Connie Willis - All Clear

I knew it was too good to be true, Ernest thought, but Bracknell only wanted to give him the parcel—a large rectangular box that looked heavy but weighed almost nothing—and a letter. “You’re to give both to Captain Doolittle on the Mlle. Jeannette.”

“The Mlle. Jeannette?”

“It’s a French fishing boat.” He told Ernest where it would be docked. “You’re Seaman Higgins. You’re from Cornwall. Can you do a Cornish accent?”

He nodded. “I’m an old hand at accents.”

Bracknell handed him a sheaf of forms. “These are your papers. You were invalided out of His Majesty’s Navy, and you’re looking for work. You’re to say to Captain Doolittle—and only to Captain Doolittle”—he read aloud in his precise upper-class accent—“ ‘Seaman Higgins, sir. Admiral Pickering said as how you was hiring on a crew,’ and Captain Doolittle will reply, ‘Admiral Pickering! How is that old devil? and then you give him the package.’ ”

“Yes, sir.” He repeated his line back to him in what he hoped was an out-of-work sailor’s accent and then said, “Am I taking the Austin or the staff car?”

“Neither. You’re going on foot.”

I knew it was too good to be true, he thought. “You want me to walk all the way to Dover?”

“No, of course not. I want you to hitchhike. That way you’ll be able to discuss the invasion with farmers and other locals. And you’ll be able to stop at pubs along the way and engage the denizens in conversation about the invasion as well.”

But he wouldn’t be able to deliver his articles or get to London.

“The conversations will corroborate the disinformation in our radio transmissions and newspaper articles,” Bracknell said.

“Speaking of which,” Ernest said, “the Call’s and the Shopper’s deadlines are both tomorrow, and if I miss them, there won’t be anything about FUSAG in either paper till week after next. There’ve been planted stories about the American and Canadian troops in every issue of both papers. If they suddenly stop—and in more than one paper—the Germans may notice. And as you’re always saying, sir, in an enterprise like this, if any one piece is missing, the entire scheme will collapse.”

“I am well aware of what I’ve said,” Bracknell snapped. “Have you written the stories?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then Cecily can deliver them for you.” And before Ernest could stop him, he shouted, “Cecily!”

“But Cess doesn’t know the editors. It would make more sense for him to go to Dover and me to stay here. I could deliver them on my way to Camp—”

“No, Algernon specifically requested you make this delivery.”

He did? Why? he wondered.

“Yes, sir?” Cess said, appearing in the doorway.

“Ernest needs you to deliver his planted articles to the newspapers tomorrow morning. Take the Austin,” he said, adding insult to injury, and waved them out of his office.

“Thank you,” Cess said out in the hall.

“For what?”

“For trying to get me out of drilling in the rain. I appreciate the attempt, even though it didn’t work.”

“That’s the story of my life,” Ernest said, more bitterly than he meant to. And when Cess looked curiously at him, “Attempts that don’t work.”

“Where are the articles you need me to deliver?”

“I’ll fetch them,” Ernest said, and to get rid of Cess, asked “You wouldn’t have a pair of dungarees I could borrow, would you? These trousers of mine look too good to be a sailor’s.”

“What about the ones you wore the day you had that run-in with the bull?” Cess said. “They surely look bad enough.”

“You’re right,” Ernest said, and tried again. “Ask Prism if he has a knitted cap I can borrow.” As soon as Cess had gone, he shut the door, dug the envelope out of the duffel bag, and pried the sealed edge open. He took the papers halfway out and began pulling out the ones he couldn’t let Cess take.

“Did you find your cap?” Cess’s voice said outside in the corridor.

“Yes, it’s in fairly bad shape, though,” Prism said.

I should have marked the coded articles somehow, Ernest thought, leafing through the papers. Or written them in red ink that would dissolve when it got wet, like the bigram books.

There were four of them. Where the hell was the fourth one? There it was. “Lost, locket inscribed E.O.…”

He yanked it out, jammed it and the other three sheets of paper into the duffel bag, resealed the envelope, and was putting his razor and shaving soap into the bag when Cess came in, carrying a cap even grimier and more ragged than the jumper. “Perfect,” Ernest said, handing the envelope to Cess. He tried on the cap. “What do you think?”

“Very seamanlike. All that’s wanted is the smell of fish and a two days’ growth of beard. Which means you won’t be needing that razor,” Cess said, reaching for the duffel bag.

Ernest jerked it out of his reach. “That’s what you think,” he said, cinching it shut. “On my way back I’m supposed to stop at assorted pubs and talk about Calais, and I wouldn’t like to frighten the barmaids.”

“Yes, well, stay away from the Bull and Plough,” Cess said. “Chasuble doesn’t want anyone poaching on his time with Daphne.”

“Daphne?” Ernest said sharply.

“The barmaid. You know her. Pretty little blonde, big blue eyes. Chasuble’s head over heels about her. Where do I take these articles?”

“The originals go to the Weekly Shopper in Sudbury and the carbons to the Croydon Clarion Call,” Ernest said, pulling on the canvas sneakers, which already hurt.

“The office is just off the high street. Mr. Jeppers is the editor.” He tied the sneakers. “They’ve got to be there by four tomorrow afternoon.”

He stood up and slung the duffel bag over his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you could run me up to Newenden? I’ll have a better chance of catching a ride from there.” And there’s a train I could catch from there to London and then take one to Dover in the morning.

“Sorry. Chasuble just left,” Cess said, “and Moncrieff won’t be back with the Austin till tonight. Here.” He handed Ernest a tin of pilchards.

“What’s this for?”

“I thought you could pour a bit on your trousers for authenticity.”

“I’ll wait till I get there,” Ernest said, eager to get away. London was out, but with luck he could catch a ride to Hawkhurst in time to make the bus to Croydon and get his articles in before Cess delivered the others, though how exactly would he explain the necessity of two separate deliveries to Mr. Jeppers?

I’ll work that out later, he thought, after I’ve caught the bus. And a ride.

But after half an hour of limping along the road in the too-tight sneakers, no one at all had come along. It’s too bad the First Army’s not really here. I could hitch a ride with one of them.

He was finally picked up by an elderly clergyman going to the next village to substitute for the local vicar. “He’s volunteered to go over with the troops as a chaplain,” he leaned out the window to tell Ernest. “The village is only two miles on. Are you certain you don’t want to wait for a better ride?”

Ernest wasn’t certain at all, but by then his feet hurt so badly, he climbed in, only to immediately have a Jeep with a pretty WAC driving it appear out of nowhere and shoot past them. So when the clergyman let him out, he turned down a ride in another lumbering farm truck—a truck that turned out to be the last vehicle on the road for three hours.

He didn’t make it to Hawkhurst till nearly ten that night, which, when he reflected on it—and he’d had hours to reflect on it—was probably just as well. There was no way to guarantee that Mr. Jeppers wouldn’t mention his having been there to Cess when he got to Croydon, and if he did, Cess would want to know what was in those articles that was so important. And he was already too interested in what Ernest was typing.