A Short Visit to London
© by Jack Ragsdale
In 1944 on a few days off from my ship in Hull, I arrived at London’s Euston Station, and walked the short distance to my hotel. Never having been in London before, I rested an hour, stopped by a food stand like the old Nedick’s in New York and ordered a fancy milkshake they had advertised on the wall. The harried girl attendant, without looking at me and to the amusement of several customers, answered "that drink hasn't been available for years, Thuh war, yeh know." The acid twist of her tongue made clear her impatience with a fool.
I settled for a lesser delight, and moved on in my mission. I hailed a cab and set out to see the sights.
My driver was an agreeable portly gentleman well along in years; his cab, an ancient model—like those we saw in the earliest movies. My instructions were that I had very limited time and wanted a tour of an hour or two of the city’s famous landmarks. Off we went in London’s madcap traffic. In contradiction to the nursery rhyme, London Bridge had not fallen down.
He drove me by Buckingham Palace and on to Westminster Abby and St. Paul’s, all the while lecturing me on their qualities and the basis of their fame in an accent with just a touch of the cockney. At the churches I went inside, rubbernecked to my heart’s content and returned to the cab and on to the next landmark. The exercise was entirely agreeable. That night I went out in the eerie darkness to see the city in a different dress.
You will immediately guess why I was walking in Piccadilly late at night, and you are right. It was for no good. The war was still on; it was that ominous interlude of the Buzz Bombs and I was desperate for companionship.
There were so many people on the street; it was difficult to walk on the sidewalk. My vision of myriad small closed shops remains with me today— in every doorway there was a soldier and a girl in tight embrace. It was cold. There was light fog, and a darkness in which everything was visible but only in misshapen outline. That night, I would have given anything to be with someone.
I was familiar with the wartime lighting in New York—it had been reduced. In London there were no streetlights—just creepy darkness that intensified the cold. Eventually I met a girl who was alone, and spoke to her-- she told me she lived nearby. In a matter of minutes we were mounting creaky steps to a flat on the second or third floor. She was slim and pretty, smiled easily and was quite agreeable--not coarse or abandoned—probably no more than 23 or 24.
Since the room was cold we undressed quickly and jumped into the huge old-fashioned bed under ample covers. Nothing could have been more pleasant—my fantasy certainly was being fulfilled. After some minutes of tactile exploring we proceeded toward the main goal. I can imagine that my mind at that point had become clouded with agreeable imaginings lacking a lot of logic--but those dreams were not destined to last.
All of a sudden, the girl was standing on the floor beside the bed, excitedly pulling on clothes, addressing me: "Are you coming with me?" She was literally tearing at her dress.
It was only then that I could hear the siren of alarm, and somewhat wearily, as my mind began to deal with reality, I put my feet on the cold floor and slowly decided that I would not go. "Put on your clothes then," she said to me, "you can't stay here, but you can sit with ..." she mentioned a feminine name.
In great haste, she took me across the hall to another flat. In a small room, unlighted except for the flickering fire in the grate, a woman just short of middle-age was sitting, bundled-up, in a comfortable chair. She pointed to another chair set toward the fire and I sat with her. After the exchange of platitudinous greetings, we fell into the most pleasant conversation imaginable. She told me she had a bad cold but that she never went out in the case of air raids—just carried on her regular occupations. I responded with some petty detail about my ship and the train ride down to London. In that room there was utter Serenity. We were aware of muffled sounds outside but we gave them no recognition. The small size of the room added to its comfy coziness. What wouldn't I give now to know that woman's name and her place in society today at one hundred and one. Alas, I was thirty then and she must have been forty.
After thirty minutes, "my girl" peeked in the door and I left my friend and her fire. Dutifully, as two soldiers, "my girl" and I returned to that big comfortable bed, resumed our places and completed our assignment. The Magic--, it was no longer.
I mozied my way back to my musty, heavily curtained hotel room in the Prince something or other, and the next day I went back to Euston station and took a train north.
In 1944 on a few days off from my ship in Hull, I arrived at London’s Euston Station, and walked the short distance to my hotel. Never having been in London before, I rested an hour, stopped by a food stand like the old Nedick’s in New York and ordered a fancy milkshake they had advertised on the wall. The harried girl attendant, without looking at me and to the amusement of several customers, answered "that drink hasn't been available for years, Thuh war, yeh know." The acid twist of her tongue made clear her impatience with a fool.
I settled for a lesser delight, and moved on in my mission. I hailed a cab and set out to see the sights.
My driver was an agreeable portly gentleman well along in years; his cab, an ancient model—like those we saw in the earliest movies. My instructions were that I had very limited time and wanted a tour of an hour or two of the city’s famous landmarks. Off we went in London’s madcap traffic. In contradiction to the nursery rhyme, London Bridge had not fallen down.
He drove me by Buckingham Palace and on to Westminster Abby and St. Paul’s, all the while lecturing me on their qualities and the basis of their fame in an accent with just a touch of the cockney. At the churches I went inside, rubbernecked to my heart’s content and returned to the cab and on to the next landmark. The exercise was entirely agreeable. That night I went out in the eerie darkness to see the city in a different dress.
You will immediately guess why I was walking in Piccadilly late at night, and you are right. It was for no good. The war was still on; it was that ominous interlude of the Buzz Bombs and I was desperate for companionship.
There were so many people on the street; it was difficult to walk on the sidewalk. My vision of myriad small closed shops remains with me today— in every doorway there was a soldier and a girl in tight embrace. It was cold. There was light fog, and a darkness in which everything was visible but only in misshapen outline. That night, I would have given anything to be with someone.
I was familiar with the wartime lighting in New York—it had been reduced. In London there were no streetlights—just creepy darkness that intensified the cold. Eventually I met a girl who was alone, and spoke to her-- she told me she lived nearby. In a matter of minutes we were mounting creaky steps to a flat on the second or third floor. She was slim and pretty, smiled easily and was quite agreeable--not coarse or abandoned—probably no more than 23 or 24.
Since the room was cold we undressed quickly and jumped into the huge old-fashioned bed under ample covers. Nothing could have been more pleasant—my fantasy certainly was being fulfilled. After some minutes of tactile exploring we proceeded toward the main goal. I can imagine that my mind at that point had become clouded with agreeable imaginings lacking a lot of logic--but those dreams were not destined to last.
All of a sudden, the girl was standing on the floor beside the bed, excitedly pulling on clothes, addressing me: "Are you coming with me?" She was literally tearing at her dress.
It was only then that I could hear the siren of alarm, and somewhat wearily, as my mind began to deal with reality, I put my feet on the cold floor and slowly decided that I would not go. "Put on your clothes then," she said to me, "you can't stay here, but you can sit with ..." she mentioned a feminine name.
In great haste, she took me across the hall to another flat. In a small room, unlighted except for the flickering fire in the grate, a woman just short of middle-age was sitting, bundled-up, in a comfortable chair. She pointed to another chair set toward the fire and I sat with her. After the exchange of platitudinous greetings, we fell into the most pleasant conversation imaginable. She told me she had a bad cold but that she never went out in the case of air raids—just carried on her regular occupations. I responded with some petty detail about my ship and the train ride down to London. In that room there was utter Serenity. We were aware of muffled sounds outside but we gave them no recognition. The small size of the room added to its comfy coziness. What wouldn't I give now to know that woman's name and her place in society today at one hundred and one. Alas, I was thirty then and she must have been forty.
After thirty minutes, "my girl" peeked in the door and I left my friend and her fire. Dutifully, as two soldiers, "my girl" and I returned to that big comfortable bed, resumed our places and completed our assignment. The Magic--, it was no longer.
I mozied my way back to my musty, heavily curtained hotel room in the Prince something or other, and the next day I went back to Euston station and took a train north.
posted by Jack Ragsdale @ 7:14 PM
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