“Then I shouldn’t keep you,” Polly said. “I should go.”
“No, no, not till I’ve shown you my favorite monument,” Mr. Humphreys said, dragging her into the north transept. He made her look at the Corinthian columns and the oak doors of the north porch. “And this is the monument to Captain Robert Faulknor,” he said, pointing proudly at another pile of sandbags. “His ship was badly damaged. She’d lost most of her rigging and couldn’t fire, and the La Pique was coming athwart her. Captain Faulknor courageously grabbed her bowsprit and lashed the two ships together and used the La Pique’s guns to fire on the other French ships. His brave action won the battle. Unfortunately he never knew what he’d accomplished. He was shot through the heart the moment after he’d bound the two together.” He shook his head sadly. “A true hero.”
I’ll need to tell Michael Davies about him, Polly thought, and wondered where he was now. He was to have left just after she did, which meant he was in Dover, observing the evacuation efforts. But here in this time, that had happened three months ago, and his next assignment, Pearl Harbor, which he’d leave for as soon as he returned from Dover, wouldn’t happen here for more than a year.
“It’s such a pity you can’t see the monument,” Mr. Humphreys said. “Wait, I’ve just thought of something,” he said, and led her back down the nave. The cathedral had lost its golden glow and looked gray and chilly, and the side aisles were already in shadow. Polly stole a glance at her watch. It was after four. She hadn’t realized how late it was.
Mr. Humphreys was taking her to the admissions desk. It had a number of pamphlets on it, colored prints of the The Light of the World for sale for sixpence apiece, a box marked Donations to the Minesweepers Fund, and a wooden rack filled with picture postcards. “I think we may have a photograph of Captain Faulknor’s monument,” he said, searching through postcards of the Whispering Gallery, the organ, and a three-tiered Victorian monstrosity that had to be the Wellington Monument. “Oh, dear, we don’t seem to have one of it. What a pity! You must come back and see it when the war’s over.”
The side door clanged, and a sharp-faced young man came in, wearing a dark blue coverall and carrying a tin helmet and a gas mask. “So they got the bomb out all right, did they, Mr. Humphreys?” he asked the verger.
He nodded. “You’re a bit early, Langby. You don’t come on duty till half past six.”
“I want to take a look at the chancel roof pump. It’s been giving a bit of trouble. Have you the key to the vestry?”
“Yes,” Mr. Humphreys said. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
“I’m keeping you from your duties,” Polly said. “Thank you for showing me the cathedral.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t go yet. There’s one last thing you must see,” he said, leading her over to the south aisle.
No doubt another pile of sandbags, Polly thought, following him, but it wasn’t. He’d led her back to The Light of the World, the painting now only dimly visible in the gloom.
Mr. Humphreys said reverently, “Do you see how, now that the light’s fading, the lantern seems to glow?”
It did. A warm orange-gold light spread from it, lighting Christ’s robe, the door, the weeds that had grown up around it.
“Do you know what Dean Matthews said when he saw that glow? He said, ‘He’d better not let the ARP warden catch him with that lantern.’” Mr. Humphreys chuckled. “A fine sense of humor, the dean has. It’s a great help in times like these.”
The door clanged open again and another member of the fire watch came in and walked swiftly up the nave. “Humphreys!” Langby called from the transept.
“I’m afraid I must be going,” Mr. Humphreys said. “If you’d care to stay and look round a bit more…”
“No, I should be getting home.”
He nodded. “Best not to be out after dark if one can help it,” he said and hurried toward Langby.
He was right. It was a long way to Kensington, and she had to find somewhere open where she could get supper before she went back. There was no way she could make it through another night without having eaten. And the raids tonight began at 6:54. She needed to go.
But she stayed a few minutes longer, looking at the painting. Christ’s face, in the dimming light, no longer looked bored, but afraid, and the woods surrounding him not only dark but threatening.
Best not to be out after dark if one can help it, Polly thought, and then, looking at the locked door, I wonder if that’s the door to an air-raid shelter.
Wouldn’t it be lovely if it was true?
London-7 May 1945
WHEN THE THREE GIRLS TURNED ONTO THE ROAD THAT led to the Underground station, it was deserted. “What if it was a false alarm and the war’s not really over?” Paige asked.
“Don’t be silly,” Reardon said. “It was on the wireless.”
“Then where is everyone?”
“Inside,” Reardon said. “Come along.” She started down the street.
“Do you think it could be another false alarm, Douglas?” Paige asked, turning to her.
“No,” she said.
“Do come on,” Reardon said, motioning them to hurry. “We’ll miss all the fun.”
But when they got inside the station, there was no one there either. “They’re down on the platform,” Reardon said, pushing through the wooden turnstile, and when there was no one on the platform either, “They’re all in London already, just like we’d be, if it weren’t for Colonel Wainwright’s gout. Why couldn’t his big toe have waited till next week to get inflamed? Only just think,” Reardon smiled beatifically, “we’ll never have to put up with Colonel Wainwright again.”
“Unless the war’s not actually over,” Paige said. “Remember last week, when West Ham rang up and said General Dodd had told them it was all over? If this is another false alarm, we’ll not only look like complete idiots, we’ll be put on report. We should have rung up HQ in London and verified it.”
“Which would have made us even later,” Reardon said, “and we’ve missed hours, as it is.”
“But if it hasn’t ended…” Paige said doubtfully. “Perhaps we should ring them up now, before we-”
“We’ll miss the train and the end of the war,” Reardon said, looking down the track toward where the train was coming. “It’s eight o’clock. Don’t you agree, Douglas?”
“Actually, it’s twenty past eight,” Douglas said. And every minute we stand here is one less minute I have to see the celebrations, she thought.
The train pulled in. Reardon said, “Stop fretting and come along.”
Paige turned to Douglas. “What do you think, Douglas?”
“It’s not a false alarm,” she said. “The Germans have surrendered. The war’s over. We’ve won.”
“Are you certain?”
More certain than you can possibly imagine, she thought. Here was something she’d never expected from her research, that it could be VE-Day, and the contemps wouldn’t know it. Or, rather, VE-Day eve. VE-Day, with its speeches by Churchill and the King and its thanksgiving services at St. Paul’s, had been-correction, wouldn’t be till-tomorrow, but the celebrating had begun today, and the party would go on all night.
“Douglas is certain,” Reardon was saying. “I’m certain. The war’s over. Now get on the train.” Reardon grabbed Paige’s arm and propelled her onto the car, and she got on with them.
The car was empty, too, but Paige didn’t seem to notice. She was looking at the tube map on the wall of the car. “Where should we go when we get there, do you think? Piccadilly Circus?”