All Clear

Kent—October 1944

“DUNWORTHY, JAMES,” ERNEST TYPED. “DIED SUDDENLY. At his home in Notting Hill. Of injuries incurred in a V-2 rocket attack.”

Cess leaned in the door. “Have you seen Chasuble?”

“No,” Ernest said, typing, “Mr. Dunworthy, originally of Oxford—Did you check the mess?”

“No, I’ll do that,” he said, and, amazingly, left. Ernest went back to typing. “—is survived by his children, Sebastian Dunworthy and Eileen Ward—”

“Hullo,” Chasuble said, coming in with several photographs. “Is that the caption for the church in Hampstead you’re typing?”

“No, here it is.” Ernest handed it to him. “Check the time, will you? I couldn’t decipher your handwriting,” and while Chasuble was reading it, he typed hastily,

“The funeral will be held at St. Mary-at-the-Gate in Cardle 20 October at ten o’clock,” ripped it out of the typewriter, and laid it face down on the desk. “Is that the right time?”

“No,” Chasuble said. “It should be 3:19 P.M., not 2:19.” He handed it back to Ernest, who rolled the sheet in, Xed out the time, and typed “3:19” above it.

“Where did it actually hit?”

“Charing Cross Road,” Chasuble said, and handed Ernest several photographs. “Here are last week’s incidents, but I don’t think there’s anything we can use. Only one church and one shopping street, and they were both totally demolished. Nothing identifiable. The V-2’s simply too good at what it does.”

Ernest leafed through the photos. “What about this one?” He held up a photo of a demolished school with a dozen uniformed students clambering happily over the wreckage.

Chasuble shook his head. “Photo’s already been in the Daily Express.”

“I thought they’d been told they had to run it by us first.”

“They were, but they failed to tell the reporter that, and it slipped through.” He shuffled through the photos and handed Ernest one of a tangle of timbers. “See that?” he said, pointing to a broken sign in one corner.

Ernest squinted at the tiny letters. “Dentist?” he guessed.

“Dental surgeon,” Chasuble said. “Or, rather, ‘dental surg—’ I know it’s small, but I thought perhaps a personal-interest story—‘Extreme Cure for Toothache,’ or something, about a man who was on his way to the dentist when the V-2 hit, and the blast knocking the offending tooth out.”

Ernest nodded. “Where’s this supposed to be?”

“Brixton,” he said. “It’s actually a street in Walworth, but I was able to crop out the village hall. The bomb fell at”—he consulted his list—“4:05 A.M. on the eleventh.”

“4:05? That won’t work. The dentist wouldn’t be open at that hour, not even for an emergency root canal.”

“Oh, right,” Chasuble said, taking the picture back. “I’ll see what else I’ve got.” But he still didn’t leave.

“Cess was here earlier looking for you. He said it was urgent,” Ernest said, and Chasuble finally departed so he could get back to his typing. He’d had more and more difficulty finding time to write his messages since D-Day. Now that Moncrieff and Gwendolyn were in France, Cess had no one else to pester and was always coming in to sit on the edge of his desk. And when he wasn’t there, Chasuble was, talking about Daphne the barmaid and reading over his shoulder. Which meant he had to snatch odd moments in which to compose his messages.

And the disinformation articles he was writing now gave him fewer opportunities to work in Polly’s and Eileen’s names and information since the locations had to be the false ones they’d agreed on, and since Chasuble and Cess frequently ended up delivering the stories to the papers. But he did the best he could, writing an assortment of announcements, letters to the editor, and human-interest pieces, and sticking them in with the captioned V-1 and V-2 photographs whenever he was the delivery boy.

“Christmas is still two months off,” he typed, “but two Nottingham girls are already hard at work on a festive project: sending a bit of Advent cheer in the form of homemade crackers to our brave lads in uniform. Misses Mary O’Reilly and Eileen Sebastian of Cardle Hill are making the—”

“I couldn’t find Cess,” Chasuble said, coming back in.

“Try the mess,” Ernest suggested.

But it was too late. “There you are, Chasuble,” Cess said, appearing in the doorway. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Remember how Daphne told you she wouldn’t go out with you?”

“I’ve been trying to forget it,” Chasuble said glumly.

“Well, you needn’t. I’ve got good news. I’m taking her to a harvest fête in Goddards Green this afternoon. Wait!” he said, backing away from Chasuble’s raised fists and putting his hands up to protect himself. “Hold on till you’ve heard the whole thing.”

“Go ahead,” Chasuble said grimly. “How exactly is this good news?”

“Because she’s bringing her friend Jean with her, and I told her I’d bring along a friend for her. Wait!” He circled around behind the desk.

Ernest draped a concealing arm over the paper in the typewriter.

“Don’t you see?” Cess said. “While you’re impressing Daphne with your prowess at the coconut shy, I lure Jean off to the tea tent, and by the time you find us, I’ll have worked my fatal charm on Jean, you’ll have worked your fatal charm on Daphne, and we swap. We’re leaving at ten.” He started out the door.

“Wait,” Chasuble said. “Isn’t it a bit late in the year for a harvest fête? And why is it on a Wednesday?”

“The fête had to be delayed when a V-2 hit the Women’s Institute,” Cess said. He started out again and then leaned back in. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” he said to Chasuble. “Lady Bracknell wants to see you.”

“What about? You don’t think he’s found out about the Austin, do you?”

“I do hope not,” Cess said. “You’re no use to me dead.” And the two of them finally departed.

And hopefully whatever it was Lady Bracknell wanted, it would take at least half an hour, Cess would be curious enough to listen at the door the entire time, and he’d have time to finish his article. “The Christmas crackers are made of pasteboard tubes and wrapping paper donated by Townsend Brothers Department Store and contain tissue-paper crowns. As for the traditional pop of a cracker, Miss O’Reilly, known to her friends as Polly, said, ‘No, our soldiers have had enough “bangs” for the year and should like peace and quiet for the holidays.’ ”

Not that they’d get it. Christmas week was the Battle of the Bulge. Another event I’ll never be able to observe, he thought, remembering the attack on Pearl Harbor, which he’d spent decoding intercepts. And during the Battle of the Bulge, I’ll be typing articles about Christmas on the home front and sending V-1s and V-2s down on innocent people’s heads.

“The Christmas crackers will also contain a sweet,” he typed, “and a handwritten motto, such as ‘A stitch in time saves nine,’ and ‘Seek and you shall find.’ ”

Chasuble stomped in. “Well, that’s that,” he said disgustedly.

Cess leaned in the door. “What happened?”

Damn it, Ernest thought, stopping typing. At this rate, Christmas would be over before he finished the story.

“The boiler at St. Anselm’s in Cricklewood blew up,” Chasuble said angrily.

“Cricklewood?” Ernest said, frowning. “I thought you were taking the girls to Goddards Green.”

“Not now. I’m not taking them anywhere. It seems the bell tower is still standing.”

“What?”

“It’s Norman. And famous. Bracknell wants photographs, captions, and accompanying stories delivered to all the London papers for the evening-edition deadline.”

Oh, now he understood. The damage from the boiler explosion looked like that from a V-2 attack, and the famous Norman tower would have been in travel guides, which would make the identification of the church by the German Abwehr not only possible but likely. And it was northwest of London, where they were trying to convince the Germans their V-1s and V-2s were landing.

“It’s not fair,” Chasuble said dejectedly. “I’ll never get another chance at Daphne.”

“You’re quite right,” Cess said. “You go to Goddards Green with the girls, and I’ll go to Cricklewood.”

“No, I will,” Ernest said. And deliver my pieces to the village weeklies on the way back.

“You will?”

“Yes. But before you go, get me the time of the V-2 we’re going to say this is. And I’ll need directions to St. Anselm’s. Oh, and ring up the Herald and tell them not to print anything about St. Anselm’s till we say so.”

“I will,” Chasuble said, and rushed out.

“Thanks, old man,” Cess said. “I’m in your debt.”

“Get me directions to St. Anselm’s, and we’ll consider it even,” he said.

Cess nodded and left. Ernest only had a few minutes. “Quartermaster Colin T. Worth will see that the crackers reach their destination,” he typed, “and several hundred lucky soldiers will have a happy Christmas, thanks to two resourceful girls ‘doing their bit,’ just as the Prime Minister has asked all of us to do.”

He rolled the sheet out, retrieved the funeral notice, stuck both of them inside his jacket, then sat back down at the desk, fed in a blank sheet and three carbons, and typed in caps, “GERMAN TERROR ROCKET DESTROYS HISTORIC CHURCH.”

“It fell in Bloomsbury, last Wednesday,” Chasuble said, coming in. He’d changed into a jacket and tie. “At 7:20 P.M.”

Wednesday evening. Perfect. Wednesday was choir-practice night. “Any casualties?”

“Yes, four. All fatalities, but there was a second V-1 in the same area at 10:56, so that’s not a problem.”

Except to the four people who died, Ernest thought. And the people who’ll be killed in Dulwich or Bethnal Green when the Germans alter their trajectories because of this photograph.

Cess came in. “Here are the directions to St. Anselm’s.” He handed Ernest a hand-drawn map.

“Good,” Ernest said. “Did you telephone the Herald, Chasuble?”

“Yes. The editor said they’ll hold the story till they hear from you.”

“Come along,” Cess said. “The fête starts at noon.”

“Coming,” Chasuble said. “I’ll never forget your doing this for me, Worthing.”

“It’s nothing. Go knock over milk bottles and win Daphne’s heart,” Ernest said, waving him out.

He wrote up the St. Anselm’s stories, grabbed the copies, the camera, and several rolls of film, and took off for Cricklewood.

It was easy to see why Lady Bracknell had been excited about St. Anselm’s. Not only was the distinctive Norman tower intact, but the wrought-iron arch saying

“St. Anselm’s, Cricklewood,” was as well, and the rubble behind it looked exactly like the wreckage from a V-2.

“That’s what I thought it was at first,” the talkative verger said, “there not being any warning noise beforehand, you know. So did the reporter from the Mirror when he came out, but while he was photographing it, I noticed the stones were wet, and as it hadn’t rained, that made me think of the boiler. And that was what it was.”

“You said the reporter was from the Daily Mirror?” Ernest asked. “Did he say they were going to run a story?”

He nodded. “Tomorrow morning. Odd, isn’t it, how St. Anselm’s came all through the Blitz and this last year without so much as a mark on her, only to be done in by a faulty boiler?” He shook his head sadly.

“Did the reporter tell you his name?” Ernest asked.

“Yes, but I can’t remember now what it was. Miller, I believe. Or Matthews.”

“Have reporters from any other papers been here?”

“Only from the local paper. Oh, and the Daily Express, but when I told him it was the boiler, he lost all interest. He didn’t even take any photographs.”

Ernest asked if he could use the telephone in the rectory and put a call through to Lady Bracknell. “I’ll try to intercept the articles,” Bracknell said, “or at least the photographs, in the dailies from this end. You stop the one in the local paper and then ring me back. You’re certain it’s only the Mirror and the Express?”

“Yes,” Ernest said, but after he’d rung off he questioned the verger again, who insisted that only the two journalists had been there. Ernest told him to ring him if any other newspaper showed up, and gave him Lady Bracknell’s number. “And if any other reporters arrive, you’re not to let them take any photographs,” he said, and went to see the local paper’s editor, hoping he wouldn’t ask too many questions.

A vain hope. “But I don’t see how printing the story can be giving the enemy information when it’s nothing at all to do with the war,” the editor said. “This was a boiler explosion, not a bomb.”

“Yes,” Ernest said, “but giving the enemy accurate information about any destruction aids them in their propaganda efforts.”

“But you’ve put that it was destroyed by a V-2,” he said, frowning. “Don’t the Germans know where their rockets hit?”

They will if I don’t pull this off, he thought.

“And won’t saying the church was destroyed by a V-2 assist them in their propaganda efforts?”

“No, because we’ll be able to discredit it later, you see,” Ernest explained, and that actually seemed to satisfy him. To make sure, Ernest offered to set the type himself and then stayed to see the front page printed, which took forever. The paper’s printing press was even more prone to breakdowns than the Call’s. It was after two by the time he reported in.

“I had to threaten them,” Lady Bracknell said, “but I’ve managed to kill both the stories at the Mirror and the Express. But I couldn’t give them the new version, so I need you to run it in to Fleet Street.”

In to Fleet Street? That would take the rest of the day. “Can’t I phone it in? I was hoping to get the photo into some of the village weeklies today as well.”

“No, I want you to go to the Mirror and the Express in person to oversee things. I don’t want any muck-ups. It would only take a single story slipping through to ruin the whole scheme.”

Or for Home Secretary Morrison to realize what they were up to and order them to stop, and then he’d have no reason to be planting stories in the village papers.

And it was entirely possible that the editor at the Mirror or the Express had agreed to hold the story but forgotten to tell the reporter. Or the typesetter. Which meant he’d better get in to Fleet Street as soon as possible. He hoped they didn’t prove as difficult as the Cricklewood paper.

They didn’t. The Mirror was holding page 3, and the Express had bumped the story to the next morning’s edition. Both papers allowed him to check the galleys, and the printer gave him a plate of the photo to use in the village weeklies and the name of the stringer who’d written the story.

Ernest tracked him down—at a pub near St. Paul’s—to make certain he hadn’t sold the picture and the story to anyone else. He hadn’t, but as Ernest was leaving, he mentioned having seen a reporter from the Daily Graphic leaving St. Anselm’s as he arrived, so Ernest had to go talk to him, and then make the rounds of the remaining newspapers, just to make certain.

By the time he was satisfied that the only version that would be appearing in the papers was his, it was nine o’clock, which eliminated the local papers, except possibly the Call. If Mr. Jeppers’s printing press had broken down again, he might still be printing the edition at midnight.

If he could get there by then. It was pitch-black and foggy out. He had to creep along, and when he reached Croydon, the door of the Call’s office was locked. But Mr. Jeppers’s bicycle was there. Ernest pounded on the door, rattling the taped glass. “Mr. Jeppers!” he shouted, hoping the printing press wasn’t running. If it was, he’d never hear him. “Let me in!”

“We’re closed!” Mr. Jeppers shouted through the door. “Come back in the morning.”

“It’s Ernest Worthing!” he shouted back.

“I know who it is! Who else would it be this time of night?” He opened the door. “Well, what’s so important it can’t wait till morning? Has Hitler surrendered then?”

“Not yet,” he said, handing Mr. Jeppers the articles.

He refused to take them. “You’re too late. I’ve already put the front page to bed.”

“They needn’t go on the front page,” Ernest said. “At least put this one in.” He handed him the St. Anselm’s story. Next week would have to do for the others.

Mr. Jeppers took it from him. “It says, ‘accompanying photograph,’ ” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t time to set a photographic plate.”

“You needn’t. I’ve got it right here.” He held it up. “All that needs to be set is the story. I’ll set it myself,” he said, and before Mr. Jeppers could object, he peeled off his jacket, threw it on top of a roll of newsprint, and grabbed a tray of type.

“All right, have it your way.” Mr. Jeppers kicked the lever. The printing press started up. “But if it’s not set by the time I’m done with the front page, it goes in next week!” he shouted over the rumble of the press.

Ernest began setting up the sticks of type, searching the trays for the needed letters and sliding them into place. This could work out even better than he’d planned.

The personals at the bottom of the page had already been set and proofed. If he could get the caption set quickly enough, he could substitute his own pieces, and Mr.

Jeppers would be none the wiser.

If. The printing press was shooting out pages at a steady clip, with no sign of jamming. Why, tonight of all nights, had it decided to run properly? And why had he thought using phrases such as “historic architecture” was a good idea?

Where were the U’s? He slotted the finished stick of type into place and grabbed an empty one.

His ears pricked up at the sound of a rattle. Good, the printing press was up to its old tricks. Where the bloody hell were the C’s?

The rattle grew louder and more clanking. It sounded like a wrench had got caught in the gears. “Shut it off!” he shouted, though in another minute he wouldn’t need to. The press would rattle itself apart.

“What?” Mr. Jeppers cupped his hand behind his ear.

“Something’s wrong with the printing press!” Ernest shouted, jabbing his finger at it. “That rattle. It’s—”

The noise cut off abruptly. “Rattle?” Mr. Jeppers shouted over the sound of the smoothly running press. “I can’t hear anything!”

That’s because it’s stopped, Ernest thought. And then, What if that was a doodle—?

But there was no time to complete the thought or shout to Mr. Jeppers or run. No time.

Our little life is rounded with a sleep.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST