Home for Christmas (19 page)

‘I’ll show you round. The whole place is a rabbit warren of rooms and passages,’ Drew told her.

He took her through a maze of busy, fuggy rooms and passages, each one of them – or so it seemed to Tilly – filled with men in trench coats, arriving, leaving, talking and calling for fresh drinks, all of them generating an atmosphere that was unlike anything Tilly had ever known.

‘It makes me feel giddy just watching them, never mind listening to them,’ she told Drew.

‘This place, here on this street, is the centre of the world when it comes to news,’ Drew told her. ‘It’s got something that nowhere else has. If printers’ ink runs in the blood of those who work on Fleet Street, then printing presses drive their hearts and their minds to a beat that’s faster and more reckless than anything else could ever be. There are men – and women – who come in here, who work here on this street, who take the kind of risks to get their story that no sane person would ever dream of taking. Maybe that’s what you need to be a good newspaper man – a touch of insanity. Maybe that’s why I’d rather be a writer, because I just don’t possess it.’

‘Drew,’ Tilly protested, concerned by the bitterness she could hear in his voice, ‘of course you’re a good newspaper man. You must be for your newspaper to have sent you over here.’

Drew smiled in acknowledgement of her praise but there was still a shadow behind his smile. That had Tilly, whose naturally sympathetic nature made her want everyone to be happy, change the subject to ask him, ‘Which room is best for us to hear news of a good story?’

‘All of them,’ Drew assured her, with another smile. And this one wasn’t shadowed at all, Tilly was glad to see.

‘Come on,’ he urged her, ‘let’s grab that table over there. And I’ll order us both a drink.’

Tilly was relieved to see that she wasn’t the only female in the pub, although the other young women there looked very professional and slightly intimidating, their trench coats cinched in around narrow waists. One of them, Tilly noticed, torn between shock and admiration, was actually wearing a man’s trilby pulled down over her blond hair at a rakish angle, a cigarette dangling from one side of her mouth as she engaged in an animated and what looked like a rather cross – on her part, at least – conversation with the tall, dark-haired, similarly dressed man. He wasn’t cross, though, In fact, he was standing looking down at her with what seemed to Tilly to be amusement.

‘Do you know those two over there?’ she asked Drew, who had returned to their table carrying a half-pint pot of beer and a glass of lemonade.

Drew was smiling, but when he looked at them his smile disappeared.

‘Yes,’ he told her tersely.

‘Who is she?’ Tilly pressed him, her curiosity aroused by the sight of a member of her own sex engaged in what even Tilly could tell was essentially a very male world.

‘Her name is Eva Ballantyne. She’s an American freelance. The guy she’s with is Ed Wiseman. He’s a top war reporter who freelances mainly for the
New York Times
.’

‘She doesn’t seem very pleased with him,’ Tilly felt bound to say, still watching them as the man removed his coat and dropped it casually across a chair. It had the same distinctive plaid Burberry lining as Drew’s raincoat. Tilly remembered that Dulcie had told them all, after one of Drew’s visits to number 13, that the coat would have been very expensive and that it was a favourite with Americans.

‘She’ll be trying to persuade Ed to get her accredited to report in the field, where the fighting’s actually happening,’ Drew explained to Tilly.

‘A woman war reporter? Tilly’s eyes widened, and she gave a small shiver. ‘She must be very brave.’

‘Bravery doesn’t come into it. What Eva’s after is her by-line on the front page, and she’ll do anything to get it there.’

Drew obviously didn’t like the woman reporter, Tilly decided, shaking her head when Drew offered her a cigarette.

‘My mother would like you. She doesn’t approve of girls smoking. She doesn’t think it’s very ladylike.’ Drew pulled a rueful face. ‘Mom comes from a very proper Philadelphia family,’ Drew explained, ‘and they don’t come much more proper than that.’

Tilly laughed. ‘Tell me more about your family,’ she coaxed him. ‘Tell me about your sisters.’

‘Well I’m the youngest so that means that they—’

‘Are all older than you?’ Tilly teased him.

‘Older, and bossy with it,’ Drew grinned. ‘Amy – she’s the eldest – she’s married and she and her husband live in Washington. They’ve got two kids, a boy and a girl. Then there’s Honor – she’s married too – she lives in Boston and she has a little boy. Then there’s Lucille and Alice, the twins, who are both engaged.

‘All those girls and you’re the only boy,’ Tilly smiled.

‘Yes.’

Was that another shadow she could see in Drew’s eyes?

Before she could say anything, he was being clapped on the shoulder by a burly, smiling, middle-aged man with grizzled grey hair and wearing – predictably, Tilly decided – a Burberry coat, open so that she could see the checked lining.

‘Drew! And who is this lovely young lady?’ he demanded in a hearty American-accented voice.

‘Riley,’ Drew smiled at the newcomer. He introduced Tilly, explaining, ‘Tilly lives several doors away from my billet, and her mother has been kind enough to invite me round to join them for some of her wonderful Sunday post-church meals.’

‘Uh-huh. Nice to meet you, Tilly.’

Shyly shaking hands with the American, Tilly shook her head when he offered to buy them a fresh drink, whilst Drew accepted.

When Riley came back from the bar, placing a half-pint of beer in front of Drew, before sitting down to drink his own whiskey he topped it up from a flask, which he produced from an inside pocket of his Burberry.

‘First rule of reporting in the field, young Tilly,’ he told her, giving her a wink, ‘never go anywhere without a full flask of whiskey. I learned that at my Irish granddaddy’s knee. Talking of granddaddies—’ he continued, only to be interrupted by Drew.

‘I promised Tilly I’d bring her out with me to see how we go about getting a newspaper story. I’d hoped to pick up some gossip in here about what’s new, but . . .’

‘All the American newshounds will be hanging round the American Embassy hoping to be the first to break the big story back home about Joe Kennedy’s resignation as Ambassador.’

‘But he hasn’t resigned,’ Drew protested.

‘Not yet, but I’ve heard a strong whisper that he will, which is why I’m off to the Embassy myself.’ Draining his class, Riley stood up.

‘If you want a story, Drew, a contact of mine tells me that there’s a whole lot of petty criminals getting themselves into uniform – air-raid wardens, auxiliary fire fighters, that kind of thing – so that they can be the first on the scene to get their hands on anything of value in bombed property. I hear there’s a waiting list for any kind of civil defence hands on jobs in the better-off areas – Mayfair, Chelsea, and of course the big posh squares.’

‘I hate to think of people doing things like that,’ Tilly said sadly after Riley had gone. ‘Especially people who are in the Auxiliary Fire Service.’

‘No one likes seeing their personal heroes tarnished,’ Drew told her, adding comfortingly, ‘but one bad apple doesn’t mean the whole barrel is bad.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’d better make a move. It’s getting late, the landlord will be ringing time soon, and I’d better get you home before your mother starts worrying. We’ve been lucky: a whole evening without any bombers coming over. That’s a first.’

‘We can’t go home yet. What about your story?’ Tilly protested.

‘No bombs means no fresh news, which means no story,’ Drew told her.

‘Will you ask Riley to put you in touch with his contact so that you can write about the looters?’ Tilly asked him.

‘I don’t know,’ Drew answered her. ‘It’s a matter of balance between revealing what’s going on and damaging people’s faith at a time when they most need it.’

‘Oh, Drew, you are kind,’ Tilly told him with admiration as he helped her on with her coat, ready to face the November night chill.

‘You mean I’m too soft to be a really good reporter, the kind for whom getting the story matters more than anything else.’

The bitterness and pain in his voice made Tilly feel so sad for him that she tucked her arm through his comfortingly as they left the pub together.

‘You are a good person, Drew, and one day you are going to write a really good book,’ she told him firmly. ‘And that’s much more important than being a good reporter.’

‘Tilly, I wish I had a tenth of your faith in me,’ Drew smiled, pulling his trilby down low over his ears and turning up the collar of his coat, before taking hold of Tilly’s hand and, keeping hold of it, pushing it deep into his coat pocket.

Tilly opened her mouth to remind him that she was wearing gloves and then closed it again. There was something nice and warm and really good about having her hand held so firmly in Drew’s and tucked into his pocket. It was far more enjoyable than any amount of warmth from a mere pair of gloves.

Neither of them said anything as they headed back towards Article Row. It was lovely to feel so comfortable with a person that you didn’t need to make conversation, Tilly thought, as they exchanged smiles as they paused to cross the road.

‘I’ve really enjoyed tonight,’ Drew told Tilly as they turned into the Row.

‘So have I,’ Tilly agreed.

‘We should do it again. Go out together, I mean. Only next time I’ll take you somewhere better.’

‘You mean take me out on a proper date?’ Tilly questioned.

They had both stopped walking now and were standing facing one another.

‘Yes, if you’d like that,’ Drew confirmed.

Would she? It didn’t take Tilly long to make up her mind. The rising tide of happiness inside her had done it for her long before she had opened her mouth to tell Drew half shyly, ‘Yes, I would.’

‘You’re one very special girl, Tilly Robbins,’ Drew told her in a voice that had a sort of huskiness about it, which made Tilly’s heart thump and her pulse race.

‘No, I’m not. Not really. But I’m glad that you think I am,’ she managed to say firmly.

‘Oh, Tilly.’ Drew was laughing and shaking his head, and then somehow or other she was in his arms and he was holding her tight. And rather unexpectedly, instead of worrying that someone might see them and demanding to be released, Tilly discovered that she was actually very much enjoying being in Drew’s arms and very much wanted to stay there.

‘You’re a real tonic, as you English say. A beautiful, honest girl, who I think has stolen my heart.’

‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ was all Tilly could think of to answer.

Her heart was thudding even more erratically when Drew assured her fiercely, ‘No I don’t. I’ve never said that to any other girl. It’s too soon, and you’re too young. There’s a war on, and your mother will think I’m letting her down saying this, but, Tilly, will you think about becoming my girl? I won’t rush you into . . . anything . . . Don’t worry about that.’

‘Yes.’ Tilly told him, almost too breathless with delight to speak. ‘And I’m not worried, about . . . anything.’ How could it have happened that she hadn’t even realised just how much she would like to be Drew’s girl, She had truly only thought of him as a friend until now. Until he had held her hand, until that bubbling, giddy, happy feeling inside her had told her that what she felt for him was more than friendship.

‘But I don’t think we should tell anyone else yet,’ she cautioned him, adding hurriedly, ‘It isn’t that I want to be deceitful or anything, but, well, we might find out that we really only want to be friends and then . . .’

‘I know what you’re trying to say, Tilly, and I do understand, but I must ask your mother if it’s all right for me to take you out, and that means that I shall have to tell her something of how I feel about you. It would be wrong of me not to. How about I tell her that we like each other and that we’ve agreed to take things slowly?’

Tilly nodded. ‘But I don’t want the girls to know – not yet. It’s too soon.’ What she meant was that she didn’t want to make a fool of herself a second time, like she had done with Dulcie’s brother, imagining herself in love with him and daydreaming about him returning her feelings, creating something out of nothing at all and then ending up feeling miserable, although something told her that things would be different with Drew. After all, he was the one who had declared his feelings first.

‘How long have you known?’ she asked him. ‘I mean about me . . . about us?’

‘From the minute Ian introduced us I kinda knew, but it was when you let me talk to you about my writing that I really knew.’

They were standing in the November darkness, quite alone, with no one to see them.

‘I’d very much like to kiss you, Tilly, if that’s all right?’ Drew told her.

Tilly drew in a deep breath. She had two choices now. She could say no and remain a girl on the edge of womanhood, or she could say yes and cross the bridge that separated being a girl from being a woman.

‘Yes, please,’ she told Drew shakily. ‘I’d like you to kiss me very much.’

And she liked kissing him very much as well, Tilly discovered to her own blissful delight several minutes later when she was still locked in Drew’s arms, her own arms around his neck, her lips still warm and tingling slightly from her first proper grown-up kiss.