Blackout

  For a moment Polly had no idea what she was talking about—so much had happened since she’d seen Miss Laburnum at Oxford Circus—and then remembered she’d told her she had to deliver a message to Marjorie’s landlady. “Yes, I mean… no,” she stammered. It obviously couldn’t have taken her all night to deliver a message. “Something happened. Has Mrs. Rickett gone home?”

  “Yes, she went ahead to cook breakfast.”

  “Breakfast,” Mr. Dorming snorted. “Is that what you call it?”

  “Miss Laburnum, do you know if she has any rooms to let?” Polly asked.

  “Lady Mary, here at last!” Sir Godfrey said, his voice rich with sarcasm. “May I remind you that this is The Admirable Crichton, not Mary Rose, and that, consequently, vanishing for long periods of time and then reappearing is not—” His face changed. “Something’s happened. What is it, Viola?”

  She couldn’t say “Nothing.” He wouldn’t believe her. And she’d have to tell the troupe something to account for Eileen’s moving in with her.

  “She was delivering a message for a friend in hospital,” Miss Laburnum was whispering to Sir Godfrey. “I’m afraid something may have happened to her friend.”

  “No,” Polly said. “It isn’t Marjorie. It’s Padgett’s. It was bombed last night.”

  “Padgett’s?” Miss Laburnum said. “The department store?” And the others instantly gathered round, asking questions: “When?” “How badly?” “You weren’t injured, were you?”

  “But I thought you worked at Townsend Brothers,” Lila said.

  “I do, but my cousin works—worked at Padgett’s, and she and I were to meet there after work—”

  “Oh, my dear,” Miss Laburnum said. “I do hope she wasn’t—”

  “No, she’s all right, but the store was bombed just after closing, and we’d only just left—” Which hopefully accounted for the fear Sir Godfrey had seen in her face. “It was completely destroyed.”

  More questions. Was it incendiaries or an HE? How big an HE? Were there any casualties?

  Polly answered them the best she could, keenly aware of how much time this was taking and of Sir Godfrey’s searching look. She spent a full quarter of an hour assuring them she was all right before they began to gather up their things.

  Polly looked at her watch, trying to decide if she had enough time to get to Mrs. Rickett’s and back.

  “I don’t understand,” Miss Laburnum said. “Why did you ask about a room if it was your cousin’s place of employment which was bombed?”

  “I was meeting her so we could look for a room for her. The boardinghouse where she lived was bombed out, and now Padgett’s has been as well,” which was a totally implausible story. It was a good thing Sir Godfrey had gone over to pick up his coat and his Times. “I was hoping Mrs. Rickett might have a room to let.”

  “But couldn’t she stay with you? Your room was meant to be a double, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, but a friend of ours, Mr. Davis, was bombed out, too.”

  Miss Laburnum’s eyebrows went up. “A friend?”

  Oh, no. She’d immediately assume some sort of hanky-panky. “Yes,” she said, and then shamelessly, “He was injured at Dunkirk.”

  “Oh, poor boy,” Miss Laburnum said, instantly sympathetic. “There’s no vacancy at Mrs. Rickett’s at present, but I believe Miss Harding has one. She’s in Box Lane.”

  Which wasn’t on Mr. Dunworthy’s forbidden list. Perfect. Now if she could just get over to Box Lane and put a deposit on the room.

  “And you’d best look for a room for your cousin,” Mr. Dorming growled on his way out. “She’s already been bombed out. You don’t want to put her through Mrs. Rickett’s cooking as well, do you?”

  He went out. Polly thanked Miss Laburnum and started after him, but Sir Godfrey stopped her. “Viola, what is it? What’s really happened?”

  “I told you,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “My cousin—”

  “Viola could not speak either, to tell Orsino of her sorrow or the brother she had lost,” he said. “But silence has its dangers as well. Whatever is troubling you, you can tell—”

  “Sir Godfrey, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Miss Laburnum said, “but I must speak to you. It’s about shoes.”

  “Shoes?”

  “Yes, in the third act, on the island after the shipwreck, everyone’s supposed to go unshod, but the station floor’s so unsanitary, so I was thinking perhaps beach sandals—”

  “My dear Miss Laburnum,” Sir Godfrey said, “at this point we will not ever reach the third act. Lord Loam is incapable of remembering his lines. Lady Catherine and Tweeny are incapable of remembering their blocking. Lady Mary,” he said, looking at Polly, “persists in nearly getting herself blown up, and the Germans may invade at any moment. We have far more pressing problems at hand than footwear.”

  You’re right, we do, Polly thought. Not knowing what airfield Gerald is at, and not having coats or jobs or roofs over our heads. And trying to keep from being arrested as German spies. Or killed by shrapnel or stray parachute mines.

  “Oh, but Sir Godfrey,” Miss Laburnum protested, “if we don’t do it now—”

  “If and when we reach a point where it becomes necessary to decide whether going unshod is a threat to our health, we will discuss it. Until then, I’d suggest you concentrate on persuading Lady Catherine not to titter each time she says a line. There is no point in fretting over things which may never come to pass. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’ my dear Miss Laburnum.”

  And there’s my answer, Polly thought gratefully. Mike and Eileen have more than enough to deal with without my adding to it. We need to concentrate on getting Eileen out of Stepney and Mike out of Fleet Street and both of them into warm coats. And on finding Gerald Phipps. If we do, and his drop is working, I won’t have to tell them at all.

  “‘Sufficient unto the day,’” Miss Laburnum was saying. “Is that from Hamlet?”

  “It is from the Bible!” Sir Godfrey roared.

  “Oh, of course. And it’s excellent advice, but with winter nearly here and so many shortages, beach sandals may prove difficult to find, and if we don’t purchase them now—”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt, Sir Godfrey,” Polly said, taking pity on him, “but I must ask Miss Laburnum something.”

  “Pray do, Viola,” he said with a grateful look at her. “‘Mark what I spake to thee,’” and fled.

  “Do you have the address of Mrs. Wyvern’s assistance center?” Polly asked. “I must speak with her about getting coats for my cousin and Mr. Davis.”

  “Coats?”

  “Yes, they lost theirs in the bombing.” She hoped Miss Laburnum wouldn’t ask her which one. “I thought Mrs. Wyvern might be able to help.”

  “Oh, I’m certain she will. What sizes?”

  “My cousin’s my size, though a bit shorter. When I gave her my coat, it was too long. I’m not certain about Mr. Davis—”

  “Gave her your coat? But what are you doing for one?”

  “I’ll be all right. Townsend Brothers is only a short way from Oxford Circus—”

  “Oh, but it’s dreadfully cold out. You’ll catch your death. You must take mine.” She began unbuttoning it. “I have an old brown tweed at home I can wear.”

  “But what about you? It’s a long walk to Mrs. Rickett’s. I hate to take—”

  “Nonsense,” she said briskly. “It’s our duty to help each other, especially in time of war. As Shakespeare says, ‘No man is an island.’”

  And thank goodness Sir Godfrey wasn’t here to hear that.

  “‘Each is a piece of the whole, a part of the main,’” Miss Laburnum said, handing Polly the coat. “Now is there anything else you need?”

  The name of the airfield Gerald’s at, Polly thought, and looked around for Lila and Viv, but they’d left.

  She glanced at her watch. She couldn’t afford to go after them. It was nearly nine, and she couldn’t risk losing her
job by being late. Room and board and train fares to airfields would all take money. But asking Mrs. Rickett about Eileen’s sharing her room couldn’t wait till after work. “There is something you could do for me, if you would,” Polly said. “If you could tell Mrs. Rickett what happened and—”

  “Ask her if your cousin can stay with you? Of course. You go on to work, my dear. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Thank you,” Polly said gratefully, and raced off, arriving at Townsend Brothers with seconds to spare. “Where did you go off to last night?” Doreen asked as she uncovered her counter. “Marjorie wanted to speak to you.”

  “I had an appointment,” she said, and, to avoid questions—Which is all I seem to do, she thought—she asked, “Did Marjorie tell you what she was doing on Jermyn Street the night she was injured?”

  “No, Miss Snelgrove wouldn’t let us ask her anything. She said she was too ill to have us yammering at her. She insisted on escorting her back to the hospital herself. What sort of appointment? With a man? Who is he?”

  Luckily, Sarah arrived just then, full of the news of Padgett’s, and Polly didn’t have to answer her. On the other hand, she couldn’t bring the conversation round to airfields either. She had to wait till the opening bell had rung and Doreen came past with a stack of lingerie boxes on her way to the workroom. When she did, Polly said, “I met an airman in the shelter night before last, and we rather hit it off.”

  “I knew it. Appointment, my eye.” Doreen set the boxes down and leaned her elbows on the counter. “I want to hear all about him. Is he good-looking?”

  “Yes, but there’s not much to tell. His leave was up, and he was on his way back to his airfield. We were only able to talk for a few moments, but he asked me to write him, only I can’t remember which airfield he was stationed at. It began with a D, I think, or a T.”

  “Tempsford?” Doreen said. “Debden?”

  “I’m not certain,” Polly said. “The name might have had two words.”

  “Two words?” Doreen said thoughtfully. “High Wycombe? No, that doesn’t begin with a T or a D. Oh, look out, here comes Miss Snelgrove.” She scooped up her boxes and scurried into the stockroom.

  Polly tore off a scrap of brown wrapping paper, jotted the names down so she wouldn’t forget them, and stuck the list in her pocket. With any luck, she’d be able to get others from the shopgirls at lunch, and one of them would ring a bell with Eileen. She and Mike should be here soon. Stepney was less than three-quarters of an hour away, and she doubted if Eileen had much to pack.

  But they still weren’t there by eleven, and Polly realized belatedly that she didn’t know Mike’s address or the name of the people Eileen was staying with. And Padgett’s employee records had just been blown to bits. Where are they? she thought. It shouldn’t take four hours to go to Stepney and back.

  She watched the clock and the stairways and the lifts, trying not to worry, trying to believe they would walk in any moment, safe and sound, that they were going to find Gerald Phipps, and his drop was going to open and they would go back to Oxford where Mr. Dunworthy would let Eileen go to VE-Day. To believe their retrieval teams were going to walk in any moment and say, “Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  But as the minutes crept by, and Mike and Eileen still didn’t come, doubts began to drift back in like the fog that first night she’d come through. Even if the measles epidemic had been a divergence point and kept the retrieval team from coming for Eileen till after she’d left for London, Lieutenant Heffernan would have said they’d been there. And if the measles had been a divergence point, why had Eileen been allowed to come through in the first place?

  And this was time travel. Polly might have failed to find out where Eileen was from the vicar because she had a train to catch, but the retrieval team wouldn’t have. They had literally all the time in the world.

  And if Oxford hadn’t been destroyed, if Colin wasn’t dead, where was he? He had promised to come rescue her if she got in trouble.

  “If you can,” Polly murmured. “If you’re not killed.”

  The arrow above the lift door stopped at three, and she looked over at the lift, half expecting to see Colin standing there. But it wasn’t him. Or Mike and Eileen. It was Marjorie. “Oh, Polly!” she cried. “Thank goodness! I heard Padgett’s was hit, and I was so afraid… is your cousin all right?”

  “Yes,” Polly said, grabbing her arm quickly to support her. She looked even whiter and more ill than yesterday.

  “Oh, thank heavens,” Marjorie breathed. “No, I’m all right. It was just that I was afraid… I mean, I sent you there, and if something had happened to you…”

  “It didn’t,” Polly assured her. “I’m quite all right, and so is she. You’re the one we’re concerned about,” she said reprovingly. “You can’t keep escaping from hospital and dashing over here. You’re an invalid, remember.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” Marjorie said. “It was only… when I heard people had been killed—”

  “Killed?” Polly said, thinking, Thank goodness. I can tell Mike that, and he’ll stop worrying.

  “Yes,” Marjorie said. “One of them died on the way to hospital. That’s how I found out about it. I heard the nurses talking. The other four were dead when they found them.”

  Way Out

  —NOTICE IN LONDON UNDERGROUND STATION

  London—17 September 1940

  THE SHIMMER BLINDED HIM FOR A MOMENT, AND HE TOOK a stumbling step forward. And nearly killed himself. He was on a narrow spiral staircase, and only a last-moment grab for the iron railing kept him from pitching down it. He cracked his knee hard, barked both shins, and made a clanging, echoing racket in the process.

  A brilliant beginning, he thought, nursing his bruised knee and looking at his surroundings. The staircase was in a narrow windowless shaft that extended up—and down—for farther than he could see, and he was apparently the only person in it, or at any rate no one had come to investigate the noise he’d made. And now that its echoes had stopped, he couldn’t hear anything.

  Nothing could get through those walls, he thought, looking at the dimly lit stone. If the railing hadn’t been of iron, he’d have thought he was in the tower of a castle. Or the dungeon. In which case he should climb up to get out. But hopefully going either direction would bring him to some clue as to where—and when—this was, and down was easier than up, especially since his knee hurt.

  He started down the stairs. Three turns down brought him to a bare lightbulb set in a wall socket, which meant he was in the correct century, but there was nothing to indicate what the staircase was a part of or where it led. If anywhere. He’d already come down a hundred steps, and there was still no end in sight.

  I should have gone up, he thought, making another turn in the spiral, and there below him was a door. “Let’s hope it’s not locked,” he said, his voice echoing in the narrow space, and opened the door.

  Onto a mob scene. Scores of people scurrying past in both directions, women in knee-length frocks, men in Burberry, uniformed soldiers, sailors, WAAFs, Wrens, all of them walking quickly, purposefully down a brightly lit, low-ceilinged tunnel. There was an arrow painted on the wall and the words “To the trains,” and below it, with an arrow pointing in the opposite direction, “Way Out.”

  This is an Underground station, he thought, and started down the tunnel toward a poster on the wall. “Do your bit for the war effort,” it read. “Buy Victory Bonds. Defeat Hitler.”

  I made it. I’m actually here in London in World War II, he thought, grinning from ear to ear—an expression which was completely inappropriate for an air raid (and a war), but he couldn’t seem to help himself. And at any rate no one was paying any attention to him. They pushed past him, totally intent on getting wherever it was they were going—workmen in coveralls, businessmen with toothbrush mustaches and furled umbrellas, mothers with children in tow. And every one of them was wearing a hat. The men all had bowler
s, fedoras, woolen caps.

  He should have worn a hat. The rest of his clothes seemed all right, but he hadn’t realized how universal hats had been in this era. Even the little boys were wearing cloth caps. I’ll stand out like the impostor I am, he thought, searching the crowd for anyone with a bare head.

  There was one—a blonde in a WVS uniform—and walking just behind her was a gray-haired man. He began to relax a bit. The man was carrying a pillow under his arm.

  He must be one of the shelterers, he thought, though no one was sitting down or lying along the tunnel. Perhaps they only sleep out on the platforms, or this isn’t one of the stations they used for a shelter. Or they haven’t started using the stations yet.

  Whenever this was. He’d set the net so he’d come through at 7 p.m. on September 16, 1940. I need to make certain I did, he thought, hurrying down the tunnel, and then remembered he’d need to be able to find his way back to the drop and went back to take a hard look at the door he’d come through. It was black-painted metal, stenciled in white: Stairs to Surface. To Be Used in Case of Emergency Only, which explained the seemingly endless number of steps. And the reason it had been empty.

  Near the foot of the door someone had scratched “E.H.+ M.T.” He made a mental note of the initials, of a peeling corner on the Victory Bonds poster, and of a second poster reading Don’t Leave It to Others: Enroll Today. And a notice at the end of the tunnel that said Central Line.

  But no mention of what station it was. He needed to find that out, and the date and time of day, before he did anything else. The time should be easy. Nearly everyone was wearing a watch, and he could ask about the station at the same time, but just as he was about to tap a man with an ARP armband on the shoulder, he saw a notice: “Be alert for spies. Report all suspicious behavior.”

  Did asking what station one was in count as suspicious behavior? He didn’t see why it would be—he could claim he’d got off at the wrong stop or something—but he’d already made an error about the hat. What if there was something else suspicious about his clothes? He’d better not do anything to attract attention to himself.