“What about Charles Bowden?” she asked Colin. “He’s in Singapore. He needs to be pulled out before the Japanese Army—”
“His drop was still working,” Colin said. “We pulled him out as soon as we realized something was wrong.”
Oh, thank God. “What about Denys Atherton?”
“He never came through, and neither did Gerald Phipps. Nor Jack Sorkin. Nothing would open. Except your drop, Mr. Dunworthy,” Colin said, “and it stopped working the moment you’d gone through. Till three years ago, we thought the entire war was permanently shut to us.”
Three years ago, Polly thought. And how many years before that had he kept searching, had he refused to give up, even though he’d believed they were permanently lost?
“Merope was right, Polly,” Mr. Dunworthy was saying. “She said our drops would open now that you’d saved Sir Godfrey. I went in to check mine, and there Colin was. I thought at first he was an air-raid warden and he’d seen an incendiary fall on the transept roof and come in to check on it, and then he said, ‘I’ve got to get you out of here, Mr. Dunworthy’, and I realized it was Colin.”
“I’ve got to get you both out of here,” Colin said. “We need to get back to St. Paul’s.”
Polly nodded, wondering why Colin hadn’t sent Mr. Dunworthy on through. He must not have known where the theater was and needed Mr. Dunworthy to show him the way.
“Colin, you need to take Mr. Dunworthy there right now and send him through,” she said. “His deadline’s only ten days off, which means he’s in far more danger than I am. I’ll stay here and wait for Eileen. I’ve got to notify everyone I’m leaving, at any rate. I can’t just go off without telling them. And they’ll have to find someone else to play my part. The pantomime’s in two weeks. I owe it to them …”
She faltered to a stop. I’ll have to tell them all goodbye, she thought sickly. Miss Laburnum and Trot and, oh, God, Sir Godfrey. How can I bear—
“Polly?” Colin said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” She managed a smile. “I’ll stay here and tell them, and then when Eileen arrives, we’ll come and meet you at St. Paul’s.”
But Mr. Dunworthy was shaking his head. “I want to wait till she comes,” he said, looking at Colin.
Colin nodded. “There’s time.”
There was something here Polly didn’t understand, something they weren’t telling her. “Why is Eileen late?” she asked, remembering Mr. Dunworthy’s ashen look when he first came in and the unhappiness in Colin’s face. “Tell me. Has something happened to her?”
Mr. Dunworthy and Colin exchanged glances.
“Tell me,” she demanded.
“Polly?” Eileen’s voice called from the front of the theater. “Where are you?”
Oh, thank God, Polly thought, whirling to look at the stage.
Eileen came out from the wings in her hat and coat. She must have come in through the stage door. She shaded her eyes, squinting out past the footlights.
“I’m here,” Polly called to her, and before she could tell her, Eileen pattered down the side steps and started up the aisle, asking, “Why aren’t you rehearsing? And where’s the rest of the cast? I hope you haven’t been waiting for me to—Mr. Dunworthy,” she said, spotting him, “what are you doing here? Did something happen at St. Paul’s?”
“No,” Polly said. “Yes. Oh, Eileen, it’s Colin, and he’s here to take us home.”
“Colin?” she said joyfully, and turned to look at him, and as she did, her expression changed to one of—what? Shock? Dismay?
Polly looked questioningly at Colin, but he was staring at Eileen, and all the weariness had returned to his face.
What—? Polly thought, but the next instant she decided she must have been mistaken, that what she’d seen as dismay was only astonishment, because Eileen ran forward to embrace Colin.
“I knew you’d come!” she cried happily. “I told Polly things were happening behind the scenes.” She stood back to take a long, searching look at him and then smiled. “And here you are! I told them they mustn’t give up hope, that you wouldn’t let—” Her voice broke. “I knew you’d pull them out in time.”
“And you, you noddlehead,” Polly said. “Just think, you’ll never have to eat Victory Stew again.”
But Eileen didn’t laugh. She was looking at Mr. Dunworthy, her eyes full of tears. “You mustn’t cry,” said Polly. “This is a happy occasion. The drops are working again, and Charles is all right. He wasn’t in Singapore when the Japanese arrived. They were able to rescue him.”
“But not Mike,” Eileen said, looking at Colin.
“No.”
Eileen nodded slowly. “When I saw you, I thought perhaps he was all right, that he’d somehow told you where—How did you know where we were? There was no one left in Backbury or at Townsend Brothers who knew, and Mrs. Rickett’s …”
She looked intently at him, as if the answer was of immense importance. “How did you find us?”
“We can talk about that in Oxford,” Polly said. “We need to go before the raids get any worse.”
“You’re right,” Eileen said. “Of course,”
But neither Colin nor Mr. Dunworthy moved. All three of them stood there looking at one another, as if waiting for something.
“What—?” Polly asked, bewildered.
“You said you needed to tell them you’re leaving, Polly,” Colin said.
“Yes, and change out of my costume. Do the three of you want to go on ahead, and I’ll meet you at St. Paul’s?”
“No.” Colin was looking at Eileen. “We’ll wait for you.”
“I’ll be back straightaway,” Polly said, and ran down the aisle, up onto the stage, and into the wings.
Mrs. Brightford was there, attempting to repair the damage Alf and Binnie had inflicted on the bramble branches. “Have you seen Sir Godfrey?” Polly asked.
Mrs. Brightford shook her head. “I think he went to find a carpenter.”
Oh, no. She couldn’t leave without telling him goodbye. “You don’t know where, do you?”
Mrs. Brightford shook her head again.
“If he comes back, tell him I need to speak with him,” Polly said, and ran down to the dressing room. She’d change and then, if he still wasn’t back, see if anyone knew where he’d gone and go look for him.
And when and if she found him, what could she say? I’m a time traveler? I was trapped here, but now my retrieval team’s come, and I must go home? I don’t have a choice—I’ll die if I stay?
Perhaps it would be just as well if she couldn’t find him. She stepped out of her leggings and pulled on her stockings, but in her haste she snagged one of them and it ran.
It doesn’t matter, she thought, yanking her doublet off and putting on her frock. I never need to worry about runs again, or ration books, or bombs.
She buttoned her frock. “I won’t ever have to wrap another parcel,” she said, and found herself suddenly, inexplicably, in tears.
Which is ridiculous, she thought. You hate wrapping parcels. And this is a happy ending, exactly like in Trot’s fairy tales.
She pulled on her shoes, caught up her coat and hat, and went out, putting them on as she went, and then hesitated. In another six months, Mrs. Brightford or Viv would be desperate for those stockings, even with a ladder in them. She went back into the dressing room, took off her shoes, stripped off the stockings, and draped them over the makeup mirror. Then she grabbed up her bag and opened the door.
Sir Godfrey was standing there in his Hitler uniform and mustache. He took in Polly’s clothes, her coat. “There’s no need for that, the carpenter’s on his way,” he told her, and then stopped.
“You’re leaving us,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. “It’s your young man. He’s come.”