After the Cabaret by Hilary Bailey

War. Oh, Greg,’ she said, turning to him, ‘I shouldn’t be doing this.’
    â€˜Once more won’t make any difference.’
    On the train back to London he was happy. The winter landscape streamed past him. Crows flew across dark, ploughed fields. There were grazing sheep, orchards, bare trees and hedgerows. There was something to be said for Britain, he thought contentedly. Quite a lot.

Chapter 17
    Greg woke next morning under the pink coverlet from which his feet poked out. His gaze fell on the shaky, brown-stained wardrobe. He didn’t feel as cheerful as he had the day before, and was not sure why.
    It was raining outside but, conscientiously, he took the underground to the British Library periodicals department and looked at the reports for the aftermath of the first big raid on London, hundreds killed, thousands injured, many more rendered homeless. The raids grew worse daily. By the end of September 1940 7,000 people had been killed and 9,000 injured. No panic, just stoicism, they said. Oh, yeah, thought Greg. He still felt gloomy and oppressed when he got up and went off to meet Bruno for lunch. This time it was to be his treat. They went to a pub and sat in a corner.
    â€˜No panic?’ questioned Greg. ‘Britain can take it?’
    â€˜Under constant bombardment? With tube stations, one of the safest places, barred and guarded by the police?People attacked the gates at Liverpool Street to get in during a raid. No panic? What do you think? People left the city and went and slept in the fields.’
    â€˜What was happening at Pontifex Street?’ Greg asked.
    â€˜Well, on the night of the first raid we got to sleep in the end. Briggs set his alarm as usual but when he got up he found the keys to his little car were gone from his dressing table. He ran out and found it had been taken. He set off to work on foot and found the car parked in a square not far away. The back seat was covered in clothing, including a fox fur. There were blankets and a lamp. Then Sally came down the steps of a nearby house, carrying an eiderdown. On top of it were lodged some pots and pans.
    â€˜He walked up to her and held out his hand for the car keys. “I didn’t give you permission to take my car,” he said.
    â€˜And Sally said, “I’m collecting for the East End.”
    â€˜Briggs told her he didn’t care and made her unload the car. She had to heap everything up on the pavement and give him the keys, whereupon he stepped into the street and hailed a taxi. The driver looked at Sally and the heap of clothes and bedding, and said, “I’m not a removal van. Get Pickford’s.”
    â€˜Briggs,’ said Bruno, sipping his beer, ‘started threatening the man with the Hackney Carriage Office but Sally called that she was taking the stuff to the East End and the cabbie agreed to take her. She was loading the items she had collected into the taxi, the driver helping, when Briggs drove off. Sally yelled, “Property is theft,” after him but he didn’t hear – or didn’t want to.
    â€˜Briggs couldn’t stand having his things used by others,’ Bruno told Greg. ‘It was pathological, almost. He returned to Pontifex Street and phoned Sir Peveril again, demanding that Sally leave the flat. It was strange that Briggs, who was so handsome and clever and privileged – I think his father was a senior clergyman at Salisbury Cathedral – reacted as violently as he did to Sally. I didn’t want her at Pontifex Street, either, but at such a time what could one do?’
    â€˜You stuck by him, though,’ suggested Greg.
    â€˜I had no choice,’ Bruno replied. ‘I was a refugee. Briggs was a British official of the class that can always pull strings. I thought he could have got me interned – anything. He was my protector. I was young. I suppose I loved him.
    â€˜So,’ he sighed, ‘the raids went on,