An anti-aircraft gun began pounding away at the droning planes, both of them as loud and as close as they’d sounded when she sat in the drop, waiting for it to open and unaware that the retrieval team should already have been there, that Miss Laburnum and the little girls were already dead.
And Sir Godfrey, who’d saved her life that first night when she’d gone over to look at Mr. Simms’s newspaper, who’d said, “‘If we no more meet until we meet in heaven-’”
“Do the guns frighten you?” Marjorie asked. “They used to drive my flatmate Brenda completely mad. That’s why she left London. She’s always after me to leave it, as well. She wrote last week and said if I’d come to Bath, she was certain she could get me on at the shop where she works. And when something like this happens-I mean, the church and all those people-it makes me think perhaps I should take her up on it. Do you ever think about chucking the whole thing and getting out?”
Yes.
“At least it would be better than sitting here, waiting to be killed. Oh, I am sorry,” Marjorie said, “but, I mean, things like that do make one think. Tom-that’s the pilot I told you about-says in a war you can’t afford to wait to live, you’ve got to take what happiness you can find because you don’t know how much time you’ve got.”
How much time you’ve got.
“Brenda says that’s only a line of chat, that men use it on all girls, but sometimes they mean it. The Navy lieutenant Joanna-she used to work in China and Glassware-went out with said the same thing to her, and he meant it. They eloped, just like that, without a word to anyone. And even if Tom is only feeding me a line, it is true. Any one of us could be killed tonight, or next week, and if that’s the case, then why not go out dancing and all the rest of it? Have a bit of fun? It would be better than never having lived at all. Sorry,” she said, “I’m talking rot. It’s sitting in this wretched cellar. It makes me nervy. Perhaps I should go to Bath, only everyone at work would think I was a coward.” She looked up suddenly at the ceiling. “Oh, good, the all clear’s gone.”
“I didn’t hear it,” Polly said. She could still hear explosions and guns. “I don’t think it went.”
But Marjorie had stood and was starting up the stairs. “That’s what we call it when the gun in Cartwright Gardens stops. It means the planes have left off this part of Bloomsbury. We can finally have our tea.” She led the way back up to her room, relit the gas ring, and set the kettle on it.
“Now take off your things,” she said. She opened the closet and took a chenille robe off a hook. “And get into this, and I’ll wash out your blouse and sponge your coat off.” She thrust the robe at her. “Give me your stockings, and I’ll rinse them out, too.”
“I must mend them first,” Polly said, pulling them from her handbag. Marjorie took them gingerly from her and looked them over. “I’m afraid these are beyond mending. Never mind. I’ll lend you a pair of mine.”
“Oh, no, I can’t let you do that.” Marjorie would need to hold on to every stocking she had. On the first of December the government would stop their manufacture, and by the end of the war they’d be more priceless than gold. “What if I were to run one of them?”
“Don’t be silly,” Marjorie said. “You can’t go without stockings. Here, give me your blouse.”
Polly handed it to her, took off her skirt, and wrapped the robe-which felt wonderfully cozy-around her.
The kettle boiled. Marjorie ordered Polly to sit down in the chair. She made the tea and brought Polly a cup, then took down a tin of soup from the shelf and got an opener, a spoon, and a bowl out of the top bureau drawer, keeping up a steady stream of chatter about Tom, who had also told her that he might be posted to Africa any day, and that when two people loved each other, it couldn’t be wrong, could it? “Drink your tea,” Marjorie ordered.
Polly did. It was hot and strong.
“Here,” Marjorie said, handing her a bowl of soup. “I’ve only got one bowl and one spoon, so we’ve got to eat in shifts.”
Polly obligingly took a swallow, trying to recall when she’d eaten last. Or slept. The night before last in Holborn with my head lying on my handbag, she thought. No, that didn’t count. She’d only dozed, wakened every few minutes by the lights and voices and the worry that that band of urchins would come back and try to rob her. She hadn’t really slept since Wednesday night, in St. George’s.
In St. George’s, with Mr. Dorming, his hands on his stomach, snoring, and Lila and Viv wrapped in their coats, their hair in bobby pins, and the rector, asleep against the wall, his book fallen from his hand. Murder at the Vicarage-
“You haven’t finished any soup at all,” Marjorie said reprovingly. “Do take a few more bites. It will make you feel better.”
“No, you take your turn.”
Marjorie took the bowl and spoon from her. “I’ll go wash these up. I’ll be back straightaway,” and Polly must have fallen asleep because Marjorie was back in the room covering her with a blanket, and the antiaircraft gun had started up again.
“Shouldn’t we go down to the cellar?” Polly asked drowsily.
“No, I’ll wake you if it comes near us. Go back to sleep.”
Polly obeyed, and when she woke, it was five and the all clear was going, and the answer was clear, too. The reason the retrieval team hadn’t been there was because they were looking for her in the tube stations. There were far fewer stations on Mr. Dunworthy’s approved list than there were Oxford Street shops, and if they had described her to the guard at Notting Hill Gate, he would have remembered her.
They’d gone to Notting Hill Gate that morning, but she’d been in Holborn, and that afternoon she’d left work early and walked home so she wouldn’t be caught in the station by the sirens, and they’d have had no way of knowing she would go to the drop. And tonight she’d been in Charing Cross and Russell Square.
They’d been waiting in Notting Hill Gate this entire time. They were waiting there now. I must go find them, she thought, and had started out of the chair before she remembered that Marjorie had washed her blouse, and that the trains wouldn’t begin running till half past six.
I’ll rest here till then, she thought, and then I’ll go find them, but she must have dozed off again because when she woke, it was daylight and Marjorie was dressed and standing at an ironing board, pressing a blouse. Polly’s blouse, neatly washed and pressed, lay on the made-up bed. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Marjorie said, smiling at her over the iron.
Polly looked at her watch, but it had stopped. “What time is it?”
“Half past four.”
“Half past four?” Polly pushed the blanket aside and stood up.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have let you sleep so long, but you seemed so all in… What are you doing?” she asked as Polly reached for her blouse.
“I must go,” Polly said, pulling it on and buttoning it with fumbling fingers.
“Where?” Marjorie said.
Home, she thought. “To the boardinghouse,” she said, pulling on her skirt. “I must find out if I still have a room there.” She tucked in her blouse and sat down to put on her shoes. “And if I haven’t, I must find another.”
“But it’s Sunday,” Marjorie said. “Why don’t you stay here tonight and come to work with me tomorrow, and we could go over together after work?”
“No, you’ve already done too much for me, letting me stay and pressing my blouse for me. I can’t impose any further.” She pulled on her coat.
“But… can’t you wait? I’ll go with you. You shouldn’t go there alone.”
“I’ll be all right.” Polly grabbed up her hat and bag. “Thank you-for everything.” She hugged Marjorie briefly and hurried out of the room and down the stairs.
Halfway down, Marjorie called after her, “Wait, you forgot the stockings,” and ran down the stairs with them fluttering in her hand.
To avoid a time-consuming argument, Polly took them and jammed them into her coat pocket. “Which way is Russell Square Station?”
“Turn left at the next crossing, and then left again,” Marjorie said. “If you’ll only wait a moment, I’ll fetch my coat and-”
“It’s not necessary. Really,” Polly said and was finally able to get away. She ran all the way to Russell Square, but when she reached it, there was an endless queue of shelterers laden with camp cots and dinner baskets and bedrolls. “Is there a separate queue for passengers?” she asked a woman wheeling a pram full of dishes and cutlery.
“Just go to the head of the line and tell ’em you’re meetin’ someone,” the woman said, “and that if you’re late, you’ll miss ’im.”
I will, Polly thought, thanking the woman and going over to the guard. He nodded and let her through, and she hurried to the lift and down to the southbound platform. A chalkboard stood in the doorway. “Southbound service temporarily suspended,” it read.
There must have been damage on the line, she thought, consulting the Underground map. She’d need to take a northbound train to King’s Cross and catch the Victoria Line, but when she got there, the southbound trains weren’t running either. Which left the Circle Line. She took it, praying it hadn’t been knocked out, too.
It had, but only between Holland Park and Shepherd’s Bush. She took the train to Notting Hill Gate and hurried toward the escalators. “Oh, my God, look!” a young woman’s voice squealed from the far side of the hall as she crossed it, “It’s Polly!” and a second voice echoed, “Polly!”
Oh, thank God, she thought, relief washing over her. They’re here. Finally.
“Polly Sebastian! Over here!” they called from the direction of the escalators.
It can’t be the retrieval team, Polly thought as she turned. They’d never call attention to me or to themselves like that.
It wasn’t. It was Lila and Viv.