“My shoes and socks are soaking,” Binnie said.
“I want to go back inside,” Theodore said.
“We can’t, not till the raid’s over.” She had to shout over the noise of the bombs and the Heinkel IIIs or whatever they were, their sound a heavy growl. Perhaps shutting the door would shut some of the racket out. She handed Binnie the torch and pulled the door shut and fastened it.
It didn’t help. The curved tin roof seemed to magnify and reverberate the sound, like shouting into a megaphone. How had people slept in these? She took the torch back from Binnie and shone it around the shelter. There were two very narrow bunks on each side, with shelves at the end by the door. On one sat an oil lamp with a glass chimney.
The hurricane, Eileen thought, lifting Theodore onto a top bunk, then waded over to light the lamp. It cast a dim, shadowy light.
“Look,” Binnie said, pointing. “There are spiders.”
“Where?” Theodore cried.
“In the water.”
Eileen replaced the glass chimney over the flame and switched off the torch. “It’s all right. They’ve all drowned.”
“Drowned?” Theodore wailed.
“I think the water’s gettin’ deeper,” Binnie said.
“No, it isn’t,” Eileen said firmly. “Get in your bunks. Binnie, you take that one.” She pointed to a lower bunk. “Alf, you climb up on top.”
“I want to go back inside,” Theodore said. “I’m cold.”
“Here’s your blanket,” Eileen said, picking it up. It was sopping wet. The tail must have dragged in the water. She took off her coat and tucked it around him.
“There’s no room in ’ere,” Binnie said from her bunk. “I can’t even sit up.”
“Then lie down and go to sleep,” Eileen said.
“With all that goin’ on?” Alf asked.
He had a point. The noise of engines and explosions was growing louder. There was a whoosh and then an explosion that shook the Anderson. The hurricane lamp rattled.
“Are we going to drown?” Theodore asked.
No, we’re going to be blown to bits, Eileen thought. And Binnie was right, there was no room in these bunks. She curled up on the lower one, shivering, her feet in their wet stockings tucked under her.
I should have knocked on Mrs. Owens’s door and run and left them standing there, she thought, her teeth chattering. I could have been home by now.
“I gotta go to the loo again,” Alf said.
Think of the Wounded
War Emergency Hospital-August 1940
MIKE STARED AT SISTER GABRIEL. “I’M IN ORPINGTON?” he repeated stupidly. Orpington was just south of London. It was miles from Dover.
“Yes, you were brought here from Dover for surgery,” Sister Gabriel explained.
“When?”
“I’m not certain.” She picked up his chart to look.
“I am,” Fordham said. “It was the sixth of June.”
D-Day, Mike thought. Oh, God, it’s 1944. I’ve been here four years.
“I remember because it was only two days after I was admitted,” Fordham went on, “and the orderlies kept banging against my traction wires as they got you into bed.”
“Yes, the sixth,” Sister Gabriel said, looking at his chart, and it was obvious the date meant nothing to them. It wasn’t 1944, it was still 1940. Thank God. June sixth. That meant he’d been brought here a week after Dunkirk, so that by the time the retrieval team had talked to the Commander and then come to Dover looking for him, he’d have been long gone, and with no name to trace him by.
That’s why the retrieval team’s not here, he thought jubilantly, and then, I’ve got to let them know where I am. He grabbed the blankets to fling them off and get out of bed.
“I say, what do you think you’re doing?” Fordham said, startled, and Sister Gabriel rushed over to stop him.
“Oh, you mustn’t try to get out of bed,” she said, putting her hand on his chest. “You’re still far too weak.” She pulled the covers back up. “What is it? Have you remembered something about your coming here?”
“No, I… I didn’t realize I wasn’t in Dover.”
“It must be difficult, not being able to remember,” Sister Gabriel said sympathetically. “Could you have been in the RAF?”
Oh, no, had his L-and-A implant stopped working again?
“There are lots of American flyers in the RAF,” she went on. “You could have been shot down, and that’s why you were in the water.”
He shook his head, frowning. “It’s all so foggy.”
“Never mind. You’re in very good hands here.” She handed him his crossword puzzle and pencil. “And you’re much safer here than in Dover.”
No, I’m not, he thought. And I have to get word to them. But how? He couldn’t send a telegram to 2060. The only way to get a message to Oxford was via the drop, and if he could get there to send it, he wouldn’t need to send a message. He could go through himself.
He tried to think what the retrieval team would have done when they couldn’t find him in Dover. They’d have gone back to Saltram-on-Sea. It, and the Commander, would be their only lead. I have to get word of where I am to him so he can tell them. But how? The Commander obviously didn’t have a phone or he wouldn’t have had to use the one at the inn to call the Admiralty.
Maybe I could call the inn, he thought, and leave a message with the barmaid-what was her name? Dolores? Dierdre? He couldn’t just call and ask for the brunette with the trick of glancing flirtatiously over her shoulder, not with her father there. And besides, he didn’t trust her to remember to deliver the message. She hadn’t been able to remember that the Commander had a car, even when he’d been in desperate need of one.
Maybe he could send the Commander a telegram. But he had no idea how to go about it. And no money. And if he asked Fordham or one of the nurses if they could send one for him, they’d conclude he’d regained his memory and ask all kinds of inconvenient questions.
Maybe I can ask Mrs. Ives, he thought. She doesn’t know I’m supposed to have amnesia. Fordham goes down for X-rays this afternoon. I’ll ask her then.
But when she arrived, Fordham was still there. “Anything else you need?” Mrs. Ives asked cheerily after she’d given Mike his newspaper.
Yes, Mike thought, I need an attendant to come take Fordham. “Can you help me with this crossword clue?” he asked, picking one at random. “‘Mount where the PM goes on Sunday mornings.’ Nine letters. I can’t figure it out.”
“Oh, that’s Churchill,” she said.
“Churchill?”
“Yes, our new prime minister.”
And here, finally, was the attendant with the gurney. He and the nurse began unhooking Fordham from his pulleys. “But how is Churchill the name of a mount?” Mike asked to stall.
“A mount is a hill…”
“Careful,” Fordham said as they put him on the gurney. “Don’t-Christ!-sorry, Mrs. Ives.”
“I quite understand,” she said and returned to the puzzle. “And the place one goes on Sunday mornings is ‘church,’ and together they spell out Church-hill. Churchill.”
“So the clues are riddles?” Mike said.
Mrs. Ives nodded.
Fordham yelped in pain. “Sorry, just a momentary twinge. Go ahead, driver. To the photographer’s studio!” and was finally wheeled off toward the ward’s double doors.
“I need to get word to someone,” Mike said as soon as the gurney was out of earshot, “and I was wondering if you-”
“Could write a letter for you?” Mrs. Ives said. “I’d be delighted.” She began gathering stationery from her cart.