The front end of a tank began to emerge out of the flat folds of gray-green rubber, looking remarkably tanklike. Ernest watched for a moment, then fetched the phonograph, the small wooden table it sat on, and its speaker. He set them up, got the record from the lorry, placed it on the turntable, and lowered the needle. The sound of tanks rolling thunderously toward him filled the pasture, making it impossible to hear anything Cess said.
On the other hand, he thought as he wrestled the tank-tread cutter off the back of the lorry, he no longer had to switch on his torch. He could find his way simply by following the sound. Unless there were in fact cows in this pasture—which, judging by the number of fresh cowpats he was stepping in, there definitely could be.
Cess had told him on the way to Tenterden that the cutter was perfectly simple to operate. All one had to do was push it, like a lawn mower, but it was at least five times as heavy. It required bearing down with one’s whole weight on the handle to make it go even a few inches, it refused to budge at all in grass taller than two inches, and it tended to veer off at an angle. Ernest had to go back to the lorry, fetch a rake, smooth over what he’d done, then redo it several times before he had a more-or-less straight tread mark from the gate to the mired tank.
Cess was still working on the right front quadrant. “Sprang a leak,” he shouted over the rumble of tanks. “Luckily, I brought my bicycle patch kit along. Don’t come any nearer! That cutter’s sharp.”
Ernest nodded, hoisted it over in front of where the tank’s other tread would be, and started back toward the gate. “How many of these do you want?” he shouted to Cess.
“At least a dozen pair,” Cess shouted, “and some of them need to overlap. I think the fog’s beginning to lift.”
The fog was not beginning to lift. When he switched on his torch so he could return the needle to the beginning of the record, the phonograph was shrouded in mist. And even if it should lift, they wouldn’t be able to tell in this blackness. He looked at his watch. Two o’clock, and they still hadn’t inflated a tank. They were going to be stuck here forever.
Cess finally completed the mired tank and slogged across the field to the copse to do the other two, Ernest following with the cutter, making tread tracks to indicate where the tanks had driven in under the trees.
Halfway there, the sound of tanks shut off. Damn, he’d forgotten to move the needle. He had to go all the way back across the pasture to start the record, and he’d no sooner reached the cutter again than the fog did indeed lift. “I told you,” Cess said happily, and it immediately began to rain.
“The phonograph!” Cess cried, and Ernest had to rescue it and then the umbrella and prop it over the phonograph, tying it to the tank’s rubber gun with rope.
The shower lasted till just before dawn, magnifying the mud and making the grass so slippery that Ernest fell down twice more—once racing to move the phonograph needle, which had stuck and was repeating the same three seconds of tank rumbling over and over, and the second time helping Cess repair yet another puncture. “But think of the war story you’ll have to tell your grandchildren!” Cess said as he wiped the mud off.
“I doubt whether I’ll ever have grandchildren,” Ernest said, spitting out mud. “I am beginning to doubt whether I’ll even survive this night.”
“Nonsense, the sun’ll be up any moment, and we’re nearly done here.” Cess leaned down so he could see the tread marks, which Ernest had to admit looked very realistic. “Make two more tracks, and I’ll finish off this last tank. We’ll be home in time for breakfast.”
And in time for me to finish the articles and run them over to Sudbury by nine, Ernest thought, aligning the tracker with the other tread marks and pushing down hard on it. Which would be good. He didn’t like the idea of those other articles sitting there for another week, even in a locked drawer. Now that he could partially see where he was going and didn’t need to stop and check his path with the torch every few feet, it should only take him twenty minutes to do the treads and load the lorry, and another three-quarters of an hour back home. They should be there by seven at the latest, which would give him more than enough time.
But he’d only gone a few yards before Cess loomed out of the fog and tapped him on the shoulder. “The fog’s beginning to lift,” he said. “We’d best get out of here. I’ll finish off the tanks and you start on stowing the equipment.”
Cess was right; the fog was beginning to thin. Ernest could make out the vague shapes of trees, ghostly in the gray dawn, and across the field a fence and three black-and-white cows placidly chewing grass—luckily, on the far side of it.
Ernest folded up the tarp, untied the umbrella, carried them and the pump to the lorry, and came back for the cutter. He picked it up, decided there was no way he could carry it all the way across the field, set it down, pulled the cord to start it, and pushed it back, making one last track from just in front of the tank’s left tread to the edge of the field, and lugged it, limping, from there to the lorry. By the time he’d hoisted it up into the back, the fog was beginning to break up, tearing apart into long streamers which drifted like veils across the pasture, revealing the long line of tread marks leading to the copse and the rear end of one imperfectly hidden tank peeking out from the leaves, with the other behind it. Even though Ernest knew how it had been done, it looked real, and he wasn’t fifteen thousand feet up. From that height, the deception would be perfect. Unless, of course, there was a phonograph standing in the middle of the pasture.
He started back for it, able to actually see where he was going for several yards at a time, but as he reached the tank, the fog closed in again, thicker than ever, cutting off everything—even the tank next to him. He shut the phonograph and fastened the clasps, then folded up the table. “Cess!” he called in what he thought was his general direction. “How are you coming along?” and the fog abruptly parted, like theater curtains sweeping open, and he could see the copse of trees and the entire pasture.
And the bull. It stood halfway across the pasture, a huge shaggy brown creature with beady little eyes and enormous horns. It was looking at the tank.
“Hey! You there!” a voice called from the fence. “What do you think you’re doing in my pasture?” And Ernest turned instinctively to look at the farmer standing there.
So did the bull.
“Get those bloody tanks out of my pasture!” the farmer shouted, angrily jabbing the air with his finger.
The bull watched him, fascinated, for a moment, then swung his head back around. To look directly at Ernest.
It has always been my great regret that we had to break our record, and that, unlike a certain famous theatre with its naked ladies, we could not claim: “We never closed.”
—W. R. MATTHEWS, DEAN OF ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL, WRITING OF THE BLITZ
London—15 September 1940
THE NICE THING ABOUT TIME-LAG WAS THAT ONE COULD sleep lying on a cold stone floor with bombs crashing and anti-aircraft guns roaring. Polly even slept through the all clear. When she woke, only Lila and Viv were still there, folding up the blanket they’d sat on, and the sour-faced Mrs. Rickett.
She’s probably staying to make certain I don’t take anything when I leave, Polly thought, picking up her satchel and the “to let” listings, and wondering how early on a Sunday it was acceptable to show up to look at a room. She glanced at her watch. Half past six. Not as early as this. It was too bad she couldn’t stay here and sleep. She still felt drugged, but Mrs. Rickett, her thin arms folded grimly across her chest as she glared at Lila and Viv, was hardly likely to allow that.
They went out, giggling, and Mrs. Rickett started over to Polly. To hurry me along, Polly thought, putting her coat on. “I’ll only be a moment—” she began.
“You said you were looking for a room?” Mrs. Rickett said, pointing at the newspaper in Polly’s hand.
“Yes.”
“I have one,” Mrs. Rickett said. “I run a boardinghouse. I intended to put it in the pa
pers, but if you’re interested it’s at 14 Cardle Street. You can come along with me now and see it if you like. It’s not far.”
And it was one of Mr. Dunworthy’s approved addresses. “Yes,” Polly said, following her out the door and up the steps. “Thank you.” She stopped and stared up at the building they’d come out of, its spire outlined against the dawn sky.
It’s a church, she thought. That explained the clergyman’s presence and the discussion about the altar flowers. The stairs they’d just come up were on the side of the church, and there was a notice board on the wall next to it. “Church of St. George, Kensington,” it read. “The Rev. Floyd Norris, Rector.”
“My single rooms with board are ten and eight,” Mrs. Rickett said, crossing the street. “It’s a nice, cozy room.” Which meant minuscule, and probably appalling.
But it’s only six weeks. Or rather five, with the slippage, Polly thought. And I’ll scarcely ever be in it. I’ll be at the store all day and in the tube shelters at night. “How far is the nearest tube station?” she asked.
“Notting Hill Gate,” Mrs. Rickett said, pointing back the way they’d come. “Three streets over.”
Perfect. Notting Hill Gate wasn’t as deep as Holborn or Bank, but it had never been hit, and it was on the Central Line to Oxford Street. And it was less than a quarter of a mile from Cardle Street. Mr. Dunworthy would be delirious. If the room was habitable.
It was, barely. It was on the third floor, and so “cozy” the bed filled the room and Mrs. Rickett had to squeeze past its foot to get to the wardrobe on the far side. The floor was liver-colored linoleum, the wallpaper was darker still, and even when Mrs. Rickett pulled the blackout curtains back from the single small window, there was scarcely any light. The “facilities” were one flight up, the bathroom two, and hot water was extra.
But it met all of Mr. Dunworthy’s requirements, and she wouldn’t have to spend valuable time looking for a room. She had a feeling Mrs. Rickett would be a dreadful landlady, but having an address would make it easier for the department stores to contact her. “Have you a telephone?” she asked.
“Downstairs in the vestibule, but it’s for local calls only. Five p. If you need to make a trunk call, there’s a pillar box on Lampden Road. And no calls after 9 P.M.”
“I’ll take it,” Polly said, opening her handbag.
Mrs. Rickett held out her hand. “That will be one pound five. Payable in advance.”
“But I thought you said it was ten and eight—”
“This room is a double.”
So much for the legendary wartime spirit of generosity, Polly thought. “You’ve no single rooms available?”
“No.”
And even if you did, you wouldn’t tell me, but it was only for five weeks. She handed her the money.
Mrs. Rickett pocketed it. “No male visitors abovestairs. No smoking or drinking, and no cooking in your room. On weekdays and Saturdays, breakfast is at seven and supper at six. Sunday dinner’s at one o’clock, and there’s a cold collation for supper.” She held out her hand. “I’ll need your ration book.”
Polly handed it to her. “When is breakfast?” she asked, hoping it was soon.
“Your board doesn’t start till tomorrow,” Mrs. Rickett said, and Polly had to resist the impulse to snatch the ration book back and tell her she’d look elsewhere. “Here’s your room key.” Mrs. Rickett handed it to her. “And your latch key.”
“Thank you,” Polly said, trying to inch to the door, but she had a few more rules to deliver. “No children and no pets. I require a fortnight’s notice of departure. I hope you’re not frightened of the bombs like my last boarder.”
“No,” Polly said. Just so time-lagged I can hardly stand.
“Your blackout curtains must be pulled by five o’clock, so if you won’t be back from work by then, do them before you leave in the morning. You’ll have to pay any fines for blackout infractions,” she said and finally left.
Polly sank down on the bed. She needed to go find the drop so she’d know where it was from here and from the church, then find the tube station and go to Oxford Street to see what time the stores opened tomorrow. But she was so tired. The time-lag was even worse than last time. Then, a good night’s sleep had been all she needed to adjust. But even though she’d slept nearly eight hours last night in the shelter, she felt as exhausted as if she hadn’t had any sleep at all.
And she wasn’t likely to get much in the coming days. She couldn’t count on being able to sleep through the bombing every night. The contemps had all complained about being sleep-deprived during the Blitz.
It would be smart to catch up on sleep while I can, she thought, though she actually had no choice. She was almost too drowsy to climb into bed. She kicked her shoes off, took off her jacket and skirt so they wouldn’t get wrinkled, crawled into the creaking-springed bed, and fell instantly asleep.
She woke half an hour later and then lay there. And lay there. After what seemed like hours and was actually twenty minutes, she got up, cursing the unpredictable effects of time-lag, dressed, and went out. There was no one in the corridor and no sound from any of the rooms.
No one else seems to be having difficulty sleeping, she thought resentfully, but when she went downstairs she could hear voices from the direction of the dining room, and was suddenly starving.
Of course you’re starving, she thought, letting herself out. You haven’t eaten in a hundred and twenty years. There’d been a teashop on Lampden Road. Perhaps it was open. She walked back to St. George’s, counting streets and noting landmarks for future reference. And planning what she’d have to eat for breakfast. Bacon and eggs, she decided. It might be the last time she had the chance. Bacon was rationed, eggs were already in short supply, and she had a feeling Mrs. Rickett’s table would be spartan.
She reached the church. A woman carrying a prayer book was standing outside the front door. “I beg your pardon,” Polly said, “can you direct me to Lampden Road?”
“Lampden Road? You’re on it.”
“Oh,” Polly said, “thank you,” and walked rapidly up the road as if she knew where she were going. The woman was looking after her, her prayer book clutched to her bosom.
I hope she hasn’t read one of those “Report Anyone Behaving Suspiciously” posters, Polly thought.
The woman was right. This was definitely Lampden Road. Polly recognized its distinctive curve from the night before. The church must be nearer to the drop than she’d thought. She crossed a side street and saw the chemist’s on the next corner, and, beyond it, the teashop, which unfortunately wasn’t open. On up the street were the newsagent’s and the greengrocer’s she’d seen last night with the baskets of cabbages outside and “T. Tubbins, Greengrocer,” above the door.
Which meant the drop was only a few yards away in the next alley, even though she thought she’d come much farther in the dark. The warden must have taken her some roundabout way. She turned toward the alley, wondering if she should go through right now and give the lab her address and report on the slippage. Badri had specifically asked her to note how much there was. She wondered if he’d been half-expecting something like this. Four and a half days’ slippage had to be due to a divergence point, and the beginning of the Blitz had been rife with them. That was why she’d arranged to come through on the tenth rather than the seventh.
But if she reported in now, she’d need to go through again after she was hired on at a department store, and she didn’t want to give Mr. Dunworthy additional opportunities to cancel her assignment.
I’ll go tomorrow, after I’ve been hired on, she thought, and checked the alley to make certain it was the right one. It was—she could see the barrels and the chalked Union Jack and “London kan take it” on the wall—and then walked back to Lampden Road to look for an open restaurant.
There was nothing to the north but houses. She walked back down past St. George’s to the curve of the road, but there was nothing that way either exc
ept a shut-up confectioner’s, a tailor’s, and an ARP post with sandbags stacked on either side of the door.
I should have offered to pay extra to have my board begin today, she thought, and walked down to Notting Hill Gate Station, hoping the shelter canteens in the Underground stations had been set up by now and were open, but the only sign of food in the entire station was a currant bun being consumed by a small boy on the Central Line platform.
Surely there’ll be a canteen open in Oxford Circus, she thought. It’s a much larger station, but there wasn’t, and Oxford Street was deserted. Polly walked down the long shopping street, looking at the shut shops and department stores: Peter Robinson, Townsend Brothers, massive Selfridges. They looked like palaces rather than stores with their stately gray stone facades and pillars.
And indestructible. Except for the small printed cards in several stores’ windows announcing “safe and comfortable shelter accommodations,” and the yellow-green gas-detecting paint patches on the red pillar postboxes, there was no sign here that there was a war on. Bourne and Hollingsworth was advertising “The Latest in Ladies’ Hats for Autumn,” and Mary Marsh “Modish Dancing Frocks,” and Cook’s window was still calling itself “The Place to Make Your Travel Arrangements.”
To where? Polly wondered. Obviously not Paris, which Hitler had just occupied, along with the rest of Europe. John Lewis and Company was having a sale on fur coats. Not for long, Polly thought, stopping in front of the huge square store, trying to memorize the building and the displays in its wide-fronted windows. By Wednesday morning, it would all be reduced to a charred ruin.
She walked past it toward Marble Arch, noting the stores’ posted opening times and looking for “Shop Assistant Wanted” cards in the windows, but the only one she saw was at Padgett’s, which was on Mr. Dunworthy’s forbidden list even though it wouldn’t be hit till October twenty-fifth, three days after the end of her mission.