Connie Willis - All Clear

“ ’Ow can we send ’er a card?” Binnie said. “We don’t know where she lives.”

And I have no intention of telling you, Polly thought. “You can send it to Townsend Brothers.”

“And we ain’t got money for a stamp,” Alf said.

“Yes, you do,” Polly said, coming up with a shilling. “Here.”

Alf snatched it, and the two of them darted off immediately, thank goodness.

But she was back to square one, and Eileen was more determined than ever that Mike was alive. “People don’t just disappear.”

Yes, they do, Polly thought.

“Perhaps Mike went to Bletchley Park again, to see if Gerald came through after he’d left, and he can’t tell us because of Ultra’s being so secret and everything. So he had to make it look like he was dead.” Which made no sense. “He didn’t want to, but it was the only way he could get you out before your deadline.”

And that’s what this is about, Polly thought. If she admits Mike’s dead, that they weren’t able to pull him out before he was killed, then it’s also admitting they won’t be able to pull me out either.

But this couldn’t go on. Polly wondered if she should write the vicar again, but she didn’t have to. He walked up to her counter, wearing his clerical collar, just before closing. “Miss Sebastian?” he said. “I’m Mr. Goode. I believe we met briefly in Backbury last autumn. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come sooner. Your letter didn’t reach me till two days ago, and I had difficulty making arrangements—”

“Thank you so much for coming,” Polly said, smiling at him. “I can’t tell you how much this will mean to Eileen.”

“Were Miss O’Reilly and Mr. Davis …?” He hesitated.

“Romantically attached? No. He was like a brother to us, and Eileen’s taking his death very hard.”

Polly glanced at her watch. It was nearly closing time, and she didn’t want Eileen to see the vicar till she’d had a chance to explain the situation to him. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll ask my supervisor if I can leave early,” she said, and hurried off to speak to Miss Snelgrove, who was nowhere to be found.

“She went up to sixth,” Sarah said, and the closing bell rang.

Polly hurried back, but she was too late. Eileen was already there. “I was so sorry to hear of your loss, Miss O’Reilly,” Mr. Goode was saying.

Eileen stiffened.

Oh, no, Polly thought, she’s not going to listen to him any more than she has to anyone else.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he said.

Eileen was glaring at her.

She knows exactly why I sent for him, Polly thought.

“Miss Sebastian’s letter had to be forwarded on to me,” the vicar said. “And then it took several days to arrange for leave.”

“Miss Sebastian’s letter had to be forwarded on to me,” the vicar said. “And then it took several days to arrange for leave.”

“Leave?” Eileen echoed.

“Yes. I haven’t told you, I’ve enlisted as a chaplain in His Majesty’s Army.”

The color drained from Eileen’s face.

Oh, no, Polly thought, I’ve only made things worse.

“I couldn’t stay in Backbury,” he said, “preaching sermons and heading up committee meetings when so many others were making sacrifices. Like you, facing danger every day here in London. I felt I had to do my bit, as it were.”

“But you can’t,” Eileen said, and burst into tears. “You’ll be killed. Just like Mike was.”

Boyfriends were more important than bombs.

—TRANSLATOR AT BLETCHLEY PARK

Croydon

MARY WAS LYING FLAT ON HER BACK.

I must have slipped on something and fallen when I came through, she thought. The shimmer must have blinded me. She remembered that the light had been much too bright, and then …

There was a sudden deafening cr-rack, and immediately after it, a second one. That was the double boom of a V-2, she thought, suddenly panicked. I’ve come through too late. And remembered where she was. She and Fairchild had heard the V-2—no, that was wrong, it had been a V-1—and they’d come back to Croydon to see if there were casualties, and Fairchild had—

Fairchild! She tried to sit up, but she couldn’t. There was something on top of her, crushing her so she couldn’t get any breath in her lungs, couldn’t—

Oh, God, don’t let it be the printing press, she thought, gasping for breath, and then, I’m buried in the rubble.

She tried to feel what was pressing down on her, but there was nothing on her chest, no fallen beams or bricks on her throat, so why …?

Somewhere far off, she heard an ambulance’s bells. Croydon, she thought, straining to hear better and, in the attempt, stopped gasping for breath. And as soon as she did, she found herself able to breathe again, able to raise her head.

She had had the breath knocked out of her, that was all, and she wasn’t buried, she was lying atop the rubble. The explosion must have knocked her flat. She drew a long, ragged breath, then stumbled to her feet, wishing there was something to lean on, but she couldn’t see the printing press, couldn’t see anything at all. The explosion must have blown out the fires. “Fairchild!” she called. “Paige! Where are you?”

She didn’t answer.

Because she’s dead, Mary thought. “Paige!” she cried frantically. “Answer me!”

No answer. No sound at all, not even the ambulance’s bells. The V-2 must have punctured my eardrums, she thought detachedly, and then, Oh, God. I won’t be able to hear Paige calling.

And remembered that Paige was dead.

She heard ambulance bells again, but from the wrong direction, from behind her, and when she turned, she saw that she had been wrong. Not all of the fires had been blown out. One was still burning, more brightly than ever. She could see their ambulance silhouetted against it.

It was moving slowly past the fire. She stared at it stupidly for a long minute, unable to make sense of what she was seeing. If it was moving, then Fairchild must not be dead, she must be driving it, but she wouldn’t leave without her, she wouldn’t …

“Fairchild, don’t leave!” she cried, and staggered forward.

“No,” a scarcely audible voice said, just off to her left.

Fairchild. Mary groped for her in the darkness, but it wasn’t her, it was the man with the severed foot. How could she have forgotten him? She had been tending him when—

“Where—?” the man asked, and his voice was hollow, as if he was speaking from the bottom of a well.

“I’m here. It was a V-2,” Mary said, and her voice sounded just as echoingly hollow.

The man’s foot had been severed. She needed to tie a tourniquet on his leg, and she’d taken off his tie to use as one.

No, I already tied it, she thought, but when she bent over him, trying to see if the tourniquet was holding, it wasn’t a tie, it was a handkerchief.

But I remember untying the tie, she thought, confused. His other leg must have been bleeding as well. And it was, but she couldn’t find the tie. She must have dropped it when the V-2 hit.

She got to her knees, pulled off her jacket, and tried to tear it. The rough cloth wouldn’t tear, but when she tried again, the lining ripped, and she was able to yank a strip free, able to tie it around his thigh. But he’d already lost a good deal of blood. She had to get him to hospital. She bent over him. “I need to go fetch the ambulance,” she said.

“Go,” he murmured. “Have to …” and then, very clearly, “leave.”

“I’ll be back straightaway,” she said, and stumbled off across the dark wreckage, over bricks and roof slates she couldn’t see, looking for the ambulance.

“Mary,” a muffled voice said at her feet. “Here.”