All Clear

St. Paul’s Cathedral—29 December 1940

THE DOOR CLANGED SHUT BEHIND POLLY.

It was pitch-black inside the cathedral. There was supposed to be a light under the dome for the fire watch to orient themselves by, but she couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see anything. She couldn’t hear anything either, except the still-reverberating echo of the door shutting behind her. Not planes, not the sputtering incendiary, nothing, not even the sirens.

But the warden had been just below her on the steps. He would come through that door any moment. She had to hide.

She paused a second, willing her eyes to adjust, trying to remember what lay on this side of the cathedral. Not the Wren staircase—it was blocked off—and The Light of the World was too small to hide behind. She should have paid more attention when Mr. Humphreys was showing her around.

She still couldn’t see anything, not even outlines. She groped for the wall, arms outstretched in front of her, like a child playing blind man’s bluff. Stone and then open space and narrow iron bars. The chapel’s grille. She ran her hand hurriedly along the bars, anxious to get past the chapel, and felt the gate open under her touch.

She was through it instantly and into the chapel, feeling her way. The chapel had had an altar with a tall carved reredos behind it. She could hide behind that.

She crashed into something wooden, banging her knee. The prayer stalls, she thought, reaching down to feel their waist-high fronts. They had lined either side of the chapel, which meant the altar was—

A door opened somewhere. Polly dove down behind the prayer stall and crouched there, holding her breath, listening.

A voice, too soft and too distorted to make out, and then a second, answering, and then footsteps. The warden? Or a member of the fire watch making the rounds?

It must be the fire watch. She heard more footsteps, quicker this time, and walking away, and then a door—too quiet to be the heavy door she’d come in through—shutting.

She waited a bit longer, hoping Mike or Eileen—or both of them—would have got away from the warden and come back. They both knew what John Bartholomew looked like, and Mike could pretend to be a volunteer on the fire watch. There hadn’t been any women on it, and it was unlikely they’d let one up on the roofs to look for someone, even if she knew how to get there.

But she did know how to get to the Crypt. She could ask the officer in charge to take a message to Mr. Bartholomew.

She crept cautiously out from behind the prayer stall, checked to make certain there was no sweep of a pocket torch in the aisle or in the nave beyond, and felt her way toward the gate.

Light flashed suddenly in her face, blinding her. Polly dived for the haven of the stall, cracking her knee again, and then realized what she’d seen. A flare. A rattling clatter overhead like someone tossing a handful of pebbles made her look up. Incendiaries on the roofs. And then voices from the direction of the dome and more banging of doors and footsteps running up stairs.

Still blinded, Polly felt for the gate and opened it, trying not to make any noise. She went out into the nave and stood for a minute, waiting for her eyes to recover.

When they did, she could just discern the shadowy outlines of the arches, the bricked-up Wellington Monument across the nave, and the choir, and she thought her eyes must finally have adjusted to the darkness. But when she glanced up behind her she saw the windows were lit with yellow.

Fire, she thought, guiltily grateful for the light. There was just enough for her to find her way and not crash into the tin baths full of water sitting at the base of the massive pillars or into the stirrup pumps propped against them.

They’ll need all of those tonight, she thought, hurrying along the south aisle, past The Light of the World, though nothing of the painting but the lantern was visible in the near darkness. It glowed dimly golden, though the light from the windows seemed to be growing steadily brighter and oranger and to be coming from the north transept as well.

Out here in the aisle she could hear the drone of the planes, punctuated by the thud of the anti-aircraft guns. Another batch of incendiaries clattered onto the roofs as she passed the ranked rows of wooden chairs, so loud she looked up, expecting them to clatter onto the marble floor in front of her, but there were no more running footsteps. The fire watch must all be up on the roofs already.

A door banged heavily at the end of the cathedral she’d just come from, and this time it was definitely an outside door. Polly looked wildly about for a place to hide, then ducked behind the nearest pillar and flattened herself against it, listening. Whoever it was was running this way, straight down the middle of the nave, his footsteps ringing on the marble floor.

Polly inched her way around the pillar to get a look at him. If it was a member of the fire watch, she could ask him to take her to Mr. Bartholomew. There wasn’t enough light to see him clearly, but she could see that he was wearing an overcoat. It flapped about his legs as he ran. It’s Mike, she thought.

No, it wasn’t him. He wasn’t limping. Someone looking for shelter? People had taken shelter in the Crypt, hadn’t they? But whoever this was knew exactly where he was going. He ran between the rows of wooden folding chairs set up for evensong and toward the dome.

He had to be one of the fire watch. She ran out from behind the pillar, but he was already across the wide floor under the dome. “Wait!” Polly called. “Sir!” She ran after him, but he’d already vanished into the shadows.

A door slammed. Where? Had he gone into the south choir aisle or into the transept? She darted down the near side of the transept and then around to the other side, looking for a door. The stairs up to the Whispering Gallery were along here somewhere, but she didn’t know if they led on up to the roofs.

Here were the stairs leading down to the Crypt, but they were barred by a gate, not a door, and what she’d heard was definitely a door. It must be somewhere in the choir. She started into it.

And ran into a young man in a black robe. She jumped a foot, and so did he, but he recovered immediately.

“Were you looking for the shelter, miss? It’s this way.” He took her arm and led her back to the Crypt stairs.

“No, I’m looking for someone,” she said. “A member of the fire watch.”

“They’re all on duty just now,” he replied, as if she’d asked for an appointment. “If you’ll come back tomorrow—”

She shook her head. “I must speak to him now. His name is John Bartholomew—”

“I’m afraid I don’t know most of the watch by name.” He unlatched the gate. “I’m only filling in tonight, you see.”

“Is Mr. Humphreys here?”

“I don’t know if he’s on duty. As I said, I’m only—”

“Then is there someone in charge I could speak to?”

“No, I’m afraid Dean Matthews and Mr. Allen are both up on the roofs. The raids are very bad tonight. The shelter’s down these stairs,” he said, motioning for her to precede him.

“I don’t …,” she began, and thought better of it. She didn’t want him taking her out through the nave and delivering her into the hands of the air-raid warden.

They started down the stone steps. “Mind your step,” he said. “I’m afraid these stairs are rather badly lit. The blackout, you know.”

“Badly lit” was an understatement. Below the first landing there was no light at all, and Polly had to put her hand on the cold stone wall and feel her way.

“I’m only a chorister, you see. One of the volunteers fell ill, and Dean Matthews asked me to help out. Nearly there,” he said helpfully, and pulled aside a black curtain for Polly.

She slipped through it into the Crypt. In spite of the vaulted ceiling and the tombs in the floor, it didn’t look like a crypt. It looked like an ARP post. A paraffin lamp sat on a wooden table next to a gas ring with a kettle on it, and beyond the table was a row of made-up cots, with coveralls and helmets hanging on hooks behind them. But no members of the fire watch.

“Will they come back down during the night to rest and have a cup of tea?” Polly asked.

“It’s not likely they will tonight,” he said, looking up at the low ceiling, through which the droning planes could be heard faintly. “The shelter’s along here.”

He led her past what had to be Wellington’s tomb—an enormous black-and-gold sarcophagus—toward the west end. “I expect they’ll be up on the roofs all night, with all these bombs.”

“Then could you go up and tell John Bartholomew that I must speak with him?”

“Go up? Onto the roofs, you mean?” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to get up there. That’s why Dean Matthews put me in charge down here. Our shelter’s just over here,” he added and led her into a sandbagged arch at the end of the church where a half dozen women and a young boy huddled against one wall on folding chairs.

“Here’s another for your little band,” the chorister said to them. He explained to Polly, “These ladies were evacuated from a shelter in Watling Street.”

“It was on fire,” the boy explained, sounding disappointed that they’d been forced to leave.

“You’ll be safe here,” the chorister said to all of them, and walked rapidly back to the watch’s headquarters. But not back upstairs, and it didn’t look like he was going to go upstairs. He was messing about with the kettle.

Polly looked about for a stairway at this end of the Crypt, but she couldn’t see one. What now? Should she wait here on the off chance one of the fire watch would come down here, and try to persuade him to take a message to John Bartholomew?

From the sound of things, that wasn’t likely to happen. More and more incendiaries were spattering overhead, and the roar of the planes was growing louder even down here. “Will St. Paul’s burn down?” the boy asked his mother.

“It can’t,” the woman said. “It’s built of stone.”

But that wasn’t true. The cathedral had wooden inner roofs, wooden supports, wooden beams, wooden choir stalls, wooden screens, wooden chairs. And hard-to-reach spaces between the roofs which seemed to have been designed just for incendiaries to melt through and lodge in. Which was what the fire watch were working frantically to keep from happening. And would be working frantically on all night. The chorister was right. They wouldn’t be down before morning.

She couldn’t wait that long. But to get to the roofs, she’d have to get past the chorister. And away from the shelterers, which would be difficult. When the boy wandered a short way down the Crypt, the women made him come sit down, saying, “The gentleman in charge told us to keep to this end.”

“I only wanted to look at the tombs,” the boy said, which gave Polly an idea.

“Isn’t the artist who painted The Light of the World buried down here?” she asked no one in particular, and walked over to read the memorial tablets on the north wall, working her way slowly along them and waiting for her chance.

The chorister looked at his watch, took the kettle off the gas ring, and disappeared into one of the bays. Polly waited for the next batch of incendiaries and when the shelterers automatically looked up at the ceiling, darted into the next bay and along the Crypt, keeping next to the wall and looking for another way up to the main floor. Or to the upper levels.

Two of the bays had mounds of sandbags covering something—the organ pipes? John Donne in his shroud?—and the next had a grille across it with a padlocked and locked gate, but in the one after that there were several shovels and coils of rope and a large tub of water. And a stairway.

It was the twin of the one she’d come down, which meant it would only go up to the main floor, but it would get her up out of the Crypt and away from the chorister. She ran quickly up the not-nearly-as-dark steps and out into the north transept.

And into the arms of the chorister. “Not that way, miss,” he said, catching her with both hands. “Down this way.”

He took her back down the steps.

“I was only—”

“Quickly,” he said; he didn’t seem angry, only in a great hurry.

He hustled her at top speed through the Crypt to where the shelterers were sitting. “Attention, everyone,” he said. “Please collect your things. We need to evacuate the building.”

The women began gathering up their belongings. “This is the second time I’ve had to move tonight,” one of them said disgustedly.

“Is St. Paul’s on fire?” the boy asked.

The chorister didn’t answer. “This way,” he said, and led the way to a narrow recessed door in the northwest corner. “I’ll see you all get to another shelter.”

“But you don’t understand,” Polly said. “I must speak to Mr. Bartholomew.”

“You can speak to him outside,” he said, herding them through the door. “The fire watch is being evacuated as well.”

The fire watch? Why were they being evacuated? They were supposed to be putting out incendiaries. It doesn’t matter, she thought. It means you can tell Mr. Bartholomew.

“Will they come out this way?” she asked.

“No, they’ll have gone out through the nave. It’s quicker,” he said, pushing Polly through the doorway, up the short flight of steps to the surface, and through the outer door. They emerged into the churchyard and a cacophony of sound—droning bombers, clanging fire bells, the deafening thud of anti-aircraft guns, the wind. It was blowing hard, fanning the flames of a Victorian house on fire just beyond the churchyard.

The flames lit the churchyard with an eerie reddish light. The shelterers stood in a huddle among the tombstones, waiting for the chorister to take them to the shelter.

Polly darted past them and around to the west front of the church. The fire watch was already there, standing in the courtyard. But there were far too many of them—an entire crowd—and they weren’t the watch, they were civilians. And beyond them, firemen were playing water on several buildings on fire in Paternoster Row.

The people in the courtyard must have fled those buildings and come here for shelter.

But they were making no attempt to go inside St. Paul’s. They were all standing well back from the steps, in the center of the courtyard, and they seemed oblivious to the fires behind them and to the deafening drone of planes overhead. They were looking, transfixed, up at the dome.

Polly followed their gaze. Halfway up the dome was a small gout of blue-white flame. “An incendiary!” a man behind her shouted at her over the roar of the planes.

“It’s too far up for the fire watch to reach.”

“Once the dome catches,” the woman on her other side said, “the whole building will go up like a torch.”

No, it won’t, Polly thought. St. Paul’s didn’t burn down. The fire watch put out twenty-eight incendiaries and saved it.

The fire watch. She looked over at the porch, but no one was on it or on the steps or coming out either of the side doors. The chorister had said coming out through the nave was quicker. That meant the fire watch was already out here, somewhere in this crowd. Polly started through it, looking for men in coveralls and helmets.

“Mr. Bartholomew!” she called, pushing between people, hoping someone would turn his head. “John Bartholomew!” but there was too much noise from the guns and the planes and the fire engines’ bells. She couldn’t make herself heard. And she couldn’t see any helmets.

“Oh, look!” the woman she was shoving past said. “She’s going!” and Polly, shocked, turned and looked up. Where the small flame had been, large yellow flames were spurting, whipped by the wind. Even as she watched, the fire seemed to grow larger and brighter.

“She’s done for,” someone said.

“Can’t they do something?” a woman asked plaintively.

A man’s voice in the middle of the crowd said with authority, “I think a prayer would be in order,” and the crowd went silent. “Let us pray.”

That had to be Dean Matthews. The chorister had said he was up on the roofs. He and the fire watch would be standing together.

Polly headed for his voice, but the crowd, spellbound by the drama on the dome, refused to let her through. Polly pushed out of the crowd and ran toward the cathedral and up the steps to see where Dean Matthews and the fire watch were standing. If she could spot Mr. Bartholomew from Eileen’s description and wave to him …

She clambered up next to the lamppost at the end of the stairs and scanned the crowd, looking for a clerical collar. She still couldn’t see Dean Matthews or the fire watch. She moved a bit to the right, attempting to get a better angle from which to see their upturned faces, lit by the orange light from the fires in Paternoster Row.

She noted and discarded the ones who couldn’t be on the fire watch—woman, woman, too young, too old—

Oh, God. She grabbed for the lamppost, suddenly weak in the knees.

It was Mr. Dunworthy.

How all occasions do inform against me.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, HAMLET