Connie Willis - All Clear

In which case the blast from the bombs falling all around the cathedral on the twenty-ninth might bring the weakened pillars down, and St. Paul’s with it. And what would that do to civilian morale? St. Paul’s had been the heart of London. The photo of her dome standing firm above the fire and smoke had lifted the contemps’

spirits and hardened their resolve for the remaining long, dark months of the Blitz. What would its destruction do to them? And to the outcome of the war?

“We were actually very lucky. It could have been far worse. The bomb struck the crown of the transverse arch and detonated in the space between the roofs. If it had hit farther down the apse or in the choir, or if it had fallen on through the roof before it exploded, the damage would have been far greater.”

But this much damage may well be enough to alter the course of the war. I must write to Mike, she thought. He’s got to get out of Bletchley Park.

“The organ case was badly damaged,” Mr. Humphreys was saying. “Luckily, the pipes had been taken down to the Crypt for safekeeping—”

“I must go,” Polly said. “Thank you for showing me the—”

“Oh, but I haven’t shown you what the bomb did to the choir. Luckily, these pillars protected the stalls from—”

“Mr. Humphreys!” someone called. It was the firewatcher who’d been talking to the young woman with the open-toed shoes. He pushed past the barricade and came up to them. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, nodding to Polly, “but we need the duty roster, and Mr. Allen said you had it.”

“You’re busy,” Polly said, taking advantage of the interruption. “I mustn’t keep you. Goodbye.” She walked quickly away.

“I gave it to Mr. Langby,” she heard Mr. Humphreys say as she squeezed past the barricade.

Polly hurried down the nave and out of the cathedral. It had stopped raining, but she scarcely noticed, she was so intent on getting home and writing to Mike.

I hope Eileen’s not there, she thought, and only then remembered she’d promised to meet her.

She glanced at her watch to see if she had time to go home, write the letter, and come back, but it was after two. The concert would be nearly over. And if I’m not there, she’ll know something’s wrong.

And she might know if it’s truly a discrepancy or not, Polly thought. She said Mr. Dunworthy spoke to her about St. Paul’s. He may have told her about the altar’s being hit. If it was hit.

But it could easily have been hit without my knowing about it, Polly tried to persuade herself. The tenth of October would have been when she was preoccupied with Marjorie, not with reading newspapers, and before she’d gone to the morgue to look for her own death notice.

Or the bombing might not have been in the papers, given St. Paul’s vital importance to the war, she thought, heading for the tube station. They wouldn’t have wanted the Germans to know about it.

She reached Trafalgar Square just as the concert was letting out. Concertgoers were streaming out the doors and onto the porch where she’d seen Paige standing on VE-Day eve, buttoning coats and pulling on gloves, holding their hands out to see if it was raining, opening umbrellas.

Polly looked for Eileen. She was standing off to one side. Her face looked drawn and worried, and she’d wrapped her black coat tightly about her. The National Polly looked for Eileen. She was standing off to one side. Her face looked drawn and worried, and she’d wrapped her black coat tightly about her. The National Gallery must have been as frigid as St. Paul’s.

“Eileen!” Polly called, and hurried across the wet square, the pigeons scattering before her, flying up to perch on the lions at the base of the monument.

Eileen saw her and raised her hand in recognition, but she didn’t wave. Or smile. Polly glanced at her watch. It wasn’t that late, and the concert had obviously just let out. And Eileen was always so cheerful and optimistic. Some of Polly’s anxiety these last few weeks must have infected her.

Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything about St. Paul’s, she thought. It will only make things worse.

But Polly had to know. And there was no one else to ask. She ran up the steps and over to Eileen. “I need to ask you something,” she said urgently. “Was St. Paul’s

—?”

But Eileen cut her off. “The retrieval team didn’t come to the concert,” she said. “Did you find them?”

“No, there was no one at St. Paul’s.”

“No one?” Eileen said, and there was an edge to her voice. Was she angry at her for insisting she go to the concert? If she was, it couldn’t be helped. There were more important matters at hand.

“No historians at all?” Eileen persisted.

“No, and I was there from nine o’clock on. Eileen, do you know if St. Paul’s was hit by any HEs during the Blitz?”

She looked surprised. “Hit by HEs?”

“Yes. Not incendiaries, high-explosive bombs. Did Mr. Dunworthy say anything about its being hit?”

“Yes,” Eileen said. “But you—”

“Did he say when and which part of the cathedral?”

“I don’t know all the dates. A UXB landed under the—”

“I know about the UXB. And the twenty-ninth.”

“And the altar was hit on October tenth.”

Thank God, Polly thought. It was supposed to have been hit.

Eileen was frowning. “If you were at St. Paul’s this morning, then you saw the damage, didn’t you?”

Oh, no. In her anxiety about the bombing, she’d totally forgotten Eileen knew nothing about her and Mike’s fears that they’d altered events. “Yes, I mean, I did see it,” she stammered, “but I didn’t know … Mr. Dunworthy had told me all about the UXB and the incendiaries, but not about the altar, and when I saw it, I—”

“Thought it might have happened this morning?”

This morning? What did that mean? But at least Eileen hadn’t guessed the real reason she’d asked all these questions. “No, last night,” Polly said. “And there was so much damage, it looked like the entire thing could collapse any minute, and even though I knew St. Paul’s had survived, I thought … I mean, I wasn’t thinking. It was such a shock, seeing it. I hadn’t realized St. Paul’s had ever been hit by an HE.”

“Two,” Eileen said.

Two? Mr. Humphreys had said one.

“The other one was in the transept,” Eileen said. “I don’t know when.”

“The north transept?” Polly asked, thinking irrelevantly of the memorial to Captain Faulknor. Mr. Humphreys would be so upset if that was destroyed.

“I don’t know which transept. Mr. Bartholomew didn’t say.”

Mr. Bartholomew? Who was Mr. Bartholomew? Had someone here at the concert told her about the bombing of the altar? If so, then it could still be a discrepancy.

“Mr. Bartholomew?” Polly asked.

“Yes, John Bartholomew. He gave a lecture about it when I was a first-year.”

Oh, thank goodness, it was someone from Oxford. “He’s a professor at Balliol?”

“No, an historian. He gave a lecture about his experiences on the St. Paul’s fire watch during the Blitz.”

“He’s here?” Polly grabbed Eileen’s arms. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“No, he’s not here now. He was here years ago.”

“In the Blitz. In 1940,” Polly said, and when Eileen nodded, “It doesn’t matter when he was here Oxford time. This is time travel. If he was here in 1940, he’s still here now.”

“Oh!” Eileen clapped her hand to her mouth. “I didn’t even think of that! Is that why you—?”

“How could you not think of it?” Polly burst out. “Mike asked us to try to think of any past historians who might be here,” she said, but even as she said it, she thought, That was that day he came to Townsend Brothers, before he left for Beachy Head, and Eileen wasn’t there. And immediately after that, all their attention had turned to Bletchley Park.