All Clear (15 page)

“So you needn’t come back,” Binnie finished.

Eileen needn’t have worried about them following her back to Mrs. Rickett’s. On the contrary, they couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Why? What were they up to now? Alf had turned pale when she’d mentioned calling
a constable. Had he “collected” a UXB and taken it home? But surely not even Mrs. Hodbin would have let them keep—

“ ’Ad’nt you better be goin’?” Binnie said. “It’s gettin’ late.”

She was right, and whatever mischief they were up to, it was no longer her responsibility. “Yes,” Eileen said. “Thank you for the map, Alf. Goodbye, Binnie.”

“Dolores.”

I’ll almost miss you
, Eileen thought.
Almost
.

“Goodbye, Dolores,” she said and pulled the film magazine from her bag and held it out to Binnie. “Here.”

Binnie clutched it to her chest and ran off, as if she expected Eileen to change her mind and snatch it away from her.

Alf still stood there.

“It’s all right,” Eileen said. “I know you need your map for your planespotting. I’ll bring it back to you.”

“You don’t hafta if you don’t want to. It’s like Binnie said, I don’t need it.”

They
definitely
did not want her coming around. “I could send it back to you by post,” she suggested.

“That’d be ’eaps better,” he said, looking relieved, but he continued to stand there. “You ain’t gonna tell the constable, are you?”

“Not if you promise me you’ll keep out of the rubble,” she said, with no hope of his actually obeying her. “And that you won’t collect any more UXBs.”

“I only collect
little
ones.”

“No bombs,” she said firmly.

“I can still collect shrapnel, can’t I?”

“Yes,” she said, “but no watching raids. I want you to promise me you and Binnie will go to a shelter as soon as the sirens go.”

Amazingly, he nodded. “Do you want I should show you where to catch the bus?”

“No, that’s all right. I know the way home.”
It’s somewhere on this map
, and had to fight the impulse to open the map and look for the name of the airfield then and there, but it was growing late. It would have to wait till she got on the bus.

But the bus was filled to capacity, and ten minutes after Eileen got on, it drove over a piece of shrapnel that Alf
hadn’t
collected and burst a tire, and she had to walk several streets over to catch another one, which was even more crammed. She had to stand, hanging on to a strap, the entire way, and there were so many barricades and diversions that by the
time the bus reached Bank Station, it was so late she was afraid if she went to Townsend Brothers, she’d miss Polly.

Instead, she went to Mrs. Rickett’s and straight up to their room, where she sat down on the bed and opened out the map. It was badly worn and ripped along the folds, and the panel where the index of place-names should have been had been torn off. She’d have to locate the name on the map itself. Alf had marked Xes and dates all over the lower half of it, obscuring the names underneath. Luckily, they were in pencil and could be erased; hopefully, doing that wouldn’t also erase the names underneath. She hoped Alf hadn’t spotted a Messerschmitt over the airfield where Gerald was, or that it wasn’t on one of the torn folds.

Polly and Mike thought his airfield was near Oxford. She began searching the section between there and London, bending over the tiny print, looking for Bs. Boxbourne … Bishop’s Stortford … Banbury …

There was a timid tap on the door. She opened it a crack, just like Binnie had, and poked her head out. It was Miss Laburnum. “We’re just going down to dinner,” she said. “Are you coming?”

“No, Polly’s not here yet,” Eileen said. “I’m waiting for her.”

“Wise decision,” Mr. Dorming growled, passing in the corridor. “It’s boiled tripe tonight.”

Boiled tripe
, Eileen thought, making a face as she shut the door.
I
must
find that name
. She bent over the map again. It wasn’t anywhere on the railway line between Oxford and London, which must mean it was farther east. Baldock … Leighton Buzzard … Buckingham …

There it was!
I knew I’d recognize it if I saw it
, she thought. And she’d been right about it being two words. Now if Polly would only come. She went out into the corridor to look down the stairs. An appalling stench somewhere between rotting flesh and mildewed sponge bags assailed her, and she clapped her hand to her nose and mouth and retreated into the room. A moment later Polly came in the door, gasping. “What is that wretched odor? Has Hitler begun using mustard gas?”

“It’s boiled tripe,” Eileen said, “but it’s all right.”

“How can it possibly be all right?” Polly said, unbuttoning her coat. “We have to eat that.”

“No, we don’t,” Eileen said. “We’re going home. I know where Gerald is.”

Polly stopped in the act of taking off her coat. “You found a map.”

“Yes. I got it from Alf Hodbin.”

“But I thought you said the Hodbins were horrid. They’re not. They’re wonderful. Oh, Alf, you dear, darling boy!”

“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” Eileen said. “He and his sister have a parrot they’ve trained to imitate an air-raid siren. But it doesn’t matter. I found the airfield.” She grabbed the map and shoved it under Polly’s nose to show her. “He’s at Bletchley Park.”

“WORTHING!” CESS SHOUTED FROM THE HALLWAY, AND
Ernest could hear him opening doors. “Ernest! Where are you?”

Ernest yanked the sheet of paper he was working on out of the typewriter, slid it under a stack of papers, and threaded a new one in. He called out, “In here!” and began typing, “On Tuesday, the Welcome Committee of Derringstone held a ‘Hands Across the Sea concert.’ Mrs. Jones-Pritchard—”

“There you are,” Cess said, carrying in some papers. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Didn’t you hear me?”

“No,” Ernest said, typing, “—sang ‘America the Beautiful’—”

“What does Mrs. Jones-Pritchard have to do with the First United States Army Group?” Cess asked, coming around the desk to read it as Ernest had been afraid he might.

“ ‘—and Privates First Class Joe Makowski, Dan Goldstein, and Wayne Turicelli,’ ” Ernest recited, typing, “of the Seventh Armored Division, who gave a spirited rendition of ‘Yankee Doodle’ on the spoons. A good time was had by all,” he typed with a flourish. He pulled the sheet out of the typewriter and handed it to Cess.

“Ingenious,” Cess said, reading it. “The Seventh Armored Division only moved to Derringstone last week, though. Would they have had time to practice?”

“All Americans are born knowing how to play ‘Yankee Doodle’ on the spoons.”

“True,” Cess said, handing the sheet of paper back.

“Did you come to tell me something?” Ernest asked.

“Yes, we must go to London.”

“London?”

“Yes, and don’t say you’ve got to stay here and finish your newspaper stories because you’ve been in here typing all day.”

“But I have to deliver them to Ashford and Croydon,” Ernest protested.

“Not a problem. Lady Bracknell said we can drop them off on the way.”

“Exactly where in London are we going?” Ernest asked, wondering if he was going to have to fake a sudden toothache.

“Bookshops. We’re buying up travel guides to northern France and copies of Michelin Map 51. The Pas de Calais area.”

Bookshops should be safe enough. He just needed to be careful. And Cess said they were going as British Expeditionary Force officers, but after he handed in his articles to Mr. Jeppers at the
Call
in Croydon, he put on a false mustache just to be certain. He talked Cess into doing Oxford Street while he did the secondhand bookshops on Charing Cross Road, which meant he was able to make several calls, and the whole thing went off without a hitch, but he was still relieved when it was over—so much so that he didn’t even complain when Lady Bracknell sent him to pick up a load of old sewer pipe for the dummy oil depot Shepperton Film Studios was building in Dover.

The assignment left him smelling so bad no one would come near him for two days, and he took advantage of the time to get caught up on his fake wedding announcements and roadway-accident reports and irate letters to the editor, all referencing Americans and the fictional First United States Army Group. And to work on his own compositions. He also tried to wangle ways to deliver his work to the newspaper offices on his own, but without success, and on Saturday Cess informed him they had to go to London again.

“More travel guides?” he asked.

“No, rumor-mill duty, and this time we get to be Yanks. Do you think you can manage an American accent?”

Absolutely
, he thought. “I believe so,” he said. “I mean, you bet, kiddo.”

“Oh, good show,” Cess said, and Ernest went back to typing, “Special Yank Movie Night at the Empire Theatre in Ashford Saturday. American servicemen admitted half price.”

Half an hour later, Cess reappeared with an American major’s dress uniform. “I thought you said we were on rumor-mill duty,” Ernest said. “Isn’t that a bit dressy for a pub?”

“We’re not going to a pub. We’re going to London. To the Savoy, no less.”

“Is it the Queen again?”

“No. Someone
far
more important,” Cess said. He draped the uniform over the typewriter. “Make certain you’ve a crease in your trousers and that your shoes are polished.”

“Lady Bracknell will have to find someone else. I haven’t any shoes that could pass as a major’s.”

“I’ll find you a pair.” He came back in a few minutes with a pair of Lady Bracknell’s.

“These are two sizes too small,” Ernest protested.

“Don’t you know there’s a war on?” Cess handed him a tin of shoe polish and a rag. “They need to be shined to a high gloss. He’s a stickler.”

“
Who
is?” Ernest asked, thinking,
It can’t be the King. He’s in Dover with Churchill touring the “fleet.”
He’d just written up the press release. “Is this reception for Eisenhower?”

“No,” Cess said. “He’s running the
real
invasion. We’re in charge of the phoney one, remember? And tonight’s star attraction is in charge of us,” he said mysteriously.

Who did he mean? Special Means was in charge of them, but they didn’t frequent the Savoy, and neither did Intelligence’s top brass. The whole idea was invisibility.

Prism came in, dressed as an American colonel. “Did you hear we’re going to dinner with Old Blood and Guts?”

“Who?”

“The Supreme Commander of the First United States Army Group.” He clicked his heels together and saluted. “General George S. Patton.”

“Patton?”

“Yes, now do hurry along,” Cess said. “We need to leave. The reception’s at eight.”

“We’re supposed to be Yanks,” Ernest said, trying on the shoes. “It’s not ‘Do hurry along.’ It’s ‘Hurry up, chum, or you’ll miss the bus.’ And ‘lieutenant’ is pronounced ‘lootenant,’ not ‘leftenant.’ ”

“Not to worry,” Cess said and pulled a pack of Juicy Fruit gum out of his jacket pocket. “All I need to do is chew this, and everyone will be convinced I’m a Yank.” He held out a stick to Ernest. “Want some gum, chum?”

“No, I want a pair of shoes that fit.”

But due to all the time spent in muddy fields and muddier estuaries, there wasn’t another decent pair in the whole unit. He didn’t change into Lady Bracknell’s shoes till London, but still, by the time they entered the lobby of the Savoy, he could scarcely walk. “You’d best not limp like that in front of General Patton,” Moncrieff said. “He’ll likely slap you for being a weakling.”

But Patton wasn’t there yet. A number of British officers and middle-aged civilians in evening dress stood in small clusters. “Are they dummies as well?” Cess asked.

“I don’t know,” Moncrieff said, “but just in case they aren’t, steer clear of them. I don’t want any of you hanged for impersonating an officer. You’ve got two ideas to push tonight: one, the invasion can’t possibly take place till the middle of July. And two, it will definitely be at Calais. But I don’t want any of you talking outright about it. You’re supposed to have been sworn to secrecy, and an obvious breach will look suspicious. I want subtle hints, and only if the subject comes up in the conversation. I don’t want you introducing the topic yourself.”

“What about a careless lapse, the sort you’d make if you’d had a bit too much to drink?” Cess asked, eyeing the guests’ cocktail glasses.

“Fine,” Moncrieff said. “Chasuble, fetch them their drinks. Mingle. And remember—subtle.”

Cess nodded. “This is just like a night at the Bull and Plough only with superior food and liquor.”

“An American would say, ‘better chow and hooch,’ ” Ernest corrected, but he soon found out that wasn’t true. The cocktails Chasuble handed them were weak tea.

“Sozzled lips sink ships,” he explained. “Moncrieff doesn’t want us spilling what we really know.”

“Are those dummy canapés, too?” Cess asked, watching the white-gloved servants circulating with small silver trays.

“No, but don’t make pigs of yourselves. You’re supposed to be officers.”

That turned out not to be a problem. The elegant-looking hors d’oeuvres on the silver trays turned out to be cubes of Spam and rolled-up pilchards on toothpicks.

“This damnable war,” a red-faced man in the group Ernest had drifted over to said, waving a toothpick. “There hasn’t been anything decent to eat in five years.” The conversation turned to the deprivations of rationing and the “criminal” shortage of sugar, fresh fruit, and “a really nice brisket”—none of which would have afforded any opportunities for
hints about the invasion, if they’d included him in the conversation, which they didn’t. They hadn’t even noticed him. He stared into the weak tea at the bottom of his cocktail glass and mentally composed a letter to the
East Anglia Weekly Advertiser:
“Dear Editor, The present rationing situation is simply criminal, and it has been made far worse by the arrival of so many American and Canadian troops in our area …”