Blackout (55 page)

St. George’s hadn’t been on his list. Why not?

Because you were supposed to be staying in a tube shelter
, she told herself. But St. George’s hadn’t been on Colin’s list either.

An anti-aircraft gun began pounding away at the droning planes, both of them as loud and as close as they’d sounded when she sat in the drop, waiting for it to open and unaware that the retrieval team should already have been there, that Miss Laburnum and the little girls were already dead.

And Sir Godfrey, who’d saved her life that first night when she’d gone over to look at Mr. Simms’s newspaper, who’d said, “‘If we no more meet until we meet in heaven—’”

“Do the guns frighten you?” Marjorie asked. “They used to drive my flatmate Brenda completely mad. That’s why she left London. She’s always after me to leave it, as well. She wrote last week and said if I’d come to Bath, she was certain she could get me on at the shop where she works. And when something like this happens—I mean, the church and all those people—it makes me think perhaps I should take her up on it. Do you ever think about chucking the whole thing and getting out?”

Yes
.

“At least it would be better than sitting here, waiting to be killed. Oh, I
am
sorry,” Marjorie said, “but, I mean, things like that do make one think. Tom—that’s the pilot I told you about—says in a war you can’t afford to wait to live, you’ve got to take what happiness you can find because you don’t know how much time you’ve got.”

How much time you’ve got
.

“Brenda says that’s only a line of chat, that men use it on all girls, but sometimes they mean it. The Navy lieutenant Joanna—she used to work in China and Glassware—went out with said the same thing to her, and
he
meant it. They eloped, just like that, without a word to anyone. And even if Tom is only feeding me a line, it
is
true. Any one of us could be killed tonight, or next week, and if that’s the case, then why not go out dancing and all the rest of it? Have a bit of fun? It would be better than never having lived at all. Sorry,” she said, “I’m talking rot. It’s sitting in this wretched cellar. It makes me nervy. Perhaps I
should
go to Bath, only everyone at work would think I was a coward.” She looked up suddenly at the ceiling. “Oh, good, the all clear’s gone.”

“I didn’t hear it,” Polly said. She could still hear explosions and guns. “I don’t think it went.”

But Marjorie had stood and was starting up the stairs. “That’s what we call it when the gun in Cartwright Gardens stops. It means the planes have left off this part of Bloomsbury. We can finally have our tea.” She led the way back up to her room, relit the gas ring, and set the kettle on it.

“Now take off your things,” she said. She opened the closet and took a chenille robe off a hook. “And get into this, and I’ll wash out your blouse and sponge your coat off.” She thrust the robe at her. “Give me your stockings, and I’ll rinse them out, too.”

“I must mend them first,” Polly said, pulling them from her handbag. Marjorie took them gingerly from her and looked them over. “I’m afraid these are beyond mending. Never mind. I’ll lend you a pair of mine.”

“Oh, no, I can’t let you do that.” Marjorie would need to hold on to every stocking she had. On the first of December the government would stop their manufacture, and by the end of the war they’d be more priceless than gold. “What if I were to run one of them?”

“Don’t be silly,” Marjorie said. “You can’t go without stockings. Here, give me your blouse.”

Polly handed it to her, took off her skirt, and wrapped the robe—which felt wonderfully cozy—around her.

The kettle boiled. Marjorie ordered Polly to sit down in the chair. She made the tea and brought Polly a cup, then took down a tin of soup from the shelf and got an opener, a spoon, and a bowl out of the top bureau drawer, keeping up a steady stream of chatter about Tom, who had also told her that he might be posted to Africa any day, and that when two people loved each other, it couldn’t be wrong, could it? “Drink your tea,” Marjorie ordered.

Polly did. It was hot and strong.

“Here,” Marjorie said, handing her a bowl of soup. “I’ve only got one bowl and one spoon, so we’ve got to eat in shifts.”

Polly obligingly took a swallow, trying to recall when she’d eaten last. Or slept.
The night before last in Holborn with my head lying on my handbag
, she thought. No, that didn’t count. She’d only dozed, wakened every few minutes by the lights and voices and the worry that that band of urchins would come back and try to rob her. She hadn’t really slept since Wednesday night, in St. George’s.

In St. George’s, with Mr. Dorming, his hands on his stomach, snoring, and Lila and Viv wrapped in their coats, their hair in bobby pins, and the rector, asleep against the wall, his book fallen from his hand.
Murder at the Vicarage—

“You haven’t finished any soup at all,” Marjorie said reprovingly. “Do take a few more bites. It will make you feel better.”

“No, you take your turn.”

Marjorie took the bowl and spoon from her. “I’ll go wash these up. I’ll be back straightaway,” and Polly must have fallen asleep because Marjorie was back in the room covering her with a blanket, and the antiaircraft gun had started up again.

“Shouldn’t we go down to the cellar?” Polly asked drowsily.

“No, I’ll wake you if it comes near us. Go back to sleep.”

Polly obeyed, and when she woke, it was five and the all clear was going, and the answer was clear, too. The reason the retrieval team hadn’t been there was because they were looking for her in the tube stations. There were far fewer stations on Mr. Dunworthy’s approved list than there were Oxford Street shops, and if they had described her to the guard at Notting Hill Gate, he would have remembered her.

They’d gone to Notting Hill Gate that morning, but she’d been in Holborn, and that afternoon she’d left work early and walked home so she wouldn’t be caught in the station by the sirens, and they’d have had no way of knowing she would go to the drop. And tonight she’d been in Charing Cross and Russell Square.

They’d been waiting in Notting Hill Gate this entire time. They were waiting there now.
I must go find them
, she thought, and had started out of the chair before she remembered that Marjorie had washed her blouse, and that the trains wouldn’t begin running till half past six.

I’ll rest here till then
, she thought,
and then I’ll go find them
, but she must have dozed off again because when she woke, it was daylight and Marjorie was dressed and standing at an ironing board, pressing a blouse. Polly’s blouse, neatly washed and pressed, lay on the made-up bed. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Marjorie said, smiling at her over the iron.

Polly looked at her watch, but it had stopped. “What time is it?”

“Half past four.”

“Half past
four?”
Polly pushed the blanket aside and stood up.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have let you sleep so long, but you seemed so all in… What are you doing?” she asked as Polly reached for her blouse.

“I must go,” Polly said, pulling it on and buttoning it with fumbling fingers.

“Where?” Marjorie said.

Home
, she thought. “To the boardinghouse,” she said, pulling on her skirt. “I must find out if I still have a room there.” She tucked in her blouse and sat down to put on her shoes. “And if I haven’t, I must find another.”

“But it’s Sunday,” Marjorie said. “Why don’t you stay here tonight and come to work with me tomorrow, and we could go over together after work?”

“No, you’ve already done too much for me, letting me stay and pressing my blouse for me. I can’t impose any further.” She pulled on her coat.

“But… can’t you wait? I’ll go with you. You shouldn’t go there alone.”

“I’ll be all right.” Polly grabbed up her hat and bag. “Thank you—for everything.” She hugged Marjorie briefly and hurried out of the room and down the stairs.

Halfway down, Marjorie called after her, “Wait, you forgot the stockings,” and ran down the stairs with them fluttering in her hand.

To avoid a time-consuming argument, Polly took them and jammed them into her coat pocket. “Which way is Russell Square Station?”

“Turn left at the next crossing, and then left again,” Marjorie said. “If you’ll only wait a moment, I’ll fetch my coat and—”

“It’s not necessary. Really,” Polly said and was finally able to get away. She ran all the way to Russell Square, but when she reached it, there was an endless queue of shelterers laden with camp cots and dinner baskets and bedrolls. “Is there a separate queue for passengers?” she asked a woman wheeling a pram full of dishes and cutlery.

“Just go to the head of the line and tell ’em you’re meetin’ someone,” the woman said, “and that if you’re late, you’ll miss ’im.”

I will
, Polly thought, thanking the woman and going over to the guard. He nodded and let her through, and she hurried to the lift and down to the southbound platform. A chalkboard stood in the doorway. “Southbound service temporarily suspended,” it read.

There must have been damage on the line, she thought, consulting
the Underground map. She’d need to take a northbound train to King’s Cross and catch the Victoria Line, but when she got there, the southbound trains weren’t running either. Which left the Circle Line. She took it, praying it hadn’t been knocked out, too.

It had, but only between Holland Park and Shepherd’s Bush. She took the train to Notting Hill Gate and hurried toward the escalators. “Oh, my God, look!” a young woman’s voice squealed from the far side of the hall as she crossed it, “It’s Polly!” and a second voice echoed, “Polly!”

Oh, thank God
, she thought, relief washing over her.
They’re here. Finally
.

“Polly Sebastian! Over here!” they called from the direction of the escalators.

It can’t be the retrieval team
, Polly thought as she turned.
They’d never call attention to me or to themselves like that
.

It wasn’t. It was Lila and Viv.

“POLLY! OVER HERE!” LILA CALLED AGAIN FROM ACROSS
the tube station, and Viv echoed, “Here.”

It couldn’t be them—no one could have survived in that flattened tangle of rubble—but there they were, elbowing their way toward her carrying mugs of tea and sandwiches. “Where—how—?” Polly stammered. “I thought you were dead.”

“You thought
we
were dead?” Lila said. “We thought
you
were dead! Viv, go tell them we’ve found her,” she ordered, and Viv handed Polly the sandwich and tea she was holding and took off back through the crowd.

“You said ‘they.’ Does that mean—?”

But Lila wasn’t listening. “What
happened
to you?” she demanded. “We were convinced you’d gone to St. George’s. Where have you
been
all this time? It’s been three days!”

Polly heard Viv say, “We came up to the canteen to buy a sandwich, and there she was,” and looked over at the escalator. Viv was leaning over it, chattering to someone coming up. “We couldn’t believe our eyes!” and it was the rector she was talking to.

Polly started through the crowd toward them, but the little girls—Bess and Irene and, oh, thank goodness, Trot—were already pelting toward her. Irene ran full tilt into her, and Trot hugged her legs. “You aren’t killed!” she said happily.

“I
knew
she wasn’t,” Bess said.

The rector came up. “Praise God you’re safe.”

Irene was tugging on her arm. “Come along,” she said. “We must show you to Mother.”

“Trot, let go,” Bess said, taking hold of her other arm. “You’ll bowl her over.” And the three of them dragged her down the escalator, Trot clinging to her skirt, and out to the northbound District Line platform, shouting, “Mother, look what we’ve found!”

And there at the end of the platform were Mrs. Brightford and Miss Laburnum and Mr. Dorming—all of them rising from where they’d been sitting to gather around her, exclaiming and smiling and talking at once in a happy jumble: “Where have you
been? …
gave us such a fright… so worried… Sir Godfrey refused to leave… and when you didn’t come back to Mrs. Rickett’s…”

Trot was tugging on her mother’s skirt. “She isn’t killed, Mummy.”

“No, she isn’t,” Mrs. Brightford said, beaming. “And we’re very, very glad.”

“I told you you were all worried for nothing,” Mrs. Rickett said to the rector. “Didn’t I say she’d turn up?”

“But you… I don’t understand… the man at the church—” Polly stammered. “I saw the wreckage—” And yet here came Miss Hibbard, carrying her knitting, tears streaming down her face, and, trotting toward Polly on a leash, was Nelson. “But pets aren’t allowed in public shelters,” Polly said, thinking,
This must be a dream
.

“The London Underground Authority’s given him a special dispensation,” Mr. Simms said, and she couldn’t be dreaming. She could never have imagined something like that.

“Oh, I’m so glad to see you! We feared you’d been killed,” Mrs. Wyvern said, stepping forward to embrace her, and she couldn’t have imagined that either.

They were really here and not buried in the rubble of the church. “You’re not dead. You’re all here,” Polly said, looking around happily at Mrs. Rickett and the rector and Nelson and—

Where was Sir Godfrey? She looked wildly around at the people on the platform. “Sir Godfrey refused to leave,” they’d said, and the old man at St. George’s had shaken his head and murmured, “Such a pity. So many killed.”

“Where’s Sir Godfrey?” Polly demanded. She darted back along the platform, pushing her way past passengers, looking for him, stepping over shelterers, thinking,
Oh, God, that rescue shaft was for him—

And saw him coming through the archway from the tunnel, his
Times
tucked under his arm.

Thank God, he’s all right
, Polly thought, but he wasn’t. He looked
beaten, battered—as if St. George’s
had
crashed down on him—and years older than that night they’d done
The Tempest
. His face was lined and ashen.