All Clear

London—December 1940

MIKE STILL WASN’T BACK BY CHRISTMAS EVE.

“Do you think he’ll come tonight?” Eileen asked Polly as they rode down the escalator to Piccadilly Station to perform A Christmas Carol.

The man behind them said, laughing, “Ain’t you a bit old to believe in Father Christmas, dearie?”

“You fool, she wasn’t talkin’ about Father Christmas,” his companion said. “She was talkin’ about ’Itler.” He nodded at Eileen. “I’ll give you six-to-one odds ’e’ll come tonight. It’d be just like ’im to try to ruin our Christmas, the little bastard.”

They had obviously both had more than a little Christmas cheer.

“That’s no way to talk in the presence of ladies, you bleedin’ sod,” the first man said belligerently, and Polly hoped they wouldn’t come to blows there on the escalator.

But the other man tipped his cap and said, “Beggin’ your pardon, misses. I shouldn’t ’ave called ’Itler a little bastard. ’E’s the biggest bastard what ever lived. And I’ll wager five bob ’e’s up to something. A nasty Christmas surprise. You watch. Them sirens’ll go any minute now.”

They wouldn’t, but it was obvious he wasn’t the only one who thought that. There were more people in the station than there had been in the last two weeks, all with their bedrolls and picnic baskets. The woman just below them on the escalator had a Harrods carrier bag full of Christmas presents, and two toddlers had each brought a long brown stocking with them.

The two men weren’t the only ones who’d been drinking. There were periodic outbursts of too-loud laughter and unsteady choruses of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” on the platforms. And during their performance, when Sir Godfrey as Scrooge launched into his “Bah, humbug!” speech, someone shouted from the audience, “What you need is a spot of rum, you auld sod!”

The troupe gave two performances, the first in the main hall and the second on a stage built out over the tracks on the westbound Piccadilly Line platform after the trains had stopped. Even with the stage, the platform was still too small to accommodate the crowd. “Do you see that crutch by the fireplace, tenderly preserved?” Sir Godfrey muttered to Polly. “That’s Tiny Tim’s. He was pushed onto the track by his adoring public and run over by a train.”

“But at least he wasn’t doing panto when he died,” Polly whispered back.

“Or, God forbid, Peter Pan,” Sir Godfrey said, and made his entrance.

Scrooge bahhed, humbugged, saw the ghost of Marley (Mr. Simms), traveled to the past and back to the future, learned the error of his ways, made amends, and prevented Tiny Tim from dying, in front of a large and enthusiastic crowd, which Polly and Eileen both scanned for Mike.

But he didn’t come. He wasn’t waiting for them outside Notting Hill Gate or at Mrs. Leary’s either. And all that was waiting for them at their boardinghouse was the news that Mrs. Rickett had taken the Christmas goose and plum pudding—purchased with her boarders’ ration points—with her when she went to her sister’s and left them turnip soup for their Christmas dinner.

“No matter,” Miss Laburnum said. “My nephew in Canada sent me a Christmas box and the convoy got safely through.” She brought down a tin of biscuits, a packet of tea, and a bag of walnuts. Eileen and Polly chipped in their emergency stash of tinned beef, marmalade, and chocolate, and Mr. Dorming produced a tin of condensed milk and one of peaches.

“In syrup,” Miss Laburnum said, as if it were ambrosia, and insisted on serving it separately in Mrs. Rickett’s sherry glasses.

They put everything else in the center of the table, “just like a picnic,” as Miss Hibbard said.

“This is a far better dinner than we would have had had Mrs. Rickett been here,” Miss Laburnum said. “Goose or no goose.”

“There is no need to call Mrs. Rickett names,” Mr. Dorming said, and they all collapsed in giggles.

After dinner, they listened to the King’s speech on the wireless. “This time we are all in the front line and the danger together,” he said in his stammering voice.

“The future will be hard, but our feet are planted on the path of victory.”

I fervently hope so, Polly thought.

After the speech, they drank the King’s health—in tea, the peach syrup having all been consumed—and then exchanged gifts. Miss Laburnum presented Polly and Eileen each with a homemade lavender sachet, and Miss Hibbard gave them knitted scarves.

“I made them for the soldiers, but after I’d finished them, I was afraid they were perhaps too bright and might endanger them.” They might indeed. They were a bright pumpkin orange, which would stand out like a target to the enemy.

Polly gave Eileen tattered secondhand paperbacks of Murder at the Vicarage, Three Act Tragedy, and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, which Eileen clutched rapturously to her breast. Eileen and Polly gave Mr. Dorming a packet of tobacco, Miss Hibbard a box of soaps with a picture of the King and Queen on it, and Miss Laburnum a secondhand copy of The Tempest, all wrapped in smuggled-out Townsend Brothers Christmas paper.

“Look at the frontispiece of your book,” Polly told Miss Laburnum. “Sir Godfrey signed it to you.”

“ ‘To my fellow player and costumer extraordinaire,’ ” Miss Laburnum read aloud, “ ‘the best of Christmases from your fellow thespian, Sir Godfrey Kingsman,’ ” and burst into tears. “It is the best of Christmases,” she said. “I don’t know how I should get through this war without all of you.”

And I don’t know how we’d have got through today—and these months—without you, Polly thought, grateful that Townsend Brothers would be open on Boxing Day.

But even post-Christmas exchanges and taking down decorations and preparing for the New Year’s sales weren’t enough to take Polly’s mind off Mike, and she and Eileen raced home after work to see if he’d phoned.

He hadn’t, and he didn’t come on the twenty-seventh, or the twenty-eighth. What if he’s dead? Polly thought, taking down paper bells. What if he was killed when they shelled Dover? Or on the day he left for Saltram-on-Sea, and he’s been dead all this time? Like Mr. Dunworthy. And Colin. Or what if the retrieval team was in Plymouth or Liverpool, both of which had been bombed, and he’d gone there to find them?

There was a photo of Manchester’s ruined railway station in the Daily Mirror. I should have told him about Manchester before he left, she thought. I should have There was a photo of Manchester’s ruined railway station in the Daily Mirror. I should have told him about Manchester before he left, she thought. I should have told him about the raids tonight. And about the ones on Sunday night.

On Sunday morning Eileen said, “I’m to take Theodore to the pantomime this afternoon, but perhaps I’d better not. If Mike comes—”

“I’ll tell him where you are,” Polly said, thinking, If you’re at the pantomime, you won’t be here watching the clock and making me nervy.

She was already nervy enough for both of them. Tonight was the attack on the City and St. Paul’s. The Germans had dropped eleven thousand incendiaries and damaged half the railway lines into town. If Mike attempted to come to London tonight …

“What time is the pantomime over?” she asked Eileen.

“I’ve no idea. It begins at half past two, so I should think four. Or half past.”

“And then you must take Theodore back to Stepney?”

Eileen nodded.

“If the trains are running late and you’re still in Stepney when the sirens go, stay there. The raids will be bad tonight.”

“But I thought the East End was the hardest hit—”

“Not tonight. Tonight the City will be the target, and several of the tube stations. You’re safer in Stepney.”

Eileen nodded. “I hate to leave you.”

“I’ll be quite all right. I need to wash out some things.” And be here to warn Mike about tonight if he telephones. “If I get bored,” Polly said, “I’ll read one of the Agatha Christies I gave you and see if I can guess the murderer.”

“You can’t,” Eileen said. “She’s far too clever. I always think I know who did the murder, but it always turns out to be someone I’ve never even thought of, though the clues were right there in front of me. You realize your theory of the crime was all wrong, that something else entirely was going on.”

The frizzy-haired librarian at Holborn had said almost the same thing, that the ending made her realize she’d been looking at things the wrong way round.

Eileen put on her coat. “The theater’s the Phoenix on Shaftesbury Avenue,” she said, and went off to Stepney to fetch Theodore. Polly washed out her blouse and stockings, hung them up to dry, fended off an invitation from Miss Laburnum to go to a prayer service at Westminster Abbey “for our dear boys in uniform,” and ironed her skirt, keeping one ear cocked the entire time for the telephone.

It finally rang at half past eleven.

It was Mike. “Mike! Oh, thank goodness!” she said. “Where are you?”

“In Rochester. I’ve only got a couple of minutes to talk. The train’s about to leave. I just wanted to tell you I’m okay, and I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

“Did you find—?” She stopped and looked into the kitchen and then the parlor. She couldn’t see anyone, but she lowered her voice anyway. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“No,” he said. “It turned out to be a guy I knew in the hospital. In the bed next to me. Guy named Fordham. He’d finally got out and thought he’d look me up.”

She had known for days it wasn’t the retrieval team, but she still felt a lurch of panic at his words. They were nearly out of options, and in two more days they wouldn’t know where or when the raids were, and what then?

Mike was saying, “I’m sorry I didn’t call before, but it took me forever to track Daphne down. She’d got married and moved to Manchester.”

“Manchester? Oh, God, you weren’t there during the bombing, were you?”

“As a matter of fact, I was, and then couldn’t get out because the train station had been hit. I couldn’t call you either. The lines were down. I had to hitch a ride to Stoke-on-Trent and take the train from there.”

“Oh, it’s my fault!” Polly cried. “I should have warned you. But I didn’t think you’d have any reason to be in the Midlands. I’m so sorry. Listen, I have to tell you”—she lowered her voice again and cupped her hand over her mouth and the receiver—“tonight’s a horrible raid, one of the worst of the war. A huge part of the City burned and St. Paul’s was nearly destroyed, and several of the railway lines and stations were hit—Waterloo and—”

“What did you say?” Mike asked.

“I said, Waterloo Station and—”

“No, about St. Paul’s. You said it was nearly destroyed?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It was hit by twenty-eight incendiaries, and everything else around it burned, Paternoster Row and—”

“I thought the incendiaries at St. Paul’s were on May tenth.”

“No, you’re thinking of the House of Commons. It—”

“But you said May ninth and tenth were the worst raids of the Blitz.”

“They were,” Polly said, wondering what this had to do with anything. “They had the most casualties, and caused the most damage, but the worst fire was on the twenty-ninth.”

“So the twenty-ninth is the night the fire watch is famous for? The night they saved St. Paul’s?”

“Yes.”

“Was St. Paul’s hit on the tenth?”

“No. What’s this all—?”

“Listen,” Mike said urgently. “I know where—damn it, my train’s pulling out. I’ve got to run for it. But, I need you to—”

“Do you want me to meet you somewhere?”

“No, you and Eileen both stay right where you are. And be ready to go when I get there. I know how we can get out. Bye.”

“Eileen’s not here,” she said, but he’d already rung off.

Polly replaced the receiver.

At least I warned him about tonight, she thought, though she wasn’t at all certain he’d been listening. But if he was in Rochester and there weren’t any delays, he’d be here well before the raids began. Or if his train was delayed, he’d ring up again in a few minutes, and she could warn him.

She stood there, looking down at the telephone, trying to decide whether she should go fetch Eileen. He’d said to be here and be ready to go when he arrived. But Eileen wouldn’t be at the theater yet—it was scarcely noon—and if Polly set out for Stepney, they’d be certain to miss each other.

She rang the Phoenix, but no one answered. Or at half past. Or at one, and Mike didn’t phone again, which meant he was on his way.

He’d obviously thought of an historian who was here now, and it had something to do with St. Paul’s. She doubted if another historian would have been assigned to observe the fire watch besides Mr. Bartholomew, so he—or she—must be observing something else in that area: the Guildhall fire or one of the Wren churches which had burned. But why wouldn’t Mike have thought of him or her before now? And how could he know for certain where this historian would be?

Polly tried the theater again at half past one, but there was still no answer. She’d have to go there herself after Eileen, but she was afraid of missing Mike, and there was no one home to leave a message with. Miss Hibbard was visiting her aunt, Mr. Dorming was at a football match in Luton, and Miss Laburnum wasn’t back from Westminster Abbey yet. And a note left for Mike could easily go unnoticed or astray.

She decided to keep ringing the theater and to wait another quarter of an hour and hope Miss Laburnum came home.

She did.

Polly didn’t give her a chance to tell her about the service. She said, “Will you be in this afternoon?” and, when Miss Laburnum said yes, ran upstairs to fetch her coat and hat.

She pulled her coat on, snatched up her hat and bag from the bureau, and turned to see Mike burst, panting, through the door. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be here so soon.”

“Where’s Eileen?” he demanded.

“She took Theodore Willett to a pantomime.”

“I told you two to stay put.”

“She’d already gone when you phoned. I was just going to fetch her.”

“Which theater is she at? Can we call her and tell her to meet us?”

“I’ve tried. There’s no answer.”

“Then we’ll have to go get her. Come on.”

“What’s this all about, Mike? Did you think of someone who’s here?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you on the way. Which theater is it?”

“The Phoenix, but I don’t know if they’ll let us in after the play’s begun.”

“Which is when?”

“Half past two.”

“Then we have to get there before that. Come on.” He hustled her down the stairs.

Miss Laburnum was standing at the foot of them. “What was it you wished me to do, Miss Sebastian?” she asked.

“Nothing, never mind, goodbye,” Polly said, hurrying outside after Mike, who, in spite of his limp, was already several doors down.

“What’s the fastest way to the Phoenix?” he asked when she caught up to him.

“A taxi, if we can find one,” she said. “Otherwise, the Underground.”

“Where’s the best place to find a taxi?”

“Bayswater Road. Now, tell me where we’re going after we fetch Eileen.”

“To St. Paul’s,” he said without breaking stride, “to find John Bartholomew.”

“John Bartholomew!” Polly said, halting. “But he’s already gone back. In October.”

He stopped and faced her. “Who told you that?”

“Eileen. She said he went back immediately after he was injured in the bombing on October tenth.”

“Eileen knew about Bartholomew?” he said, grabbing Polly by the arms. “Why the hell didn’t she say something?”

“She wasn’t there when you and I discussed past historians who’d been here, and I didn’t find out about him till after you’d left for Bletchley Park. And since he was already gone—”

Mike shook his head. “He’s not gone. She got her dates wrong. And he wasn’t injured—another member of the fire watch was, and Bartholomew saved his life.

And it didn’t happen in October, it was tonight.” They’d reached the Bayswater Road. “Damn it,” he said, looking up and down the empty street. “What the hell’s happened to all the taxis?”

“It’ll have to be the tube,” Polly said.

They hurried into Notting Hill Gate and down to the Central Line. A train was just pulling in, and the car they got on was, thankfully, empty, so they could talk.

“You’re certain Bartholomew was here on the twenty-ninth?” she asked.

“Yeah, I heard him give a lecture on it. He told all about the incendiaries and the tide being out so they didn’t have any water to fight the fires and the Wren churches burning and the fire watch saving St. Paul’s. He was up there on the roofs with them. Damn it. He’s been here this whole time! If I’d only known—” He broke off. “Well, it can’t be helped now. I just hope we can get to him in time—”

“In time? But if you know he’s at St. Paul’s—”

“He’s there tonight, but that’s all. Eileen was right about that part of it. He went back to Oxford immediately after the raid. Which means he leaves tomorrow morning. We’ve only got a few hours. What time do the raids start tonight?”

“6:17, though that doesn’t mean the attack on St. Paul’s began then. It might have been later.”

“When did the sirens go?”

“I don’t know, but all the ones this month have gone at least twenty minutes before the planes arrived.”

“So we’ve got till at least 5:45.” He looked at his watch. “It’s a quarter to two now. That gives us four hours, which should be more than enough to find him.”

The train was pulling in to Holborn. “We change trains here,” she said, and led him quickly to the Northern Line platform, which was crowded with waiting passengers.

She had to wait till they were on the train before she was able to say, “But I don’t understand. If you knew he was here—”

“I didn’t know. He said the night St. Paul’s nearly burned down was the worst night of the Blitz, and you said that was May tenth, and since he’d said in his lecture that his assignment had lasted three months, I didn’t think he’d be here till February.”

And if I’d told him about Bartholomew when he came home, we could have contacted him weeks ago, Polly thought guiltily. “How all occasions do inform against us.”

“Don’t worry,” Mike said. The train pulled into Leicester Square. “What time is it?” he asked as they got off.

“Five till two,” Polly said. “We’ll never make it.”

“Yes, we will,” Mike said. “This is our lucky day.” And surprisingly, when they reached the Phoenix, there were still children and parents in the lobby and a queue in front of the box office. Polly sprinted up the stairs to the usher, followed by a limping Mike.

“Tickets, please,” the usher said.

“We’re not here to see the performance,” Mike said. “We just need to talk to somebody in the audience.”

“I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to wait till the interval to speak to them.”

“We can’t wait.”

“It’s terribly important we speak to her,” Polly pleaded. “It’s an emergency.”

“I could have someone take her a message,” the usher said, relenting. “Where is she sitting?”

“I don’t know,” Polly said. “Her name’s Eileen O’Reilly. She has red hair. She has a little boy with her—”

“Look,” Mike said, “we’re not trying to sneak into your lousy pantomime.”

The usher stiffened.

“All we want—”

“Are there still tickets available for this performance?” Polly cut in before Mike could do any more damage.

“I believe so,” the usher said coldly.

“Thank you,” Polly said. “Come along,” she ordered Mike, and ran back down the steps to the box office.

“We don’t have time for this,” Mike said.

“If we get thrown out of here, we won’t be able to speak to Eileen till the play’s over.” She leaned toward the ticket seller’s cage. “Have you any tickets left for this performance?”

“I’m afraid all I have is two seats in the orchestra at eight and six. Row F, seats nineteen and—”

“We’ll take them,” Mike said. He slapped down two half crowns and grabbed the tickets.

They hurried back up the stairs, handed the tickets to the still-vexed-looking usher, and let him lead them to their row. He pointed at their seats, which were in the middle of the row, handed them back their stubs, and left. The man in the aisle seat stood up so they could go by him.

“We need to find somebody first,” Mike said. “Can you see them, Polly? What color hat was she wearing?”

“Black,” Polly said, scanning the audience, but every adult in the place was wearing a black hat, too, and the theater was a sea of children, bouncing up and down in the seats, chattering, laughing, wriggling, standing on the plush seats to talk to someone behind them. And all the mothers and nannies and governesses had their heads turned, attempting to make them sit down. “We’ll never find her in this mob.”

“I know. Wait, there she is,” Mike said, pointing up at the balcony. “There, in the first row. Eileen!” He waved to her, but Eileen was speaking to Theodore, who was the only child sitting still in the entire theater, his feet stuck straight out in front of him, his hands sedately on the arms of his seat. “Eileen!”

“She can’t hear us,” Polly said.

She crossed over to the side aisle, as if headed for the ladies’ lounge, and then sprinted up the steps, flashed her ticket and program at the usher standing at the head of the staircase, and sped up and into the balcony, Mike keeping pace with her somehow in spite of his limp.

Eileen was four seats from the end of the row, past a governess and three little girls, two of whom were hanging over the edge of the balcony tearing their programs to bits and dropping them on the heads of the people below while the governess remonstrated uselessly with them. “Girls, don’t! You’ll fall! You’re both being very naughty.”

Eileen still didn’t see Polly and Mike. “Eileen!” Polly called to her across the girls and the governess, who was blocking her view.

“Pauline! No, no, you mustn’t stand on the seat! You’ll tear the cloth. Violet!” the governess cried as one of the paper droppers threatened to topple over the edge.

Eileen made a grab for Violet’s dress and hauled her back to safety.

“Oh, thank you,” the governess said.

“You’re wel—” Eileen said, and finally saw them standing there. “Mike! Polly! What are you doing here? Thank heavens you’re all right, Mike. We’ve been so worried! Did you—” She went suddenly pale. “You’ve found the retrieval team,” she breathed.

“No,” Mike said, “but we’ve found a way out.”

Polly looked nervously at the governess, wondering what she was making of this, but she was still attempting to persuade the little girls to sit down. “Oh, Henrietta, do be a good girl,” she said helplessly.

“We’ve got to hurry,” Mike was saying.

“But…,” Eileen said, “I promised Theodore—”

“It can’t be helped. We’ve only got a few hours.”

Eileen stood up, pulled her coat on, and reached for Theodore’s coat. “I’m afraid we can’t stay for the pantomime, Theodore,” she said, holding his coat out to him.

“We must go home now.” She put his arm in his sleeve.

“No!” Theodore cried in a piercing, siren-like wail that was audible all over the theater. “I don’t want to go home!”

In war, time is all important.

—SIR WALTER THOMAS LAYTON,

MINISTRY OF SUPPLY,

1940