Connie Willis - All Clear

Even that might be enough to seal the shopgirl’s fate, but at least she wasn’t at Townsend Brothers, where she might endanger Doreen or Miss Snelgrove. Or in Notting Hill Gate with the troupe. And the effort of avoiding people kept her mind off the sprawling network of people they’d come into contact with: the bombing victims she’d saved while she was stationed at Dulwich, the bus driver who’d taken her to Backbury, the servants at the manor, the people who’d been on the train with Eileen and her and Mike, and the girls who’d picked Mike up and dusted him off in Bletchley.

And it kept her mind off Mr. Dunworthy, who was not improving, in spite of eggs and Eileen’s aspirin and a large soup bone that Alf and Binnie had got somewhere and about which both Eileen and Polly thought it best not to ask questions.

“I’m worried about him,” Eileen said. “The doctor says it’s not the head injury, that that’s nearly healed, and that it’s not pneumonia. He doesn’t know what it is.”

It’s thinking about what’s going to happen to us and to Charles Bowden, who will still be in Singapore when the Japanese arrive, and to whoever Mr. Dunworthy sent off to the storming of the Bastille. And to who knows how many other historians who were in equally dangerous times and places when their drops slammed shut.

It’s the weight of the world.

“I’m afraid he’s not going to recover,” Eileen, who never gave up on anything or anybody, said, so Polly wasn’t surprised when she found Alf and Binnie waiting for her one night outside the stage door.

“Eileen sent us to fetch you,” Binnie said.

“Is it Mr. Hobbe?” she asked.

“Mr. Hobbe?” Alf said. “Nothin’ like. It’s Mrs. Rickett’s boardinghouse. It got bombed last night.”

“Direct hit,” Binnie said.

“Kabloom!” Alf shouted. “Ain’t it a good thing we was thrown out?”

“Kabloom!” Alf shouted. “Ain’t it a good thing we was thrown out?”

“The flowers are turning very red. Repeat. The flowers are turning very red.”

—CODED BBC MESSAGE BROADCAST BY THE

FRENCH RESISTANCE BEFORE D-DAY

Kent—April 1944

“WORTHING!” CESS CALLED, AND OPENED THE DOOR.

“What is it now?” Ernest asked, typing, “To the Editor of the Clarion Call: I have the misfortune—”

Cess looked offended. “You asked me to tell you when Lady Bracknell got here,” he said. “He’s here.”

Ernest nodded, typing, “—to reside in—”

He broke off. “Where’s the dummy camp Prism and Gwendolyn are building?” he asked.

“Just north of Coggeshall,” Cess said.

“—in Coggeshall, near the American paratroop base, and I am appalled by the number of beer bottles and—” He paused, fingers poised above the keyboard. “Will they print the word ‘condoms’ in the newspaper?”

“No,” Cess said. “He wants to see us.”

Ernest typed, “—and contraceptive appliances in my lane on Sunday mornings. I have spoken to the camp commander, but to no avail.”

“He wants us in the common room now.”

“This is the last one. Listen to this. I need your advice.” He read it aloud to Cess.

“Oh, it’ll definitely fool the Germans,” Cess said. “There’s no clearer proof that there’s an army in the area than beer bottles and used condoms.”

“No, I need advice on who wrote the letter. Do you think it should be from an irate country squire or a spinster?”

“A vicar,” Cess said promptly. “Now come along.”

“I’ll be right there,” Ernest promised, waving Cess out of the room. He typed two more lines, signed the letter “The Reverend T. W. Ringolsby,” put it and the carbon into the envelope with his articles, hid the envelope in the “Forms 14C” file, and went down to the common room.

Gwendolyn was making his report to Lady Bracknell as Ernest squeezed into a seat next to Cess. “Camp Omaha has been completed,” Gwendolyn said. “Fifty barracks, a motor pool, a mess hall, and a camp kitchen with smoke coming out of its chimney, but I’m not certain how long that will last, so if a German reconnaissance plane could get through our coastal defenses soon, that would be excellent.”

Lady Bracknell nodded. “I’ll arrange it for tomorrow afternoon. The meteorological report is for fair weather till tomorrow evening.” He made a note. “We’ll need soldiers walking between buildings, unloading supplies, and drilling in formation.”

“And guess who those soldiers will be,” Cess whispered to Ernest. “Just my cup of tea—drilling in the pouring rain.”

Lady Bracknell fixed them with a gimlet stare. “All of you except Chasuble and Worthing will report to Camp Omaha at fourteen hundred hours tomorrow.

Chasuble, I need you to arrange a ribbon-cutting ceremony for the airfield in Sissinghurst for Friday next.”

Chasuble frowned. “Does Sissinghurst have an airfield?”

“It will by Friday next. Worthing, I need you to go to Dover.”

“To the hospital?” Ernest asked warily.

“No, to the harbor. I need you to deliver a parcel to a boat that’s docked there.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone, Lieutenant Worthing. How many people does it take to deliver a single parcel?”

“Sorry, sir,” Ernest said, trying to look chagrined rather than thrilled. Here was his chance. Finally. He’d be on his own and with transport. He could finally get to London. And he’d be able to deliver his articles to the Sudbury Weekly Shopper and the Call without Cess or Prism looking over his shoulder. Especially the Call.

The editor, Mr. Jeppers, always insisted on reading through all of the articles before he okayed them and on asking all kinds of questions.

He’d be pushed for time if he wanted to do both, but luckily, Dover was far enough away that a few hours more or less wouldn’t look suspicious. Unless Lady Bracknell wasn’t sending him right away. “When do I leave, sir?” he asked.

“As soon as you can. His boat will only be in port a day or two. We need to catch him before he goes out again.”

Better and better. He debated asking when Lady Bracknell expected him back from the mission and then decided that was looking for trouble. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Report to me when you’re ready to leave.”

“Yes, sir.” And as soon as the meeting broke up, he went to borrow Chasuble’s peacoat and see who had a suitable shirt. The sooner he left, the less likely it was that Bracknell would change his mind and decide to send someone with him.

No one had a shirt that could pass for a sailor’s, but Cess produced a shapeless, dingy gray pullover and a pair of canvas sneakers. “The jumper’s Moncrieff’s and the plimsolls are Prism’s,” Cess said.

Prism’s feet were smaller than his, but it didn’t matter. He’d be driving the entire way. “Perfect. Thanks,” he said, yanking the pullover on. “You wouldn’t have a duffel bag, would you?”

“Yes,” Cess said, and returned immediately with a heavy canvas bag and an umbrella. “You’ll need this as well.”

“Hardy seafaring men don’t go about with umbrellas,” Ernest said, shoving a change of clothes into the bag. “And why are you so certain it’s going to rain?

Bracknell said it’s supposed to be fair.”

“He also said that pasture hadn’t any bulls in it,” Cess said, holding out the umbrella. “And it always rains when we have to be outside. Remember the oil-depot ribbon cutting?” He laid the umbrella on the desk and left. As soon as he was gone Ernest opened the file, retrieved the envelope from “Forms 14C,” and put it into the duffel bag under his clothes.

Cess leaned back in. “Bracknell wants to see you.”

Cess leaned back in. “Bracknell wants to see you.”