Connie Willis - All Clear

Eileen and Polly started toward the stairs, and the nurse moved swiftly to block their way. “I’m afraid no one’s allowed in the recovery room. If you’d like, you can wait in the waiting room.”

“Two men brought him in,” Polly said. “Members of the fire watch. Can you tell us where they are?”

And when the nurse seemed to hesitate, Eileen put in, “Dr. Cross sent me to find out. I’m his driver.”

“Oh,” the nurse said. “Of course. I’ll go and see.”

“One’s elderly and the other’s tall with dark hair,” Eileen called after the nurse, and described what she thought they were wearing.

“One’s elderly and the other’s tall with dark hair,” Eileen called after the nurse, and described what she thought they were wearing.

“And let’s hope she doesn’t run into Dr. Cross while she’s finding out,” she said to Polly.

Binnie came tearing up. “I been to all the wards, and ’e ain’t there. You want me to go look someplace else?”

“No, stay here till the nurse comes back,” Eileen said. If the nurse didn’t bring any information, they could send her to surgery. “Where’s Alf?”

“I dunno,” Binnie said. “Me and ’im split up. Do you want I should go look for ’im?”

“No.” Eileen grabbed her to ensure she didn’t.

The nurse returned. “I spoke with the ambulance driver who brought Mr. Langby in. She said only one member of the fire watch came with Mr. Langby—a Mr.

Bartholomew—and that he left as soon as Mr. Langby was safely inside the hospital.”

“Left?” Polly said, looking as though she’d been kicked in the stomach.

“Left to go where?” Binnie asked, and the nurse seemed to suddenly become aware of her presence.

“Children aren’t allowed in—” she began.

“Left to go where?” Eileen cut in. “It’s essential Dr. Cross speak with him immediately. When did he leave?”

“Over an hour ago,” the nurse said. “You’ll have to take that child to the waiting room.”

“She’s Dr. Cross’s niece,” Eileen said. “I’ll go and tell him.”

She let go of Binnie’s arm, grabbed Polly’s, and propelled her down the corridor. “Don’t worry. We can still catch him. We’ll drive to St. Paul’s,” she said. “Binnie

—” But Binnie had disappeared.

An orderly was coming toward them, looking angry—no doubt the reason she’d vanished, and she’d reappear as soon as he passed. But she didn’t.

Good, Eileen thought, steering Polly through the maze of corridors, looking for something familiar to show her they were headed in the right direction. They obviously couldn’t take Alf and Binnie with them, and this way they wouldn’t have to waste time arguing with them over their staying here.

But Alf popped up moments later and said, “If you’re lookin’ for the ambulance, you’re goin’ the wrong way.”

“Where’s your sister?” Eileen asked.

He shrugged. “I dunno. We split up. Where’s your coat?”

“I took it off. Show us the way.”

“Come along,” he said, and led her and Polly quickly and expertly to the dispensary.

Agatha Christie wasn’t there, which Eileen supposed was good, considering what had happened last time, but she’d have liked to see her again now that she knew who she was. And what? Tell her how much you love her novels? London’s burning to the ground, and you’ve got to get to St. Paul’s. She pushed out through the emergency doors.

The ambulance wasn’t there.

Of course not. There were hundreds of casualties, and Guy’s Hospital’s ambulances couldn’t get through. I should have taken the keys like Alf, she thought, feeling sick, staring at the empty spot where the ambulance had been.

Polly was staring at the sky. The wall of smoke was still there, but the red had faded to a pinkish charcoal gray, and above the pall the overcast sky was beginning to show a hint of paler gray. “It’s nearly morning,” she said. “We’ll never make it in time.”

“No, it isn’t,” Eileen said staunchly. “That’s the light from the fires reflecting off the cloud cover.”

Polly shook her head. “ ‘It is the lark.’ ”

“It isn’t. It’s only—” Eileen held her watch up, trying to see the time, but it was too dark to make out the hands. “There’s still time to get there before he leaves,” she said, though she didn’t see how. The Underground wouldn’t start running till half past six, and even if they could get to Blackfriars, they’d have to climb Ludgate Hill.

Polly was still staring blindly at the sky. “We won’t be able to find him,” she murmured as if to herself. “We’ll be too late.”

“Alf,” Eileen said, “do you think you could find us a taxi?”

“A taxi?” Alf said. “Whattya want a taxi for?”

Wretched child. “We must get to St. Paul’s immediately. It’s an emergency.”

“Why don’t you take the ambulance?” he said, and Binnie came driving around the corner of the hospital.

She leaned out the window. “I thought I better ’ide it so nobody else took it.”

Alf opened the passenger door, scrambled in, and rolled down his window. “Well?” he said. “Are we goin’ or what?”

That won’t be there in the morning.

—FIREMAN, ON SEEING ST. PAUL’S

SURROUNDED BY FIRES,

29 December 1940

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital—30 December 1940

MIKE WOKE UP WITH A SPLITTING HEADACHE, AND WHEN he tried to put his hand to his forehead, a searing pain shot along his arm.

He opened his eyes. His arm was swathed in gauze, and he was lying in a white-painted iron bed in a dimly lit ward. He turned his head to look at the sleeping patient in the bed next to him. It was Fordham, with his arm still in traction. “Oh God,” he murmured, trying to sit up. “How did I get here?”

“Shh,” a pretty, wimpled nurse—not Sister Carmody—said, pushing him back down and pulling the blankets up over him. “Lie still. You’ve been injured. You’re in hospital. Try to rest.”

“How did I get to Orpington?” he asked.

“Orpington?” she said. “You did get a knock on the head. You’re in St. Bartholomew’s.”

St. Bartholomew’s. Good. He was still in London. He must have … but then what was Fordham doing here? He looked over at him, and it wasn’t Fordham, after all. It was a teenaged boy.

“What time is it?” Mike asked, looking over at the windows, but they were completely covered by sandbags piled against them.

“Never you mind about that. Would you like some breakfast?”

Breakfast? Oh, Christ, he’d been out cold the whole night.

“You must try to rest,” the nurse was saying. “You’ve a concussion.”

“A concussion?” He felt his head. There was a painful bump on the left side.

“Yes, a burning wall fell on you,” she said, pulling out a thermometer. “You were extremely lucky. You’ve a burn on your arm, but it could have been far worse.”

How? he thought. I was supposed to be finding John Bartholomew, and I’ve been out of commission all night.

“Eight other firemen were killed in Fleet Street when a wall collapsed,” she said.

Mike tried to sit up. “I’ve got to go—”

She pushed him back down. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said, sounding exactly like Sister Carmody.

A horrible thought struck him. What if he’d been here for weeks, like in Orpington? “What day is it?”

“What day?” she said, looking worried. “I’ll fetch the doctor.” She stuck the thermometer into her pocket and hurried off.

Oh, God, it had been weeks. He’d missed the drop.

No, Eileen and Polly wouldn’t have gone without you, he told himself. They’d have made John Bartholomew wait. Or sent a retrieval team back for him.