All Clear

London—29 December 1940

“I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME!” THEODORE SHRIEKED. “I WANT to see the pantomime!”

“We can’t,” Eileen said, trying to put his wildly flailing arms into the sleeves of his coat. “We must go.”

“Why?” Theodore wailed.

“Here, let me take him,” Mike said, edging past the nanny and the three little girls to pick him up.

“Oh, don’t—” Eileen said, but Theodore had already kicked him.

Mike let go of him with a grunt.

“Sorry. I should have warned you.” She turned sternly to Theodore. “No kicking. Now put your coat on, there’s a good boy—”

“No! I don’t want to go!” he shrieked, and every child and adult in the audience turned to look disapprovingly at him.

“Here, what’s all this then?” the balcony usher said, coming up followed by—oh, no—the one who’d refused to allow them in without tickets. “We can’t have this sort of disruption. The performance is about to begin.”

“Are these two bothering you, miss?” the usher who’d refused to let them in asked Eileen.

“No. Hush, Theodore,” Eileen said. “They—”

“They attempted before to enter the theater without paying,” the usher who’d refused to let them in told the balcony usher.

“The hell we did,” Mike said.

“We have tickets,” Polly said quickly, handing the usher hers. “Show him your ticket, Mike. We only wanted to speak with our friend for a moment. Something’s happened at home—”

“I don’t want to go home!” Theodore wailed and burst into noisy tears.

The governess tugged on Polly’s sleeve. “You said something had happened at home? Has there been a raid? Has someone in his family been—”

“No,” Polly said, and was instantly sorry. It was the perfect excuse for getting him out of there. But their usher had already pounced. “Then it’s scarcely an emergency,” he said, snatching the tickets from the balcony usher. He looked at them. “These tickets are for row eight in the orchestra. You don’t even belong in this section.”

“I know,” Mike said angrily. “We were only trying to speak to this young lady—”

The lights blinked off and then on again.

“The curtain’s about to rise,” the balcony usher said. “I’m afraid I must ask you to return to your seats. You can speak to your friend during the interval.”

“But—”

“I want to see the pantomime!” Theodore wailed.

“And so you shall, young man,” the usher said, glaring at Mike and Polly. “Sir, madam, either take your seats, or I’ll be forced to escort you from the theater.”

“Go sit down,” Eileen said, leaning across the little girls to put her hand on Mike’s. “It’ll be all right.”

“But we don’t have time—”

“I know. It’ll be all right. I promise.”

How? Polly wondered as they were led ignominiously back down to their seats.

“What does she mean, it’ll be all right?” Mike asked her.

“I don’t know. Perhaps she can persuade Theodore to leave—”

“Persuade him? Fat chance.” He rubbed his leg where Theodore had kicked him. “And what if she can’t?”

“Then I’m afraid we must wait for the interval,” Polly said, looking back up the center aisle where their usher stood guard, his arms militantly folded. “Perhaps you’d better go on to St. Paul’s, and I’ll bring Eileen when I can.”

He shook his head. “We’re all going together or we’re not going at all.” They sat down. “How many acts till the interval?”

Polly opened her program to see. The pantomime, which was titled Rapunzel: A Wartime Christmas Pantomime, consisted of only two acts, but under Act One were listed at least a dozen songs, as well as dance numbers, magic acts, juggling acts, and performing dogs.

Oh, no, we’ll be here forever, she thought. And no wonder Sir Godfrey hated pantomime so. It looked more like a vaudeville show than a play.

“I want it to begin,” the little boy next to Polly said.

“So do I,” she told him.

The asbestos fire-safety curtain went up, revealing red velvet curtains, and the audience applauded wildly. Good, she thought, but nothing else happened.

“Maybe Theodore’ll have to go to the bathroom,” Mike said, looking up at the balcony where Eileen was talking earnestly to him, “and we can throw a coat over him and carry him out or something.”

“Shh,” the little boy leaned across Polly to say sternly. “It’s beginning.”

At last, Polly thought.

The orchestra played a fanfare, and a pretty girl in tights and doublet came onstage with a large white card and said, “In case of an air raid, this notice will be displayed.” She flipped the card over to reveal Air Raid in Progress, then flipped it back to its blank side and set it on an easel at the side of the stage. “Thank you.”

More raucous applause, and the curtains parted to reveal a forest of pasteboard trees and a tall pasteboard tower. Near the top was a small window with a blonde sitting in it, combing her long hair. “Oh, woe is me,” she said. “Here I sit, trapped in this tower! Who will come and rescue me?” She leaned out the window. “Oh, no! Here comes my cruel jailer, the wicked witch!”

There was ominous music from the orchestra pit, and a Nazi officer goose-stepped onstage and stopped under her tower. “Sieg heil, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” he barked in a German accent. “Zhat’s an order!”

Rapunzel dumped a huge mass of yellow yarn hair on him, knocking him flat, and then brushed her hands together briskly. The audience erupted in cheers and laughter, and above the deafening roar floated Theodore’s clear, piercing voice. “I don’t like the pantomime. I want to go home!”

“That’s our cue,” Polly whispered. She grabbed Mike’s hand and hustled him up the aisle and down the stairs to the lobby.

Eileen was already there, an impatient Theodore tugging on her hand. “I told you it would be all right,” she said.

“I want to go home!” Theodore declared.

“So do we,” Polly said, grabbing his other hand, and they hurried out of the theater, the glaring usher holding the door open for them.

“What’s happened?” Eileen asked as soon as they were outside. “You said you didn’t find the retrieval team. Did you find some other historian?”

“Yes,” Mike said. “John Bartholomew.”

“Mr. Bartholomew?” Eileen said, looking from him to Polly. “But didn’t you tell Mike he’s already gone back?”

“He hasn’t,” Mike said. “You heard wrong. He was here for the attack on St. Paul’s, which is tonight.”

Theodore was listening avidly to them.

“Shouldn’t we discuss this after we see Theodore home?” Polly said.

“Yes, we need a taxi,” Mike said, looking down the street for one. “You know his address, don’t you, Eileen? We can pay the driver up front and tell him to—”

“We can’t send him home alone,” Eileen said. “His mother’s not there. She’s at work. That’s why I had to bring him to the pantomime.”

“Well, there must be a relative or a neighbor—”

“There’s Mrs. Owens, but she may not be home either, and I can’t send him off not knowing whether there’ll be anyone at the other end,” Eileen said. “He’s six years old.”

“You don’t understand,” Mike said. “We’ve only got today to find Bartholomew. He leaves tomorrow.”

“But we’re not going with him, are we?” Eileen said. “We’re only sending a message telling Oxford where we are. So couldn’t you two go and I’ll take Theodore home and you tell the retrieval team to come get me at Mrs. Rickett’s tomorrow? Like Shackleton. And that way you’ll be certain to get Polly back, since she’s the one with the deadline.”

“Polly doesn’t know what Bartholomew looks like, and you do,” Mike said. “And tonight’s”—he glanced at Theodore and lowered his voice—“one of the worst raids of the war, and Bartholomew’s going to be right in the middle of it. Which means we need to be out of here before it starts. We need to find him, get him to take us to his drop and go through with a message telling them to pick us up this afternoon.”

“I know,” Eileen said, “but Theodore’s my responsibility. I can’t leave him.”

“Perhaps we could find someone to take him,” Polly suggested. “Didn’t you say you sent him home from Backbury in the care of a soldier?”

“Yes, but I knew his mother would be waiting for him at the station. And I can’t turn him over to a perfect stranger.”

“Not a stranger,” Polly said. “We could go back to Mrs. Rickett’s and see if Miss Laburnum—”

“Are you sure she’ll be there?” Mike asked.

“No.”

He frowned a moment, thinking, and then said, “It looks like it’ll be faster to take him ourselves. Do you think you’ll be able to find someone in the neighborhood to leave him with if we do?”

“Yes, I’m certain we can.”

“Then let’s go. Where’s the best place to find a taxi?”

“The tube will be faster,” Eileen said. “There are so many diversions between here and Stepney.”

And now let’s hope the trains to Stepney are running, Polly thought, and that Theodore doesn’t suddenly announce that he doesn’t want to go on the train. But he boarded the car eagerly, peeled a corner of the blackout paper back from the window, pressed his nose against the glass, and gazed happily out, even though they’d still be underground for several more stops and there was nothing to see.

The three of them moved over to the opposite seats so they could talk. “What if we don’t reach him before the raids begin?” Eileen asked.

“Then we get him to tell us where his drop is,” Mike said, “and we go there and wait for him to come when the raid’s over. I figure his drop’s got to be outside London to have been able to open the morning after the twenty-ninth.”

“And you’re certain it will open?” Eileen asked.

“It already did open,” Mike said. “Six years ago.”

“Oh, that’s right, I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I thought he went back in October. I should have listened more closely to his lecture.”

“And I should’ve told you both about Bartholomew when I thought of him,” Mike said.

And I should have told Eileen what Mike said about trying to think of historians who’d been here earlier, Polly thought. But I didn’t want her to ask me about my last drop or my last assignment. So here we all are, making a last-minute dash to find an historian who was here six years ago.

And if we succeed, Mr. Bartholomew will take a message through to Mr. Dunworthy, and he will wait six years and then send us through, he will lie to us for six years and then send us through to Dunkirk and an epidemic and the Blitz, knowing full well Mike will lose half his foot, knowing full well how terrified of the raids Eileen will be.

She refused to believe it, in spite of the extra money he’d made her bring, the limitations he’d placed on where she could live. He wouldn’t lie to them like that.

How do you know he wouldn’t? she thought. You’ve been lying to Eileen and Mike for weeks.

What if, like her, Mr. Dunworthy had had a good reason for lying? What if he was trying to protect them, too? What if lying to them was the only way to save them?

Save us from what? she thought. And even if he was convinced lying was the only way, there’d have been no way he could have kept it from Colin, and Colin Save us from what? she thought. And even if he was convinced lying was the only way, there’d have been no way he could have kept it from Colin, and Colin would never have gone along with it. He’d have warned her.

Perhaps he had. He’d said, “If you get in trouble, I’ll come rescue you.” But he’d seemed boyishly earnest when he’d said it, not worried she might be in actual danger.

If he thought you were, he’d have stopped you. Or moved heaven and earth to come fetch you. And he wouldn’t let a little thing like an increase in slippage stop him.

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 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.

Tonight, the bomber planes of the German Reich hit London where it hurts the most—in the heart … St. Paul’s Cathedral is burning to the ground as I talk to you now.

—EDWARD R. MURROW, RADIO BROADCAST,

29 December 1940