Connie Willis - All Clear

“Dulwich …” the man murmured. He must be asking where they were going to take him.

“We’ll take you to Norbury,” she said. “It’s quicker. You mustn’t worry about that. That’s our job.”

“I can’t get the stretcher out!” Fairchild called from the ambulance. “It’s stuck!”

“Leave it! Just bring the medical kit!”

“What?” Fairchild called back. “I can’t hear you, Mary!”

The man made a sound, part moan, part gasp. “Mary?” he murmured.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m here.” She pressed down as hard as she could.

This wasn’t working. Blood was still oozing through her hands. It would have to be a tourniquet. “Paige!” she called. “Bring the kit! Hurry!”

“Mary,” the man said urgently. “You mustn’t go.”

“I’m not leaving. I’m right here,” she reassured him.

He’d been wearing a tie. If she could get it off, she could use that for a tourniquet. She opened his coat and began to untie the knot.

“Something wrong …,” he said, and the rest of his words were lost in a spasm of coughing.

The knot wouldn’t come undone. She dug at the fabric with her fingernails, trying to loosen it.

“Don’t,” he said, distressed.

“I need to untie your tie so I can use it for a bandage. I’m going to tie a tourniquet to stop your leg from bleeding.” Where is Fairchild? And Croydon’s ambulance?

The knot finally came loose. Mary untied it quickly. “I’ll get you out of here,” the man murmured, repeating what she’d said. “I promise.”

She pulled the tie from his collar and began to crawl back down to his foot.

He grabbed hold of her wrist. “Mary,” he said urgently, choked, and began to cough again. “Don’t go …”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m only going to bind your foot up. I won’t leave you. I promise.”

“No,” he said, and caught hold of her wrist. “You can’t go!”

“I won’t,” she said. “I promise.”

“No,” he said furiously. “Don’t go. It won’t …” And the world went white and then black, splattering them with printer’s ink, with blood, and she bent over him to tackle him, to push him into the gutter, but it was too late. It had already gone off.

Once more into the breach, dear friends.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, HENRY V

London—Winter 1941

EILEEN HURRIED DOWN THE ESCALATOR STEPS TOWARD them in her new green coat, calling, “Mike, I got you a coat!” She waved the dark blue hat. “Polly, look, a hat!”

She reached the bottom. “And it matches your coat—” She stopped short. “What’s wrong?” She looked anxiously at Polly and then at Mike. “Has something happened?”

Yes, Polly thought, feeling sick.

“What’s wrong?” Eileen said.

I’ve got to keep this from them, Polly thought. Just now, it will kill them if they find out. I’ve got to look as though nothing’s happened. But it was impossible, like trying to stand up after being kicked in the stomach. She couldn’t even think what excuse …

“Are you ill?” Eileen was saying, alarmed. “You’re white as a sheet.” Mike turned to look questioningly at her.

“No, I’m fine,” Polly managed to say. “I was afraid something had happened to you. You’re so late. Where have you been?”

“The Assistance Board hadn’t any coats at all,” Eileen said. “The woman in charge there said they’ve had an absolute run on them since these last attacks and with the cold weather and everything, so I had to go to the one near St. Pancras, and then I had difficulty getting a bus back. I’m sorry I worried you.”

Mike was still looking suspiciously at Polly.

“It’s this not knowing when the raids are,” Polly said. “It’s got me a bit nervy, that’s all. When the sirens went, and you still weren’t here—”

“I am sorry, but I did get you a hat.” Eileen handed it to Polly. “And most importantly, I got you a coat, Mike. I’m afraid it’s a bit too large,” she said, helping him try it on, “but I thought it would prove easier to take in a large one than to let out one which was too small. Mine’s not really warm enough for winter, but it was such a bright, hopeful color that I couldn’t resist. I was so sick of black and brown. This cheered me just to look at it. Doesn’t it make you think of spring, Polly?”

No.

“Yes, it’s very pretty,” she said.

Mike was still watching her.

“And what a lovely hat!” Polly said. She tried it on and made Eileen hold up her compact so she could see how it looked in the tiny mirror, and when she saw her own image, she was relieved to see that some of the color had come back into her cheeks. “Thank you so much. You’re a miracle worker, Eileen. Mike, hold out your arm.” She turned his cuff inside out to look at the lining. “This should be easy to turn up. Now, take it off and let me see the seams.”

“We can do that later,” he said. “The three of us need to talk.”

Oh, no, Polly thought. He’s guessed.

But when they got to the emergency staircase, he only wanted to know if she’d made a list of the raids she could remember. “Yes,” she said, relieved to change the subject. “I’m afraid it’s rather spotty. The only two I know of in January are the ones on the nights of the eleventh and the twenty-ninth.”

Mike wrote the dates down. “Do you know which parts of London were hit?”

“The East End was hit on January twenty-ninth, and central London on Saturday the eleventh. The Liverpool Street and Bank Underground stations were both hit

—”

“Bank?” Eileen interrupted.

“Yes, and several hospitals—I don’t know which ones.”

“And you don’t know about any other January raids?”

“No. I do know the weather was bad enough during January and February to keep the Luftwaffe grounded part of the time,” she said, “and some nights they were bombing outside London—Portsmouth and Manchester and Bristol.”

“Were people killed at Bank Station?” Eileen asked.

“Yes, and at Liverpool Street,” Polly said. “I’m not sure exactly how many. Over a hundred. But the raids weren’t over this part of London, and this station was never hit.”

She told them the February and March raids she remembered. Buckingham Palace had been bombed again, and the shelter at London Bridge Station and a popular nightclub, the Café de Paris, had been hit. She was starting on April when Eileen said, “Before we do any more, can we go to the canteen? I’m starving. What with getting the coats and all, I hadn’t any supper.”

“I’ll go with you,” Polly said, and got to her feet, but Mike said, “We’ll catch up with you. I want to ask Polly about something first.”

Eileen nodded and clattered down the steps. The door clanged shut, and Polly braced herself.

“What happened back there at the escalator?” Mike asked.

“Nothing,” Polly said. “I told you, I was worried because she was so late. Not knowing when the raids are has—”

“It was the coat, wasn’t it?” Mike said. “Is that what she was wearing on VE-Day?”

“No. I told you—”

He grabbed her by the arms and shook her. “Don’t lie to me. It’s too important. That green coat was the one she was wearing on VE-Day.” He shook her again.

“Wasn’t it?”

It was no use. He knew.

“Tell me,” he said, tightening his grip. “It’s important. Is that what she was wearing?”

“Yes,” she said, and his grip slackened, as if all the strength had gone out of his arms.

“I kept hoping the fact that she didn’t own a coat like that meant she was there on a different assignment,” Polly said, “that we’d got out after all, and she’d talked Mr. Dunworthy into letting her go to VE-Day later.”