All Clear

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital—30 December 1940

MIKE WOKE UP WITH A SPLITTING HEADACHE, AND WHEN he tried to put his hand to his forehead, a searing pain shot along his arm.

He opened his eyes. His arm was swathed in gauze, and he was lying in a white-painted iron bed in a dimly lit ward. He turned his head to look at the sleeping patient in the bed next to him. It was Fordham, with his arm still in traction. “Oh God,” he murmured, trying to sit up. “How did I get here?”

“Shh,” a pretty, wimpled nurse—not Sister Carmody—said, pushing him back down and pulling the blankets up over him. “Lie still. You’ve been injured. You’re in hospital. Try to rest.”

“How did I get to Orpington?” he asked.

“Orpington?” she said. “You did get a knock on the head. You’re in St. Bartholomew’s.”

St. Bartholomew’s. Good. He was still in London. He must have … but then what was Fordham doing here? He looked over at him, and it wasn’t Fordham, after all. It was a teenaged boy.

“What time is it?” Mike asked, looking over at the windows, but they were completely covered by sandbags piled against them.

“Never you mind about that. Would you like some breakfast?”

Breakfast? Oh, Christ, he’d been out cold the whole night.

“You must try to rest,” the nurse was saying. “You’ve a concussion.”

“A concussion?” He felt his head. There was a painful bump on the left side.

“Yes, a burning wall fell on you,” she said, pulling out a thermometer. “You were extremely lucky. You’ve a burn on your arm, but it could have been far worse.”

How? he thought. I was supposed to be finding John Bartholomew, and I’ve been out of commission all night.

“Eight other firemen were killed in Fleet Street when a wall collapsed,” she said.

Mike tried to sit up. “I’ve got to go—”

She pushed him back down. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said, sounding exactly like Sister Carmody.

A horrible thought struck him. What if he’d been here for weeks, like in Orpington? “What day is it?”

“What day?” she said, looking worried. “I’ll fetch the doctor.” She stuck the thermometer into her pocket and hurried off.

Oh, God, it had been weeks. He’d missed the drop.

No, Eileen and Polly wouldn’t have gone without you, he told himself. They’d have made John Bartholomew wait. Or sent a retrieval team back for him.

But they wouldn’t have had any idea where he was. Even if they’d thought to search the hospitals, the nurse obviously thought he was a fireman …

“I heard you ask what day it was,” the kid in the next bed said. “It’s Monday.”

“No, the date,” Mike asked.

The kid gave him the same look the nurse had given him. “December thirtieth.”

Relief washed over Mike. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said. “But it’s early. They haven’t brought breakfast round yet.”

If St. Bart’s was like Orpington, they brought everybody’s breakfast at the crack of dawn, which meant there was still time. But not much. The nurse would be back with the doctor any minute.

Mike sat up carefully, testing for dizziness. His head was splitting, but not so bad he couldn’t stand up, and he didn’t have time to wait till the pain lessened. He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“What are you doing?” the kid asked, alarmed. “Where are you going?”

“St. Paul’s.”

“St. Paul’s?” he said. “You’ll never get anywhere near it. Our fire brigade tried. We couldn’t get any nearer than Creed Lane.”

“You’re a fireman?” Mike asked. The kid couldn’t be fifteen.

“Yes. Redcross Street Fire Brigade,” he said proudly. “You won’t be able to get through. They had to take me all the way round to Bishopsgate when they brought me here.”

“I have to get through.” Mike stood up, his head swimming. “Did you see what the nurse did with my clothes?”

“But you can’t just get dressed and walk out of here,” the kid protested. “You haven’t been discharged.”

“I’m discharging myself,” Mike said, yanking open the drawers of the nightstand.

His clothes weren’t there. “I said, did you see what the nurse did with my clothes?”

The kid shook his head. “You were already here when I was brought in,” he said, “and you heard what the nurse said. You’ve a concussion. Why don’t you wait for her to come back and—”

And have her what? Tell him not to worry? Promise to ask the matron and then disappear for hours? It could be days before they’d let him out of here.

“Or at least wait till the doctor’s had a chance to examine you,” the kid said, his eyes straying toward the bell on the nightstand between their beds.

Mike snatched the bell up and jammed it under his own pillow. “Did you see what the nurse did with your clothes?”

“In the cupboard there,” he said, pointing at a white metal cabinet. “But I don’t think you should—”

“I’m fine,” Mike said, limping over to the cupboard. His own clothes were on the top shelf, neatly folded on top of his shoes. He began pulling on his trousers, keeping one eye on the ward doors. The nurse would be back with the doctor any second. He tried not to wince as he eased his shirtsleeve over his bandaged arm.

“Where’s the nearest tube stop?”

“Cannon Street,” the kid said, “but I doubt the trains are running. Waterloo and London Bridge were both hit last night.”

“What about Blackfriars?” Mike asked, buttoning his shirt and jamming the tail into his trousers. “Was it hit?”

“I don’t know. That whole part of the City was pretty much destroyed.”

Destroyed. Mike shoved his bare feet into his shoes and jammed his socks and his tie into his trouser pockets. “Did you see what they did with my coat?”

“No. Look, you’re not thinking clearly …”

There was no time to look for the coat. The nurse had already been gone longer than he’d had any right to expect. Mike pulled his jacket on, grunting with the pain, limped quickly to the doors, and opened one a crack. There were two nurses at the far end of the hallway, talking, but no one at the matron’s desk, and a third of the way down the hall, another hallway branched off it.

And I don’t look like a patient, he thought, glancing at his sleeve to make sure the bandage wasn’t showing and then smoothing down his hair.

Don’t limp, he told himself, and pushed the left-hand door open.

The nurses glanced up briefly and went back to talking. He walked quickly—but not too quickly—down the hallway, trying not to wince as he forced the weight onto his bad foot.

“Absolutely swamped all last night,” he could hear one of the nurses saying, “what with the patients from Guy’s Hospital and the firemen and all. And then, just as we’d got everyone settled, two horrid children came running through the wards …”

He reached the side hallway and turned down it, praying it was empty and that it led out of the hospital. It did, but it was raining outside—a drizzle so icy he debated going back inside to find his raincoat, especially since this seemed to be some sort of courtyard at the rear of the hospital. He wasn’t even sure he could get to the street from here.

“No, Doctor,” he heard someone say behind him.

He hobbled across the yard and through some bushes to the front of the hospital. He’d hoped he might be able to see St. Paul’s from here so he’d know which way to go, but a low pall of smoke and pinkish gray clouds hung over the buildings in every direction, hiding every possible landmark, including the Thames, and the fires were no help. Every way he looked there were flames.

And not a single pedestrian to ask directions of. The only person in sight was the red-coated attendant standing at the door of the hospital, his white-gloved hands clasped behind him. Mike supposed that was a good thing—at least there wasn’t a huddle of doctors and nurses around him, asking if he’d seen an escaped patient.

But he would come to that conclusion on his own if Mike asked, “Which direction is St. Paul’s?” and there wasn’t time to wander around till he saw it on his own—

“Need a ride, guv’nor?” a voice called from behind him, and to his amazement, a taxi pulled up to the curb, and a cabbie stuck his head out the window. “Where to, guv?”

Mike hesitated, debating whether to have the cabbie take him to Blackfriars first to pick up Eileen. If she was still there. He’d told her to wait there for him, but if the all clear had sounded, she might have tried to get to St. Paul’s on her own. “Has the all clear gone?” he asked.

“Hours ago,” the cabbie said. “And a good thing. If the jerries had kept it up all night, I doubt this hospital’d still be standing. Now then, where to?”

St. Paul’s, he decided. If Eileen wasn’t there, he’d go get her in Blackfriars after he’d found out from Bartholomew where the drop was.

But he’d better not tell the cabbie where he wanted to go till he was inside the taxi. He didn’t want him saying, “Sorry, guv’nor, I’m not driving into that mess,” and driving off. And he’d better not phrase it as a question.

Mike scrambled into the back, shut the door, and waited till the cabbie’d pulled away from the curb before leaning forward and saying, “I need to get to St. Paul’s.”

“You’re an American,” the cabbie said.

“Yes.”

Now he was going to ask if the United States was coming into the war or not, and Mike was too tired to think what the correct answer for December of 1940 was, but instead the cabbie said, “In that case, guv, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

If only you could, Mike thought.

“St. Paul’s, you say? That may take a bit of doing. Most of the streets are blocked off this morning, but I’ve got my own ways. I’ll see you get there. Take you right to her front door, I will.”

“Thank you,” Mike said. He took a deep breath. It’s only half past six at the latest, he thought. The fire watch doesn’t come off duty till seven, and Polly’s had all night to find Bartholomew, even if she doesn’t know what he looks like. And all she had to do was tell him, and he’d wait for Eileen and me.

He leaned back, cradling his arm, which was throbbing badly. So was his head. It doesn’t matter. They can fix them both in Oxford.

“Want to see the old girl for yourself, eh, guv’nor?” the cabbie called back to him. “Make certain she’s still there? I don’t blame you. I thought she was a goner myself last night. It looked like London was a goner, too.”

He turned down a succession of smoky streets. “I was taking a passenger to Guy’s Hospital—a doctor it was, trying to get there to take care of casualties. And when we got to Embankment, it looked like the sky itself was on fire, so bright you could read a newspaper by it, and this queer red color, it was.

“ ‘Guy’s won’t be there,’ I told him, and blamed if the hospital wasn’t on fire when we got there. I had to take him back across London Bridge to St. Bart’s, and a good thing I got him there. I’ve never seen so many casualties.”

He stopped at a crossing to look down a street. “Newgate’s blocked off, but there’s a chance Aldergate’s open.”

It wasn’t. A wooden barricade stood across it.

“What about Cheapside?” the cabbie asked the officer standing next to it.

“No, this sector’s blocked off all the way to the Tower. Where were you trying to go?”

The cabbie didn’t answer him. “What about Farringdon?”

The officer shook his head. “They still haven’t got the fires out. The whole City’s impassable.”

The cabbie nodded and backed around. “Don’t worry,” he said to Mike. “Just because one way don’t work don’t mean another won’t, does it? I’ll get you there.”

Mike hoped he was right. Every street they tried was either roped off or blocked by fallen masonry. A huge crater had been blown out of the middle of one lane, Mike hoped he was right. Every street they tried was either roped off or blocked by fallen masonry. A huge crater had been blown out of the middle of one lane, and in the next one over, two portable fire pumps and an ambulance had been abandoned. He was obviously going to have to walk, which meant he’d better put his socks on. He pulled them out of his pockets, took off his shoes, and began putting them on.

“You wanted a look at her,” the cabbie called back to him. “Well, there she is.”

Mike looked up, and there was St. Paul’s, the dome framed by the opening of the lane they were passing, and the ball and gold cross standing out clearly against the dark gray sky.

“Not a scratch on her,” the cabbie said admiringly. “Not that Hitler didn’t try his best. Beautiful, ain’t she, sir?”

Beautiful, yes, but at least two miles away. They’d been closer at St. Bart’s. I need to get out of this cab before we get any farther away, Mike thought, but the cathedral had disappeared as the cabbie dived back into the maze of twisting streets, turning and backing and retracing so much Mike had no idea which direction it lay in.

And neither does he, Mike thought, tying his shoes and buttoning his jacket. He’s just driving. And meanwhile I’m running out of time.

“Stop,” he said aloud, reaching for the door handle. “I’ll walk from here.”

The cabbie shook his head. “It’s rainin’, guv, and you with no coat. No, I said I’d take you straight to St. Paul’s front door, and I will.”

“No, really, I—”

But the cabbie had already turned down a narrow alley. He nodded at the blackened buildings on either side. “Getting near it now, we are.”

Near to where the fires had been, anyway. Whole streets were gutted, with patches still burning in spite of the rain. It looked like vids Mike had seen of London after the pinpoint. Through the charred timbers, he could see the wreckage the next street over, and the next, but no sign of St. Paul’s.

We must be in the Barbican, he thought, or Moorgate.

“And here we are,” the cabbie said, pulling over to the curb alongside a still-smoldering warehouse.

There, just past it, was St. Paul’s courtyard, and beyond, the pillared west front of the cathedral. Mike fumbled in his jacket for his wallet.

“Told you I’d get you here,” the cabbie crowed.

The nurse must have taken his wallet. He fumbled in his trouser pockets and brought up a shilling and twopence. Oh, no, not after he’d made it to within a few hundred yards.

“I must have lost my wallet last night, in the raid,” he stammered, searching through his pockets again. His papers weren’t there either. Or his ration book. The nurses must have locked them up for safekeeping. “I only have—”

“You don’t owe me nothin’, guv’nor,” the cabbie said, waving the coins away, “after what your lot’s done.”

“My lot—?”

“You Yanks.” He held up the newspaper. The banner headline read, “Roosevelt Pledges Support to Britain.”

“Nothing can stop us winning the war now,” the cabbie said.

Thank you, President Roosevelt, Mike thought. You came through in the nick of time.

“And any rate, it was worth the fare just to see for myself she’s still all in one piece,” the cabbie said. “A sight for sore eyes, ain’t she, guv?” He pointed toward the cathedral. “Looks like we’re not the only ones what wanted to take a look at the old girl.”

He was pointing at knots of people standing in the courtyard, looking up at St. Paul’s. Mike was too far away to see if Bartholomew and Polly were among them.

He got out of the taxi. “Thanks—for everything.”

“The same to you, mate,” the cabbie said, and drove off.

Mike limped up the street toward St. Paul’s, looking for Polly and Bartholomew, but he didn’t see them among the people in the courtyard. He hoped they hadn’t gone off looking for him.

No, they wouldn’t have any idea where to look, he thought. And they know I’d try to come here. This is where they’d wait. He looked over at the porch and the broad steps where more people stood and sat. Unless Polly and Bartholomew have gone to Blackfriars to find Eileen.

No, Polly didn’t know he’d told Eileen to wait there …

A hand grabbed his sleeve. Mike turned, expecting it to be Polly, but it was a thin, dazed-looking man. “This is where I work,” the man said urgently, pointing at the still-standing door in the wreckage behind Mike. It hung in its frame, held up by two blackened supports. The rest of the warehouse was completely gutted. “What do I do now?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Sorry,” Mike said, trying to pull away.

“It’s past time for them to open.” The man held up his wristwatch for Mike to look at. It read nine o’clock.

Nine o’clock. It had taken him two and a half hours to get out of the hospital and over here. The fire watch would have gone off duty long since and gone back down to the Crypt.

That’s where Polly and Bartholomew will be, he thought, breaking away from the man’s grasp and starting across the courtyard, picking his way over fire hoses and around ash-edged puddles.

The man trailed after him, murmuring, “It’s gone. What do I do now?”

Mike reached the foot of the steps. A score of people sat slumped against the steps, like the soldiers on the Lady Jane at Dunkirk, sooty, worn out, unseeing. And he’d been right. Polly was here waiting for him, sitting halfway up the steps next to two ragged children. And so was Eileen. Beside her on the step was a charred mark, like a deformed star. The incendiary.

Eileen caught sight of him. She stood up and started down the steps to tell him what had happened, why John Bartholomew wasn’t there, but he already knew. One look at Polly’s face had told him everything.

“I didn’t make it in time,” he said.

Eileen shook her head. “The dean said he left an hour ago. He—”

“The door’s locked,” the man said, clutching at Mike’s sleeve. “What do I do now?”

“I don’t know,” Mike said, and sat down on the wet steps next to the girls. “I don’t know.”

God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.

—CHRISTMAS MESSAGE OUTSIDE THE RUINS OF

ALL HALLOWS BARKING CHURCH, ON WHICH

SOMEONE HAD UNDERLINED THE WORD

“NOTHING” IN SOOT