Connie Willis - All Clear

Mr. Humphreys stopped at a sound of voices and looked out across the nave. The three sailors who’d been in the north transept were looking at the bricked-up Wellington Monument.

“Oh, good, they didn’t leave after all,” Mr. Humphreys said. “If I may take leave of you for a moment, I need to speak with them. I did not finish telling them the story of Captain Faulknor.”

He hurried off. Polly knelt in front of Mr. Dunworthy. “When were you here in the Blitz before?”

“When I was seventeen,” he said. “And again when I was—”

“No, no, the dates. What dates were you here doing observations?”

“In May and in October and November.”

“And that’s all?”

“No,” he said, and she could tell from his face that this was it, the bad news.

Oh, God, she thought.

“September the seventeenth.”

But both that and his assignments to October and November were safely past. Might he have come through early for the May raids to set things up as she’d done for Dulwich? “When did you come through for the big raids?”

“May first.”

“And those were the only times? You weren’t here in February or March or April?”

He shook his head.

Thank goodness. She’d been terrified he’d say he’d been here tomorrow. Or tonight. May was dreadful enough, but it was three months off, and if the problem was just slippage …

“You mustn’t worry,” she said. “One of our drops is bound to open by then, Eileen’s or mine or the one in Hampstead Heath. And if you know what’s causing the problem … You do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said dully. “I know what’s causing the problem. I kept hoping it meant something else. When I found out I’d come through in December, I thought perhaps it was all right and you’d completed your assignment and were safely back in Oxford, but when I saw you at St. Paul’s—”

“I saw you, too,” Polly said, but he went on as if she hadn’t spoken.

“—and when I saw the three of you the next morning, sitting on the steps, I was afraid he was right.”

“You saw Merope and Michael and me?” Polly said, bewildered. Why hadn’t he come over and told them he was there? And who was he afraid was right? Right about what?

There was clearly a good deal here she didn’t understand, but this was no time to ask questions. Mr. Dunworthy looked exhausted and ill. His face was pinched with cold, and he’d begun to shiver. And Mr. Humphreys had said he’d been here all afternoon. He’d had no business spending the day in such a chill, drafty place when he was only just out of hospital. He’d had one relapse already. And The Light of the World’s lantern, for all its golden-orange glow, didn’t give off any warmth.

She needed to get him home to a real fire.

“Mr. Dunworthy,” she said. “I think we should go—”

“And then, when I heard about Michael, when I learned he’d been killed, I was certain. Polly, I am so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. It wasn’t your fault,” she said briskly. “We mustn’t stay here in this cold.”

She took both his hands in hers. They were like ice. “Let me take you home, and—”

He cut her off with a bitter laugh. “Home.”

“I meant home here. In Bloomsbury, mine and Merope’s,” she said, wondering how on earth she was going to get him there. A taxi would be best, but she hadn’t enough for the fare. She supposed she could leave Mr. Dunworthy in the taxi when they got there and run inside to fetch the fare, but it was a good deal of money. Till she was actually taken on as an air-raid warden, they shouldn’t be spending …

She thought suddenly of her promise to Hattie to be at the Alhambra for rehearsal by three. Even though everything was changed now that Mr. Dunworthy was here, she still owed it to Hattie to let her know she wouldn’t be there, especially after Hattie had covered for her, and it would be well after five before they arrived home. She’d have to try to get him to the tube station and ring from there.

“Come along,” she said. “Merope and I will make you some nice hot tea and some supper.”

He shook his head. “There’s something I must tell you.”

“You can tell me at home.” She buttoned up his coat as if he were a child and helped him to his feet. “We need to go. The sirens will be going soon, and we mustn’t be caught out in the raids.”

He shook his head. “The raids won’t start till midnight tonight. Over Wapping.”

He knew when the raids were, and where. Thank God. She needn’t worry about their house or Alf and Binnie’s school being blown up anymore. Or about having changed the future beyond all recognition. Or losing the war. The only thing I have to worry about is getting him home, she thought.

“We still need to go. We don’t want to be out in the blackout,” she said, taking his arm, but he was looking at the painting. “Mr. Dunworthy—”

“It will never open,” he said, sinking back down on the chair.

If only Mr. Humphreys was here to help her, but there was no sign of him. “I’ll be back straightaway,” she told Mr. Dunworthy, and hurried across to the north transept, but the verger wasn’t there, or in the nave. He must have taken the sailors up to the Whispering Gallery. She hurried back.

Mr. Dunworthy was gone.

She ran down the south aisle.

He was nearly to the door. “Where are you going?” she asked, but it was obvious. He’d intended to steal away while she was gone.

He’s much more ill than I realized, she thought. Perhaps I should take him to hospital.

But he would never agree to that. He was already opening the heavy door, going out onto the porch. It was raining. He couldn’t be out in this, even for the short walk to the tube station. It would have to be the taxi.

“Stay here,” Polly ordered, “and I’ll go hail a taxicab,” but he was already starting down the steps. “It’s raining,” she said, grabbing his arm to stop him. “Go back up on the porch.”

“No,” he said, shivering. “There are things you don’t know.”

“You can tell me at home.”

“No. After I’ve told you, you won’t want—”

“Of course we’ll want you,” she said, truly alarmed now. “You’re talking nonsense. You can tell me on the way.”

“No. Now.” He began to cough.

“All right,” she said hastily, “but we can’t do it standing out here in this freezing rain. We need to find somewhere warm. The place you’ve been staying, is it near here?”

He didn’t answer.

He doesn’t want me to know where he lives, she thought. He doesn’t want me to be able to find him. Which meant at the first opportunity he intended to attempt to get away from her again. She had to get him somewhere warm before he had the chance.

But everything along Paternoster Row had burnt down the night of the twenty-ninth. She’d seen a pub off Newgate on her way home from St. Paul’s that first Sunday. She’d have to hope it was still there.

It was, and thank goodness the fires, the blackout, and the weather had almost completely destroyed business. The place was all but empty. Polly sat Mr.

Dunworthy, who was now shivering uncontrollably, down on the wooden settle in front of the fire, put her own coat around his shoulders, and went to the counter.

“My friend has had a bad shock,” she told the middle-aged, ginger-haired barmaid. “I daren’t leave him alone. Could you bring us a pot of tea?”

“ ’A course, dearie,” the barmaid said. “Bombed out, was he?”

“Yes,” Polly said, and hurried over to the fire. Mr. Dunworthy had stood up, folded her coat over the back of the settle, and was going toward the door.

She headed him off, said, “Our tea’s coming,” steered him back to the settle, and draped her coat over his knees. “It’ll be here in a moment.”