“I doubt whether I’ll ever have grandchildren,” Ernest said, spitting out mud. “I am beginning to doubt whether I’ll even survive this night.”
“Nonsense, the sun’ll be up any moment, and we’re nearly done here.” Cess leaned down so he could see the tread marks, which Ernest had to admit looked very realistic. “Make two more tracks, and I’ll finish off this last tank. We’ll be home in time for breakfast.”
And in time for me to finish the articles and run them over to Sudbury by nine, Ernest thought, aligning the tracker with the other tread marks and pushing down hard on it. Which would be good. He didn’t like the idea of those other articles sitting there for another week, even in a locked drawer. Now that he could partially see where he was going and didn’t need to stop and check his path with the torch every few feet, it should only take him twenty minutes to do the treads and load the lorry, and another three-quarters of an hour back home. They should be there by seven at the latest, which would give him more than enough time.
But he’d only gone a few yards before Cess loomed out of the fog and tapped him on the shoulder. “The fog’s beginning to lift,” he said. “We’d best get out of here. I’ll finish off the tanks and you start on stowing the equipment.”
Cess was right; the fog was beginning to thin. Ernest could make out the vague shapes of trees, ghostly in the gray dawn, and across the field a fence and three black-and-white cows placidly chewing grass-luckily, on the far side of it.
Ernest folded up the tarp, untied the umbrella, carried them and the pump to the lorry, and came back for the cutter. He picked it up, decided there was no way he could carry it all the way across the field, set it down, pulled the cord to start it, and pushed it back, making one last track from just in front of the tank’s left tread to the edge of the field, and lugged it, limping, from there to the lorry. By the time he’d hoisted it up into the back, the fog was beginning to break up, tearing apart into long streamers which drifted like veils across the pasture, revealing the long line of tread marks leading to the copse and the rear end of one imperfectly hidden tank peeking out from the leaves, with the other behind it. Even though Ernest knew how it had been done, it looked real, and he wasn’t fifteen thousand feet up. From that height, the deception would be perfect. Unless, of course, there was a phonograph standing in the middle of the pasture.
He started back for it, able to actually see where he was going for several yards at a time, but as he reached the tank, the fog closed in again, thicker than ever, cutting off everything-even the tank next to him. He shut the phonograph and fastened the clasps, then folded up the table. “Cess!” he called in what he thought was his general direction. “How are you coming along?” and the fog abruptly parted, like theater curtains sweeping open, and he could see the copse of trees and the entire pasture.
And the bull. It stood halfway across the pasture, a huge shaggy brown creature with beady little eyes and enormous horns. It was looking at the tank.
“Hey! You there!” a voice called from the fence. “What do you think you’re doing in my pasture?” And Ernest turned instinctively to look at the farmer standing there.
So did the bull.
“Get those bloody tanks out of my pasture!” the farmer shouted, angrily jabbing the air with his finger.
The bull watched him, fascinated, for a moment, then swung his head back around. To look directly at Ernest.
It has always been my great regret that we had to break our record, and that, unlike a certain famous theatre with its naked ladies, we could not claim: “We never closed.”
London-15 September 1940
THE NICE THING ABOUT TIME-LAG WAS THAT ONE COULD sleep lying on a cold stone floor with bombs crashing and anti-aircraft guns roaring. Polly even slept through the all clear. When she woke, only Lila and Viv were still there, folding up the blanket they’d sat on, and the sour-faced Mrs. Rickett.
She’s probably staying to make certain I don’t take anything when I leave, Polly thought, picking up her satchel and the “to let” listings, and wondering how early on a Sunday it was acceptable to show up to look at a room. She glanced at her watch. Half past six. Not as early as this. It was too bad she couldn’t stay here and sleep. She still felt drugged, but Mrs. Rickett, her thin arms folded grimly across her chest as she glared at Lila and Viv, was hardly likely to allow that.
They went out, giggling, and Mrs. Rickett started over to Polly. To hurry me along, Polly thought, putting her coat on. “I’ll only be a moment-” she began.
“You said you were looking for a room?” Mrs. Rickett said, pointing at the newspaper in Polly’s hand.
“Yes.”
“I have one,” Mrs. Rickett said. “I run a boardinghouse. I intended to put it in the papers, but if you’re interested it’s at 14 Cardle Street. You can come along with me now and see it if you like. It’s not far.”
And it was one of Mr. Dunworthy’s approved addresses. “Yes,” Polly said, following her out the door and up the steps. “Thank you.” She stopped and stared up at the building they’d come out of, its spire outlined against the dawn sky.
It’s a church, she thought. That explained the clergyman’s presence and the discussion about the altar flowers. The stairs they’d just come up were on the side of the church, and there was a notice board on the wall next to it. “Church of St. George, Kensington,” it read. “The Rev. Floyd Norris, Rector.”
“My single rooms with board are ten and eight,” Mrs. Rickett said, crossing the street. “It’s a nice, cozy room.” Which meant minuscule, and probably appalling.
But it’s only six weeks. Or rather five, with the slippage, Polly thought. And I’ll scarcely ever be in it. I’ll be at the store all day and in the tube shelters at night. “How far is the nearest tube station?” she asked.
“Notting Hill Gate,” Mrs. Rickett said, pointing back the way they’d come. “Three streets over.”
Perfect. Notting Hill Gate wasn’t as deep as Holborn or Bank, but it had never been hit, and it was on the Central Line to Oxford Street. And it was less than a quarter of a mile from Cardle Street. Mr. Dunworthy would be delirious. If the room was habitable.
It was, barely. It was on the third floor, and so “cozy” the bed filled the room and Mrs. Rickett had to squeeze past its foot to get to the wardrobe on the far side. The floor was liver-colored linoleum, the wallpaper was darker still, and even when Mrs. Rickett pulled the blackout curtains back from the single small window, there was scarcely any light. The “facilities” were one flight up, the bathroom two, and hot water was extra.
But it met all of Mr. Dunworthy’s requirements, and she wouldn’t have to spend valuable time looking for a room. She had a feeling Mrs. Rickett would be a dreadful landlady, but having an address would make it easier for the department stores to contact her. “Have you a telephone?” she asked.
“Downstairs in the vestibule, but it’s for local calls only. Five p. If you need to make a trunk call, there’s a pillar box on Lampden Road. And no calls after 9 P.M.”
“I’ll take it,” Polly said, opening her handbag.
Mrs. Rickett held out her hand. “That will be one pound five. Payable in advance.”
“But I thought you said it was ten and eight-”
“This room is a double.”
So much for the legendary wartime spirit of generosity, Polly thought. “You’ve no single rooms available?”