixth Form privileges as a result.

Aunt Sybil

'Well, stuff you,' I said, and threw the letter into the nearest bin.

The first thing to do was to change into civvies. No, the first thing to do was to buy some civvies. None of the things I wore at school looked like anything but schoolgirl clothes, and a schoolgirl was the last thing I wanted to look like. So I picked up my case - it was packed with pyjamas and spare socks and underthings - and, with Alfie tucked safely into my left-hand blazer pocket, strode out of the station and into the street outside.

I didn't know London very well and, to make it worse, the place had changed since the War began. Because of the Zepp raids all the windows had had to be taped up and blacked out at night, so the shops looked strange, with rolls of dark curtains hanging by the sides of the displays ready to be drawn at closing time. I shuddered, although the weather was warm for October. Didn't they pull black curtains across the windows of a house when someone had died there?

We walked north and west, towards the centre of Town. I was looking for Mitchell's Outfitters, where my school clothes had come from. I had the idea that we might have an account there, so I could buy some new clothes without spending any of my precious and limited stock of cash. I'd emptied my School Bank account the day before and I had no chance of getting any more money until I had put my Grand Plan into action.

After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing and getting lost and asking a constable the way we found Mitchell's. It was the kind of clothes shop that specialised in practical, hard-wearing things - the kind of shop that Aunt Sybil approved of. I wasn't sure that I'd be able to find anything there that I could bear to be seen in, but after a lot of searching I managed to track down a not-too-bad jacket and a couple of winter blouses together with a really-not-bad-at-all navy blue pencil skirt that made me feel pretty good, despite its being made of heavy woollen serge. The assistant piled the stuff on the counter and, taking a stylus from a little pocket in her tunic, worked out the total amount.

'That'll be thirty-five pounds, six and eleven, please,' she said, looking at me expectantly and holding out her hand.

I tried to sound casual, although my heart was thumping in my chest and Alfie was twitching uncomfortably in my pocket. 'Charge it to my account,' I said.

'Certainly, Miss. Name of?'

'Moon,' I said.

'Address?'

'The Stocks, near Goring, Oxfordshire.'

'Just a moment, please.' The assistant reached under the counter for a ledger, lifted it onto the top and flipped open its pages. 'Ah yes. Captain Sir Ronald Moon?'

'Yes, he's my father.'

'Good. Yes, that's quite satisfactory. Do you have a carnet?'

'I'm sorry?'

'A carnet. An identification card.'

'No.' Why would I have an identification card? I thought they were only for grown-ups.

'I'm sorry, Miss, but we need to be sure that you are who you say you are. Sir Ronald is quite a well-known person. Do you understand?'

Oh hell. Yes, I understood very well. They couldn't let just anybody stroll up to the counter, claim they were Captain Moon's daughter, and walk off with thirty-five pounds' worth of goods on account.

'I'm sorry, no.'

'Other forms of identification may also be acceptable, Miss. Do you, perhaps, have a letter with you? A letter from home?'

Yes, it was in a rubbish bin at Crècy station. A fat lot of use that was to me now. I shook my head. Suddenly the clothes were no longer on top of the counter but behind it, out of our reach.

'We could send an anbarogram to your home and ask them to confirm your identity. Let's see,' she referred to her ledger, 'the anbarographic address is Undaunted, Aldbrickham. Would you like me to do that for you? You could pop back later to collect your purchases or wait here for the answer.'

'No. No, thank you. I'll leave it for now.'

I turned and walked out of the shop. I could feel the assistant's eyes watching my every step. Thief, thief, she'd be thinking. She'd tell her supervisor about me and probably be given a pat on the back, or even a bonus. 'Keep going,' said Alfie, as the street door swung back behind us. 'Don't let them see which way we go. Don't turn round.'

That wasn't very likely. My face was blazing hot; burning with frustration and shame. I walked as fast as I could in the direction of the river and Alfie... Alfie simply flew.

We sat on a bench near the Embankment. It was a relief to get away from the crowded streets and Alfie and I needed to catch our breath.

'I have never felt so bloody humiliated!'

'We weren't very clever, were we? If we'd been paying attention last time we were there we'd have known that Mitchell's would be awkward.'

'So we would. Look, Alfie, we've got to pull ourselves together. And - I've absolutely got to get out of these frightful clothes!'

A constable walked in front of our bench, whistling a marching tune and giving us a curious glance. It was the second time he'd passed us and it looked as if we were attracting his interest. Soon he'd be back and asking us what we were doing, and where my parents were. After that, we'd be hauled off to the police station and have to answer some awkward questions. It was time to move on.

'Come along, Sir Alpharintus.' Alfie grabbed hold of my sleeve with his sharp little claws and I got up to leave.

'That's another thing,' said Alfie. 'Let's stop sounding so bloody posh, shall we?'

We turned away from the river and made our way back into the busy streets of London. I knew - because I'd checked it on the map at school - that the place we wanted to get to was somewhere not too far north of Eversholt station. I was feeling quite hungry as it had been several hours since breakfast so, seeing a roast-chestnut stall by the side of the road I spent sixpence on a bag of cobs and another threepence on a cup of tea. I had an idea.

''Scuse me, mate,' I said to the man behind the stall, as he piled more nuts onto the griddle.

'Yes, love?'

'There ain't nowhere nearby where I could get some new clothes cheap, is there?'

'Clothes? What clothes?'

'You know. Like, normal clothes. Like she's wearing. Make me look like her.' I pointed out a girl - a pretty girl wearing a nice coat and dress - standing by the door of a public house opposite. The chestnut man looked at me and laughed.

'Jessie? You want to look like Jessie?' He rubbed his hands on his apron. 'Hey George!'

Another man appeared from behind the stall. 'Eddie?'

'Party here wants to look like our Jessie!'

Eddie looked at me and his face split in a broad grin. 'She could too, if she wanted. Here, Jessie! Jessie!' he shouted. His voice cut through the noise of the passing 'buses and lorries and roused the girl. She looked up. 'Yeah?' she called back.

'Party here wants to look like you!'

'What?' The girl crossed the road, ignoring the traffic, and walked right up to me. She stared at me - straight into my eyes.

'Go home, sweetie.' She spat onto the pavement. 'Go home, you silly little trollop, before you do end up looking like me.'

'How rude!' said Alfie. The girl's mouse-daemon screwed his face up in annoyance. Now that Jessie was standing right next to me I could see that her face was painted with rouge and her fading hair was dyed. Her clothes, which had looked stylish and expensive from a distance, were made of cheap stuff - coal-silk velvet and artificial fur. She smelled like our housemaids used to; of gin and sweat, and her stockings had been darned many times over.

'Go on! Go home,' Jessie said, and turned her back on me. She crossed back to the Prescott Arms and took up her old position against the doorpost.

'The sailors love our Jessie,' said Eddie. 'She knows what they like, if you see what I mean.' I thought I saw what he meant, but I didn't want to think about it. 'Look, love, if you want to buy some clothes, why don't you go to the market?'

'The market? Where's that?'

'Dean Street. Go over there past the pub, then it's half a mile down the Charing Cross Road. You can't miss it.'

'Thanks, mate.' I handed my teacup back to Eddie and set off in the direction he'd pointed. I passed Jessie, but she paid me no attention. A group of soldiers - out on a weekend's leave, I suppose - were approaching and she was watching them, not me.

I loved the market. It wasn't quite the same as I was used to at home - it was strung out along the pavement instead of being set in a square - but it was lively and colourful and the stallholders were friendly. Thirty bob bought me a winter skirt and a short jacket. Another one and sixpence for a nice pink headscarf and I was all set. I slipped into the ladies' privy in a nearby branch of Warings and changed, cramming my Highdean things into my case. 'They'll crease,' said Alfie.

'I don't care,' I replied. I checked myself in the glass, retied the headscarf so my hair looked right, and sauntered out of the swing doors. What a relief! Now I was just another girl out on the streets of London. Prettier than most, but what was wrong with that? I strolled happily up Charing Cross Road and down into the Chthonic station. Three or four stops to my destination. I paid for my ticket - it was only twopence - and took the lift down to the platform.

'This time...' said Alfie, as we waited for the train.

'Yes?' I beamed at him.

'No stupid stunts! You behave yourself!'

'Of course I will.' Of course I did. The train rattled in and we got on board, along with a crowd of Saturday afternoon shoppers. I preferred hanging on to the straps to sitting down, so I wedged myself against the side of the carriage and let the train push me around as it twisted its way through the tunnels. The walls were plastered with advertisements: for Fluorodyne Mixture and War Loans and a new play at the Haymarket Theatre. There was another poster of a different kind, printed in bright red ink. It read:

TO THE YOUNG WOMEN OF LONDON

Is your Best Boy in Khaki? Don't you think he should be?

If he will not answer the Nation's Call, can he possibly be worthy of You?

If he will not defend his Country, will he defend You?

If he has no Honour, will he honour You?

If he will not rally to the Colours, what Colour should he wear? Should it not be White, the Pale Banner ofCowardice?

Think about it: then tell him to:

JOIN THE ARMY TODAY!

I loved it! It was so true! So right! If my brother could get into uniform and go to sea to save us from the Heathen Horde (and not come back), why couldn't they? If my father could rejoin his ship, even though he didn't have to, why couldn't they? I looked around the carriage, seeking out the slackers. I'd show 'em. Gosh, I almost got off the train at Eversholt and joined the White Handkerchief League on the spot. Their address was at the bottom of the poster. I could have, but that wouldn't have been enough. I was going to do so much more than that.

The Chthonic station at Mornington Crescent had a lift, but I was so eager I couldn't bear to wait for it. I ran up the spiral staircase and out of the gates into the street outside. There I stood on the pavement, got my breath back and looked around. There were fewer shops here than in the part of Town I'd just left and more houses. Big, tall houses with wide doorways and narrow steps down to the area basements where the kitchens and the servants were.

It wasn't a house I was looking for. I stopped a woman who was pushing a pram down the road. 'Hello', I said. 'Are you going to the park?'

'Yes, I am. Are you going that way too?' She looked friendly, so we walked along together.

'Is he yours?' I pointed to the baby. All you could see of him (or her) was a pink face and a bump under the blanket that must have been her (or his) daemon.

'Oh no! That's Master Nicolas.' Of course - she was a nanny. Not a born Londoner, either, by the sound of her voice.

'He's a nice baby.'

'He's a quiet baby, and that's what matters.' The nanny's terrier-daemon nodded his head. I laughed.

'Will we be going anywhere near the ambulance depot, by the way?'

'The ambulance depot? Oh no! That's over there.' She pointed eastwards. 'Is that where you want to go?'

'Yes. I'm meeting my friend Mabel Patterson. Do you know her?'

'Oh no! I don't know anybody there. Rowdy place. Comings and goings all time of the day and night. Nice girl like you doesn't want to go there. A rough lot, if you ask me.'

'You don't like them?'

'Oh no!' Right. That was good enough for me.

I left Master Nicolas and his nurse behind and crossed the road. It was peaceful after the rush of Dean Street. I liked that. It was a relief - I was starting to feel tired. My case was getting heavier and heavier, so I sat down on a low garden wall to give my sore shoulders a rest. Alfie lay in my lap and looked up at me.

'This is what we want to do, isn't it?' he said.

'Of course it is!' I looked into his eyes. 'Look, we can't go back to Goring. Not now!'

'But it's our home.'

'Not with Her running things, it isn't. Come on. It's not far now. Do you want to carry the case for me?'

'Don't be daft!'

'Sorry.' I stood up and we set off again.

You couldn't miss the depot. It must have been a small manufactory or an autobus garage before the War for it had an open yard which you reached through a pair of tall wooden gates and behind it there was a two-storey brick building with a tin roof. White-painted vehicles were continuously entering and leaving the yard and honking their horns, and the air was hazy with their fumes. It looked dangerously busy. Alfie looked one way, I looked the other and together we crossed the yard and went into the building by a battered metal door. Inside was a cramped office containing a row of grey metal filing cabinets and a desk with a uniformed middle-aged lady sitting behind it, her lark-daemon perched on her left shoulder.

'Excuse me, Goodwife,' I said, putting down my case. 'This is number twelve ambulance depot, isn't it?'

The woman looked up from the form she was filling in.

'Yes, young lady, it is. What do you want?'

'I'm looking for Driver Patterson. Mabel.'

'Why?'

I was nonplussed for a moment. Why shouldn't I be looking for Driver Patterson?

'Because... Because she said I could find her here.'

'I see.' The lark-daemon pecked at his wings with his sharp little beak, tidying them.

'Right. Just a minute.' The woman rotated her swivel chair and looked at a chart on the wall behind her. 'You're in luck. She's off duty. You'll find her in the rec room. Out of the door, turn right and up the stairs. Watch out for the traffic.'

'Thank you, Goodwife,' I said, but she had already returned to her paperwork.

Round by the side of the building I found an outside stairway. I climbed it - really feeling the weight of my case now - and pushed open the door at the top. It opened into a room whose walls were painted a dingy beige. Around the walls were a collection of posters - some crumpled and old, some bright and new - of kinema stars and popular singers and bands. In the far corner a huge mahogany wireless set was blasting dance music at full volume and lining the walls were old chairs and sofas, covered in stained fabric or greasy naugahyde.

A number of young women were sitting, or lying, or sleeping, on the sofas. Their faces told me all I needed to know about them - they were dog-tired, worn-out, exhausted. Their daemons lay or slept or sat next to them. Some of them were still awake beside their sleeping partners, looking out for them.

'Mabel?' I said, not wanting to speak so loud that I'd wake the sleepers, but still needing to make myself heard over the wireless. 'Mabel? Mabel Patterson?'

A face looked up. 'Yes?' I recognised Mabel's auburn locks and her chaffinch-daemon Hal, so I crossed the room and crouched on the floor next to them.

'Mabel, it's me. Sunny. Sunny Moon. You remember, at Paddington Chthonic. I fainted. You drove me to Crècy station.'

Mabel shook her head, to clear it, I suppose. 'Did I? Oh, wait a mo. Sunny Moon? Geegee's little sis?'

'That's me. You said I could come round and see you.'

'Did I? Oh yes, I suppose I did. Only, you see, I'm rather whacked at the moment. Why don't you come back in, oh, two or three years or so when this bloody War is over.'

'No! No! I can't do that!' I felt like bursting into tears. 'No!'

'Why not?' Mabel sat up. 'What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at home?'

'I'm not going home. I'm beggared if I'm going home! I'm staying here with you. I want to join up. I want to be an ambulance driver like you. I want to stop being so bloody useless and do something important like you do. I want to help. I can't help when I'm stuck in a stupid classroom, learning rubbish like Roman verbs and Frankish nouns and doing bloody stinking stupid deportment exercises! They want to make me a lady. I don't want to be a lady! I want to do something worthwhile. Oh Mabel, won't you help me join up?'

The other girls in the room were looking at us now, disturbed by the pitch of my voice. Alfie stared back at them. He looked as desperate as I felt, with his fur - his silky-soft fur - ruffled and his eyes bulging half out of their sockets.

'Calm down, won't you?' said Mabel. 'Join up? You can't join up, you imbecile! You're only a baby. How old are you?'

I knew the right answer to that one. Gerry had told me what age you had to be to enlist. 'I'm nineteen.'

'You are nowhere near nineteen!'

'I am. I was nineteen last June. You can't prove I'm not.'

Mabel and Hal looked into each other's eyes while Alfie snuggled into the crook of my elbow.

'Look,' I said. 'I can tell you need help. Why not give me a try?'

She thought for a moment. 'We are working double shifts... Can you drive?'

'Of course I can,' I lied.

'And you really mean it? You really want to join the Ambulance Service?'

'Yes I do.'

'All right.' Mabel stood up slowly. 'I'll take you downstairs to see the boss. Only; you'd better mean it. You'd better not let us down, or we'll make you sorry you ever came here.

'Actually,' Mabel gave me a weary smile as we walked down the stairs, 'after a week of this place you'll be sorry anyway. Welcome to the madhouse!'