Connie Willis - All Clear

and a shower of sparks. A harried-looking mother with three little girls, all eating ice creams, went by. A conga line snaked past her, kicking.

She waited for it to pass, craning her neck, looking for the flare of fireworks, for Binnie’s blonde head. “Alf!” she called. “Binnie!” She would never find them in this crowd.

“Were these what you were looking for, madam?” a man’s voice said behind her, and she turned to find an Army chaplain with both children in tow, one hand on Binnie’s shoulder and the other firmly gripping Alf’s collar.

“Look who we found!” Alf said happily. “The vicar!”

He had a two-day stubble of beard and looked exhausted. His chaplain’s uniform was covered in mud, and he was terribly thin.

“Mr. Goode,” Eileen said, unable to take in the fact that he was here and well and safe. “What are you doing here?”

“The war’s over,” Alf said.

“They flew us over this afternoon,” the vicar said. “Thank you for your letters. I wouldn’t have made it through without them.”

And I wouldn’t have made it through without yours, she thought.

“Aren’t you going to tell him welcome home?” Binnie prompted.

“Welcome home,” Eileen said softly.

“What sort of welcome’s that?” Binnie hooted, and Alf said, “Ain’t you gonna kiss him or nothin’? The war’s over!”

“Alf!” Eileen said reprovingly. “Mr. Goode—”

“No, he’s right. Kissing’s definitely in order,” he said, and took her in his arms and kissed her.

“I told you,” Binnie said to Alf.

“I didn’t think I had a hope of finding you in this crush,” the vicar said after he’d released her, “and then I spotted Guy Fawkes here.” He gave Alf’s shoulder a shake. “Though it’s a miracle I recognized either of them, they’ve changed so much. Alf’s a foot taller, and Binnie’s nearly grown.”

“Do you want to come with us?” Alf asked him. “We’re goin’ to Piccadilly Circus.”

“We are not,” Binnie said. “Mum said we’re goin’ to supper.”

“I think you’ll find they haven’t changed all that much,” Eileen said dryly.

“Good. I got through many a bad period by thinking of the time they painted blackout stripes on Farmer Brown’s cattle.”

“Remember the time you came to the station and helped Mum get Theodore on the train?” Binnie asked.

“I do,” Eileen said. She looked at the vicar. “You came to rescue me just in the nick of time.”

“If we don’t go to Piccadilly Circus now,” Alf whined, “they’ll have turned off the lights!”

“How about supper in Piccadilly Circus?” the vicar said.

“Are you certain you want to go with us?” Eileen asked him. He looked ready to drop. “Perhaps Mr. Goode would like to go home and get some rest.”

“And miss VE-Day?” He smiled at Eileen. “Absolutely not.”

“This ain’t the real VE-Day,” Alf said. “The real one’s tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll have to do that, as well,” the vicar said, and took Eileen’s arm. “What all’s happening tomorrow, do you know?”

Continued rationing, she thought, and such serious food shortages the Americans will have to send us care packages, and then Hiroshima and the Cold War and the oil wars and Denver and pinpoint bombs and the Pandemic. And the Beatles and time travel and colonies on the Moon. And nearly fifty more Agatha Christie novels.

Alf tugged at her sleeve. “The vicar said, ‘What’s ’appenin’ tomorrow?’ ” he shouted over the cheering crowd.

“I have no idea,” Eileen said, and smiled up at the vicar.

Well, come on. Let’s see if there’s still a war going on.

—GENERAL GEORGE S. PATTON,

6 July 1944

London—19 April 1941

COLIN WANTED TO TAKE THE TUBE TO ST. PAUL’S, BUT POLLY, remembering the guard who’d prevented her from leaving during a raid, said, “We can’t risk getting trapped in the station. We need to walk there.”

“Is there a chance we can find a taxi?” Colin asked.

“In this? I doubt it. Where did you say the raids are tonight?”

“Over the docks,” he said, looking down the street, trying to work out which way to go.

She watched him as he stood there against the backdrop of fires and searchlights, intent on finding a way to get them to St. Paul’s. Like Stephen Lang, trying to think of a way to bring V-1s down. He looked so much like Stephen. Was that because their jobs had required the same determination and resourcefulness? Or might Stephen and Paige Fairchild have been two of his—what would they have been?—great-grandparents?

“Since most of the bombing will be near the Thames,” Colin said, “I think the best plan is to take the Strand to Fleet Street.”

Mr. Dunworthy shook his head. “It’s too easy to get lost in the maze of streets in the City.”

“He’s right,” Polly said, remembering the night they’d tried to find Mr. Bartholomew.

“The Embankment’s the most direct route,” Mr. Dunworthy said.

“But that’s where the bombing is,” Polly objected.

“No, he’s right,” Colin said. “The majority of the bombs were east of Tower Bridge, and most of the raids occurred after midnight. So we need to hurry.”

“And we need to be as quiet as we can,” Polly said. “We don’t want a warden to catch us and drag us into a shelter.”

“You forget, I’m a warden,” Colin said, tapping his helmet. “If he—or she—stops us, I’ll simply tell them that I’m taking you somewhere safe. Which, as a matter of fact, I am.”

He led the way, supporting Mr. Dunworthy and keeping close to the buildings. It had rained. The pavement shone with wetness, and, even though there were still clouds, the sky directly overhead was clear. In the wake of the searchlights, she could see stars.

As they neared Trafalgar Square, Colin said, “I hope it’s less crowded than the last time I was here.”

“You came to VE-Day to find me?”

He nodded. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to find you because I hadn’t found you, but at that point I was willing to try anything. And I wanted to see you.”

“And did you?” she asked, thinking of Colin somewhere in that celebrating crowd, searching for her.

“No, some wretched child tossed a firecracker at me and nearly blew my foot off. But it wasn’t a total loss. I got kissed by a large number of pretty girls.” He grinned his crooked grin at her.

“Ah, not quite as crowded, I see,” he said as they came into the deserted square. The fountains had been shut off, and the lions slumbered in the gray and silver silence. Even the pigeons were asleep.

Sleeping Beauty’s palace, Polly thought, and its spell seemed to fall on them. They passed silently through the square and down to the Strand, moving like wraiths through the darkened, deserted streets.

They ran into several diversion barricades and had to go around, till Polly was thoroughly lost, but Colin seemed to know exactly which way to go. Twice, at crossings, he took Polly’s arm to keep her from pitching off the curb, and once, on an uneven brick pavement, he took her hand. Otherwise he didn’t touch her, though even in the blackest lanes when she couldn’t see him at all, she was sharply aware of his presence.

It grew lighter as they neared the Thames. The searchlights were blunted against the overcast sky, and the fires from the docks stained the clouds pink, and they were able to see their way more easily. The diversions had forced them farther west than their original plan. The twin spires of Westminster Abbey lay directly ahead of them, and beyond the Abbey, the tower of Big Ben.

“It’s half past eleven,” Colin said as they went down the steps to the Embankment. “We need to hurry,” and they set off quickly along the walled walk, following the curve of the river.