“Which tells us he would,” Polly said.
“And that his assignment was exciting,” Mike added. “Did he tell you where he was going?”
“Yes. It began with a D, I think. Or a P. Or possibly a T. I wasn’t really listening.”
“And he didn’t tell you what he’d be observing?” Mike asked, and when Eileen shook her head, “Polly, what was happening in July?”
“In England? The Battle of Britain.”
“No, I don’t think that’s it. He was wearing tweeds, not an RAF uniform.”
“But you said it was a setup,” Polly argued. “Perhaps he had to arrange for a transfer to an airfield.”
“He did say he’d posted some letters and made a trunk call,” Mike said. “What airfields begin with a D?”
“Detling?” Polly suggested. “Duxford?”
“No,” Eileen said, frowning. “It might have been a T.”
“T?” Mike said. “You said a D or a P.”
“I know.” She bit her lip thoughtfully. “But I think it may have been a T.”
“Tangmere?” Polly said.
“No… I’m sorry. I’d know it if I heard it.”
“We need a list of English airfields,” Mike said.
“But I can’t imagine Gerald as a pilot,” Eileen said.
“Yeah, I know,” Mike said. “He’s scrawny, and when I saw him, he was wearing spectacles.”
“And he’s a dreadful grind,” Eileen said. “Maths and-”
“He might be posing as a course plotter or a radio operator,” Polly suggested. “That’s much more likely than his being a pilot. The life expectancy for pilots during the Battle of Britain was three weeks. Mr. Dunworthy would never have allowed it. And if he was a course plotter or a dispatcher he could observe the Battle of Britain without being in as much danger, though the airfields and sector stations were bombed as well. But if he was here to observe the Battle of Britain, then he may already have gone back.” She turned to Eileen. “He didn’t say how long he was staying?”
“No. At least I don’t think so,” she said, frowning in concentration. “I was late for my driving lesson, and, as I said, he’s insufferable. All I was thinking about was getting away from him. If I’d known this was going to happen, I’d have listened more carefully.”
“Yes, well, if we’d known we were going to be stuck here, we’d all have behaved differently,” Mike said grimly. “Never mind, we can easily find out the airfields. Do either of you know who this other person who’s here from October to December could be? Or do you know of anyone else who might be here?”
“Robert Glabers said he was doing World War II,” Polly said.
“He is,” Mike said. “The testing of the atomic bomb in New Mexico in 1945, which doesn’t help us.”
Yes, it does, Polly thought. It gives me the chance to ask Eileen the question I need to. “Nineteen forty-five,” she said thoughtfully. “Nineteen forty-five. What about the person who did VE-Day whom you were going to switch with, Eileen? Did you persuade Mr. Dunworthy to let you go?”
“We need someone right now,” Mike said impatiently. “Why are you two talking about 1945?”
“Did you?” Polly persisted.
“No, I couldn’t ever get in to see him. And now, with all this, he probably won’t even consider letting me go.”
Thank God, Polly thought. She didn’t go to VE-Day. She doesn’t have a deadline, thank God. And neither does Mike. But then-
“Do you think this October person could be here in London?” Mike asked.
“No, if Badri’d had to find two drops in London, I’m certain he’d have mentioned it; he had so much difficulty finding mine. But I can’t think of anything else besides the Blitz an historian would be doing in October, at least in England.”
“Then it sounds like Gerald’s a better bet,” Mike said. “If we can just figure out which airfield he’s at. Tomorrow we’ll get a map-”
He stopped again at muffled sounds from below.
The children again, Polly thought, but there were no clanking footsteps or giggling. “False alarm,” Mike said.
“Wait.” Polly clattered down the steps and opened the door. The couple that’d been in front of it had gone, and across the tunnel people were folding blankets and putting dishes and empty bottles into baskets. Polly opened the door a bit wider and called to a young girl sitting on the floor putting on her shoes, “Has the all clear gone?”
The girl nodded, and Polly ducked back inside the stairwell and ran up to tell Mike and Eileen.
“Jesus,” Mike said, looking at his watch, “it’s nearly six. We’ve stayed up all night talking.”
“And I’ve got to be at work in three hours.” Polly stretched and brushed off her skirt.
Eileen took Mike’s coat from around her shoulders and gave it back to him. “Okay,” Mike said. “Eileen, you’re going to go get your belongings and try to remember which airfield Gerald told you.” He gave her money for her tube fare. “Polly, you make that list of raids for us, and I want you to show me where the drop is before you go to work.”
They left the stairwell. Everyone in the tunnel had packed up and gone except for two very dirty urchins picking over the left-behind food scraps, and they fled the moment Polly opened the door.
The main hall was nearly deserted as well. “What train do you take to Stepney, Eileen?” Polly asked.
“Bakerloo to District and Circle.”
“We take the Central Line,” Polly said, and at Eileen’s worried expression, “We’ll walk you to your platform.”
That was easier said than done. The people on the Bakerloo platform were still in the process of packing up. One group had gathered around an ARP warden who’d obviously just come in from outside. He was covered in soot, and his coverall was torn. “How bad is it?” a woman asked him as they started past. “Did Marylebone get it again?”
He nodded. “And Wigmore Street.” He took off his tin hat to wipe his face with a sooty handkerchief. “Three incidents. One of the firemen said it was pretty bad out Whitechapel way, too.”
“What about Oxford Street?” Mike asked.
“No, it was lucky this time. Not a scratch on her.”
The color drained from Mike’s face.
“Are you certain-?” Eileen began, but Mike was already limping down the tunnel. He was nearly to the escalators before Polly caught up with him.
“That warden wouldn’t necessarily have seen Padgett’s,” she said. “You heard him, he was on Wigmore Street all night. That’s north of here, and it’s still dark. And when there’s an incident, there’s all this smoke and dust. One can’t see anything.”
“Or there isn’t anything to see,” he said, starting up the escalator.
“I don’t understand,” Eileen said, catching up to them as they reached the top. “Wasn’t Padgett’s hit?”
Mike didn’t answer her. He limped across the station to the exit and up to the street.
It was still dark out, but not dark enough that Polly couldn’t see the black roofs of Oxford Street’s stores against the inky sky. There was no sign of destruction, and no broken glass in the dark street. “It’s freezing out here,” Eileen said, shivering in her thin blouse as they stood looking down the street. “If it was hit, wouldn’t it be burning?”
Yes, Polly thought, but there was no sign of flames, no reddened sky, not even any smoke. The air was damp and clean.
“Are you certain you got the name of the store right?” Eileen asked, her teeth chattering. “It wasn’t Parmenter’s that was hit? Or Peter Robinson?”
“I’m certain,” Polly said.
“Perhaps you got the date wrong,” Eileen suggested, “and it won’t be hit till tomorrow night. Which means I can fetch my coat. And my handbag.” She set off down the dark street.