Connie Willis - All Clear

In other words, he intended to ignore the order and continue deceiving the Germans till he got caught and then plead ignorance. Like Lord Nelson had done at the battle of Copenhagen. Tensing was risking his career. And his future. He could be court-martialed, or worse, for disobeying orders, but he’d do it anyway. In order to save lives.

I didn’t get to observe Chaplain Howell Forgy at Pearl Harbor, Ernest thought, or the firemen at the World Trade Center, but I’ve done what I set out to do. I’ve gotten to observe heroes. Not just Tensing, but the Commander and Jonathan. And Cess and Prism and Chasuble, fighting recalcitrant inflatables and angry bulls. And Turing and Dilly Knox, patiently deciphering code.

And Eileen, driving an ambulance through burning streets and coping with the Hodbins. And Polly, dealing daily with the threat of certain death.

If I ever get back to Oxford, I won’t need to go to the Pandemic and the Battle of the Bulge, he thought. I’ve collected more than enough material for my work on heroes right here.

“So, I take it you won’t be at this meeting where the policy’s to be discussed?” Ernest asked.

“Of course I’ll be there.” Tensing drew himself up indignantly. “Unless, of course, my back is acting up. Old war injury, you know.” He allowed himself a smile.

“Lord Nelson’s not the only one who has a blind eye he can turn.”

Cess opened the door and came in. “Chasuble just rang from Tenterden. He says the Austin’s acting up again.”

Right outside the Plough and Bull, no doubt, Ernest thought, where his barmaid Daphne works.

“You two will need to bring him up to speed, then,” Tensing said. He picked up his briefcase and started out. “Those photographs need to be in the dailies by tomorrow and the village papers by their next deadline.” He opened the door.

“Wait,” Cess said. “I’ve only just thought of something. These rockets, we wouldn’t be sending any of them down on our own heads, would we?”

Tensing shook his head. “You’re too far east. If this works as planned, the bulk of the bombs will fall on Bethnal Green, Croydon, and Dulwich.”

Time, which was once said to be on the side of the Allies, has turned out to be, after all, Hitler’s man.

—MOLLIE PANTER-DOWNES,

15 JUNE 1940

Imperial War Museum, London—7 May 1995

“HERE SHE IS, MR. KNIGHT,” TALBOT SAID. “EILEEN!” SHE shouted, waving across the room at the woman who’d just come into the Blitz exhibit.

She was just as Talbot had described her: gray hair, medium height, rather stout. “Lambert! Over here!” Talbot called, and then turned to Calvin, beaming. “I told you she’d be here soon, Mr. Knight.”

“Her name’s Eileen?” he asked, hoping to God he’d misheard her.

“Yes. Eileen! Goody!” Talbot called, waving again. Mrs. Lambert hadn’t looked up. She was fumbling in her handbag, apparently looking for a pen to write on the name tag she held in the other hand.

There were lots of Eileens in the war, he told himself over the sickening thud of his heart. That’s why Merope chose the name, because it had been so common.

And this Eileen looked nothing like the slim, pretty, green-eyed redhead he’d seen in Oxford eight years ago.

But she would have aged fifty-five years since then, and the curly-haired brunette WAAC in the photo had looked nothing like the elderly woman he’d talked to either. And Mrs. Lambert’s gray hair as she bent over a display case, writing her name on the name tag, bore hints of what might be faded red.

Now she was struggling to put her name tag on. And what if, when she finally managed to pin it on, it read “Eileen O’Reilly”?

“What did Mrs. Lambert do in the war?” he asked Talbot. Let her say she was a Wren. Or a chorus girl, he prayed.

“She drove an ambulance,” Talbot said. “Oh, dear, she still doesn’t see us. Come along.” And Talbot dragged him across the room to Mrs. Lambert. She didn’t look as old as Talbot, but that was no doubt due to her plumpness, and Merope had been younger than Polly. The evacuation of the children had been her first assignment.

And, if this was her, her only one.

“Eileen,” Talbot said. “Here’s someone who wants to meet you.”

Eileen had finally got her name tag attached, but it was no help. It merely read “Eileen Lambert,” and “Women’s World War II Alumni Association,” and when she looked up, her eyes were a pale aqua, which might or might not have been green when she was younger.

“I’m sorry,” Talbot was saying. “I’ve forgotten what your name was, Mr.—”

“Knight. Calvin Knight. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lambert,” he said, watching her closely as he shook her hand. “I’m from Oxford,” he added, and thought he saw a flicker of recognition. Oh, God, it was her.

“Mr. Knight is looking for someone who might have known his grandmother,” Talbot said. “Where were you, Goody? Browne said you had to run some sort of errand?”

“Yes. At St. Paul’s. I’d asked my brother to go for me, but he couldn’t. He’s down at the Old Bailey this morning, so I had to go.”

Brother. She had a brother. It wasn’t Eileen after all. The relief hit him with the force of a punch to the stomach.

“And the traffic was wretched,” Mrs. Lambert was saying.

Talbot nodded. “They simply must do something about that area near St. Bart’s. It’s impossible.”

Pudge came up. “Oh, you two have found each other. Excellent. Did Lambert know your grandmother?” she asked him.

“I haven’t asked her yet.”

“His grandmother was in London during the Blitz,” Talbot explained to Eileen. “Her name was Polly—what did you say her last name was, Mr. Knight?”

“Sebastian. Polly Sebastian.” Both ladies looked expectantly at Eileen Lambert, but she was already shaking her head.

“No, there isn’t anyone by that name in the organization,” she said. “Was Polly a nickname for Mary?”

“Yes.”

“We had a Mary in our ambulance unit,” Talbot said, “but her last name was Kent.”

Mrs. Lambert ignored her. “What was your grandmother’s maiden name, Mr. Knight?”

“Sebastian. Her married name was O’Reilly,” he said, just in case, but he couldn’t detect any reaction from her.

“No, sorry,” she said. “We haven’t any Mary O’Reillys either. Have you tried the museum’s archives?”

Yes, he thought. And the British Museum’s. And the Public Record Office’s. And the morgues of the Times and the Daily Herald and the Express.

“That’s a good idea,” he said. “I’m afraid I haven’t time today, but I’ll certainly come back. Thank you for your help. And for yours, Mrs. Vernon,” he said to Talbot, “and yours.” He shook hands with each of them in turn. “I don’t want to keep you from the exhibition.”

“Yes. Oh, Eileen, you must see the ‘Beauty in the Blitz’ display,” Talbot said. “They have nylons from the American PX and that dreadful face powder made from chalk. And there’s a lipstick just like the one I lost when Kent pushed me into the gutter that time. It may even be the same one. I’ll never forget that lipstick. Crimson Caress, it was called.” She and Pudge dragged Mrs. Lambert off, and Calvin headed for the exit, winding his way through the displays to the VE-Day exhibit, which was complete with cheers and simulated fireworks.

It was already after eleven, but if he hurried, he might be able to reach St. Paul’s by noon and catch some of the visitors having lunch in the cathedral’s café. He walked swiftly toward the exit.

“Mr. Knight!” someone called from behind him. He stopped and looked back. Mrs. Lambert was bustling along the corridor after him. He stopped and waited for her to catch up. “Oh, good,” she panted, “you’re still here. I was afraid you’d already gone.” She hurried up to where he was standing.