Blackout

Oxford-April 2060

THE SHIMMER WAS ALREADY SO BRIGHT POLLY COULDN’T see the lab or even the draperies, only the opening drop. She knew there wasn’t enough time to tell Badri and Linna to give her apologies to Colin, but she made the attempt. “Tell Colin what happened,” she shouted into the brightness, “that there wasn’t time to let him know. Tell him I’m sorry and that I said thank you for all his help, and I’ll see him when I get back,” but it was too late. She was already through.

In a cellar. In the near-darkness, she could only just make out a brick wall and a black door from which the paint was peeling badly. There were brick walls on either side, too, and a low ceiling, and behind her, three steps leading up to the rest of the brick-paved cellar, which was filled with barrels and packing cases. Ordinarily a cellar would be a good place to come through, but this was the Blitz, when cellars had been used as shelters. She stood still a moment, listening for the sound of voices-or snoring-in the part of the cellar she couldn’t see, but she couldn’t hear anything. She quietly tried the door. It was locked.

Wonderful. She’d come through in a locked cellar, and one that, as she peered more closely at it in the gloom, looked as though it had been locked a very long time. A spiderweb, with several dead leaves caught in it, was strung from the lower door hinge to the dirt floor, so unless there was a window she could climb out of, she’d have to wait here till the drop opened and make Badri find another site. And hope Mr. Dunworthy didn’t cancel her assignment in the meantime.

There’d better be a window, she thought, going up the steps. There was a scattering of dead leaves on them as well, and when she reached the top, she saw why. This wasn’t a cellar. It was the narrow passageway between two buildings, and the locked door she’d tried was a recessed side door into a building. The ledge above the passage would at least partially keep the drop’s shimmer from being seen from above, but what about the street at the end? If the shimmer could be seen from there, the drop would only be able to open when no one was about and would be effectively useless.

She squeezed down the passage past the stacked barrels to see, trying to protect her coat from being torn. And from getting filthy. The barrels’ tops were thick with dust, and drifts of dry leaves crunched underfoot. I hope I’m not in November instead of September, she thought, wedging past the next-to-last barrel. I’d better ascertain my temporal-spatial location. As soon as I’ve checked to see if the shimmer’s visible from the street.

But it wasn’t a street. It was an alley, also paved in brick, and it was lined with the windowless backs of brick buildings-warehouses? Shops? She couldn’t tell, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that even if the shimmer was visible from here, no one could see it from the buildings facing it, and at night the alley wouldn’t have anyone in it.

She looked cautiously out into the alley. No one was in it. It was nearly as dark as the passage, too dark for 6 A.M. There must have been some slippage, or perhaps it was darker in the narrow alley than out on the street. She looked down the alley. The buildings at the alley’s end were blurred.

Not slippage. Fog. Which meant it might be any time of day. The coal-fire fogs of 1940s London could make midday as dark as night. But she was definitely in World War II because someone had drawn a Union Jack and scrawled, “London kan take it!” in chalk on the brick wall next to the passage. And the chances were excellent that she’d come through exactly when she was supposed to have. There’d been a thick fog in the early morning hours of September tenth.

She walked to the near end of the alley, listened a few moments for approaching footsteps, and then looked cautiously out. There was no one in either direction as far as the fog let her see, and no vehicles on the wider road that she could dimly see off to her left, which meant the all clear hadn’t gone yet. Which meant there’d been scarcely any slippage at all.

But she still didn’t know where she was. She needed to find out-and before the all clear, if possible-but before she left the alley, she needed to make certain she could recognize it and the drop. She walked back down to the passage, committing the buildings to memory. The one nearest the street had large double doors, and the one next to it a ramshackle wooden staircase leading up two dangerous-looking flights to a door with the same black peeling paint as the door in the drop. Next to it was the passage, though if not for the chalked “London kan take it” on the wall, she’d have missed it. The barrels hid not only the recess but the passage. An air-raid warden could look straight at it and not realize it was there.

If the wardens even checked the alley. It was as cobwebbed and leaf-strewn as the passage. Which was good.

She walked on down the alley, looking for other identifying features, but the buildings on both sides were of featureless brick except for the one second from the end, which was a black-and-white, half-timbered Tudor. Good: Tudor, “London kan take it,” rickety staircase, brown double doors.

Which she wouldn’t need, she realized as soon as she stepped out of the alley. A large poster was pasted on the wall next to the alley’s entrance-a cartoon of Hitler, with his trademark mustache and hank of hair over one eye, peeking round the corner of a building above the words “Be Vigilant. Report Anyone Behaving Suspiciously.”

It was good the all clear hadn’t gone. There’d be no one out on the streets to see her behaving suspiciously as she attempted to find out where she was. Which might be a problem. The contemps had taken down or painted over all of the street names at the beginning of the war to hinder the Germans in case of invasion. She’d have to hope she could find a landmark that would tell her where she was-a church spire or an Underground station or, if this was Kensington, the gates of Kensington Gardens. Not the railings-those had been taken down and donated to the scrap drive-but, depending on where she was, the Albert Memorial or the Peter Pan statue.

She needed to hurry. The fog was closing in, obscuring all but the nearest buildings, and shutting out what little light there was. An authentic London pea-souper, she thought, walking down to the wider road in the hopes of seeing a bit farther. But the fog was even thicker here, and growing gloomier by the minute. She could scarcely see down to where the road curved off to the right. And she’d been wrong about the all clear having gone, because two women emerged out of the fog like ghosts and crossed the road ahead of her, obviously on their way home from a shelter; one of them was carrying a pillow. They walked quickly down the road and were swallowed by the darkness.

Polly started down the road past the buildings that faced the alley where the drop was: a bakery, a knitting shop, and on the corner, a bay-windowed chemist’s. They all looked shabby and in need of repair. She hoped that was due to war shortages and not because slippage had sent her through to the East End.

I need to make certain I’m not in Whitechapel or Stepney, she thought. That was where the raids on the tenth had been, and if there’d been locational slippage, and she was in the East End, she needed to go straight back to the alley and Oxford, Mr. Dunworthy or no Mr. Dunworthy.

She peered in the shops’ windows, looking for a notice that would give her a clue to her location. There weren’t any, but the presence of windows confirmed she was when she was supposed to be. None of them were broken, and only one shopkeeper had pasted crisscrossing strips of paper onto the glass to reinforce it. The Blitz couldn’t have been going on more than a few days.

A ghostly black taxi went by, and a man in a bowler hurried across the road ahead of her, walking even more rapidly than the women. Late for work, Polly thought, which meant it was even later than she’d thought. He had a newspaper under his arm. There must be an open newsagent’s nearby. She could buy the Times and confirm this was the tenth, at the least. And ask the newsagent what road this was. She would need a newspaper, at any rate, to look for a flat.

But there was no newsagent she could see on this side of the road. She stepped to the edge of the pavement and peered into the gloom. If a bus came by, it would have a destination board, though the fog was making it so dark she wasn’t certain she’d be able to read it. She might be able to hail it, though, and tell the conductor she’d got lost in the fog and ask where this was.

But no buses-or taxis, or automobiles-came by. She waited several minutes in the thickening darkness, listening for engine sounds, and then gave up and crossed the street. And wasn’t even to the curb before a bus roared by.

Idiot, she thought. If Mr. Dunworthy had seen that, he’d have yanked her out of the Blitz so quickly it would have made her head spin. And in her attempt to leap out of its way, she’d missed seeing its destination board.

There was no newsagent’s on this side of the road either-only a butcher shop and next to it a greengrocer’s. T. Tubbins, Greengrocer, the lettering on the appropriately green awning read, and baskets full of cabbages stood on both sides of the door. It wasn’t open yet, but on the right-hand window was an official notice of some sort.

Polly went closer to squint at it, hoping it was air-raid instructions that would tell the address of the nearest shelter, or at the least have “Borough of Marylebone” printed at the bottom, but it was merely a list of rationing rules.

Two shops farther on was a tobacconist’s, and it was not only open, but on the counter lay an array of newspapers. Behind it, a man with an appropriately tobacco-stained mustache said, “May I help you, miss?”

“Yes,” she said, stepping into the doorway. “I-” and an air-raid siren began to wind up into its distinctive wail. Polly turned and looked back out the door, bewildered.

“Earlier every night,” the man said bitterly.

“Earlier?” she repeated blankly.

He nodded. “Last night it was half past seven. And now tonight the alert…”

The alert. That was the up-and-down wail of the air-raid alert, not the all clear. And at the realization, everything she had seen clicked suddenly into place. It wasn’t morning, it was evening, and the women she’d seen hadn’t been coming home from a shelter, they’d been going to one.

“Better go along home,” the shopkeeper said, taking hold of the door.

“Oh, but,” she said, fumbling in her shoulder bag for her coin purse, “I need a newspaper,” but he’d already shut the door.

“Wait!” she called through the glass. “Where-?”

He shook his head, pulled the shade down, and locked the door. Another siren, nearer, started up. Colin had said she’d have twenty to thirty minutes before the raid began, but she could already hear the drone of planes in the distance. She needed to find a shelter. She had no business being out on the streets during a raid, especially if this was the East End. Or even if it wasn’t. Colin was right-there’d been lots of stray bombs. And every one of these shops had plate glass windows.

There’s got to be a shelter somewhere near here, she thought. The women were going to it. She ran back up the road, looking for a notice or the red-barred symbol of an Underground station. But in the few moments she’d stood in the tobacconist’s doorway, night and fog had descended like a blackout curtain. She couldn’t see anything. And the planes were growing steadily nearer. They’d be overhead any moment.

Which meant this was the East End, and she needed to get back to the drop and out of here as soon as possible. But there was no way she could find her way back in this. She couldn’t even see the pavement in front of her or tell if she was about to pitch off the curb.

She took a cautious, exploring step forward, and crashed into someone. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you-” And she still couldn’t. The person was only a solid mass of darkness against the more amorphous blackness of the road. She didn’t even know it was a man till he spoke.

“Wot are you doing out in a raid, miss?” he growled. “Why aren’t you in a shelter?”

“I was looking for it,” she said, squinting at him, trying to make out his features. It was unsettling, conversing with someone she couldn’t see. “Which way is it?”

“Here,” he said, and apparently he could see her because he grabbed her by the arm and hustled her round the corner and down a side street.

And I hope this isn’t one of the muggers Mr. Dunworthy was talking about, she thought, clutching her shoulder bag as he dragged her down the narrow side street. Or was it an alley, which he was taking her into to rob her? Or worse. If I get murdered my first night out, Mr. Dunworthy will kill me.

Her abductor hurried her through the dark for what seemed like miles and then stopped abruptly. “Down there,” he ordered and gave her a push forward. As he did, there was a thud and an explosion, and the sky to the south lit momentarily, outlining the buildings around them in a garish yellow-white light and illuminating a flight of stone steps directly in front of her, leading down into darkness.

Was there a shelter at the bottom? Or waiting accomplices? There was no shelter symbol on the wall next to the stairs.

There was a second explosion. She turned to face him, hoping it would illuminate the street behind him-and a path of escape. It did. It also illuminated the white letters on his tin hat.

An ARP warden. And seventy-five if he was a day. “Down there,” he ordered her again, pointing down the now-invisible stairs. “Quick.”

Polly obeyed, groping for the railing and feeling her way down the narrow, steep steps. There was another explosion, too close, but no corresponding light, and by the time she was halfway down she couldn’t see anything. She glanced back up the steps, but it was just as dark up there. She couldn’t even tell if the warden was still standing there to make certain she’d obeyed, or if he’d gone off to waylay someone else and drag him to a shelter.

If that was what was at the foot of these stairs. If there even was a foot-the steps seemed to go on and on. She worked her way down them, feeling for the edge of each one with her foot. After an eternity, she reached solid pavement and patted her way to a door. It was wooden, with an old-fashioned iron latch. She tried to open it, but it seemed to be locked. She knocked.

No response.

They didn’t hear me, she thought and knocked again, harder.

Still no answer.

What if the warden got disoriented in the darkness and brought me to the wrong place? What if this is an alley, and this is a side door in a warehouse? she thought, remembering the cobwebbed black door in the drop. What if there’s no one on the other side?

There was another explosion. I can’t stay here, she thought, and began to grope her way back over to the stairs. A bomb hit nearly at the head of the stairs, and then two more, in rapid succession.

She turned back to the door. “Let me in!” she called, pounding on the door with both fists, and then, when there was still no answer, taking off a shoe and pounding on the door with it, trying to make herself heard over the din of the raid.

The door opened. The sudden brightness from inside blinded her, and she put up her hand, still holding her shoe, to shield her eyes, and stood there squinting at the tableau inside. People sat against the walls on blankets and rugs, and a dog lay at the feet of one of the men. Three older women sat side by side on a high-backed bench, the middle one knitting-or rather, she had been knitting. Now she, like all the others, was staring at the door and at Polly. An aristocratic-looking elderly gentleman in the far corner had lowered the letter he was reading to look at her, and three fair-haired little girls had stopped in the middle of a game of Snakes and Ladders to stare at her.

There was no expression on any of their faces, no welcoming smiles-even from the man who’d let her in. No one moved or made a sound. They were frozen, as if they’d suddenly stopped in midsentence, and there was a feeling of fear, of danger in the room.

The thought flashed through her mind, This isn’t a shelter. The man who brought me here wasn’t a real warden. He could have stolen that ARP helmet, and these people are only pretending to be shelterers. But that was ridiculous. The man who’d let her in was obviously a clergyman. He was wearing a clerical collar and spectacles, and this wasn’t Dickens’s London. It was 1940.

It’s me. There must be something wrong with the way I look, she thought, and realized she was still holding her shoe in her hand. She bent to slip it on, then looked back up at the assembly, and what she’d seen before must have been a trick of the light or her overactive imagination because now the scene looked perfectly normal. The white-haired woman smiled pleasantly at her and took up her knitting; the aristocratic gentleman folded his letter, returned it to its envelope, and put it in his inside coat pocket; the little girls returned to their game; and the dog lay down and put its head on its paws.

“Do come in,” the clergyman said, smiling.

“Shut the door,” a woman shouted, and someone else said, “The blackout-”

“Oh,” Polly said, “sorry,” and turned to shut the door.

“You’ll get us all fined,” a stout man said grumpily.

Polly pushed the door shut, and the clergyman barred it, but apparently not fast enough. “What are you trying to do?” a scrawny woman with a sour expression demanded. “Show the jerries where we are?”

And so much for the fabled cheerful camaraderie of the Blitz, Polly thought. “Sorry,” she said again, looking around the shelter for a place to sit. There was no furniture except for the bench. Everyone else sat on the stone floor or on blankets, and the only vacant spot was between the stout man who’d growled at her to shut the door and two young women in sequin-adorned dresses and bright red lipstick, who were busily gossiping. “I beg your pardon, may I sit here?” she asked them.

The man looked annoyed, but grunted assent, and the young women nodded, scooted closer together, and went on chatting. “… and then he asked me to meet him at Piccadilly Circus and go dancing with him!”

“Oh, Lila, he didn’t!” her friend said. “You’re not going to, are you?”

“No, of course not, Viv. He’s far too old. He’s thirty.”

Polly thought of Colin and suppressed a smile.

“I told him, you need to find someone your own age.”

“Oh, Lila, you didn’t,” Viv said.

“I did. I wouldn’t have gone out with him at any rate. I only go out with men in uniform.”

Polly took off her coat, spread it out, sat down on it, and looked around at the room. It was obviously one of the shop or warehouse cellars pressed into service as a shelter when the Blitz began, though it didn’t look as makeshift as she’d expected, considering the Blitz had begun only three days ago. Its contents, except for the high-backed bench, had been pushed to the far end, and the ceiling had been braced with heavy lengths of lumber. A stirrup pump, a bucket of water, and an axe stood on one side of the door. On the other was a table holding a gas ring and a kettle, cups and saucers, and spoons.

The shelterers’ arrangements didn’t look makeshift either. The knitter had brought her yarn, a shawl, and her reading glasses with her; the table was covered with an embroidered tea cloth; and the three little girls-whom Polly estimated as being three, four, and five-had not only their board game, but several dolls, a teddy bear, and a large book of fairy tales, which they were clamoring to have their mother read to them. “Read us ‘Sleeping Beauty,’” the eldest one said.

“No,” the littlest one piped up. “The one with the clock.”

The clock? Polly wondered. Which one is that?

And apparently her sisters didn’t know either. “What’s the clock story?” the eldest one asked.

“‘Cinderella,’” the littlest one said as if it were self-evident.

The middle girl took her thumb out of her mouth. “That’s the one with the shoe,” she said, and pointed at Polly.

And Polly supposed she had looked a bit like Cinderella, standing there in one shoe. And, just like Cinderella, she’d failed to ascertain her space-time location, with nearly as disastrous results. Except that no one had been dropping bombs on Cinderella.

And Badri had said there might be two hours of slippage, not twelve. The morning of the tenth must have been a divergence point for there to have been so much slippage. Or perhaps, in spite of its deserted appearance, someone had been in the alley or in a position where they could see the shimmer and kept it from opening. Whichever it was, she’d lost a full day of her already too short assignment.

She looked around at the others. The middle-aged woman sitting next to the knitter was the image of an early twentieth-century spinster, with her laced brown shoes and her graying hair pulled back into a bun and held in place with tortoiseshell combs. They could all have been taken from one of Merope’s murder mysteries-the frail, white-haired old woman, the clergyman, the sour-faced, sharp-tongued woman, the gruff stout man who looked as if he might have been in the military. Colonel Mustard in the air-raid shelter with the service revolver. Perhaps that was why they’d struck her as sinister when she first saw them.

Or perhaps it was their calm self-possession. These were the fabled Londoners, of course, who’d faced the Blitz with legendary courage and humor, who hadn’t even been fazed by the V-1 and V-2 attacks. But they’d had four and a half years of being accustomed to bombing before the rocket attacks. This was only the fourth night of the Blitz, and all the research she’d done had said they’d been terrified all that first week, especially till the anti-aircraft guns had started up on the eleventh, and that they’d only gradually learned to master their fear of the bombs.

But no one was saying, “Where are our guns?” or “Why aren’t we hitting back?” and looking nervously up at the ceiling. They weren’t paying any attention to the thud and crump of the bombs at all. It had apparently only taken the three previous nights for them to completely adapt to the raids. The white-haired woman glanced up, annoyed, at a particularly loud bang, then began counting stitches, and the clergyman returned to discussing next Sunday’s service with a formidable-looking woman with iron-gray hair.

The scrawny, sour-faced woman was still scowling, but Polly had a feeling that was her permanent expression. The aristocratic gentleman was reading the London Times, and the dog had gone to sleep. If not for the occasional muffled explosion overhead and Lila’s talk of dating men in uniform, there’d have been nothing to indicate there was a war on.

And there was nothing to indicate where this was. Since there’d been temporal slippage and the net had sent her through twelve hours later than the target time, it was unlikely there’d been locational slippage as well. There was generally only one or the other. But the bombs were falling too close for this to be Kensington or Marylebone. Polly looked around at the shelter walls for the name or address of the shelter, but the only thing posted was a list of what to do in case of a poison gas attack.

She debated saying she’d got lost in the fog and asking where she was, but given the odd way they’d looked at her when she came in, she decided to listen to their conversations instead and hope they’d let fall some clue, though Lila’s mention of meeting someone hadn’t been any help. She could take the tube to Piccadilly Circus from anywhere, including the East End. And now she was explaining why she only dated soldiers-“It’s my way of doing my bit for the war effort”-and the women on the bench were discussing knitting patterns.

Polly focused on the clergyman, hoping he or the formidable-looking woman-whom he addressed as Mrs. Wyvern-would mention the name of his church, but they were discussing flower arrangements. “I thought lilies might be nice for the altar,” he said.

“No, the altar will be yellow chrysanthemums,” Mrs. Wyvern said, and it was clear who was running things, “and the side chapel bronze dahlias and-”

“Mice!” the littlest girl crowed.

“Yes,” her mother said. “Cinderella’s fairy godmother turned the mice into horses and the pumpkin into a beautiful carriage. ‘You may go to the ball, Cinderella,’ she said. ‘But you must be home by the stroke of midnight.’”

“If that pill of a floorwalker hadn’t made us stay after and do the display windows,” Viv grumbled, “we’d have been able to go to the ball.”

Floorwalker? Display windows? That meant Viv and Lila were shopgirls. But if that was the case Polly had been wrong about what shopgirls in 1940 wore and would have to go back through to Oxford and get a sequined dress before she went to apply for a position.

If she could find the drop again. She had no idea where it was from here.

“It wasn’t only the floorwalker,” Lila said. “It was your insisting we go home and change clothes first.”

“I wanted Donald to see my new dance frock,” Viv protested, and Polly breathed a sigh of relief. Those weren’t their work clothes after all. But it was too bad Viv hadn’t mentioned where they’d gone home to.

It’s got to be Stepney or Whitechapel, Polly thought. The explosions were directly overhead. There was a whoosh and the muffled crump of an explosion very nearby, and then a horrid sound-a cross between a cannon going off in one’s ear and a sledgehammer. “What is that?” Polly said.

“Tavistock Square,” the stout man said calmly.

“No, it isn’t,” the man with the dog corrected him. “It’s Regent’s Park.”

“The anti-aircraft guns,” the clergyman explained, and the white-haired knitter nodded in confirmation.

The anti-aircraft guns? But they hadn’t begun till the eleventh. And supposedly when they had, the contemps had been terrified by the unfamiliar noise and then relieved and overjoyed, shouting, “Hurrah! That’s givin’ it to ’em!” and “At least we’re givin’ a bit of our own back!” But these people hadn’t noticed them any more than they noticed the bombs. The little girls were engrossed in “Cinderella,” and the dog hadn’t even opened his eyes, so this couldn’t be their first night. Which meant the guns had to have started on the eighth or the ninth.

Another gun started up with a deafening, bone-rattling poom-poom-poom. “That’s Tavistock Square,” the dog owner said, and, as another, even louder, joined in, “And that’s ours.”

The stout man nodded agreement. “Kensington Gardens.”

Which meant she was in Kensington, thank goodness, or very near it. But it also meant that just because the raids had been mainly over Stepney and Whitechapel, it didn’t mean Kensington hadn’t been bombed as well. Colin had been right-there were lots of stray bombs. And lots of errors in people’s memories, as witness the date the guns had begun. It had probably seemed like days before the guns had started up to the people in the shelters, even though it had only been a day or two after the Blitz began.

Which is why historians must do on-site research, Polly thought. There were simply too many errors in the historical record. Though she wouldn’t tell Mr. Dunworthy that when she checked in. Or that Kensington had been bombed on the tenth. Or how she’d been out on the streets in the middle of a raid. Actually, she’d better not tell him anything, except what her address was and where she was working.

She wished the newsagent hadn’t shut his door before she had a chance to buy a newspaper so she could check the advertisements for available rooms tonight instead of wasting valuable time tomorrow. With all the restrictions Mr. Dunworthy had put on where she could live, it could take her days to find a room, and she’d already lost one day.

She glanced over at the aristocratic gentleman, but he was still reading his Times. She looked around at the others, wondering if there was a newspaper in the stout man’s coat pocket or tucked into the white-haired woman’s knitting bag, but the only one she could see was the one the dog’s owner had spread out to sit on, and he showed no sign of moving.

None of them did. They were clearly settling in for the night. The white-haired woman was putting away her knitting, the other women had covered themselves with their coats and leaned their heads back against the wall, and the mother had closed the fairy-tale book. “And the prince found Cinderella and took her back to his castle-”

“And they lived happily ever after!” the littlest one burst out, unable to contain herself.

“Yes, they did. Now, time for bed,” she said, and the two older girls curled up on the floor beside their mother, but the littlest one stayed stubbornly upright.

“No! I want to hear another story. The one with the trail of bread crumbs,” which Polly assumed was “Hansel and Gretel.”

“All right, but first you must lie down,” the mother said, and the little girl obediently put her head in her mother’s lap. The stout man next to Polly folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, and immediately began to snore, and so did the man with the dog.

I’ll have to wait till morning to look at the rooms to let, Polly thought, but a few minutes later the dog’s owner stood up, bent and patted his dog, and walked over to the far end of the cellar, followed by his dog. He edged past the screen and bookcases and disappeared into the darkness.

He’s going to the loo, Polly thought, got to her feet, and walked over to see if the spread-out newspaper was an old one or today’s. If it was, when he came back, she’d ask him if she could look at the “rooms to let” listings.

“You can’t sit there,” the sour-faced woman who’d shouted at her when she came in called out. “That space is saved.”

“I know,” Polly said. “I only wanted to look at-”

“That newspaper belongs to Mr. Simms.” She heaved herself up and started across the room as if to do battle.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize-” Polly murmured and retreated to her own space, but the woman wasn’t satisfied.

“Reverend Norris,” she said to the clergyman, “that newspaper belongs to Mr. Simms.”

“I’m certain the young lady didn’t mean any harm, Mrs. Rickett,” he said mildly.

She ignored him. “Mr. Simms,” she called to the dog’s owner as he came back, “someone tried to pinch your newspaper.” She pointed accusingly at Polly. “She walked over, bold as brass, the minute you were gone.”

“I wasn’t trying to steal it,” Polly protested. “I only wanted to look at the rooms to let-”

“Rooms to let?” Mrs. Rickett said sharply, obviously not believing her.

“Yes, I’ve only just arrived in London, and I need to find somewhere to stay,” Polly said, wondering if she should stand up again and go over to Mr. Simms to apologize, but she feared that would only escalate the situation, so she stayed where she was. “I do apologize, Mr. Simms.”

“The newspaper’s to mark my space,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” Polly said, though she hadn’t known, and that was the problem. By walking over to his space she’d apparently broken some rule, and, from the looks everyone was giving her, a crucial one. Mrs. Wyvern and the knitter were both glaring at her. Even the dog looked reproachful.

“Did she do something naughty, Mummy?” the littlest girl asked.

“Shh,” her mother whispered.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Polly said. “I promise it won’t happen again,” hoping an abject apology would put an end to it, but it didn’t.

“Mr. Simms has sat in that space every night,” the stout man said.

“Respecting another’s shelter arrangements is vital,” Mrs. Wyvern said to the clergyman. “Don’t you agree, Reverend?”

Help, Polly thought. Colin, you said if I got in trouble, you’d come rescue me. Well, now would be a good time.

“If she wanted a newspaper,” Mrs. Rickett said, “she should have purchased one at a newsagent’s-” and stopped, looking at the aristocratic gentleman. He’d stood up, holding his newspaper, which he’d folded in quarters, and was coming across the room.

He walked straight to Polly and held out his newspaper to her with grave courtesy. “Would you care for my Times, dear child?” he asked her. He spoke quietly-but not so quietly that everyone in the room couldn’t hear him, she noted-and his voice was as refined as his appearance.

“I-” Polly said.

“I’m quite finished with it.” He held it out.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully, and the incident was over. Mrs. Rickett retreated sullenly to the bench, the white-haired woman took out her knitting again and began counting rows, the rector went back to his book, and Lila whispered, “Don’t pay Mrs. Rickett any mind. She’s an old cat,” and went back to talking about the dance she and Viv were missing.

The gentleman had managed to completely defuse the situation, though Polly wasn’t certain how. She shot him a grateful look, but he’d retreated to his corner again and was reading a book. She looked down at the newspaper in her hand. He’d folded it open to the “Rooms to Let” section for her. She started through the listings, looking for permissible addresses. Mayfair. No, too expensive. Stepney, no. Shoreditch, no. Croydon, no, definitely not.

Here was one. Kensington. Ashbury Lane, which might work. What was the address? Please not six, nineteen, or twenty-one, she said silently. Eleven. Excellent-an allowed address, within her budget, and near Oxford Street. Now if it was only near a tube stop. “Convenient to Marble Arch,” the advertisement read. Which had taken a direct hit on September seventeenth.

She mentally crossed it off and continued down the list. Kensal Green. No, too far out. Whitechapel, no.

“The raid seems to be letting up,” Lila said.

The racket did seem to be diminishing. The explosions sounded farther off, and one of the guns had stopped firing. “Perhaps the all clear will go early tonight, Viv,” Lila said, “and we can still go to the dance,” but the moment she spoke, the barrage started up again.

“I hate Hitler,” Viv burst out. “It’s so utterly unfair, being trapped in this place on a Saturday night.”

Polly looked up sharply. Saturday? It’s Tuesday. But even as she thought it, she was seeing the evidence that had been in front of her all along-the dance Lila and Viv had been planning to go to, the guns that hadn’t started till Wednesday and that no one had remarked on, the braced ceiling, the Snakes and Ladders game, the embroidered tea cloth-all signs they’d been coming here for more than three days. The clergyman and the woman’s discussion of the order of service for Sunday. For tomorrow.

She’d misread all the clues, just as she had on the street when she’d thought it was early morning. The guns hadn’t started till the eleventh, after all, and of course the raids had sounded like they were overhead. Kensington had been bombed on Saturday. But if it’s Saturday, she thought, I’ve already missed four days. And the crucial first few days of the Blitz when the contemps were adjusting to it. That’s why they were all so calm, so settled in. They’d already adjusted.

And I missed it, she thought furiously. Badri said he expected two hours of slippage, not four and a half days. And it was actually even more than that. Tomorrow was Sunday. She wouldn’t be able to look for work till Monday.

Which means I can’t start work till Tuesday, by which time I’ll have lost an entire week of observing shopgirls, and I only have six.

It can’t be the fourteenth, she thought. She snatched up the newspaper and paged through it, looking for the front page. I didn’t have enough time to begin with.

But it was. “Saturday, 14 September 1940,” the masthead read, and below it, appropriately enough, “Late Edition.”