All Clear (38 page)

Which means we didn’t find Mr. Bartholomew, we didn’t get a message through. We didn’t get there in time. Mike’s wrong, and Mr. Bartholomew went home in October or won’t be here till May. Or we won’t be able to find anyone to leave Theodore with. Or the train back to St. Paul’s will be delayed. It will jerk to a stop, and we’ll sit in a tunnel for hours and won’t be able to get to St. Paul’s
.

Or perhaps the delay’s already happened
, she thought, remembering the fatal minutes they’d spent arguing with the usher, that they’d spent arguing over how to get Theodore home.
We’re already too late
.

But they had to find Mr. Bartholomew. It was the only chance they had of getting out before her deadline.

And not just
her
chance, but theirs. Mike and Eileen would never be able to find Denys Atherton among the hundreds of thousands of soldiers preparing for D-Day. They hadn’t even been able to find her at Townsend Brothers.

Eileen had been at VE-Day because they hadn’t been able to get out. They’d still been here when Polly’s deadline arrived. And Mike …

We’ve got to find him
, she thought, trying to think what they should do if there was no one to leave Theodore with.

But Mrs. Owens was there. “I was afraid he might not last through the whole pantomime,” she said, greeting them at the door. “I’m glad ’e didn’t. I’ve ’ad a feelin’ all day there was going to be a raid tonight.”

“Well, if there is,” Eileen said, “take Theodore to the shelter. That cupboard under the stairs isn’t safe.”

“I will,” she promised. “And you three should be ’eadin’ for ’ome.”

“We are,” Eileen said.

“Theodore, tell Eileen goodbye, and thank her for taking you.”

“I don’t
want
to,” Theodore said, and launched himself at Eileen. “I don’t want you to go.”

This is the delay
, Polly thought.
We’re going to spend the next two hours attempting to pry Theodore loose from Eileen’s legs
.

But Eileen was ready for him. “I must go,” she said, “but I brought you a Christmas present.” She pulled a box wrapped in Townsend Brothers Christmas paper out of her bag and handed it to him.

Theodore sat down immediately to open it, and they made a hasty exit and were back on the train in a thankfully empty car by half past four. “We should have plenty of time to get to St. Paul’s before the raids start,” Mike said.

“But in case we don’t,” Polly said, “and in case we get separated, you need to tell me what Mr. Bartholomew looks like.”

“He’s tall,” Eileen said, “dark hair, early thirties—no, wait, I keep forgetting he was here six years ago. He’d be in his late twenties.”

“The fire watch’s headquarters are in the Crypt,” Polly said, “and the stairs to it are—”

“I know,” Mike said. “I’ve been to St. Paul’s.”

“To look for Mr. Bartholomew?” Polly asked.

“No. I told you, I thought he came in the spring. I was looking for you, remember? Mr. Humphreys gave me a whole tour of the place. He told me all about this Captain Faulknor guy who saved the day by tying two ships together and showed me all the staircases and—”

“But he didn’t show Eileen,” Polly said. “Or did he, that day you came looking for me, Eileen?”

“Yes, but I had other things on my mind. Where did you say the steps down to the Crypt are?”

“Here,” Polly said, drawing a map of St. Paul’s with her finger on the leather back of the seat and pointing to where the stairway down to the Crypt was.

“Where are the stairs to the roof?” Eileen asked.

“I don’t know, and it’s not roof, it’s roofs. There are layers and layers of levels and roofs. That’s what made putting out the incendiaries so difficult. But there’ll be someone in the Crypt who can take a message up to
Mr. Bartholomew,” she said, and filled Eileen in on the raid. “St. Paul’s didn’t burn—”

“Because of the fire watch,” Mike said.

“Yes, but the entire area around it did. And Fleet Street and the Guildhall and the Central Telephone Exchange—all the operators had to be evacuated—and at least one of the surface shelters. I don’t know which one.”

“Then we need to stay out of all of them,” Mike said. “You said some of the tube stations were hit? Which ones?”

“Waterloo, I think,” she said, trying to remember. “And Cannon Street, and Charing Cross Railway Station had to be evacuated because of a land mine.”

“St. Paul’s Station wasn’t hit?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did they drop lots of high-explosive bombs?” Eileen asked nervously.

“No,” Mike said. “It was nearly all incendiaries, but the tide was out, and the primary water main got hit. And it was really windy.”

Polly nodded. “The fires nearly became a firestorm like Dresden.”

“Which means it will be a great time to have already gone home,” Mike said. “How many more stops do we have till we get to St. Paul’s?”

“One more till Monument, where we change for the Central Line, and then one to St. Paul’s,” Polly said.

But when they got to the Central Line platform, there was a sandwich board in the entranceway:
No service on Central Line until further notice. All travelers are advised to take alternate routes
.

“What other line is St. Paul’s on?” Mike asked, starting over to the tube map.

“None. We’ll have to use another station,” Polly said, thinking rapidly. Cannon Street was the nearest, but it had been hit, and she didn’t know at what time. “We need to go to Blackfriars,” she said. “This way.”

She led them out to the platform. “Blackfriars isn’t one of the stations that burned, is it?” Eileen asked.

“No,” Polly said, though she didn’t know. But it was only a bit past five. It wouldn’t be on fire now.

“How far is Blackfriars from St. Paul’s?” Mike asked.

“A ten-minute walk.”

“And from here back to Blackfriars, what? Ten minutes?”

Polly nodded.

“Good, we’ve still got plenty of time,” he said and headed for the platform.

But they had just missed the train and had to wait a quarter of an hour for the next one, and when they got off at Blackfriars, they had to work their way through scores of shelterers putting down their blankets and unpacking picnic hampers.

Oh, no, the sirens must already have gone
, Polly thought, looking at the crowd,
and the guard won’t let us leave
.

A band of ragged children ran past them, and Polly grabbed the last one and asked him, “Have the sirens gone?”

“Not yet,” he said, wriggling free of her, and tore off after the other children.

“Hurry,” Polly said, pushing her way through the mob pouring in. Mrs. Owens must not have been the only one who’d “had a feeling” about there being a raid tonight.

Polly led Mike and Eileen quickly toward the entrance, fearful that at any moment the siren would sound and that, even if they did make it out, it would be too dark to see anything. The tangle of narrow, dead-ending lanes around St. Paul’s was bad enough in daylight, let alone after dark and in the blackout.

But when they came up the stairs and emerged onto the street, St. Paul’s dome was clearly outlined against the searchlit sky. They started up the hill toward it.

We’re actually going to make it
, Polly thought. Which meant it was true. Mr. Dunworthy and Mr. Bartholomew—and Colin—had kept what had happened secret all these years, had been willing to sacrifice them to keep the secret.

Like Ultra
, she thought. That secret had been kept by hundreds and hundreds of people for years and years—because it was absolutely essential to winning the war. What if their getting trapped, their coming back, had had to be kept secret for some reason equally vital to time travel? Or to history? And that was why they couldn’t be told, why they’d had to be sacrificed …

“What time is it?” Mike asked.

Polly squinted at her watch. “Six.”

“Good, we’ve still got plenty of time—” Mike said, and a siren cut sharply across his words.

I knew it
, Polly thought, and took off at a trot, Mike and Eileen following.

“It’s only the siren,” Mike said, panting. “That still gives us twenty minutes till the planes, doesn’t it?”

I don’t know
, Polly thought, sprinting up the hill.
Please let there be twenty minutes. That’s all we need
.

And it looked like they’d be granted it. They were nearly to the top of Ludgate Hill before the searchlights switched on, and the anti-aircraft guns still hadn’t started firing by the time they came to the iron fence surrounding the cathedral. And why couldn’t it, of all the fences in London, have been taken down and donated to the scrap-metal drive so they could go in the north transept door? They’d have to go around to the west front.

She started along the fence. “Damn it,” Mike said behind her.

“What is it?” she asked, and heard what he had, the drone of a plane. “There’s still time. Come along,” and rounded the corner to the west front and started up the broad steps to where a Christmas tree stood in front of the Great West Door.

“You, there!” a man’s voice called from behind them. “Where do you think you’re going?” A shuttered pocket torch fixed its narrow beam on Polly and then on Mike and Eileen. A man in an ARP helmet emerged from the darkness at the foot of the steps. “What are you lot doing outside? You should be in a shelter. Didn’t you hear the sirens?”

“Yes,” Mike said. “We were—”

“I’ll take you to the shelter.” He started up the steps toward Polly. “Come along.”

Not
again, Polly thought.
Not when we’re so near
.

She glanced up the steps, wondering if she could make it the rest of the way up to the porch and over to the door before he caught her. She didn’t think so. “We weren’t looking for a shelter, sir,” she said. “We’re looking for a friend of ours. He’s on the St. Paul’s fire watch.”

“We
have
to talk to him,” Mike said. “It’s urgent.”

“So’s that,” the warden said, jamming a thumb skyward. “Hear those planes?”

It was impossible not to. They were nearly overhead, and the fire watch would already be heading up to the roofs, preparing for them.

“In a minute those planes’ll be here,” the warden said, “and the watch’ll have more than they can deal with. They won’t have time for any chats.” He extended his hand toward Polly. “Now, come on, you three. There’s a shelter near here. I’ll take you there.”

“You don’t understand,” Eileen said. “All we need to do is to get a message to him.”

“It’ll only take a minute,” Mike added, backing down the steps and off to the side so the warden had to turn to face him.

He’s doing that to distract him
, Polly thought, and took a silent backward step up the broad stone stairs, and then another, grateful for the growing roar of the planes, which hid the sound of her footsteps. “I know right where to find him!” Mike shouted to the warden over the noise. “I can be in and out in no time.”

Polly took another step backward up the stairs.

An anti-aircraft gun behind her started up, and the warden turned at the sound and saw her. “You there, where do you think you’re going?” He scrambled up the steps toward her. “What are the three of you up to?”

There was a strange, swooping
swish
above them. Polly looked up and had time to think,
If that’s a bomb, I shouldn’t have done that
, and there was a clatter, like an entire kitchenful of pots and pans falling on the floor.

Something landed on the stair between her and the warden and burst into a furious, fizzing fountain of sparks. Polly backed away from it, putting up her hand to shield her eyes from the blinding blue-white light. The warden had jumped away from it, too, as it sputtered and spun, throwing off molten stars.

It’ll catch the Christmas tree on fire
, Polly thought, and had turned to run into the cathedral for a stirrup pump when she realized this was her chance. She darted up the stairs and across the porch to the door. She grabbed the handle.

“Hey! You there!” the warden shouted. “Come back here!”

Polly yanked on the heavy door. It didn’t budge. She yanked again, and this time it opened a narrow crack.

She glanced back down at Mike and Eileen, but the incendiary was jerking and spitting too violently and erratically for them to risk running past it, and the warden was already nearly upon her.

“Go!” Mike shouted, waving her on. “We’ll catch up with you!”

Polly turned and fled into the blackness of the cathedral.

THE DOOR CLANGED SHUT BEHIND POLLY
.

It was pitch-black inside the cathedral. There was supposed to be a light under the dome for the fire watch to orient themselves by, but she couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see anything. She couldn’t hear anything either, except the still-reverberating echo of the door shutting behind her. Not planes, not the sputtering incendiary, nothing, not even the sirens.

But the warden had been just below her on the steps. He would come through that door any moment. She had to hide.

She paused a second, willing her eyes to adjust, trying to remember what lay on this side of the cathedral. Not the Wren staircase—it was blocked off—and
The Light of the World
was too small to hide behind. She should have paid more attention when Mr. Humphreys was showing her around.

She still couldn’t see
anything
, not even outlines. She groped for the wall, arms outstretched in front of her, like a child playing blind man’s bluff. Stone and then open space and narrow iron bars. The chapel’s grille. She ran her hand hurriedly along the bars, anxious to get past the chapel, and felt the gate open under her touch.

She was through it instantly and into the chapel, feeling her way. The chapel had had an altar with a tall carved reredos behind it. She could hide behind that.