All Clear

Croydon—October 1944

“WE WEREN’T KILLED,” ERNEST TRIED TO SAY TO MR. JEPPERS. “The V-1 didn’t kill us.” But he couldn’t find the editor in the smoke. It billowed up blackly around him.

They must have hit the Arizona, he thought, coughing, trying to see out across the deck of the New Orleans.

But that couldn’t be right. I never got to Pearl Harbor, he thought. Dunworthy changed the order of my assignments. Oh, God, I’m still at Dunkirk. My foot …

But that wasn’t right either, because he was lying down. There hadn’t been room on the boat to lie down. He’d had to stand up, mashed against the rail the whole way. And the smoke was too thick for it to be Dunkirk.

He couldn’t see anything. It was completely dark. He must be belowdecks. He could see flames through the smoke and hear fire bells. They’re going to an incident, he thought, and remembered the V-1. I hope it didn’t damage the printing press. I’ve got to get that picture of St. Anselm’s in. And take a photo of this incident.

He looked around, trying to see if the name on the newspaper office was still there. If it was, Cess could crop off the word “Croydon,” and they could say it was the Cricklewood Clarion Call. But the fire wasn’t bright enough to light more than the few feet beyond him, and there were no landmarks there, only bricks and broken timbers shrouded by orangish dust. It hadn’t been smoke. It was plaster dust. That was why it was so choking, why he couldn’t stop coughing. He had to try several times before he managed to say, “Mr. Jeppers! I need a flashlight so I can look at your sign!”

Mr. Jeppers didn’t answer. He can’t hear me for the fire bells, Ernest thought. They got very loud and then stopped, and he could hear doors slamming, and voices.

Perhaps they had a flashlight. “Hullo!” he called to them, and stopped to cough. “Do you have a flashlight?”

But they must not have heard him because they were walking away from him. “No, over here!” he shouted—a mistake. It caused him to suck in a huge amount of plaster dust and choke.

“I thought I heard someone coughing,” one of the girls said, and he could hear the crack of wood and the slither of dirt as they came toward him. “Where are you?”

“Here,” he said. “Jeppers, it’s all right. Someone’s coming.”

“Where are you? Keep talking,” the second girl called after a moment, but he didn’t answer her. He was listening to her voice. It sounded somehow familiar.

“Here he is!” the first one shouted from what seemed like far away. He heard a scrabbling sound, and then, “I found him,” and he could tell from the tone of her voice that he was dead.

But I’m not, he thought. We survived the V-1—

“There’s another one here somewhere,” the second voice said, and something else—he couldn’t make out what. More scrabbling. “Over here!” she called, closer.

Then she was there, bending over him. “Are you all right?”

He looked up at her, but the light from the fires wasn’t bright enough for him to see her face. All he caught was a glimpse of fair hair under the tin helmet. “You mustn’t worry,” she said. “We’ll get you out of here straightaway. Fairchild!” she called sharply. “Over here!” and moved down to his legs and began tossing aside bricks and pieces of wood. “I need a light!”

The girl she’d called Fairchild arrived. “Is he alive?” she asked, stooping down next to him, and the fire must have been growing brighter. He could see her face clearly. She looked very young. “How bad is he?”

“His foot—”

“That wasn’t the V-1,” he said. “It happened at Dunkirk.” But they didn’t hear him.

“I’ve tied a tourniquet. Go get the medical kit,” the first girl said to Fairchild. “And a stretcher. Is Croydon here yet?” she asked, and her voice sounded just like Polly’s.

“No,” Fairchild said. “Are you certain we should move him?”

“He’ll bleed to death if we don’t,” the girl who sounded like Polly said, and he could hear Fairchild run off across the rubble. “Telephone Croydon. And Woodside,” she called after her. “Tell them we need help.”

It can’t be Polly, he thought as she tried to free him. The deadline’s passed.

“You mustn’t worry, we’ll have you out of here in no time,” she said, bending so close he could see her face in the light of the fire, and it was Polly. He would know her anywhere.

No, oh, no, no. She was still here, and it was too late. Her deadline was already past. He hadn’t gotten her out. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

But it was his fault. He hadn’t been able to find Denys Atherton, and none of his messages had got through to Oxford. If they had, she wouldn’t be here. “I am so sorry,” he tried to say, choking on dust, on despair. It had all been useless—all those personal ads and wedding announcements and letters to the editor. His messages hadn’t got through. No one had come. She’d still been here when her deadline arrived.

“I thought if I left, I could get you and Eileen out,” he said, looking up at her, but the fire must have burned out, he couldn’t see her face, though he knew she was still there. He could hear her scrabbling at the bricks and wood, pushing them off his chest, freeing his arm.

“I didn’t think you’d be here—”

“Don’t try to talk.” She crawled over him to reach his other arm.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he tried to say. “You were supposed to be in Dulwich.”

But the only part that came out must have been “Dulwich,” because she said, “We’ll take you to Norbury. It’s quicker. You mustn’t worry about that. That’s our job.”

He could hear her raise her head suddenly, as if she had heard something, and then he heard Fairchild call from a long way off, “I can’t get the stretcher out! It’s stuck!”

“Leave it! Just bring the medical kit,” Polly called back.

But Fairchild must not have heard her because she shouted, “What? I can’t hear you, Mary!”

Mary? “Mary?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, so softly he could scarcely hear her, and relief broke over him in a great wave. She wasn’t here after her deadline. She wasn’t Polly. She was Mary, and this was her rocket-attacks assignment, and he wasn’t too late. None of it had happened yet—she hadn’t even gone to the Blitz—and there was still time to save her, to already have saved her, and he must be weeping with relief and the tears must be running down his cheeks into his mouth because he could feel wetness on his tongue, in the back of his throat.

“Fairchild!” she shouted. “Bring the kit! Hurry!”

He had to tell her the drops wouldn’t open, had to warn her. “You mustn’t go! There’s something wrong with the net. The drops won’t open. Don’t go!”

But she didn’t understand. “I need to,” she said. “I’m going,” and started to leave.

“No!” he shouted, and grabbed hold of her wrist. “You can’t go! You’ll be trapped there!”

“I won’t leave you trapped here. I promise.”

“No! You don’t understand! You can’t go to the Blitz!” he cried, but he couldn’t get the words out, the tears and dust in his mouth had mixed into a choking mud.

“Your drop, it won’t open—” And there was a sudden, shattering noise and a blast so powerful it knocked them both down.

No, that wasn’t right. He was already down. The Arizona, he thought. It took a bomb right down its stack, and the concussion knocked her off her feet.

She was getting back to her feet, running toward him. “No!” he tried to call to her. “Get down! The Zero’s coming around again!”

She hadn’t heard him, she was still running. “Hit the deck!” he called, but it was too late. The Zero had already strafed her. She fell across him.

“Where are you hit?” he asked her, afraid she was dead, but she wasn’t. She was getting to her knees, fumbling with his collar.

“It was a V-2,” she said, but it couldn’t be. He’d made the Germans shorten their trajectories so they’d fall on Croydon.

“I need to go,” Polly said, bending over him, or had he said that? He couldn’t tell.

“I have to leave,” he said again, in case it hadn’t been him who’d said it. “It’s the only way I can get you out before your deadline.” But she wasn’t listening. She’d stood up and was running across the deck.

And he had been wrong about its being a Zero. It was a Stuka. It had dropped a stick of bombs and sunk the Grafton. And the Lady Jane was pulling away from the mole, leaving without him. “Don’t go!” he shouted. “The Germans will be here any minute.”

Then, miraculously, she was back, bending over him again, and he had to tell her something, only he couldn’t remember what. Something important. “Tell Eileen Padgett’s was hit,” he said, but that wasn’t it.

What was it? He couldn’t think for coughing. “Tell her to take the stairs,” he said, thinking of the stuck elevator, and remembered. He had to warn Polly not to go through to the Blitz.

“It’s a trap,” he said again. “You won’t be able to get out!” But it wasn’t her, it was a soldier wearing a helmet.

Oh, God, it’s the Germans. I didn’t get off Dunkirk in time.

The German shone a flashlight full in his face, and he flinched away from it. They’ve captured me, and they’re interrogating me. If they find out about Fortitude South, they’ll know we’re going to invade at Normandy.

But it was an English soldier. “How badly are you hurt?” he was asking, bending over Ernest, and his helmet was the tin hat of an ARP warden. “What’s your name?”

He thinks I’m Cess, Ernest thought. Thank goodness he’s not here, and tried to tell the warden about Cess’s having traded duties with Chasuble, and his having traded with Cess, and about the harvest fête and Daphne at the Crown and Anchor.

No, that wasn’t right. That was the other Daphne, and she wasn’t there. She was in Manchester, and she was married …

The warden was shaking him. “Davies?” he asked, wiping the plaster dust from his face. “Michael?”

Yes, he thought. But he wasn’t sure, it had been so long since he’d heard his real name, and he’d had so many names since he was killed …

The warden was shaking him and saying urgently, “Can you hear me, Davies? Michael?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank God. Michael, listen, I’m here to take you back to Oxford. I’m Colin Templer.”

But he couldn’t be. Colin was only a boy. “You’re too old,” he murmured.

“I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

“You got my messages,” Ernest said, feeling sick with relief. They were here, they could warn Polly not to go to the Blitz. And they could …

“You have to get Charles out,” he said, trying to raise himself by his elbows. “He’s in Singapore. You have to get him out before the Japanese—”

“We did,” he said. “He’s safe. He’s waiting for you in the lab. Do you think you can stand up?”

He shook his head. “You have to tell Polly—”

“She’s alive? She was alive when you left her?”

Ernest nodded.

“Oh, thank God,” Colin breathed.

It was Colin after all. “You have to tell her—”

“I’ll find her and get her out,” Colin said, “but first I’ve got to get you out of here.”

“No, she’s here,” he tried to say, but he was coughing too hard.

“Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

“My foot,” he said. “I was unfouling the propeller,” but Colin wasn’t listening. He was digging someone out of the rubble.

It must be Mr. Jeppers, he thought. “Is he all right?” he asked, and heard a siren.

“We need to get to a shelter,” he said.

“That’s the ambulance. I’ve got to get you out of here before they arrive,” Colin said, stooping to lift him. “We can’t let them see us.”

“No, wait, you have to tell Polly not to go,” he tried to say, but he was overcome with a spasm of coughing. It was all the plaster Colin had stirred up digging out Mr. Jeppers. It was making him choke, and all he could get out was her name.

“I’ll go fetch Polly, I promise, as soon as I get you back to Oxford.”

Oxford, Ernest thought, and could see the spires of Christ Church and St. Mary’s, and Magdalen Tower, and Balliol’s quad green in the April sunshine.

“This’ll hurt,” Colin said, reaching his arms around him. “Sorry.” And the V-2 hit, ripping the world apart.

No, that wasn’t right, the V-2 had already hit, and he wasn’t in the wreckage, he was on a cot and an orderly was covering him with a blanket. “Am I in hospital?” he asked.

“Not yet,” the orderly said. “I’m taking you there now.”

“You can’t,” Ernest said, struggling. He had passed out on the way to hospital. He had been unconscious for over a month, and when he’d come to, nobody had known who he was. “I can’t go to Orpington. The retrieval team won’t know where I am.”

“I’m the retrieval team, old man,” the orderly said. “It’s Colin. Colin Templer. You’re in Croydon, in an ambulance. I’m taking you back to Oxford.”

Ernest clutched Colin’s arm. “But I have to tell you about Polly,” and some of his desperation must have got through because Colin nodded.

“All right. When did you see her last, Michael?”

Had it been a few minutes or longer than that? “I don’t know. She”—he tried to raise his hand to show Colin where she’d gone—“left.”

“When did you leave?” Colin asked. “On January eleventh? That’s when the Times said you died.”

No, he thought, it’s October. But Colin meant when he’d been in London. “Yes, on the eleventh.”

“Where was Polly working when you left? Was she still working in Oxford Street?”

He nodded. “At Townsend Brothers. On the third floor. But she and Eileen—”

“Eileen? Merope’s there?” Colin said eagerly. “She and Polly are together? Do you know where they’re living?”

“Fourteen,” he said, swallowing. There was an odd metallic taste in his mouth. He swallowed, trying to get rid of it. “Cardle Street,” he attempted to say, but he couldn’t for coughing—and he must have coughed so hard he vomited because Colin was wiping at his mouth with a corner of the blanket. “Mrs.—”

“Don’t try to talk,” Colin said, dabbing at his chin. “They’re living at Mrs. Rickett’s in Cardle Street. Number fourteen.”

Ernest nodded. “In Kensington,” he tried to say, but more coughing overtook him.

But it was all right, Colin understood. “In Kensington, right? We worked that out from your messages. And the shelter they’re using is Notting Hill Gate?”

Ernest nodded, grateful he didn’t have to try to say all that because there was something else he needed to tell him, something important. “She didn’t come through in June. She came through in December of ’43. You have to get her out before the twenty-ninth.”

“I will. But first I’ve got to get you back.” He stooped over him. “Can you put your arms round my neck?”

“Don’t,” Ernest said, afraid the V-2 would hit again when he lifted him. “Get Polly to help you. Tell her to bring the stretcher.”

“She’s not here,” Colin said gently. “She’s in 1941. Remember? You told me where to find her.”

“No. Here. At the incident.” But Colin wouldn’t know that word. He wasn’t an historian. He was just a boy. “She was the one who found me in the wreckage,” he tried to say. “She rescued me. She’s an ambulance driver at Dulwich.”

But that must not have been what he said because Colin asked, “She wasn’t working at Townsend Brothers when you left? She was driving an ambulance?”

“No. Here. In the wreckage”—he swallowed—“after the V-1 hit—”

“Polly was here just now?” Colin cut in.

“No, Mary. She hasn’t gone to the Blitz yet. But it’s all right. She didn’t recognize me. I didn’t ruin it,” he said between coughs. “You’ve got to warn her. You’ve got to tell her not to go.”

“If I’d known—” Colin said, looking off into the distance, and Ernest knew they weren’t at the incident, that Colin had taken him somewhere else.

“Are we in the ambulance?” he asked.

“No, we’re at the drop. If I’d known Polly was there …,” Colin said, and his voice sounded full of despair and longing.

Like that night I left London, Ernest thought, when I knew I could never see her or Eileen again.

But he had to see her. “You have to stop her. Go back—”

“I’ve got to get you home first. The drop’ll open any second now. There’s an emergency medical team waiting for us in the lab. We’ll have you fixed up in no time, old man.”

“There’s no time. She’ll be gone,” he opened his mouth to say. “You have to go find her.” But without any warning he was vomiting again, all down Colin’s coverall, only it wasn’t vomit, it was blood.

“I’ll find them, I promise,” Colin said, and put his arms around him.

Good, he thought. I won’t have to die alone.

“Why the bloody hell doesn’t the drop open?” Colin said angrily.

“It’s broken. We’re all trapped here in the Blitz.”

“Stay with me, Davies. We’ll be there any second. We’ll get you to hospital, and they’ll get you all fixed up, they’ll get you a new leg, and I’ll go fetch Eileen and Polly. They’ll be there before you come out of surgery. They’ll be so glad to see you. You’re a hero, you know.”

“I know,” he said. “I saved Cess’s life.” And Chasuble’s. And Jonathan’s and the Commander’s. And that dog’s. He wondered what had happened to it, and whether it had helped to win the war.

“Don’t quit on me, Davies,” Colin said. “You can do this.”

Ernest shook his head. “Kiss me, Hardy,” he murmured.

“What?”

He bent nearer, and Ernest saw that it was Hardy. “I’m glad I saved your life,” he said. “No matter what.”

“Finally!” Hardy said, “Thank God!” and scooped him up in his arms.

Just like at St. Paul’s, Ernest thought, the captain dying in Honour’s arms, though he’d never seen it—the sandbags had hidden it. And the captain hadn’t seen it either. He’d died the moment after he’d tied the boats together. He’d never known whether they’d won or not.

“Did we?” he asked Colin.

And he must only be a boy after all because he was crying. “Don’t do this, Davies,” he pleaded. “Not now. Michael!”

No, not Michael. Or Mike Davis. Or Ernest Worthing. And not Shackleton. “That’s not my name,” he said, and tried to tell him what it was, but the blood was everywhere, in his mouth, his ears, his eyes, so he couldn’t hear Colin, he couldn’t see the drop opening. “It’s Faulknor.”

Your courage

Your cheerfulness

Your resolution

Will bring us victory.

—GOVERNMENT POSTER,

1939