“Wrong, wrong, wrong!” Sir Godfrey bellowed. Polly scrambled to find her place, but this time he was yelling at the rest of the cast. “Your chances of rescue are nearly nonexistent. You’re far from the shipping lanes, and when word of the loss of your ship reaches England, you will almost certainly be given up for dead.”
Given up for dead. What if, rather than thinking she was somewhere else, the retrieval team thought she was dead? When Doreen had first told her about Marjorie, she’d thought she was dead, and when she’d seen the wreckage of St. George’s, she’d thought Sir Godfrey and the others were. And they’d thought she was dead, too. Sir Godfrey had insisted that the rescue squad dig for her. What if, during that time the retrieval team had come, and the rector had told them she was dead? Or what if he’d-?
“Miss Laburnum,” she whispered, “after St. George’s was destroyed, did you-?”
“Lady Mary, did you have some comment on this scene?” Sir Godfrey asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“No. I’m sorry, Sir Godfrey.”
“As. I. Was. Saying,” Sir Godfrey said, emphasizing each word, “only the butler, Crichton, and Lady Mary,” he glowered at her, “have realized the gravity of their plight at this point, and it is that which provides the humor, such as it is, in this scene. Lady Agatha, you stand here,” he said, taking Lila by the arm and moving her to the end of the platform, “and Lord Brocklehurst, you’re seated here in front of her on the sand.”
Polly took advantage of his repositioning the cast to ask Miss Laburnum, “When I was missing, did the rector send my name to the newspaper for the casualties list?”
Miss Laburnum shook her head. “Mrs. Wyvern thought it was our duty to send in a death notice,” she whispered, “but Sir Godfrey wouldn’t hear of it. He-”
“Mary!” Sir Godfrey thundered. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to rehearse this scene before the end of the war.”
“Sorry.”
They started through the scene. Polly forced herself to concentrate on saying her lines and getting through her blocking without incurring Sir Godfrey’s wrath again, but as soon as rehearsal was over, she took the tube to Holborn’s lending library to look at its old newspapers. Mrs. Wyvern might not have notified officials of her death, but that didn’t mean the incident officer-or one of the ARP wardens-hadn’t. Or she might have been mentioned in the account of the church’s destruction. And if the retrieval team had seen “Polly Sebastian, died suddenly of enemy attack” in the Times-”
But the oldest paper the library had was three days old. “You haven’t any from farther back?” she asked the librarian.
“No,” she said apologetically. “Some children came round several days ago collecting for the scrap paper drive.”
She’d have to go to the Times office herself. But when? The newspaper morgue wasn’t open Sundays, her only day off, and her lunch break wasn’t long enough for her to go all the way to Fleet Street and back. And Polly didn’t dare phone in again and say she was ill. Miss Snelgrove was convinced anyone who asked for time off was decamping like Marjorie.
But she had to see those casualties lists, so after rehearsal the next night she borrowed Sir Godfrey’s Times to find a death notice she could use, borrowed a handkerchief from Miss Laburnum, and waited for Friday night when the raids over Clerkenwell would hopefully prevent Miss Snelgrove from getting to work on time the next morning.
They did. Polly grabbed the handkerchief and ran upstairs to Personnel to ask Mr. Witherill if she could be gone for the morning. “To attend my aunt’s funeral.”
“You must obtain permission from your floor supervisor.”
“Miss Snelgrove’s not here.”
He glanced over at his secretary, who nodded confirmation. “She telephoned to say the trains weren’t running, and she was going to attempt to take a bus.”
“Oh. Your aunt, you say?”
“Yes, sir. My Aunt Louise. She was killed in a raid.” She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.
“My condolences. When is the funeral?”
“Eleven o’clock at St. Pancras Church,” Polly said, and if Mr. Witherill (or, more likely, Miss Snelgrove) checked the funeral notices, they would find “Mrs. James (Louise) Barnes, aged 53, St. Pancras Church. 11 A.M. No flowers.”
“Very well,” he said, “but I expect you to return immediately after the funeral.”
“Yes, sir, I will,” Polly said and ran down to tell Doreen where she was going and to tell anyone who inquired after her that she’d be back by one, took the tube to Fleet Street, and walked quickly to the Times office, hoping ordinary people were allowed access to the morgue.
They were. She asked for the morning and evening editions from September twentieth through the twenty-second and was shocked to be handed the actual newspapers-though this was of course before digital copying or even microfilm. She paged through the large sheets, looking for the death notices and reading down through them-“Joseph Seabrook, 72, died suddenly of enemy action. Helen Sexton, 43, died suddenly. Phyllis Sexton, 11, died suddenly. Rita Sexton, 5, died suddenly.”
Polly’s name wasn’t on any of the lists, and the news article was only a brief paragraph headed “Beloved Eighteenth-Century Church Blitzed”. There were no details, no photo, not even the name of the church.
Good, she thought. She returned the papers to the desk and went on to the Daily Herald, checking the news story about St. George’s-“Fourth Historic Church Destroyed by Luftwaffe in Failed Campaign to Demoralize Brits”-and the death notices. Her name wasn’t there either, or in the Standard, which was all she had time to check. She would have to check the others later.
She raced back to Townsend Brothers, stopping at Padgett’s to rub a bit of rouge around her eyes in the ladies’ lounge and splash water on her eyelashes, cheeks, and handkerchief. And a good thing she had. Miss Snelgrove had arrived and clearly did not believe she’d been to a funeral.
And Colin wouldn’t believe I was dead either, she thought, even if he did see my death notice. Colin would refuse to give up. He’d insist they continue looking for her just as Sir Godfrey had.
Then where are they? she thought, writing up purchases and waiting for Miss Snelgrove to leave so she could ask Doreen whether anyone had asked for her while she was gone. Why aren’t they here? It had been nearly four weeks since the drop was damaged and five since she should have checked in.
She had to wait till after the closing bell to speak to Doreen. Doreen told her no one had come in and asked her about Marjorie. “Miss Snelgrove said she won’t be well enough to have visitors for at least a fortnight,” she said. “You don’t think it means she’s getting worse, do you?”
“No, of course not,” Polly lied.
“I keep thinking about her lying in that rubble and us not knowing what had happened,” Doreen said, “thinking she was safely in Bath when all the time… I feel so guilty not sensing she was in trouble.”
“You had no way of knowing,” Polly said, which seemed to reassure her. She went off to cover her counter, but Polly stood there, lost in thought.
No way of knowing. What if the reason the retrieval team hadn’t come wasn’t divergent points or their thinking she was dead or any of the other things she’d imagined? What if it was simply because the lab didn’t know they needed to send a team? That they didn’t know anything was wrong? Like I didn’t know Marjorie was lying in the rubble.