I’m elbow deep in a mountain of papers when a rapping noise echoes inside my office. The door creaks open and a man’s gruff voice calls out, “This is your final warning, Bartholomew.”
I stare down at my scribbles, pencil in hand, my body hunched over my oak desk. “Ten more minutes. That’s all I need.”
The door opens wider to expose the outline of a man standing outside. His hulking build fills the doorway. He steps inside, his shadowy figure revealing itself to be my mate Clark, one of the soldiers stationed at St Margaret College.
“You do realise you’ve asked for ten more minutes three times already? You’re going to make us miss our train.” Clark plucks the pencil from my hand, spinning it between his fingers as he flops into the chair on the other side of my desk. “What are you doing that could possibly be more important than tickets to London’s hottest underground jazz club? You look knackered.”
I lean back and rub my eyes, realising that any further attempts to delay our departure are futile. I know the man sitting across from me well. Clark has worked alongside me for nearly five years. Once he gets an idea in his head, there is no stopping him.
“It’s these numbers,” I explain, holding up one of the pages scattered across my desk. “I’m trying to finish up the month-end accounting, but we seem to be short in all of our accounts.”
“By how much?” Clark asks. “Maybe your math is the problem. Where did you study again?”
“Ha ha, I read math at Exeter College, as you well know. My addition is correct, but the figures don’t balance. The accounts appear to be short by nearly £100.”
Clark whistles when he hears the number. “Blimey! A hundred quid? It would take me six months of hard work to earn that much. No wonder you’re worried.”
“So you’ll give me ten more minutes to get to the bottom of this?” I ask, looking hopeful.
“No, sir,” Clark replies. “If we’re talking that kind of money, there is no way you’ll figure out where it has gone in the next ten minutes. Leave it for tomorrow, mate.”
I huff out a breath, annoyed that he is right. Clark grins as I sweep my papers together, leaving them in a stack on the side of my desk. “Fine, you win. But I still need ten minutes so I can wash up and change my shirt.”
Clark slaps me on the back as I walk past. “Hurry it up, I’ll be waiting in the porter’s lodge.”
I splash water on my face and quickly button up a clean white shirt. Looking in the mirror, I smooth out the wrinkles in my waistcoat as best as I can. My dark hair is in need of a trim, one more activity I’ve put off. I notice the state of my face which hasn’t seen a razor in two days. Hopefully any women we meet will find my five o’clock shadow appealing as there’s no time for a shave now.
I rush back to my office to get my jacket, dismayed to find it hanging abandoned on the back of my chair. “Great, now I’m going to look like a hobo,” I mutter to myself. My trench coat and hat in hand, I hurry down the long wooden hallway that runs through the middle of St Margaret’s main building.
Within minutes, I’m walking alongside Clark as we make our way from the college towards the train station in Oxford’s city centre. The sun still peeks above the horizon, providing enough light for our twenty-minute stroll. We pass beside more of Oxford’s famous colleges on our way, weaving between students, soldiers and local residents who crowd the pavements outside the colleges and the shops.
The city has changed dramatically over the last two years with male students replaced by men in uniform. Many of the colleges have been converted into housing and hospitals for soldiers. Despite being conscripted, Clark and I have managed to avoid the front lines so far. I suspect St Margaret’s principal had something to do with it, demanding the army retain some familiar faces in exchange for converting the college halls into medical wards.
“Cheer up, mate,” Clark chides me as we climb the steps into the train station. “There are sure to be some slick chicks at the club tonight. My cousin goes on the regular and promised me it was worth the trip. Besides, we won’t have many more nights like this. Sooner or later we’ll get called down to the frontlines.”
“I’m sorry, Clark. You’re right.” I rub my hand over the back of my neck. “First round is on me. I forgot all about our plans, if I’m honest. I would have worked straight through.”
Clark, affable as ever, lets me off with a smile. “You’re too much of an eager beaver, Bartie. Today’s Saturday, yet you turned up for work same as any other day. We need to get you a life outside of your office. There’s more to the world than St Margaret’s, you know?”
I’m spared from responding by the piercing whistle of the arriving train. We climb on board, standing in the packed aisle near a group of young women. They’re all dolled up for a night on the town. Before I know it, Clark is passing around a flask and we’re chatting away like old school chums.
“Where are you two going tonight?” asks the brunette tucked away in the corner near the window.
“Club Eight.” Clark draws out the words so they make the maximum impact. Indeed, the women look suitably impressed to discover their new train mates have tickets to one of London’s hottest jazz clubs.
“Wow, I’d kill to go there one night,” the blonde mutters.
“Speaking of killing,” the brunette chimes in, “my mum barely let me out of the house she is so worried.”
The blonde pats her friend on the hand. “Aww, hun. Your mum’s panicked for nothing. The Jerries haven’t bombed London in weeks. We’re perfectly safe. Right, boys?”
Clark and I nod our agreement. “We’ve already whipped them once,” Clark reminds them, “we’ll have this war over in no time, you wait and see. We Brits have to keep a stiff upper lip, can’t live in hiding worrying the end will come.” He claps me on the back again. “That’s what I keep telling Bartie here, anyway.”
The conversation shifts again, talking about new shops on the High Street and discussing options for the next bank holiday weekend. The journey from Oxford to London passes before any of us notice.
Outside the station in London we call our goodbyes to the girls, promising to meet up again in Oxford before the month ends.
*
“Are you sure it’s number eight?” I ask, staring dubiously at the darkened doorway across the street.
“Of course, I’m sure. It’s also the name of the club. I’m not daft.” Clark strides ahead, leaving me to pick up my steps if I want to keep up.
The doorway sits in the shadows, in between a newsagent and a bakery. Both businesses are shuttered for the evening, and the pavement around us is empty.
“Watch and learn, old chap,” Clark calls out as he confidently approaches the door and knocks out the start to A Shave and a Haircut.
Someone inside taps out two hollow knocks in reply, before sliding open a narrow slot in the top of the door. “State yer business.”
Clark waves our tickets in front of the opening and we’re rewarded with the sound of the lock tumbling over. Inside, a lone man sits on a stool inside the door, a cigar in hand and a flickering light above his head. He takes our tickets and waves us down a set of rickety wooden stairs.
As we approach the bottom, the smell of smoke and the sounds of music begin to waft up at us, promising an evening of fun as soon as we can get into the club. I push through a heavy door, emerging into the back of a poorly lit club.
“Find us a table while I pick up a round of drinks,” I shout at Clark, hoping he can hear me over the music. He smiles and turns off to wind his way through the maze of tables scattered around the edges of the room.
The walls are lined with heavy red curtains, draped artfully and gathered here and there with golden tassels. The corner nearest me holds the bar. I lean in to a space between the crowd of men ordering drinks. I have a minute to look around, and note they sure didn’t cheap out on the décor around here. The bar and lights cost a fortune. Dim pendant lights provide just enough glow to count out change. The tables sit in the shadows, small candles illuminating each one as they form an arc around a small dance floor. It is packed with men and women jiving away to the sounds of the jazz band playing on stage.
Spotlights move left and right, shining brightest on a young black man playing a trumpet. A fifteen-piece band sits behind him, the members swaying in time to the music, as lost in the trumpet player’s genius as all the rest of us.
“Two G&Ts, please.” I count out the change to cover the drinks and leave it on the bar before I walk away. I realise I should have taken my cap off before I picked up the drinks, but I was so caught up in people-watching that I forgot. I finally spy Clark sitting across the room and head his way.
“Cheers to a night out!” We clink the bases of our glasses together and then swallow a healthy gulp of our drinks.
Clark leans close, shouting towards my ear. “That’s the Phil Haversham on the trumpet, can you believe it? He played Chicago last month.”
I rearrange my face to look properly impressed. The music is incredible, the trumpet player sliding up and down the scales in time with the fast beat of the rest of the band. My toe taps in time with the rhythm as the gin in my drink loosens up the muscles in my neck and shoulders.
When the band takes a break, we order another round from a waiter. Clark offers me a cigar and we sit back, relaxing as though we frequent London nightclubs on a regular basis.
“How many years have you been at St Margaret’s, Bartie?” Clark asks in between puffs.
“Let me think… I started in 1927.”
Clark interrupts me before I can do the math. “1927! It’s 1941 now, mate. Fourteen years working like a dog’s body in an all-female college and you still haven’t found someone to settle down with?” He leans back, arching his eyebrow. “Is there something you’ve not told me?”
Rolling my eyes, I puff smoke in his direction. “You know the rules as well as I do. The students are off-limits, and most of the fellows end up unmarried.”
“Aye, I know…” Clark frowns. “You do fit in well. The whole lot of you married to your desks there. Or should I say chained to them?”
“I’m out tonight,” I remind him.
Clark nods absently as he scans the room, his eyes lighting up when he spies a pair of women coming in through the door at the back. He stands up, catching their eye, and motions towards the empty chairs sitting across from us at our table.
The women exchange a silent conversation, their eyes flashing, before deciding to take up this strange man on his offer. We exchange names as they seat themselves. Clark flags down a waiter, ordering another round of drinks for us and fresh glasses for the dolls.
“We’re down from Oxford,” Clark explains, not bothering to correct the women when they assume we must be professors. “What about you, ladies? Do you live in London?”
Marie, the raven-haired beauty shakes her head. “We’re nurses. In another week, we’ll be heading to the front. We came down to finish our last bit of training and then we’re off.”
“The front?” I marvel. “That’s awfully brave of you both.”
Marie twists around, her gaze skipping around the rest of the tables in the room. “Look how many of our boys here are in their uniforms. They’re the brave ones. Assuming the RAF can keep the Jerries from bombing our hospital tents, we should be safe enough.”
The reminder of the war casts a pall over the table. It’s easy enough to forget about the cost of war when we’re sitting safe in our college in Oxford. It’s been nearly five months since the Germans ended the blitz of London, and many parts of the city are still destroyed and filled with rubble.
Clark shakes off his doldrums first and picks up his drink. He motions towards the stage where the band is making their way back to their chairs and picking up their instruments. “Here’s to the RAF.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Marie quips, raising her glass into the air.
As our hands meet in the middle, the clink of the glasses is the last sound I hear before a deafening boom and a wave of smoke overtake me.
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