Chapter 8: To Dance to Reality

AS WE started to rise to leave the dining room, a waiter immediately came over and told us with a whisper that a bombing raid was imminent, the air raid warnings had been sounded above ground and we wouldn’t be allowed to go upstairs to our rooms. I hadn’t realised until that point that the restaurant had been relocated in a basement.

That is the problem with these lifts, I didn’t notice the number of floors we took going down. My excuse is that I was blinded by my ‘date’. Then I realised why the thick curtains lined the walls and not just the ‘windows’; there were no windows, just brick walls to disguise!

The waiter offered us complimentary coffee, if we would remain in our seats for a while. I could see that we had little choice, and the setting was far more comfortable than any draughty underground station, which was my usual nightly bedroom!

It was nearly midnight when the hotel boiler was turned off and it quickly grew cold in the cellar. Mary soon felt the effects first through her thin shawl. I took off my jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. By now, one could feel the vibrations of the bombs through the floor, while the crystal chandeliers swayed and rattled over our heads.

In the meantime, the basement room had filled with other guests and servants, who were evacuated from higher floors. They were dressed in various guises of bedroom or lounge wear, all carrying their regulation gas masks. They were joined by the band from the ballroom upstairs, carrying their instruments.

I spotted Milly in her nightwear and dressing gown among the staff and informed Mary of her presence. She called Milly over to join us. Apparently, the girl said, the four young maids shared a room in the hotel, so they were always on call, and Mary told her to fetch her roommates over to join us at our table, bringing spare chairs with them. One of our waiters who served us earlier brought around piles of blankets and pillows, and, after Mary had asked him to leave six of each, enquired if the kitchens were still open. Yes, came the reply, but apologised they were reduced to supplying hot drinks only during the air raid.

“Is a large jug or two of coffee or cocoa and six mugs possible, Jimmy?” she asked.

“Certainly madam. I will arrange it immediately.”

The band that had come to the basement from the abandoned ballroom started to warm up and play their instruments, if only to keep warm and take everyone’s minds off the Luftwaffe who were bombing the hell out of the West End. Soon they were playing odd snatches of dance tunes.

A guest from a nearby table stepped up and asked Mary if she would like to dance. She declined his offer with a gentle smile. The brash young man, who really should have been in uniform, I thought, pointedly looked at my walking stick hooked over the back of my chair, with what I took as a sneer, before he reluctantly walked away. I stood up.

“No Edgar!” Mary warned.

“No?” I replied. “In that case do you mind if I ask Milly for the next dance when she returns with her friends?”

“No ... Yes ... Yes, I do mind indeed Edgar, if you wish to dance, you should surely ask your dinner guest first.”

I stepped around the table and bowed deeply to her, holding out my arm, “Would you give me the pleasure of this next dance, ma’am?”

“It would give me the greatest of pleasures,” she replied graciously.

Mary rose and slipped my jacket and her shawl onto the back of her chair. Then she took my arm.

We stepped out onto the empty space in the middle of the room and made it a dance floor. We took up our positions and began to dance a waltz, regardless of whatever tuneless noise the band were making in their individual instrument tune-up. Almost immediately, someone in the band noticed us and, after a “one-two-three”, joined us on the right beat and I whirled my partner around the dance floor in time to the music of a proper dance band.