Connie Willis - All Clear

“No,” Eileen said. “If they’re evacuated, they’ll run away, and they won’t survive on their own. Alf plays with UXBs, and Binnie’s a young girl. She can’t just run wild in the shelters, or …”

She’ll end up like her mother, Polly thought.

“They haven’t anyone else,” Eileen said to Polly. “If we don’t rescue them—”

“But what about Mrs. Rickett?” Polly said. “You know her rules—no cooking in the room, no pets, no children. And Mr. Goode’s leave is up today—”

“I’ll see if I can get additional time, since this is a matter involving my parishioners,” he said. “And perhaps I can persuade Mrs. Rickett to relax her rules, given the circumstances.”

I highly doubt that, Polly thought, and just as she expected, Mrs. Rickett was not impressed by either the vicar’s clerical collar or his arguments.

“You know the rules,” she said, her arms folded militantly across her chest. “No children.”

“But their mother was killed in a raid,” the vicar said, “and they’ve nowhere else to go. The Church will provide cots and bedding for them.”

“And we’ll see that they don’t cause you any bother,” Eileen added.

That’s not the way to Mrs. Rickett’s heart, Polly thought. “We’ll pay extra for their board,” she said, “and children are allowed an extra milk ration.”

“How large a ration?” Mrs. Rickett demanded, her eyes glittering at the thought of the milk puddings and cream soups she could cook up into inedible messes.

“Half a pint a day,” the vicar said.

“Very well,” Mrs. Rickett said, nearly snatching the children’s ration books out of Eileen’s hands, “but their board won’t begin till the day after tomorrow.”

Of course, Polly thought.

“And if there’s any playing on the stairs, or any noise—”

“There won’t be,” Eileen said earnestly. “They’re very nicely behaved children.”

“You should join the troupe,” Polly said after Mrs. Rickett had gone. “You’re a far better actress than I am.”

Eileen ignored her. “Thank you so much, Mr. Goode,” she said. “We couldn’t have managed it without you. You’ve been wonderful.”

He had. In the two extra days’ leave he’d managed to wangle, he’d not only obtained new ration books and new clothes for Alf and Binnie but had had Eileen named their temporary guardian and had arranged for a school.

“School?” Alf and Binnie said, as if he’d suggested burning them at the stake.

“Yes,” the vicar said sternly, “and if you don’t go every day and do everything Miss O’Reilly tells you, she’ll write to me, and I’ll have you sent straight to the orphanage.”

Polly doubted the Hodbins were any more capable of being intimidated than Mrs. Rickett, but then again, she’d expected them to bolt when Mr. Humphreys took them off to The Light of the World and again when Eileen and she had told them to wait for them at Notting Hill Gate while they spoke to Mrs. Rickett, and they them off to The Light of the World and again when Eileen and she had told them to wait for them at Notting Hill Gate while they spoke to Mrs. Rickett, and they hadn’t. In fact, when they took the vicar to the station to see him off, Alf asked him, “Is Eileen going to be our mum now?”

Polly didn’t hear what the vicar said, but she saw how cheerful Eileen was and couldn’t be sorry they’d decided to take in the Hodbins. Especially since the vicar had told Eileen he was being assigned to active duty.

Chaplains hadn’t been armed—even though they were often in the thick of battle—and the vicar, with his slight frame and mild manner, was scarcely the soldier sort. And how many earnest young men, eager like him to help the war effort, had died in the sands of North Africa and on the beaches of Normandy? Polly wasn’t certain Eileen could bear another loss.

They all went to see him off at Victoria Station. “We got to,” Alf said, “ ’cause he seen us off that day we come to London. Remember, Vicar? How you come to tell us goodbye that day?”

“I do,” the vicar said, looking at Eileen.

“And now we’re tellin’ you goodbye. It’s funny, ain’t it, Eileen?”

“Yes,” she said, blinking back tears. “Thank you so much for everything, Mr. Goode.”

“It was a pleasure,” he said solemnly. He picked up his duffel bag. “I’d best board. You have my address for now, and I’ll let you know where I’m going as soon as I’m able. Promise me you’ll write me if you need any further assistance with Alf and Binnie, and I’ll see to it.”

If you can, Polly thought. If you’re not killed.

They said goodbye, and the vicar boarded the train, the romance of it somewhat spoiled by Alf and Binnie shouting after him, “Shoot heaps of Germans!” and “Kill that old ’Itler!”

Eileen watched the train out of sight.

“Whatcha waitin’ for?” Binnie asked curiously.

“Nothing,” Eileen said. “Come along, we’re going home.”

“We can’t,” Alf said. “We got to go to Blackfriars to get our things.”

“What things?”

“You know,” Binnie said innocently, “our clothes and things.”

“And that book you give me about the Tower of London,” Alf said, heading for the entrance to the Underground. “The best part was when they cut off Mary Queen of Scots’s ’ead.”

And after they’d boarded the train to Blackfriars, he regaled them with the details. “The executioner chopped it off, whack, like that.” He demonstrated for the benefit of the other passengers in the car. “And then he picked it up by the ’air. That’s what they done back then. They picked up the ’ead, all gory and dripping blood like, and said, ‘This is what ’appens to queens what commits treason.’ ”

“And then they stuck it up on London Bridge,” Binnie finished.

“Not ’er they didn’t,” Alf said. “She was wearin’ a wig, and when they picked up ’er ’ead, it fell on the floor and rolled under the bed, and ’er dog ran after it and

—”

“This is Blackfriars,” Eileen said, standing up and pushing them both off the train ahead of her.

“Stop pushin’,” Binnie said.

“Don’t you wanna know what Mary Queen of Scots’s dog done?”

“No,” Polly said.

“You said you needed to get your things,” Eileen said. “Where are they? On the platform?”

“Are you daft?” Binnie said, leading the way. “People’d pinch ’em.”

“They’re in the tunnel,” Alf said as they reached the platform. “Wait ’ere.” And before Eileen could stop them, both children darted to the end of the platform and disappeared into the blackness of the tunnel.

“They’ll be killed,” Eileen said.

“No such luck,” Polly said, and in a moment they each reappeared with an armful of belongings—a cap, a ragged-looking cardigan, a pair of Wellingtons, a stack of film magazines.

Alf dumped his in Eileen’s arms. “I got to go get Mrs. Bascombe,” he said, and darted back toward the tunnel.

“Mrs. Bascombe?” Polly asked. “Who’s Mrs. Bascombe?”

“Their parrot,” Eileen said despairingly. “I assumed it had been left behind when the children moved into the shelters.” She turned to Binnie. “I thought animals weren’t allowed in shelters.”

“They ain’t,” Binnie said. “That’s why we ’ad to keep ’er ’id in the tunnel.”

“This isn’t the parrot who can imitate an air-raid alert, is it?” Polly asked, afraid she already knew the answer.

“And the all clear,” Alf said, appearing with a large, rusty cage in which sat a gray-and-red parrot. “But we’ve taught ’er lots of things since then.”

It Is Over.

—LONDON EVENING NEWS HEADLINE,