All Clear (54 page)

“And don’t say, ‘This is time travel,’ like that,” Eileen said, even though Polly hadn’t said anything. “There are scores of reasons why they might not have been able to come through yet. Slippage and divergence points and …”

But the most likely is that that isn’t what happened at all
, Polly thought.
Mike didn’t go through, and there was no drop in Houndsditch
. Only an HE, followed by incendiaries.

“He
can’t
be dead,” Eileen said. “He promised he’d get us out.”

Yes, and Colin promised he’d come rescue me if I got into trouble
, Polly thought.
Sometimes promises can’t be kept
.

“Perhaps he got a new lead on the retrieval team and went off to find them,” Eileen said. “He went to Manchester without telling us.”

Which didn’t account for his half-burnt papers being in Houndsditch, or his things being at Mrs. Leary’s. If he had gone off, he would have taken his razor and shaving soap with him.

Polly had hoped there would be some clue among his belongings as to what he had been doing in Houndsditch, though she was almost afraid to find out. What if he’d caught sight of Eileen going to find Alf and Binnie and followed her? Houndsditch wasn’t that far from Bank Station. Or what if he’d been on some dangerous mission to get the three of them out? He’d looked so desperate and distracted after she told him about Eileen’s coat. What if, in his desperation, he’d seen someone he thought might be the retrieval team and followed them to Houndsditch? To his death.

I shouldn’t have told him
, she thought.
I should have lied about the coat
. If he had died attempting to save them, to get her out before her deadline, she didn’t think she could bear it.

But if they knew what he’d been doing in Houndsditch, Eileen might come to her senses, so the next night Polly stayed behind at Mrs. Rickett’s and dried out Mike’s still-wet notebook in the oven and then went carefully through its crinkled leaves.

The ink on some of the pages had run or washed away.
Like the code in the bigram books
, she thought, peering at the blurred words, attempting to decipher them.

There were notes for a newspaper story on an all-female AA-gun battery, the list of names she’d given him before he went to Bletchley Park—“Alan Turing, Gordon Welchman, Dilly Knox”—and what looked like a list of ideas for possible newspaper stories: “Wartime Weddings,” “Is Your Journey
Really
Necessary?” “Winter and War: Ten Survival Strategies.”

Survival strategies
, Polly thought, and felt the pain begin to seep through, like blood through a shirt.

Several pages had been torn out of the notebook.
The list of upcoming raids
, Polly thought.

The remaining pages were notes for an article called “Doing Our Bit: Heroes on the Home Front,” and a list of names, addresses, and times. “Canteen worker, Mrs. Edna Bell, 6 Cuttlebone Street, Southwark, Jan. 10, 10
P.M
.,” and below that, “Firespotter,” and a name that might have been “Mr. Woodruff” or “Mr. Walton” and “Jan. 11, 11
P.M
., 9 Houndsditch, corner of H and Stoney Lane.”

He hadn’t been following Eileen or looking for the retrieval team. He had gone to Houndsditch to interview a firespotter for a story he was writing on home-front heroes for the
Daily Express
. It wasn’t her fault. He hadn’t been killed attempting to save them.

She had thought that knowledge would be a comfort, but it wasn’t, and she realized that she had been hoping as much as Eileen that there was some mistake, some other explanation. That he wasn’t truly dead. But he was.

And if he was dead, then no one was coming to rescue them. She might have been able to convince herself that Mr. Dunworthy would have allowed Mike to be left here with an injured foot and her here with a deadline, but there was no way he would have allowed one of them to be killed if he could help it.

Which meant he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t get them out. And it scarcely mattered if the reason was slippage or their having altered events or some catastrophe in Oxford. Mike was dead. “Mike Davis, 26, died suddenly. Of enemy action.”

She took Mike’s things back to Mrs. Rickett’s, and put them in a drawer of the bureau, then took out the half-charred print of
The Light of the World
she had retrieved from the floor of St. Paul’s, unfolded it, and sat there on the bed, looking at it—at Christ’s hand, still raised to knock on the door though the door had burned away to nothing, and at his face. It held no expression at all.

“Would you care for me to make arrangements for a memorial service for your friend, Miss Sebastian?” the rector asked her on Friday. “I should be glad to officiate. I’ve arranged with the rector of St. Bidulphus’s to have Mr. Simms’s funeral there, and I could speak to him about a service for Mr. Davis.”

But Eileen wouldn’t hear of it. “He
isn’t
dead,” she insisted, and when Polly showed her the entry in his notebook, she said, “That doesn’t say the eleventh. It says the seventeenth. Or the seventh. Look how the water’s blurred the numbers. And even if it does say the eleventh, it doesn’t mean he kept the appointment.”

On Tuesday, Polly went to Mr. Simms’s funeral. She had attempted to persuade Eileen to go, too, but she’d refused to leave her post at the foot of the escalator. “I might miss Mike,” she said, looking hopefully up at the people descending.

The entire troupe was at St. Bidulphus’s, including Nelson. Miss Laburnum and Miss Hibbard both wore black-veiled hats and carried black-edged handkerchiefs.

Sir Godfrey recited the St. Crispin’s Day speech: “ ‘They shall not speak of this, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered, we few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.’ ”

And the rector, giving the eulogy, said, “Mr. Simms was no less a soldier than the men in Henry the Fifth’s army, and no less a hero.”

So was Mike
, Polly thought, and it didn’t matter what he had been doing when he died any more than it mattered whether an RAF pilot was killed in a dogfight or while he was on leave. Mike had still died trying to get them out. He had devoted every moment since he’d found them to doing that. And it didn’t matter that he’d failed either. History was full of failed attempts—Thermopylae, Scott’s trek back from the South Pole, the siege of Khartoum. He was still a hero.

After the funeral, the rector asked Polly again about scheduling a service. “I could speak to the Reverend Mr. Unwin now, or perhaps you’d like to have it in some other church.”

Yes
, Polly thought,
St. Paul’s. It’s where all the heroes are: Wellington and Lord Nelson and Captain Faulknor. Mike should be there as well
, though she knew they’d never allow it.

But she asked Mr. Humphreys anyway, and, to her surprise, he said that they could hold a small private service in the Chapel of St. Michael and St. George. “I am so sorry about Mr. Davis,” Mr. Humphreys said. “It’s difficult sometimes to see God’s plan in all this violence and death, but with His help, it will all come right in the end.”

He asked Polly what day she’d like to have the service, and she told him about Eileen. “People often find death difficult to accept,” he said, shaking his head, “particularly when it is sudden. Is there someone she’s close to who could help her through this? Her mother or father, perhaps, or a friend from school?”

None of them has been born yet
, Polly thought, going to Oxford Circus to attempt to persuade Eileen to return to Mrs. Rickett’s and get some sleep. Things couldn’t go on this way. Eileen was eating almost nothing and sleeping scarcely at all. There were dark hollows under her eyes and a driven, distracted look about her.

Like Mike had
, Polly thought. She must get through to her somehow.

But Eileen wouldn’t listen to her.
And there’s no one else here she’s close to
, Polly thought, and then realized that wasn’t true. She wrote to the vicar in Backbury, and when she didn’t hear back from him after several days, went in search of Alf and Binnie Hodbin.

They were hardly ideal comforters, but Eileen cared about them—
she’d been talking about them just before they found out about Mike. And the important thing now was to jar Eileen back to reality, something Alf and Binnie were experts at.

Polly didn’t know where they lived except that it was in Whitechapel, and according to Eileen, no one was ever at home. Which left the tube stations.

She started with Embankment, where Eileen had last seen them, and then searched Blackfriars and Holborn. When she still couldn’t find them, she began collaring urchins and questioning them as to the Hodbins’ whereabouts, which didn’t work either. The children clearly thought she was from Child Services or a schoolmistress and weren’t about to tell her anything, so she switched tactics, giving them twopence to deliver a message to Alf and Binnie and promising another twopence on delivery.

They were waiting outside Townsend Brothers when she left work the next day. So was the urchin she’d promised the twopence to. She paid him, and he darted off.

As soon as he’d gone, Binnie said, “Did somethin’ ’appen to Eileen?”

“Was she killed?” Alf demanded.

“No, nothing’s happened to Eileen.”

“Then ’ow come she ain’t ’ere?” Binnie asked.

“Does she need us to go with her in the ambulance again and tell her which way to go?” Alf asked.

“No,” Polly said, frustrated. Eileen was liable to come out the staff door at any moment. Polly needed to tell them about Mike before she got here. “It’s about her friend, Mr. Davis. You met him that morning at St. Paul’s.”

“The bloke what didn’t have no coat?”

“Yes,” Polly said, remembering with a sharp pang Mike sitting there defeatedly in his shirtsleeves on St. Paul’s steps, remembered wrapping the pumpkin-colored scarf round his neck. “He was killed, and—”

“Eileen won’t ’afta go to an orphanage, will she?” Alf asked.

“No, you noddlehead,” Binnie said. “Only children get sent to orphanages.”

“Eileen’s been feeling very sad since Mr. Davis was killed,” Polly said, “and I was hoping you two might cheer—”

“Was it a bomb what killed ’im?” Binnie cut in.

“Yes, and Eileen—”

“What sorta bomb?” Alf demanded. “A thousand-pounder or a parachute mine?” Before Polly could answer, he said, “Parachute mines is the
worst. They blow you up! Ka-blooie!” He flung his arms out. “And bits of you go everywhere!”

What was I thinking
? Polly asked herself.
These two have no business going anywhere near Eileen
.

But now how would she get rid of them? Especially when Binnie was saying, “So you want we should cheer Eileen up?”

“Yes, but Eileen’s too sad to see anyone yet. I thought perhaps you could send her a condolence card.”

“We ain’t got no money,” Alf said.

“We could come to the funeral,” Binnie said. “When is it?”

“We don’t know yet,” Polly said, fumbling in her bag for money. She had to get rid of them before Eileen came out.

“ ’Ow can we send ’er a card?” Binnie said. “We don’t know where she lives.”

And I have no intention of telling you
, Polly thought. “You can send it to Townsend Brothers.”

“And we ain’t got money for a stamp,” Alf said.

“Yes, you do,” Polly said, coming up with a shilling. “Here.”

Alf snatched it, and the two of them darted off immediately, thank goodness.

But she was back to square one, and Eileen was more determined than ever that Mike was alive. “People don’t just
disappear.
”

Yes, they do
, Polly thought.

“Perhaps Mike went to Bletchley Park again, to see if Gerald came through after he’d left, and he can’t tell us because of Ultra’s being so secret and everything. So he had to make it
look
like he was dead.” Which made no sense. “He didn’t want to, but it was the only way he could get you out before your deadline.”

And that’s what this is about
, Polly thought.
If she admits Mike’s dead, that they weren’t able to pull him out before he was killed, then it’s also admitting they won’t be able to pull me out either
.

But this couldn’t go on. Polly wondered if she should write the vicar again, but she didn’t have to. He walked up to her counter, wearing his clerical collar, just before closing. “Miss Sebastian?” he said. “I’m Mr. Goode. I believe we met briefly in Backbury last autumn. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come sooner. Your letter didn’t reach me till two days ago, and I had difficulty making arrangements—”

“Thank you
so
much for coming,” Polly said, smiling at him. “I can’t tell you how much this will mean to Eileen.”

“Were Miss O’Reilly and Mr. Davis …?” He hesitated.

“Romantically attached? No. He was like a brother to us, and Eileen’s taking his death very hard.”

Polly glanced at her watch. It was nearly closing time, and she didn’t want Eileen to see the vicar till she’d had a chance to explain the situation to him. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll ask my supervisor if I can leave early,” she said, and hurried off to speak to Miss Snelgrove, who was nowhere to be found.

“She went up to sixth,” Sarah said, and the closing bell rang.

Polly hurried back, but she was too late. Eileen was already there. “I was so sorry to hear of your loss, Miss O’Reilly,” Mr. Goode was saying.

Eileen stiffened.

Oh, no
, Polly thought,
she’s not going to listen to him any more than she has to anyone else
.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he said.

Eileen was glaring at her.

She knows exactly why I sent for him
, Polly thought.

“Miss Sebastian’s letter had to be forwarded on to me,” the vicar said. “And then it took several days to arrange for leave.”

“Leave?” Eileen echoed.

“Yes. I haven’t told you, I’ve enlisted as a chaplain in His Majesty’s Army.”

The color drained from Eileen’s face.