All Clear

Imperial War Museum, London—7 May 1995

I MANAGED TO COME THROUGH AND FIND POLLY AND MEROPE, Colin thought, but I came too late to rescue them. “I was too late, wasn’t I?” he asked Binnie, and, as if on cue, the sound effects of the bombs started in again.

“No,” Binnie said when they’d diminished to where she could be heard.

“What? I got Polly and Mr. Dunworthy out before their deadlines?”

“I don’t know. I know you left with them for the drop, and Mum—I mean, Eileen—said you must have got through because—”

“But if I left to take them to the drop, why didn’t Merope, I mean Eileen, go with us?”

“Because of us,” Binnie said. “Alf and me. She’d promised she wouldn’t leave us. And she needed to be here to tell you where Polly and Mr. Dunworthy were.”

And so she’d sacrificed herself and stayed behind. But there must be some other way, especially since she wasn’t the one who’d told him; Binnie was. But he could deal with that later. Just now, he needed to find out where they were.

“Binnie,” he said eagerly, “we’ve got to come up with times when they were together in one place. You said Eileen made the decision to stay—which means she must have been there as well—so it has to be a time when all three of them were together. Before the first of May. That’s when Mr. Dunworthy’s deadline is. I’m assuming the best time for them to be together is during a raid. Did they go to a tube shelter during the raids?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you need to tell me where they’re living and what times they’re likely to all be at home. I know about Mrs. Rickett’s. Are they still in Kensington? If they are, then that may mean the drop Polly used will open—”

Binnie was frowning at him.

“I know this was a long time ago,” he said, “and it’s difficult to remember exactly where they were at any given time, but this is critical. If you can’t remember an exact date, then if you can just tell me which tube shelter, I can look up the dates when there were raids and—”

She shook her head, still frowning.

“Why won’t that work?” he said. “Did they not always go to the tube station when there were raids?”

“It doesn’t matter whether they did or not,” Binnie said. “That isn’t where they were.”

“Where they—”

“When you came.” She smiled at his uncomprehending look. “You’re forgetting, this all happened already. Over fifty years ago. Mum stayed behind so she could be here to make it happen, to tell you where they were.” She smiled ruefully. “And when she couldn’t be—”

“She sent you.”

“Yes.”

“She told you who she was?” he said, trying to process all this.

“Yes, but we’d worked it out on our own ages before that. When we were at the manor, we followed her out to the drop.”

“You saw her go through?” The drop wasn’t supposed to have opened if anyone was nearby.

“No, but we saw her just after she’d come back, and there were lots of other clues, mistakes and things, and then when you came and took Polly and Mr.

Dunworthy, we were dead certain. Only there’s still a good deal we don’t know. Like why it took you so long to get here.”

“None of the drops in England in 1940 would open,” he said. “When Mr. Dunworthy didn’t return, we tried every possible temporal and spatial location, and nothing would work. At first, we thought it was every drop, but the ones in other places and times weren’t affected, just those in England and Scotland and the first three months of 1941. We could get a few drops to open after mid-March, but by then we had no idea where they were. Polly’d left Townsend Brothers, and they weren’t at Notting Hill Gate.”

“So you came here to find someone who might have known her, so they could tell you where she was,” Binnie said.

“Yes.” He didn’t mention all the months he’d spent searching National Service and Civil Defence records looking for their names after Michael had told him Polly and Eileen had been planning to sign up, or all the years before that that he’d spent sitting in libraries and newspaper morgues trying to find out if they were still alive, and calculating coordinates for drop after failed drop, and attempting to convince Badri and Linna that rescue was possible, and meeting with Dr. Ishiwaka and every other time-travel theorist he could corner, trying to find out what the bloody hell had gone wrong.

“Alf said he was certain it had happened at one of the anniversary celebrations,” Binnie was saying.

“Wait,” Colin said. “Didn’t Eileen tell you I’d be here today?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand,” Colin said. “Why not?”

“Because she didn’t know where you’d be. All she knew was that at some point she’d told you where they were, and that that was how you’d known where to come.”

“But—”

“She said she didn’t need to know, that she’d be able to find you because she had found you,” Binnie said, and smiled. “Mum was always rather an optimist. Even when she found out about the cancer, she told us, ‘You mustn’t worry. It will all come right in the end.’ When she died I was afraid something had gone wrong, but Alf said it couldn’t have because then you couldn’t have come, so it was up to us to make it happen.” She beamed at him. “And we did.”

“But I still don’t understand. How did you and your brother know I’d be here on this particular date?”

“We didn’t. We’ve been looking for you ever since Mum died.”

“Ever since—”

She nodded. “At first we concentrated on Notting Hill Gate Underground Station and Oxford Street, and, of course, Denewell Manor—it’s a school now—but it was too much territory to cover, even with Michael and Mary—”

“Who?”

“Michael’s my son, and Mary’s my sister—half-sister really, though I never think of her that way.”

“She’s Eileen’s daughter?”

“I’m sorry, I keep thinking you know all this. Mum—Eileen—married the—”

There was a loud screaming swish and the sound of an explosion. The shelter walls shook, and a bright white light flashed on, simulating the flash from the bomb. It went to yellow and then red, bathing the shelter and Binnie’s face in an eerie light.

“Eileen married—?” Colin prompted her, shouting over the noise.

Binnie didn’t answer. She was staring at him with an odd look on her face, as if she’d just realized something.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he said, wondering if the sounds had triggered some traumatic memory. “Are you all right?”

“How strange,” she murmured. “I wonder if she …? That would explain …”

“You wonder if she what? Who? Eileen? What is it?”

She shook her head, as if to clear it. “Nothing. I keep forgetting you don’t know anything that’s happened. Eileen married shortly after the war, and they had two children. Besides Alf and me, I mean. Godfrey, that’s her son, assisted us as well, but even with all of us looking, we hadn’t any luck, and then Alf said, ‘We’ve got to think about this from Colin’s point of view. Where would he look?’ And that was when it occurred to us that you’d go where people who were in the Blitz were likely to be, and luckily that was just before the fiftieth anniversary of the war’s beginning, and—”

“You’ve been doing this since 1990?”

“No. 1989. The war actually began in ’39, you know, though there weren’t any battles for nearly a year. But there were several evacuated-children’s reunions, and then in the spring there were all the Battle of Britain exhibitions, and of course every year the VE-Day parades. Those were the most difficult. So many cities had their own, and all on the same day—”

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve been going to parades and anniversary celebrations and museum exhibitions for six years?” There must have been scores, even hundreds. “How many have you gone to?”

“All of them,” she said simply.

All of them.

“It’s not so bad as it might have been,” Binnie said. “It’s only May. Since it’s the fiftieth anniversary of the war’s end, there will be celebrations all year, including a special memorial service for the fire watch at St. Paul’s on December twenty-ninth.” She grinned mischievously at him. “At least you didn’t go to that.”

No, but I was planning to, he thought, and the Dunkirk Commemoration at Dover and the Eagle Day Air Show at Biggin Hill and the “Life in the Tube Shelters”

exhibit at the London Transport Museum. And if he had, Binnie, or Alf, or one of Eileen’s other children would have been there as well. They’d spent nearly as much time and effort searching for him as he had for Polly. “Binnie—” he said.

“My, will you look at that,” a woman’s voice said from only a few feet away, “a gas mask! Do you remember having to carry them everywhere with us? And having those tiresome gas drills?”

“Oh, dear, they’re coming back from lunch,” Binnie whispered. She stood up.

“Wait,” Colin said. “You still haven’t told me where they are.”

She sat back down. “I’m not sure I did tell you. I think Mr. Dunworthy may have—”

“Mr. Dunworthy? I thought you said they were all in one place.”

“They were, but Mr. Dunworthy was the one who found you. Or you found him—I don’t know that bit of it—and brought you there.”

“But where did I find him?”

“In St. Paul’s.”

St. Paul’s? That meant he’d used Mr. Dunworthy’s drop. But it hadn’t opened once since Mr. Dunworthy had gone through, despite thousands of attempts. “Did I use the drop in St. Paul’s?” he asked.

“I don’t know that either. Why?”

“Because it’s not working.”

“Oh. Then you must have found him—or he found you—somewhere else. All I know is that we left him at St. Paul’s that night—”

“Which night? You still haven’t told me the date.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know that either. It was so long ago, and we were only children. It was sometime in late—”

“Have you been in the air-raid shelter yet?” a woman’s voice said, and the door opened on Talbot, Camberley, and Pudge. “So here you are, Goody,” Talbot said, looking from Binnie, who’d shot to her feet, to Colin. “What are you two up to?”

“I was showing him the shelter,” Binnie said.

“We can see that,” Pudge said dryly. She looked around at the shelter. “My, this is cozy.”

“And much nicer than I remember shelters being,” Talbot said. “We were looking for you, Goody. You must come see the ambulance display. You drove an ambulance.”

“I’ll come in a moment,” Binnie said. “Mr. Knight and I weren’t quite done—”

“Obviously,” Talbot said.

“I only have one or two more questions,” Colin said, belatedly pulling out his notebook. “Would you mind if I borrow Mrs. Lambert for a bit longer?”

“Of course not,” Talbot said. “We shouldn’t want to stand in the way of true love.”

“Don’t be a noddlehead, Talbot,” Binnie said. “Mr. Knight’s a reporter—and young enough to be my grandson.”

“Impossible,” Colin said gallantly. “And at any rate, I’ve always liked older women.”

“In that case,” Talbot said, taking his arm, “you must come with us to see the ambulance display.”

“Yes,” Camberley said. “It looks exactly like the ones we drove.”

“You can ask her your questions on the way there,” Talbot said, leading him, her arm still firmly linked in his, toward the ambulance exhibit, but he had no chance to ask Binnie anything. Half a dozen women latched on to her before they reached it, asking her questions, and when they reached the ambulance, half a dozen others were waiting for her. They insisted she climb into the back and then the driver’s seat.

He pushed through the crowd to her and leaned in the window. “If you could just clear up a few details, Mrs. Lambert,” he said. “You mentioned the bombing of Westminster Abbey. When did that happen?”

“May tenth,” Camberley said before Binnie could answer.

And so much for that clever idea, Colin thought.

“I remember,” Camberley said, “because I was supposed to go to dinner and a show that night with a simply gorgeous flight officer, and instead I spent the entire night ferrying casualties. I’ll never forgive Hitler for ruining my evening.”

“What show was he taking you to?” Binnie asked.

This is no time to be discussing “Theater During the Blitz,” Colin thought in annoyance.

“Was it the naughty revue at the Windmill?” Talbot suggested.

“ ‘We never closed,’ ” Pudge quoted.

“Nor wore any clothes,” Talbot said.

“No,” Camberley said. “He took me to a play! And I wore—”

“What sort of play?” Binnie asked. “A pantomime?”

“A pantomime?” Camberley said. “Pantomimes are for children.”

“I saw a pantomime once during the Blitz,” Binnie went on as if she hadn’t heard her. “Sleeping Beauty. At the Regent. Sir Godfrey Kingsman was the Bad Fairy.”

“Oh, speaking of sleeping,” the woman who’d passed out the name badges said, “you all must see the display on ‘Sleeping Through the Blitz.’ Do you remember Horlick’s? And those siren suits? It’s this way,” she said, and they all started through the doorway and down the corridor, taking Binnie with them.

Colin followed, but before he reached the door, a new group of women with Union Jacks on their name badges swept in, and by the time he made it into the corridor, he expected her to have vanished. But Binnie was only halfway down it, stopped in front of a black-and-white photograph of a church, its tower in flames.

“Isn’t that St. Bride’s?” Binnie asked, pointing at it. “I remember the night it burned. The raids were so terrible that night. It was sometime at the end of April—”

“No, it wasn’t,” Browne said. “St. Bride’s burned in December.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Binnie said, “the same night St. Paul’s nearly did.” She looked down the corridor at Colin. “I must have got it confused. I know something happened at the end of April.”

I found Polly and Eileen and Mr. Dunworthy, Colin thought. Thank you, he mouthed silently at Binnie, but she’d already turned back to look at the photograph.

Camberley said something to her, and the other women closed in about her, blocking her from his view. The Union Jack women surged into the corridor, chattering and exclaiming.

“Harris!” someone in a bright green hat called. “There you are. I thought I’d never find you. It’s time to go.”

Time to go. Colin squeezed out of the corridor and walked back through the exhibition toward the exit. And now all I have to do is get Mr. Dunworthy’s drop to open. If that’s the drop I used. And not get caught by the fire watch. Or, if it won’t open, find another drop. And then find Mr. Dunworthy. And the theater. But he had the name of it. And the knowledge that he hadn’t been too late, that Polly was still alive.

He reached the exit. It was flanked by a photograph of the King and Queen, waving to the jubilant VE-Day crowds from a balcony of Buckingham Palace, and a life-sized cutout of Winston Churchill making the V-for-victory sign. As he walked through the doorway, the triumphant note of the all clear sounded.

He made his way quickly through the lobby to the ticket desk. “Can you give Ann Perry a message for me?” he asked the ticket seller. “Would you tell her thank you and that the exhibition was extremely informative? And tell her I’m genuinely sorry I wasn’t who she thought I was.”

“Yes, sir.” The ticket seller wrote the message down, and Colin went outside, thinking about what he had to do. Find out the address of the Regent and how to get there from St. Paul’s, and decipher what “the end of April” meant. The twentieth? The thirtieth? He hoped it wasn’t the thirtieth. Mr. Dunworthy’s deadline was May first. The thirtieth would be cutting it a bit fine.

Binnie had said the raids were bad the night he came. That should narrow it down a bit, unless there’d been raids every night in April. He went down the steps. If he could find out what dates Sleeping Beauty had been performed, that would—

Binnie was standing down by the Lily Maid. “How did you get out here?” Colin asked.

“I used a trick I learned from Alf,” she said.

He looked back at the building. “You set the Imperial War Museum on fire?”

“No, of course not. I told them I’d dropped my contact lens,” and when he looked at her blankly, “Contacts are eyeglass lenses which fit directly on the eye.

Breakable lenses. They’re all crawling about on the floor looking for it. But I haven’t much time. I wanted to make certain you understood everything.”

“Yes. The Regent Theater. During a performance of the pantomime Sleeping Beauty.”

“No, a rehearsal,” she said.

“And you don’t know the date?”

“No, Alf and I tried to work that out. It was after the north transept of St. Paul’s was hit—”

Which had been on April sixteenth. “And there were raids that night?”

“Yes. At any rate, I think so. It’s difficult to remember. There were so many raids. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” She put her hand on his arm. “You mustn’t grow discouraged if you’re not able to find the right date straightaway.”

“Did Eileen tell you that happened?”

“No, and I’m not certain it did, but you seem younger today than you did the night you came through.”

“Is that why you gave me that odd look in the air-raid shelter?”

“The air-raid shelter?” she said, looking suddenly cornered, caught out.

“Yes,” he said. “We were talking about Eileen and then the bomb sound effect went off and the shelter lit up, and you gave me an odd look and said, ‘I wonder if she … that would explain …’ Was that what you meant? That I looked older?”

“It must have been. That’s the worst thing about growing old. One can’t remember what one was talking about five minutes afterward.” She laughed. “I can’t think what else it could have been. Oh, I know—it wasn’t about you at all. Mrs. Netterton said she didn’t remember there being red lights in the shelters, and I had no idea what she was talking about. She’s rather scattered, poor dear. And then when the bomb went off, and there was that red light, I realized that must have been it.”

It sounded plausible, and he’d have no doubt believed her if it hadn’t been for that Evacuation Committee head telling him, “They’d stand there looking all wide-eyed and innocent and tell you the most outrageous fibs.”

But what possible reason could she have for lying to him? She had spent the last six years trudging from one place to another to find him and tell him the truth, not hold it back.

Unless it was something terrible. But she had looked bemused, not distressed. Perhaps something had occurred that night at the theater that she hadn’t fully understood till now.

Whatever it was, it was clear she had no intention of telling him. “I must get back before they miss me,” she was saying, looking up at the museum. “They’ll think we’ve run off together.”

“I wish we could,” he said. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done.” He leaned forward and kissed her on her cheek, in spite of what it was likely to do to her reputation. “It was above and beyond the call of duty.”

She shook her head. “It was the least we could do for her after all she did for us. She took us in, fed us, clothed us, sent us to school. She was ‘the only one what was nice to us,’ as my brother would say.” She smiled at him. “I doubt if we’d have survived the war without her. And even if we had, I’d have ended up on the streets, and Alf—I hate to think of where he’d be.”

“But I thought—you said he was down at the Old Bailey.”

“He is. Oh, you thought because I said he’d been detained that he was the defendant.” She laughed. “Oh, dear, I must tell Alf that. No, he’s had an important case on this week, and the jury stayed out longer than expected.”

“He’s a barrister?” Colin said, astonished.

“No,” she said, and laughed again. “He’s a judge.”

All shall be well, and

All manner of thing shall be well.

—T. S. ELIOT, FOUR QUARTETS