Sowerbutt's Visit

The atmosphere in the fashionable Café de Paris in Coventry Street was different to his last visit, Sowerbutt thought. Quieter, more sombre. A lot of the men were in uniform, one with a black patch over an eye, another with his sleeve neatly pinned across his chest, glinting with several medals. He spotted several women in smart ATS uniform; women in the army took some getting used to. The chatter and laughter seemed forced, but perhaps he was tired, Sowerbutt thought. The bombing in London was non-stop, night after night after night. Several families he had known for years had disappeared under the rubble and a couple of his London larders had gone up in smoke.

He had volunteered most of the Family, still in London, for ARP service to help local families and protect the larders. Some of the girls were working part-time as volunteers in the overcrowded wards at Mile End and Poplar hospitals.
Sowerbutt relaxed with a glass of Old Bushmills, George Melachrino and his resident band playing the new Tommy Dorsey number, Indian Summer.  Before he left, he would check with Martin Poulson, the maitre d’hotel, about how the club’s liquor stocks were faring. He knew of several central London residences with fine wine cellars whose occupants had vanished to more remote parts of the country “just for a couple of weeks to re-charge the batteries, don’t you know”.
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