All Clear

London—December 1940

MIKE HAD PHONED FROM BLETCHLEY ON THE WEDNESDAY after Polly’d gone to Hampstead Heath to say he’d run into Tensing, and Polly had told him to leave Bletchley immediately. Which meant he should have been back by Friday morning at the latest, but he wasn’t. He didn’t come Friday afternoon either, or telephone, or write, and Polly was nearly frantic. Where was he?

Tensing found him before he could get out of Bletchley, she thought, and talked him into working for him. He’ll never survive the background check.

“You didn’t tell Mike about the troupe deciding to do A Christmas Carol, did you?” Eileen asked. “Perhaps he’s been ringing up while we were at rehearsal. I’ll stay home tonight in case he telephones again.”

But he didn’t phone Friday night either, or over the weekend, and Polly could tell Eileen was just as worried as she was. She was irritable and jumpy, and she didn’t offer any optimistic theories or say anything more about being rescued just when she thought all was lost.

She scarcely said anything, and she was getting no sleep at all. Because of the rehearsals for A Christmas Carol, they’d abandoned the emergency staircase for the District Line platform, and whenever Mr. Dorming’s snoring woke Polly, she found Eileen sitting against the platform wall, arms huddled around her knees, staring bleakly into space.

Polly did her share of that, too, over the next few nights, and spent hours trying to think of a plausible reason he hadn’t phoned or sent a message. He found Gerald, she thought. He said he had a lead. What if Mike had run into him as he left Bletchley, and they’d gone back to Oxford?

They couldn’t have. If they had, the retrieval team would be here already. Unless there was slippage. Or it was Tensing Mike ran into, not Gerald, and Mike’s under arrest.

He knew how much danger he was in, she told herself. He wouldn’t have been stupid enough to stay. He’s simply having difficulty getting back to London. He’ll be here tomorrow morning.

But he wasn’t. If he hasn’t contacted us by next Monday, we’ll have to go to Bletchley and find out what happened to him, Polly thought.

But what if he was fine and by going, by inquiring after him, they jeopardized his safety or the safety of Ultra’s secret? Or what if Mike had already jeopardized it?

Polly hadn’t found any large discrepancies—Southampton and Birmingham and the air-raid shelter at Hammersmith had all been bombed on schedule—but the raids on Tuesday had begun ten minutes earlier than they were supposed to, and on Friday Townsend Brothers was evacuated for two hours because of a UXB on Audley Street which wasn’t in her implant.

Because it didn’t go off, she told herself, and while they were waiting in the shelter for the bomb to be removed, forced herself to concentrate on composing messages for contacting the retrieval team: “Lost, near Notting Hill Gate Station, cocker spaniel, answers to Polly. Contact O. Riley, 14 Cardle Street,” and “Dearest T., Sorry couldn’t come to Oxford as planned. Meet me Peter Pan statue 10 A.M. Sunday.”

“But if Mike comes on Sunday,” Eileen protested, “how will he find us if we’re in Kensington Gardens?”

“Not we, I. I’m supposed to be meeting my dearest Terence or Tim or Theodore. This is supposed to be a romantic tryst. If Mike arrives, the two of you can come fetch me.”

Eileen looked like she was going to argue, then turned away and began reading her Agatha Christie again, and when Sunday came made no attempt to go with Polly.

Kensington Gardens didn’t look much like a place for a romantic rendezvous. Two anti-aircraft guns stood on either side of the Round Pond, rows of half-tracks filled the lawns, and the Victorian railings edging the bounds of the park had been taken down, presumably for the scrap-metal drive.

So many slit trenches had been dug in the area near the Peter Pan statue that Polly began to worry it might have been removed for safekeeping, but the bronze statue was still there in a little wooded glade, its base crawling with fairies and woodland creatures. If Sir Godfrey were here, he’d no doubt have some pithy comment to make about J. M. Barrie.

But he wasn’t here, and neither was the retrieval team. Polly glanced at her watch. It wasn’t ten yet. She sat down on a bench across from the statue from which she could see anyone approaching and prepared to wait.

Ten o’clock came and went, but no one appeared, not even any children or nannies with prams—and by a quarter past she was sorry she hadn’t let Eileen come with her. Sitting here gave her time to think. What if Mike never came back? What if their drops never opened and—

She caught a sudden flash of movement beyond the bushes off to the left. A bird? Or someone standing there watching her? It couldn’t be the retrieval team. They’d have revealed themselves as soon as they recognized her. A purse snatcher? Or worse?

She was suddenly aware of just how isolated the spot was. But it was midmorning, and there were soldiers within screaming distance. But what if British Intelligence had thought there was something suspicious about the ad? What if they were watching to see whom she met? Had there been something suspicious in the ad? She didn’t think so.

She needed to act the way she would if her young man was late. She glanced at her watch, frowned, stood up, and walked along the path a short way as if searching for someone, trying to look hopeful and a bit annoyed, and then strolled back to the statue.

There was definitely someone there in the bushes. “Hullo?” Polly called. “Who’s there?”

A hushed silence, as if someone was holding his breath.

“I know you’re in there,” Polly said, and Eileen emerged from the bushes. “Eileen? What on earth are you doing here? Has Mike come back?”

“No. I decided to come along and see if anyone had answered your ad. I told Mrs. Rickett where we’d be, and I left a note for Mike with Mrs. Leary.”

Which didn’t explain what she had been doing lurking in the bushes, and Eileen seemed to realize that because she added, “But then I couldn’t find the statue, and I ended up in among the trees,” which was clearly untrue. The signposts pointing the way to the Peter Pan statue were the only ones in England which hadn’t been taken down, and at any rate Eileen was looking guilty of something, though Polly had no idea what.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why did you really come?”

“Eileen!” Mike called. “Polly!”

He was limping up the path toward them, waving.

Mike. Oh, thank God. He wasn’t dead.

“Mike!” Eileen cried, and ran to meet him. “You’re back! Thank heavens. We’ve been so worried!”

“Tensing didn’t find you, did he?” Polly asked anxiously.

“No.”

“Then where were you?”

“In Oxford.”

“Oxford?” Eileen gasped. “Oh, God, you’ve found Gerald! Thank heavens.”

“No, no, Oxford right now. In 1940. I’m sorry,” he said, looking in dismay at her disappointed face. “I didn’t mean to get your hopes up like that. I didn’t find Gerald. I—”

Polly cut him off. “We want to hear all about your journey,” she said loudly, and then in a whisper, “but not here. Somewhere where we can’t be overheard. Come along. I know just the place.”

She tucked her arm in Mike’s and led him down the path, chattering brightly. “We thought you’d never come, didn’t we, Eileen?”

“Yes. If you’d told us which train you’d be on,” Eileen said, playing along, “we’d have come to meet it.”

“I didn’t know myself,” Mike said. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “What’s going on? Was someone spying on us back there?”

Only Eileen, Polly thought. “I don’t think so,” she said, “but loose lips sink ships. Come along.”

She led them past the trenches to an open lawn with a large monument in its center. From here, they’d be able to see anyone coming from any direction. “All right,” she said, sitting down on the monument steps. “Now we can talk.”

“What did you mean, ‘loose lips sink—’?” Mike stopped, staring at the statuary around the monument. “Jesus, what is this thing?”

“The Albert Memorial. Possibly the ugliest monument in all of England.” Polly smiled happily at the elephant, the water buffalo, the semi-naked young women clustered round them, at Prince Albert sitting on top reading a book. She felt giddy in her relief that Mike wasn’t in the Tower. Or dead.

“It’s hideous. It wasn’t destroyed in the Blitz, was it?” he asked hopefully.

“No, only minor damage, I’m afraid, though supposedly at one point someone put up a large arrow to guide the Luftwaffe to it.”

“It’s too bad it didn’t work,” Mike said, still staring, appalled. “Christ, is that a buffalo?”

“Who cares what it is?” Eileen said impatiently. “Tell us what happened and why you went to Oxford.”

“Okay. After I called you about Tensing, I went back to Mrs. Jolsom’s to pack my stuff, and she told me the room I’d rented was supposed to have been Phipps’s.”

“It was Gerald’s room?” Polly said.

“Yes. He was supposed to have come two months ago, but he never arrived, so I went to Oxford to see if I could find out whether something had happened to him on the way.”

“And?”

“He never came through. He’d made a reservation at the Mitre in Oxford for the night he arrived, but he never showed up there either.”

“The increased slippage could have sent him through late,” Eileen said, “and he decided to go straight to Bletchley instead of stopping in Oxford.”

Mike shook his head. “He’d mailed a package addressed to himself to the Mitre. He never picked it up.”

“Do you know what was in it?” Polly asked.

“Yeah, that’s why I was gone so long. It took me forever to steal it.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket and laid them out on the steps of the monument.

“It’s all the papers documenting that he was who he said he was—letters of recommendation, school records, security clearances, everything he’d need to pass a background check. Plus train tickets and money. And a letter from his sister in Northumbria informing him his mother was ill. Addressed to Mrs. Jolsom’s address.”

He looked up at them. “He obviously never came through.”

The net wouldn’t let him, Polly thought, which means its safeguards are still functioning. Only it didn’t necessarily mean that at all. It might just as easily mean that there was no Oxford from which to send him.

She glanced anxiously at Eileen to see how she was taking the news, but she didn’t look upset.

Because she doesn’t believe it, Polly thought. In a moment she’ll say Mr. Dunworthy must have rescheduled Gerald’s assignment and Mike shouldn’t have taken the parcel because Gerald will need it.

Mike said it instead. “I intended to put the package back, but when I saw what was in it, I thought I’d better not leave it there for some curious hotel clerk to open.”

“Will the Mitre notice it’s missing?”

“No. I wrapped my wool vest up in the brown paper—and had a hell of a time doing it, I might add; I couldn’t get the string tied around it for the life of me—and sneaked it back on the shelf, and I stuck a Notting Hill Gate ticket stub in the pocket, so if Phipps does come through, he’ll know where to look for us.”

“If he can get to London,” Polly said, looking at the money on the steps.

“I stuck enough money for the train fare to London in the pocket, too,” Mike said. “I was going to leave all of it, but I decided we might need it to tide us over till we find some other way out. I assume our retrieval teams still haven’t shown up?”

“No,” Eileen said. “Have you heard from Daphne?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been to Mrs. Leary’s yet. I came straight to Mrs. Rickett’s to find the two of you. I’ll check when we go back. But if Phipps’s drop didn’t open, then our retrieval teams’ drops probably can’t either, which explains why they’re not here. But if that’s what happened, then Oxford knows something’s wrong, and they’ll start working on figuring out a way to get us out of here. We’ll be home in no time. We just need to make sure they can find us when they get here, so we need to—”

“Will we be home in no time?” Eileen asked challengingly. “Or will we still be here when the war ends, Polly?”

“When the war ends?” Mike said. “What are you talking about? None of us knows how long we’ll—”

“She does,” Eileen said. “She was already here.” She turned to Polly. “That’s why the night you found me in Padgett’s you asked me if the manor in Backbury was my first assignment. Because you were afraid I had a deadline like you.”

“A deadline?” Mike said. “You were here before, Polly?”

“Yes,” Eileen said, looking steadily at Polly. “That’s why she asked me whether you were supposed to go to Pearl Harbor first. She was afraid that you had one, too. And that the increased slippage means we won’t get out before her deadline.”

I should never have underestimated her and her mystery novels, Polly thought.

All those weeks Polly’d been trying to protect her from the truth, Eileen had been patiently collecting clues and piecing them together. But she can’t know when—

“I don’t understand,” Mike said. “When I asked you if you’d been to Bletchley Park, you said no.”

“Not Bletchley Park,” Eileen said. “VE-Day.”

“VE-Day?”

“Yes,” Eileen said, her face stony. She turned to confront Polly. “That’s why when I saw you in Oxford, you asked me if that was where I was coming back from.

And why, when we asked you who’d gone to VE-Day, you changed the subject. You saw me there, didn’t you?”

As long as VE-Day was all Eileen knew about, it would be all right. She could tell them.

“Is what she’s saying true?” Mike asked. “Were you at VE-Day, Polly?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus.”

“And you saw me there,” Eileen said.

Polly hesitated so it would sound like she was reluctantly admitting to it. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Mike asked.

“I … at first, in Oxford, I didn’t want Eileen to be angry with me. I hadn’t known Mr. Dunworthy wasn’t going to let her go to VE-Day. I didn’t want her to think I’d stolen the assignment from her. And then when we found out the drops weren’t working, we were already in so much trouble, and you were both so distraught, I didn’t want to add to your worries.”

“But if we’d known—” Mike began.

“If you’d known, what? There wasn’t anything either of you could do about it,” Polly said angrily, hoping the show of anger would stop them from asking any more questions. “And you already had more than enough to deal with.”

“You say you saw Eileen,” Mike said. “Are you certain it was her? Did you talk to her?”

“No. I saw her from a distance. In the crowd in Trafalgar Square the night before VE-Day. She was standing next to one of the lions. The one whose nose had been knocked off in the Blitz.”

“You were in Trafalgar Square on VE-Day,” Mike said. “When did you come through?”

Polly thought rapidly. They’d never believe she’d only been there for the two days of the victory celebration. “April eighth,” she said. “I was there to observe the winding down of the war during its last few weeks. I posed as a Wren working as a typist in the War Office.”

“A typist,” Eileen said.

“Yes.”

“April eighth,” Mike said. “That gives us four years—”

“Four years and five months,” Eileen said.

“Right,” Mike said. “Nearly four and a half years. And when I was talking about increased slippage, I meant a few months, not years. We’ll be out of here long before your deadline, Polly.”

“Which is what?” Eileen asked.

Mike looked at Eileen in surprise. “She just told us. She said she came through April eighth—”

“She’s lying. That isn’t her deadline.”

There was a silence, and then Mike said, “Is she right, Polly? Are you lying?”

“Yes,” Eileen answered for her. “When I told her about one of the historian’s drops to the Reign of Terror and the storming of the Bastille being switched, she went absolutely white, and they were only four years and two months apart.”

And I’m obviously not as good an actress as Sir Godfrey’s always telling me I am, Polly thought, cursing herself for not having said she’d gone through earlier than April. “It was Pearl Harbor I was worried about, not—”

“Wait. Stop,” Mike said. “Pearl Harbor? The storming of the Bastille? I have no idea what either of you are talking about. Explain.”

Polly said, “After you and I talked about an increase in slippage possibly being the problem, it occurred to me that Mr. Dunworthy might have been putting all the assignments in chronological order.”

“Chronological? You’re right. He did put all mine in chronological order. That’s why you asked me about the order of my drops when you called.”

“Yes.” Polly explained about Eileen’s notes and her concluding that the increase might be much longer than a couple of months. “And I was frightened. Some of the worst raids of the Blitz will be after the first of the year, and we don’t even know when and where they are. And I’m not even certain our boardinghouses are safe from January on.” Which had the advantage of being true.

And let’s hope it convinces them, Polly thought.

“That isn’t the only reason,” Eileen said grimly. “Ask her why, if she was a typist in the War Office, she knows all about driving an ambulance. When I told her I had to learn to drive that day we talked to you in Oxford, Mike, she offered to teach me. On a Daimler, because that was what all the ambulances were.”

“I’d learned that from my prep for the Blitz,” Polly said. “I studied the Civil Defence—”

“And ask her why she turned and ran from a group of FANYs we saw on the platform in Holborn. She knew them from her assignment, that’s why. She never tried to avoid walking past Wrens.”

And all the time I was afraid she was fretting over Mike, she was actually playing detective like a character in one of her Agatha Christies, Polly thought. I And all the time I was afraid she was fretting over Mike, she was actually playing detective like a character in one of her Agatha Christies, Polly thought. I underestimated her. But she can’t have figured it all out.

“And ask her where she went when she said she was going to St. Paul’s to meet the retrieval team.” She turned on Polly. “When I got to the National Gallery, it was pouring rain and the concert wasn’t till one, so I thought I’d come to St. Paul’s and meet you. But you weren’t there.”

“Yes, I was. We must just have missed each other. St. Paul’s is huge, and there are so many chapels and bays—”

“I saw you come in. I saw you buy that guidebook and spill pennies all over the floor. She was drenched,” Eileen said to Mike, “like she’d been out in the rain all morning. And don’t bother pretending you were up in the Whispering Gallery, Polly. It’s closed. And the sermon wasn’t ‘Seek and Ye Shall Find.’ It was ‘The Lost Sheep.’ You must have picked up an order of service for the early mass by mistake. Where were you?”

At least this was a question she could answer. “I was at Hampstead Heath. That was where my drop for VE-Day was.” She looked at Mike. “When you sent that message from Bletchley about older drops, I went to see if they might have opened mine to use for an emergency exit. And I couldn’t tell you, Eileen, because I didn’t want you to find out I’d been here before.”

“Is that the truth?” Eileen said.

“Yes.” And please, please, let that be all you know.

“You swear?” Eileen said.

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you know about the bomb at St. Paul’s, but you knew all about V-1s and V-2s?” She turned back to Mike. “She knew the exact date the V-1

attacks began. Don’t you see? She was the historian who did the rocket assignment. She drove an ambulance in Bethnal Green. Didn’t you, Polly? That’s why you were so upset when I told you we had to go there to get me a new identity card. Because you were afraid someone in Bethnal Green would recognize you. You were attached to the ambulance unit there, weren’t you?”

“No,” Polly said. “To the ambulance unit in Dulwich.”

Wars are not won by evacuations.

—WINSTON CHURCHILL,

SPEAKING OF DUNKIRK