Blackout

En route to London-29 September 1940

POLLY’S JOURNEY BACK TO LONDON WAS EVEN WORSE than the one to Backbury had been. The train had no empty seats, and she had to stand squashed in the corridor-the only advantage of which was that she couldn’t fall down when the train swayed or stopped so the inevitable troop trains could pass.

When she changed trains at Daventry, she managed to snag a seat in a compartment, but at the next stop scores of soldiers poured onto the train, all with enormous kit bags which they crammed onto the overhead racks and then, when they were filled, set on the already crowded seats, squashing Polly into a smaller and smaller space.

Colin warned me about the dangers of blast and shrapnel, but not about the possibility of being smothered. Or stabbed to death, she thought, attempting to shift the kit bag on her right, which appeared to have a bayonet in it from the way it was poking her in the side.

And why had the train had to arrive in Backbury on time, today of all days? No other train had been on time during the entire war. If it had been put onto a siding by even a single troop train, she’d have had time to speak to the vicar and find out for certain if Merope had gone back to Oxford.

Of course she’s gone back, she argued. She left when the Army took over the manor. Her assignment had obviously been designed to end then. With everyone leaving, her disappearance wouldn’t even have been noticed. They’d have assumed she’d taken another job or gone home to her family, like the sergeant said. But what if she hadn’t left for Oxford? What if the evacuees had been sent to another village, and Merope’d gone with them?

No, the sergeant had said the children had gone back to London, and even if they’d been sent to another manor, it would have had its own staff to care for them. And the last thing Merope would have wanted to do was to go with the Hodbin children. And to leave her drop. If she’d been told to accompany them, she’d have made some excuse and gone to the drop and through to Oxford as soon as possible.

Either way, she was gone, which meant Polly was stuck here till someone came to fetch her. But it also meant she could stop imagining that the net was broken, or worse, and that they wouldn’t be able to come get her before her deadline. Merope’s drop was obviously working or she couldn’t have gone back.

Which meant the problem had to be a divergence point-or a series of them-and the team would be here as soon as they were over. Or they might already be over, and the team was waiting for her at Townsend Brothers, though it was highly unlikely they’d have come on the one day she’d been gone.

If it was only one day. At this rate it would take her a week to get back to London. The train from Daventry had been so late and there’d been so many delays that by six o’clock they still hadn’t reached Hereford, which meant she might as well have stayed till the service was over, talked to everyone in Backbury, and taken the bus back. But after Reading they made better time, and by ten one of the soldiers reported, “We’re coming into Ealing. We should be in London soon.”

The train pulled out of the station and then stopped. And sat. “Is it another troop train?” Polly asked.

“No. Air raid.”

Polly thought of the vicar’s sermon. “We fear we will be trapped in this dreadful place forever,” he’d said. Truer words, she thought, leaning her head against the kit bag and trying to catch a little sleep.

It was a good thing Marjorie had said she’d cover for her if she wasn’t there at the opening bell. They didn’t make it to Euston Station till half past eight the next morning, after which she still had to run the obstacle course of London-After-a-Big-Raid. The Piccadilly, Northern, and Jubilee Lines weren’t running; the bus she needed to take was lying on its side in the middle of the road; and there were notices saying Danger UXB barring access to every other street.

It was half past eleven before she reached Townsend Brothers. Marjorie would almost certainly have told Miss Snelgrove about Polly’s ailing mother by now. She’d have to ask Marjorie exactly what she had told her, so they could coordinate their stories.

But Marjorie wasn’t there. When Polly got to the floor, Doreen hurried over to her and demanded, “Where have you been? We thought you’d gone off with Marjorie.”

“Gone off?” Polly said, glancing over at Marjorie’s counter, but a plump brunette she didn’t recognize was standing behind it. “Where?”

“No one knows. Marjorie didn’t say a word to anyone. She simply didn’t come in this morning. Miss Snelgrove was livid, what with not knowing whether you’d be in and us so busy. Customers have been coming in in droves.” She pointed at the brunette. “They had to send Sarah Steinberg down from Housewares to fill in till they can hire someone.”

“Hire someone? But just because Marjorie didn’t come in doesn’t mean she’s given her notice. She might have had difficulty getting here. I had a dreadful time coming from the station. Or something might have happened to her.”

“That was the first thing we thought of, what with the raids last night,” Doreen said. “And when Miss Snelgrove rang her landlady, she said Marjorie hadn’t come in last night, and she’d rung the hospitals. But she rang back a bit ago and said she’d checked Marjorie’s room, and all her things were gone. Marjorie was always on about going to Bath to live with her flatmate, but I never thought she’d actually do it, did you?”

“No,” Polly said. Marjorie hadn’t said a word about leaving. She’d promised to cover for her and to tell the retrieval team where she was. What if they’d been here this morning?

“Did anyone come in-?” she began, but Doreen cut her off.

“Quick, Miss Snelgrove’s coming,” she whispered. She scuttled off to her own counter, and Polly started toward hers, but too late. Miss Snelgrove was already bearing down on her.

“Well?” she demanded. “I trust you have a good reason for being two and a half hours late?”

That all depends on what Marjorie told you on Saturday, Polly thought. Had she said she was ill or visiting her mother?

“Well?” Miss Snelgrove said, folding her arms belligerently across her chest. “I trust you’re feeling better.”

She’d told her she was ill, then. I hope. “No, actually, I’m still a bit gippy. I rang up to say I wouldn’t be in today, but they said you were dreadfully shorthanded, so I thought I’d best try to come in.”

Miss Snelgrove was not impressed. “To whom did you speak?” she demanded. “Was it Marjorie?”

“No, I don’t know who it was. I didn’t know about Marjorie till I got here. I was so surprised-”

“Yes, well, go and tell Miss Steinberg she can go back to her department. And I believe you have a customer.”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” Polly said and went over to her counter, but Miss Snelgrove continued to watch her like a hawk, so she didn’t have a chance to ask Sarah if anyone had come in asking about her this morning, and no chance to talk to Doreen either till Miss Snelgrove went on her lunch break.

As soon as she was out of sight, Polly darted over to Doreen’s counter and asked her, “Marjorie didn’t say whether anyone had come in asking for me before she left, did she?”

“No, I didn’t even have a chance to talk to her,” Doreen said. “We were swamped, what with you being out ill and all, and then, just before closing, Miss Snelgrove said I’d made a mistake in my sales receipts, and I had to tote them all up again and by the time I’d finished, Marjorie’d gone.” She looked speculatively at Polly. “Who were you expecting? Did you meet someone?”

“No,” Polly said. She repeated the story she’d told Marjorie about her cousin coming to London. “And you didn’t see her talking to anyone?”

“No, I told you, we were frightfully busy. There was a story in the Saturday morning papers about the government rationing silk because the RAF needed it for parachutes, and everyone in London came in to buy up nightgowns and knickers. She could at least have said goodbye,” Doreen said indignantly. “Or left a note or something.”

A note. Polly went back to her counter and searched its drawers and her sales book and then, pretending to rearrange the merchandise, the drawers of stockings and gloves, but all she found was a scrap of brown wrapping that read cryptically “6 bone, 1 smoke”-presumably a reminder of stocking colors to be ordered. Or the description of a bomb site. But no note.

Even though it was unlikely Sarah would have seen the note and pocketed it, Polly ran upstairs to Housewares on her tea break to ask her. She hadn’t, and no, no one had come in asking for Polly this morning before she got there. Sarah hadn’t talked to Marjorie on Saturday either. Neither had any of the other girls except Nan, and Marjorie hadn’t mentioned anyone inquiring about her.

“Face it, luv, he’s not coming,” Doreen said as they covered their counters.

“What?” Polly said, startled. “Who?”

“This boyfriend you’ve asked everyone in the entire store about. What’s his name?”

“I haven’t got a boyfriend. I told you, my cousin-”

Doreen didn’t look convinced. “This chap didn’t… you’re not in trouble, are you?”

Yes, Polly thought, but not the sort you mean. “No,” she said. “I told you, I haven’t got a boyfriend.”

“Well, you haven’t one now, that’s certain. He’s left you in the lurch.”

No, they haven’t, Polly thought, but there was no one standing outside the staff entrance, and no one in front of Townsend Brothers. Polly waited as long as she could, hoping the team didn’t know about the earlier closing hour, but darkness-and, consequently, the raids-were coming earlier now that it was nearly October. In another week, the raids would begin before people left work.

Sir Godfrey was waiting for her at Notting Hill Gate when she stepped off the train. He took her arm. “Viola! I have tragic news. You weren’t here to vote with me last night, and so we are condemned to do that sentimental ass Barrie.”

“Oh, dear. Not Peter Pan?”

“No, thank God,” he said, escorting her to the escalator and down, “though it was a near thing. Mr. Simms not only voted for it but demanded Nelson be allowed to vote as he would be playing Nana. And after I intervened to get the wretched dog allowed down here in the first place! Foul traitor!”

He smiled at her and then frowned. “Don’t look so heartbroken, child. All is not lost. If we must do Barrie, The Admirable Crichton’s at least amusing. And the heroine shows great courage in adversity.”

“Oh, good, you’re back,” Miss Laburnum said, coming down the escalator. “Has Sir Godfrey told you we’re doing The Admirable Crichton?” and before Polly could answer, “How is your dear mother?”

Mother? Polly thought blankly and then remembered that was where she was supposed to have gone. “Much better, thank you. It was only a virus.”

“Virus?” Miss Laburnum said, bewildered.

Oh, God, hadn’t viruses been discovered in 1940? “I…”

“Virus is a variety of influenza,” Sir Godfrey said. “Isn’t that right, Viola?”

“Yes,” she said gratefully.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Laburnum said. “Influenza can be dreadfully serious.”

“So it can,” Sir Godfrey said, “but not with the proper medicine. Have you given Miss Sebastian her script?”

Miss Laburnum fluttered off through the crowd to fetch it. “If she asks you what sort of medicine,” Sir Godfrey whispered to Polly, “tell her gin.”

“Gin?”

“Yes. A most efficacious remedy. Tell her your mother came to so fast she bit the bowl off the spoon.”

Which was from Shaw’s Pygmalion and meant that he knew perfectly well that she’d lied about going to see her mother. She braced herself for his asking where she had been, but Miss Laburnum was back with a stack of small blue clothbound books.

She handed one to Polly. “Alas, I was unable to locate sufficient copies of Mary Rose to enable us to perform it,” she said, leading them out to the platform, “though I’m certain I saw several in the bookshops only last week.”

They reached the group. “Miss Sebastian’s mother is much improved,” she announced, and went over to give the rector his copy.

“I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I’ve made for you,” Sir Godfrey whispered to Polly. “I spent three pounds ten buying up every copy of Mary Rose on Charing Cross Road to save you from sentimental claptrap like ‘Goodbye, little island that likes too much to be visited.’”

Polly laughed.

“Attention, everyone,” Mrs. Wyvern said, clapping her hands. “Does everyone have a script? Good. Sir Godfrey is to play the title role, Miss Sebastian is to be Mary-”

“Mary?” Polly said.

“Yes, the female lead. Is there a problem?”

“No, it’s only… I didn’t think we were doing Mary Rose.”

“We’re not. We’re doing The Admirable Crichton. You are playing Lady Mary.”

Sir Godfrey said, “Barrie was inordinately fond of the name Mary.”

“Oh,” Polly said. “I’m not certain I should be given such a large part, with my mother and everything. If I were to have to leave suddenly…”

“Miss Laburnum can act as your understudy,” Sir Godfrey said. “Go on, Mrs. Wyvern.”

Mrs. Wyvern read the rest of the cast list. “Sir Godfrey has also kindly agreed to direct. The play is about Lord Loam, his three daughters, and their fiancйs. They and their servants are shipwrecked-”

Shipwrecked, Polly thought. How appropriate.

“-on a desert island. And the only person among them with any survival skills at all is their butler, Crichton, so he becomes their leader. And then, when they’ve resigned themselves to remaining on the island forever, they’re rescued-”

Resigning myself’s not an option, Polly thought. I can’t afford to sit here and wait for rescue. If I’m not off the island when my deadline arrives…

But there was nothing to do but sit and wait for the retrieval team to come. Or for her drop to open. If the problem was a divergence point, then the drop might not have been damaged, and its failure to open was only temporary. If so, the retrieval team might not have come because it wasn’t necessary. She could go home on her own.

So when the all clear went the next morning, Polly stayed behind, saying she wanted to learn her lines. She gave them half an hour to get home and then went to the drop.

Workmen had begun clearing the site, so the passage was even more visible from Lampden Road, but there was no one about. The passage and the well looked just as they had the night she’d waited there except for a heavy coat of plaster dust, no doubt churned up by the work going on outside. There weren’t any footprints in the dust, so none of the men clearing the site had discovered the passage, which was lucky, but there weren’t any footprints on the steps leading down to the drop either, or any other sign that the team had come through the drop.

Polly sat down on the steps to wait, staring at the peeling black door and thinking about The Light of the World. And about Marjorie. It seemed so unlike her to have left when she’d promised to cover for Polly. And without telling anyone. But perhaps she’d been afraid if she told people, they’d attempt to talk her out of it-or say she’d lost her nerve and was running away-so she’d waited till Polly was gone and the store was especially busy to slip away.

If Merope had been in Backbury, you’d have disappeared just as precipitiously, Polly told herself. As you will now if your drop opens.

But it didn’t. It didn’t open the next morning either, or that night. Which meant either the divergence point was still occurring, or her drop had been damaged after all. But even if it had and the retrieval team had to come through somewhere else, they might still come here looking for clues to her whereabouts.

She scribbled her name and “Townsend Brothers” on a scrap of paper, folded it, and wedged it half under the peeling black door and, after work the next day, ran up to Alterations and stole a piece of French chalk.

It rained that night, preventing her from going back to the drop, so she went to Holborn and, on the pretext of borrowing an Agatha Christie mystery from the lending library, told the frizzy-haired librarian all about the acting troupe and The Admirable Crichton, mentioning her own name twice and Notting Hill Gate three times. “I work at Townsend Brothers in the stockings department during the day,” she said, “so acting makes a nice change. You must come see our play. We’re on the northbound District Line platform.”

She did the same thing at work the next day on her lunch and tea breaks. After work she wrote her address and Mrs. Rickett’s phone number on the back of her sales receipt book and, although it was still misting slightly, went to the drop.

She’d forgotten about the men clearing the site. She had to crouch in the same alley in which she’d hidden from the warden till the last workman left before scrambling over what was left of the mound of rubble to the passage.

The only footprints were the ones she’d made last time, and her note was still there. Polly retrieved it and took out the piece of chalk she’d stolen, then stood there a moment, looking at the door, deciding what message to leave. She couldn’t write what she wanted-“Help! I’m stranded in 1940. Come get me.” Just because the workmen hadn’t found the passage yet didn’t mean they wouldn’t.

Instead, she chalked, “For a good time, ring Polly,” and Mrs. Rickett’s telephone number on the door, and down in the corner-where it would only be noticed by someone expressly looking for it-the barred-circle symbol of the Underground and “Notting Hill Gate.” She went out into the passage, drew an arrow on the barrel nearest the steps, then squatted down and wrote on the side facing the wall, “Polly Sebastian, Townsend Brothers,” and the address of the boardinghouse, and then sat down on the steps and waited a full hour, just in case the drop was operational now.

It apparently wasn’t. She gave it ten more minutes and then went out to the alley, rubbed out her footprints, sprinkled plaster dust over the floor, and scrawled “Sebastian Was Here” on the warehouse wall above “London kan take it,” and went to Notting Hill Gate.

Miss Laburnum met her at the top of the escalator. “Did the young woman find you?” she asked.

Polly’s heart began to thud. “What young woman?”

“She didn’t tell me her name. She said she’d come from Townsend Brothers. What do you think, white lace for Lady Mary in act one, and then blue for the shipwrecked scenes? I always think blue shows up nicely onstage-”

“Where did she go?” Polly said, looking around at the crowd. “The young woman?”

“Oh, dear, I don’t know. She… oh, there she is.”

It was Doreen. She was red-faced and out of breath. “Oh, Polly,” she gasped, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. It’s Marjorie. Her landlady telephoned Miss Snelgrove just after you left-Marjorie wasn’t in Bath after all.”

“What do you mean?” Polly demanded. “Where was she?”

“In Jermyn Street,” Doreen said, and burst into tears. “When it was bombed.”