TO THEM IT MUST have looked like an Aladdin’s Cave – an Aladdin’s Cave of junk, canned food, cardboard boxes, and weapons, all kinds of stuff that came in handy when you lived in a city where shopping was free but nobody produced any more; and where blood-bandits roamed the empty streets, so that shopping was sometimes a risky business.
My suite in the Savoy had lost some of its elegance because of the clutter, no doubt about that, and there was a whole lot less room than when I’d first moved in. We were crowded inside a tiny vestibule between the bedroom and sitting room, the jumble spilling into both, and to our right was a marble bathroom with a stirrup pump that fed from the half-filled tub standing in the doorway in case of sudden fire (what good the pump would do in a real emergency was debatable, but it might at least buy me time to escape into the hallway). The pastel-coloured walls of both rooms were easily overwhelmed by the flashy labels of canned foods and mixed jars, and only the king-size bed was free of clutter in the maze that was my refuge; the mess was everywhere, things piled high on easy chairs and mirrored dressing table, a selection of handguns and cartons of ammo on the lounger, a shotgun leaning against the writing desk. Boxes full of items I couldn’t even remember poked out of the half-open closet. A radio that would never broadcast again stood on a small occasional table by an armchair heaped with magazines and books, and on the fancy Louis-Seize escritoire was my wind-up gramophone, a stack of dusty records next to it, Bing Crosby still on the turntable.
The two girls had already wandered into the sitting room and were gawking about – ration-book kids in an overstocked candy store. I didn’t know what they’d been living on the past three years, but from the wonder in their eyes I guessed their cuisine had been pretty dull. Muriel glanced back at me, gave me a smile, then went to a cabinet set against the near wall where a mountain of canned stuff was piled high. She picked one can out and the mountain threatened to topple; it steadied itself, though, and she read the can’s label.
‘Creamola Custard Pudding,’ she said in awe.
Cissie giggled and put a finger against another label. ‘Fancy Quality Fish Roll,’ she read aloud, and her interest instantly moved on. ‘Mrs Peek’s Puddings. Batchelors Peas. Oh wow, peaches…’
‘Ostermilk for Babies?’ Muriel said questioningly from another stack.
‘Look.’ Cissie again. ‘He’s got coffee. Three whole bottles of Camp Coffee.’
‘Handy eggs.’ Muriel. ‘Ugh, dried whole egg.’
‘All I can get hold of,’ I put in, beginning to enjoy their enjoyment
‘Spam. Oh dear, lots of Spam.’ Muriel sounded disappointed, but I could tell she was joshing.
‘And Weetabix,’ said Cissie, a grin spread all over her face as she scanned the rest of the room. ‘Bovril, Ovaltine, Peek Frean biscuits, marmalade. My oh my, you’re determined not to go hungry, Yank.’ She drew in a sharp breath. ‘Are those fresh vegetables over there?’ she asked, pointing.
‘A week or so old,’ I assured her. ‘Grew ‘em myself on one of my allotments. It wasn’t easy after last winter.’
She was already picking up potatoes and examining each one individually. ‘After everyone had gone or died at the sanatorium we tried to grow our own, but somehow it never worked out. I suppose we’d both have been useless as land girls, but that’s the problem when one of you has been brought up in a London pub and the other’s the daughter of a lord.’ She indicated her friend, and it was easy to figure which one was the lord’s daughter.
‘Didn’t you get supplies from the nearest town?’ I asked, surprised.
‘We were too scared to go far,’ replied Muriel, her interest still on the gold mine of food around her. ‘The nearest houses were the furthest we strayed. Mostly we ate from the centre’s own stores. We were afraid we’d catch some disease off the dead, or even be infected with the Blood Death itself. Nobody knew anything, you see, not even the scientists in charge of research. Are those cabbages I see?’
She hurried to another box on the floor. ‘Oh, and Brussels sprouts, and onions. You must have worked hard to have achieved all this, Mr Hoke.’
‘Just Hoke,’ I told her, then shook my head. ‘All I’ve done is kept a few things going. It isn’t much, considering.’
‘May I?’ Stern had followed us through to the sitting room and had lifted a single pack of Camels from a carton on a straight-backed chair.
I nodded and he quickly broke open the pack. He put the cigarette between his lips, then searched around for matches.
‘Over there,’ I pointed to the mantelpiece above an extinct electric fire.
As he took a box of Swan Vestas from my stockpile of matches, he studied himself in the dust-dulled mirror over the mantelpiece and frowned. He was filthy, but it must have come as a slight shock. Maybe he’d always thought his kind didn’t pick up the dirt like the rest of us.
‘I need to wash,’ he said, more to his own reflection than to me. ‘You say there is plenty of water in this hotel?’ Now he was looking at me, but only through the mirror.
‘The Savoy has its own artesian wells, but the pumps are out of action. The tanks are still pretty full, though.’
‘Me first,’ Cissie insisted quickly. ‘I can’t go another minute stinking like this.’
I guessed stinking wasn’t a word Muriel used a lot, especially when it applied to her own body, but she was nodding in agreement ‘Yes, I’d like to get cleaned up too. Then perhaps we can enjoy some of this lovely food; I’m beginning to feel quite faint and it’s not just from fatigue.’
I addressed them all: ‘You’re in a building full of bath-rooms, so you won’t have to take turns. But stick to this floor, don’t go wandering off.’
I noticed the German, now puffing away at his cigarette, had strolled over to the M1 carbine leaning against the writing desk and my hand went inside my jacket when I thought he was going to pick it up. Instead he passed by the rifle and went to the tall window overlooking the park and River Thames below. The drapes were open, but a lace curtain covered the glass.
When he raised a hand to draw the lace aside, I said, ‘Leave it alone. I close the curtains at night if I’m using light -’ I indicated the candles and lamps set around the room ‘- and in the daytime the netting is always kept in place.’
‘In case someone looks up and wonders?’ he mused, and although I couldn’t see his face, I knew there was a half-smile there. ‘Quite unlikely, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Unlikely or not, I don’t take chances.’
‘I could do with a stiffener.’ Potter had sat himself down on the edge of the sofa and was eyeing the array of bottles crowding the low coffee table in front of him. Gin, vodka, and several brands of whisky – Famous Grouse, Haig, Johnnie Walker, and even good ol’ Jack Daniel’s, as well as bourbon and rye – all of them severely rationed during the war, but not nowadays. Hell, there was even the Savoy’s own special blend to drink, a Scotch as fine as any I’d tasted, and I’d tasted a lot during my lonely nights in this city. Then there were the wines – hocks, moselles (yeah, German, old stock, I guess), clarets and burgundies, even some vintage stuff – sharing space on the edge and underneath the table with cartons of cigarettes – Lucky Strike, Camel, Wills Capstan, Churchmans No 1, and some I hadn’t even taken note of. Genocide had turned me into a heavy smoker as well as an inebriate.
‘Help yourself,’ I said to Potter as his roving gaze took in all that was on offer. ‘I’ll get you a clean glass.’
‘No need, son, no need.’ He gave a satisfied grunt and reached for the Grouse. ‘Plannin to drink an’ smoke yerself to death, was yer?’
He didn’t wait for a reply, nor did I bother with one. His plump fist closed over the neck of the bottle and he gave the top a twist
‘Yer know, I was always scared to come inta the Savoy after those last V2s dropped.’ He paused to hold the bottle up and examined the golden liquid before he drank, the loose cap in the palm of his other hand. ‘Even though I’d seen you comin and goin a few times, I was still frightened of what I might find in ‘ere. I coulda raided the American Bar easy enough if I’d had the spunk to come inside, but nah, somehow it wasn’t in me.’
He took his first swallow, the whisky glugging into his throat.
‘You weren’t afraid of entering the Civil Defence shelter,’ I reminded him.
‘That was different. I knew most of them people. I wasn’t as funny about it. But this lot in here – toffs, rich people, even some of our own leaders, members of the War Office an’ that – well, I didn’t feel it was my place to intrude.’ He took another, longer, swig from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and eyed me again. ‘If yer know what I mean.’
I didn’t think I did, but I was in no mood to think about it. I faced the others. ‘You can have your own separate rooms along this hallway, but don’t go any further. All the suites on this side of the third floor interconnect, though the doors are locked right now.’
‘You are a cautious man, Hoke.’ Stern had remained by the window and the light shining through the nets revealed how spoilt his tweed jacket and pants, so neat and clean when we’d first met, had become. A sleeve and a pocket were torn, his shirt collar crumpled; yet as he drew on the cigarette, his arm across his chest, hand holding his other raised elbow, he still had that air of superiority about him, that icy arrogance we’d come to expect from the Master Race. Movies and propaganda had told us this was how they were, how it was part of their Aryan nature, and I’d never doubted it for one moment.
‘A cautious man…’ he went on, and I wondered if it was mockery I saw again in those colourless eyes ‘…yet today you were almost caught by those Blackshirts, as you call them.’
‘Sometimes it happens,’ I said by way of explanation. Going to the coffee table, I picked up a Johnnie Walker, one-quarter full, its cap missing. ‘But it won’t happen again,’ I added before taking a long, long drink.
That evening, using two of my three portable gas cookers, I made them all a meal. It was only Spam, tinned peas and boiled potatoes, followed by peaches and custard, but they made ecstatic sounds as they wolfed it down.
Earlier I’d shown them other rooms they could use as their own sleeping quarters, the two girls moving in to a suite next door to mine, Potter and Stern in separate rooms further down the corridor, the old warden at the end of the line. I kept all the interconnecting doors locked. They were surprised to find that these rooms were used as store rooms as well, although none of them was as cluttered as my own suite, but there were no complaints. Not that I cared one way or the other. I left them to settle in and went back to my rooms where I threw off my filthy, ripped clothes and showered – the reduced water pressure still allowed a Niagara Falls soaking under those big Savoy shower heads. Although goosebump cold, the water freshened me up a whole lot. A fast shave was followed by some attention to my injuries. The wound where the bullet had passed through the shoulder of my leather jacket was only skin deep and iodine (Christ, that hurt) with padding held in place by sticky plaster took care of it My ankle was puffy and soft, but I knew no bones were broken, so the swelling would go down within a day or so if I bandaged it tight. The bruising on the same leg was just beginning to show through and was already looking ugly; it stretched from calf to mid-thigh and the muscles underneath were stiff and painful. For a while walking would be a problem, but no big deal. Cuts and grazes were soon dealt with and the rest of the bruises could take care of themselves. My hair was singed – the front looked like scorched corn – and the skin on my face and the backs of my hands was puckered and flaky; likewise, though, no serious damage. Oh yeah, and the knuckles of my right hand were scraped raw. All things considered, I’d been lucky that day – more lucky than I deserved – and I’d also been taught a lesson. Lately I’d become complacent, figured myself too smart to be nailed by the crazies. Well, I’d been wrong. Stupid and wrong. And the booze was taking over. Like I’d told the German, it wouldn’t happen again.
Before I pulled on chinos and T-type shirt (Lord knows why, but I’d stuck with military underwear, and this undershirt with short sleeves had been washed a hundred or more times) I checked all the guns in the room, making sure they were oiled and loaded, even though they were always kept that way. Still shaky after nearly being caught out that morning, I guess.
Taking the.45 from its jacket holster and tucking it into my waistband, I left the suite and limped barefoot through the third-floor corridors and hallways, checking stairwells and windows all round the building. Because the Savoy was really in two parts, I couldn’t look over the main drag outside, the Strand, without going down and up again, but that didn’t bother me. I was certain the hotel was secure, otherwise there’d have been a reception committee waiting for us when we returned. I scouted the place pretty well though, and didn’t go back to my rooms until I was satisfied there was no hostile incursion. Ankle throbbing like hell along with other parts of me – the bruise over my chest felt like a thick sheet of lead had been bolted there – I poured myself a whisky, using a glass this time, but still taking it raw. It did me fine.
Still tired, but feeling a little better, I washed some glasses and the accumulation of plates and dishes I’d collected over time in the bathroom sink, then began to prepare chow for myself and my unwelcome guests. I think I would have slept twenty-four hours solid if I’d closed my eyes, so I didn’t allow it I kept going because that was the only thing to do, and besides, I was so hungry a horse would’ve only made first course.
The German showed up first, politely rapping on the door and waiting for me to open it. He’d found fresh duds from somewhere – white shirt, dark slacks, but the same brogues he’d been wearing that morning – and if they looked a little snug on him, it didn’t matter, he still wore them well. He’d shaved too, and his hair was slicked back with water so that it looked shiny, kind of sleek. Although he looked nothing like the German actor Conrad Veidt, the image kept coming back to me; maybe it was his manner, stiff, watchful, arrogant, and yeah, even charming in a snake-like way. I wasn’t gonna admit it to myself then, but all that propaganda had worked on me as it had on most people on our side of the conflict, and I didn’t want to be persuaded otherwise. Hatred has its own fodder, and I was a pig for it
Inviting him in, I told him to help himself to a drink. He opened a bottle of wine.
We hardly spoke a word to each other, but I felt his eyes on me as I got on with cooking and he sipped the wine. Albert Potter appeared next, shuffling in without announcement, still in his blue overalls, helmet tucked under his arm. Making straight for the coffee table, he poured himself the same brand of hooch as before. The conversation didn’t exactly flow even then, mainly because of the tension between myself and the German.
The girls arrived ten minutes later, both of them looking a whole lot prettier than when they’d emerged from the tunnels. The wife of whoever had once occupied the suite next door had great taste in fashion, and it looked like the husband hadn’t been mean with her dress allowance. The girls’ outfits were simple but classy.
Muriel wore a light green knee-length skirt, cream square-shouldered blouse tucked into the waist, the ensemble a little looser than Cissie’s who was, well, a little more up-holstered. Don’t get me wrong – both girls were slim, but Cissie had been given more curves. Her pleated skirt fell just below the knees and she wore a matching jacket, despite the heat (I think she wanted to make the most of what she’d found in the closets), with a white blouse underneath. Neither one wore stockings, though I was willing to bet the previous tenant had plenty – that was their one concession to the climate, I assumed – and both balanced on high heels that did a lot for the shape of their legs. I had to admit it was swell to see the female form looking so goddamn good again, although it went no further than that for me. Not at that time, anyway.
Their hair gleamed from fresh grooming, Muriel’s light-brown locks curling round one cheek, Cissie’s darkly vibrant curls resting over her shoulders. The thin scar line across her face was barely noticeable as she smiled at us three men.
The German, who’d cleared an easy chair for himself when he’d entered the room, stood to attention. ‘It is wonderful to know that such beauty still exists,’ he said to them with oily sincerity.
Cissie ignored him, following the warden’s example by heading straight for the cocktail bar – the booze-laden coffee table where Potter was holding fort. He tipped his glass at her in greeting.
‘Give me something strong, long and life-preserving,’ she begged. ‘Something I can regret tomorrow.’
‘Well there’s gin, but I can’t see no tonic,’ said Potter, lifting bottles and scouring the collection in front of him.
She looked at me accusingly and I said lamely, ‘There’s no call for it.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Open a tin of peaches and use the juice. I’m a girl who’s used to roughing it.’
For the first time that day I grinned. I quickly found the right can and punched a hole in its top with the opener, then handed it to Potter, who’d already worked on the gin.
‘Ice would have been perfect,’ Cissie complained jokingly, ‘but I suppose the Savoy isn’t what it used to be. Mu, I expect it’s champagne for you?’
It was as if a shadow had darkened her friend’s face. ‘A glass of wine will do,’ she responded quietly, and I remembered she and her father had toasted her mother’s memory with champagne in this very hotel.
‘Vino it is,’ piped Potter, picking up the bottle already opened by Stern. ‘And a very sensible choice, if I may say so. Leave the hard stuff to reprobates like me.’
‘And me,’ piped Cissie.
They drank and watched me cooking over the small stoves on the floor, no one saying anything for a while. I think that initial coolness between us all was due to something more than just unfamiliarity: I think it was because there was no trust between us yet, despite what we’d been through together that morning. Even though we were the survivors of a scourged world, we weren’t sure of each other, we weren’t comfortable in each other’s presence. It was different between the two girls – they were already friends – but the rest of us were strangers. Heck, one was even an alien, a Kraut at that. Just sharing the same blood type wasn’t enough, not by a long chalk. Part of the problem, for the girls I mean, was that in a depleted society, our gender roles took on a whole new significance, and they weren’t quite ready for that just yet. None of us were. And to add to the girls’ discomfort, they couldn’t be sure if any of the men they were with were quite sane.
The ice only began to break when I started serving up the food.