All Clear (58 page)

“Oh, but you’ll find that you see something different in it each time,” Mr. Humphreys replied.

I can imagine
, Polly thought.

Their footsteps died away. “Are you quite certain you want to do this, Miss O’Reilly?” the vicar asked. “After all, the Hodbins are—”

“I know,” Eileen said.

“Mrs. Rickett will never allow it,” Polly said. “You know her rules.”

“And it would be better if they were safely out of London,” the vicar said. “The Evacuation Committee—”

“No,” Eileen said. “If they’re evacuated, they’ll run away, and they won’t survive on their own. Alf plays with UXBs, and Binnie’s a young girl. She can’t just run wild in the shelters, or …”

She’ll end up like her mother
, Polly thought.

“They haven’t anyone else,” Eileen said to Polly. “If we don’t rescue them—”

“But what about Mrs. Rickett?” Polly said. “You know her rules—no cooking in the room, no pets, no children. And Mr. Goode’s leave is up today—”

“I’ll see if I can get additional time, since this is a matter involving my parishioners,” he said. “And perhaps I can persuade Mrs. Rickett to relax her rules, given the circumstances.”

I highly doubt that
, Polly thought, and just as she expected, Mrs. Rickett was not impressed by either the vicar’s clerical collar or his arguments.

“You know the rules,” she said, her arms folded militantly across her chest. “No children.”

“But their mother was killed in a raid,” the vicar said, “and they’ve nowhere else to go. The Church will provide cots and bedding for them.”

“And we’ll see that they don’t cause you any bother,” Eileen added.

That’s not the way to Mrs. Rickett’s heart
, Polly thought. “We’ll pay extra for their board,” she said, “and children are allowed an extra milk ration.”

“How large a ration?” Mrs. Rickett demanded, her eyes glittering at the thought of the milk puddings and cream soups she could cook up into inedible messes.

“Half a pint a day,” the vicar said.

“Very well,” Mrs. Rickett said, nearly snatching the children’s ration books out of Eileen’s hands, “but their board won’t begin till the day after tomorrow.”

Of course
, Polly thought.

“And if there’s any playing on the stairs, or any noise—”

“There won’t be,” Eileen said earnestly. “They’re very nicely behaved children.”

“You should join the troupe,” Polly said after Mrs. Rickett had gone. “You’re a far better actress than I am.”

Eileen ignored her. “Thank you so much, Mr. Goode,” she said. “We couldn’t have managed it without you. You’ve been wonderful.”

He had. In the two extra days’ leave he’d managed to wangle, he’d not only obtained new ration books and new clothes for Alf and Binnie but had had Eileen named their temporary guardian and had arranged for a school.

“School?”
Alf and Binnie said, as if he’d suggested burning them at the stake.

“Yes,” the vicar said sternly, “and if you don’t go every day and do everything Miss O’Reilly tells you, she’ll write to me, and I’ll have you sent straight to the orphanage.”

Polly doubted the Hodbins were any more capable of being intimidated than Mrs. Rickett, but then again, she’d expected them to bolt when Mr. Humphreys took them off to
The Light of the World
and again when Eileen and she had told them to wait for them at Notting Hill Gate while they spoke to Mrs. Rickett, and they hadn’t. In fact, when they took
the vicar to the station to see him off, Alf asked him, “Is Eileen going to be our mum now?”

Polly didn’t hear what the vicar said, but she saw how cheerful Eileen was and couldn’t be sorry they’d decided to take in the Hodbins. Especially since the vicar had told Eileen he was being assigned to active duty.

Chaplains hadn’t been armed—even though they were often in the thick of battle—and the vicar, with his slight frame and mild manner, was scarcely the soldier sort. And how many earnest young men, eager like him to help the war effort, had died in the sands of North Africa and on the beaches of Normandy? Polly wasn’t certain Eileen could bear another loss.

They all went to see him off at Victoria Station. “We got to,” Alf said, “ ’cause he seen us off that day we come to London. Remember, Vicar? How you come to tell us goodbye that day?”

“I do,” the vicar said, looking at Eileen.

“And now we’re tellin’ you goodbye. It’s funny, ain’t it, Eileen?”

“Yes,” she said, blinking back tears. “Thank you so much for everything, Mr. Goode.”

“It was a pleasure,” he said solemnly. He picked up his duffel bag. “I’d best board. You have my address for now, and I’ll let you know where I’m going as soon as I’m able. Promise me you’ll write me if you need any further assistance with Alf and Binnie, and I’ll see to it.”

If you can
, Polly thought.
If you’re not killed
.

They said goodbye, and the vicar boarded the train, the romance of it somewhat spoiled by Alf and Binnie shouting after him, “Shoot heaps of Germans!” and “Kill that old ’Itler!”

Eileen watched the train out of sight.

“Whatcha waitin’ for?” Binnie asked curiously.

“Nothing,” Eileen said. “Come along, we’re going home.”

“We can’t,” Alf said. “We got to go to Blackfriars to get our things.”

“
What
things?”

“You know,” Binnie said innocently, “our clothes and things.”

“And that book you give me about the Tower of London,” Alf said, heading for the entrance to the Underground. “The best part was when they cut off Mary Queen of Scots’s ’ead.”

And after they’d boarded the train to Blackfriars, he regaled them with the details. “The executioner chopped it off, whack, like that.” He demonstrated for the benefit of the other passengers in the car. “And then he picked it up by the ’air. That’s what they done back then. They
picked up the ’ead, all gory and dripping blood like, and said, ‘This is what ’appens to queens what commits treason.’ ”

“And then they stuck it up on London Bridge,” Binnie finished.

“Not ’er they didn’t,” Alf said. “She was wearin’ a wig, and when they picked up ’er ’ead, it fell on the floor and rolled under the bed, and ’er
dog
ran after it and—”

“This is Blackfriars,” Eileen said, standing up and pushing them both off the train ahead of her.

“Stop pushin’,” Binnie said.

“Don’t you wanna know what Mary Queen of Scots’s dog done?”

“No,” Polly said.

“You said you needed to get your things,” Eileen said. “Where are they? On the platform?”

“Are you daft?” Binnie said, leading the way. “People’d pinch ’em.”

“They’re in the tunnel,” Alf said as they reached the platform. “Wait ’ere.” And before Eileen could stop them, both children darted to the end of the platform and disappeared into the blackness of the tunnel.

“They’ll be killed,” Eileen said.

“No such luck,” Polly said, and in a moment they each reappeared with an armful of belongings—a cap, a ragged-looking cardigan, a pair of Wellingtons, a stack of film magazines.

Alf dumped his in Eileen’s arms. “I got to go get Mrs. Bascombe,” he said, and darted back toward the tunnel.

“Mrs. Bascombe?” Polly asked. “Who’s Mrs. Bascombe?”

“Their parrot,” Eileen said despairingly. “I assumed it had been left behind when the children moved into the shelters.” She turned to Binnie. “I thought animals weren’t allowed in shelters.”

“They ain’t,” Binnie said. “That’s why we ’ad to keep ’er ’id in the tunnel.”

“This isn’t the parrot who can imitate an air-raid alert, is it?” Polly asked, afraid she already knew the answer.

“And the all clear,” Alf said, appearing with a large, rusty cage in which sat a gray-and-red parrot. “But we’ve taught ’er lots of things since then.”

THAT IS MEROPE
,
SHE THOUGHT, LEANING OUT OVER THE
National Gallery’s stone railing to get a better look at the young woman in the green coat, standing there in Trafalgar Square.
Oh, good. She wanted to do VE-Day
. She raised her arm to wave and shout to her, then decided against it. She didn’t know what name she was here under. Probably not Merope. That name hadn’t become popular till the twenties. And she didn’t know what her cover was or if she was here with one of the contemps. A middle-aged man in an RAF uniform stood next to her on her left.

She lowered her arm, but Paige had already seen her begin to wave. “Do you see Reardon
now
?” Paige asked her.

“No, I thought I saw someone I knew.”

“You very probably did. I think everyone in England is here tonight.”

Past
and
present
, she thought.

“Reardon!” Paige shouted, waving wildly. She glanced over to where Paige was looking and then back to where Merope had been standing, but she was no longer there. She searched through the crowd for her—by the lamppost, by the lion, over by the monument. But there was no sign of the green coat, which she should be able to spot—it was so bright. Or of her red hair.

“Oh, no, I’ve lost sight of her,” Paige said, scanning the sea of people. “Which way did Reardon go? I can’t see her anywhere. She—there she is! And there’s Talbot.” She began waving wildly. “Talbot! Reardon!”

“I don’t imagine they can hear you,” she said, but amazingly, they were plowing determinedly through the crowd and up the steps toward them.

“Fairchild, Douglas, thank goodness,” Reardon said when she reached them. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

Talbot nodded. “It’s bedlam out there,” she said cheerfully. “Have any of you seen Parrish and Maitland? I got separated from them. They were over by the bonfire.”

They all obediently looked in that direction, although there was no hope of recognizing anyone with the fire behind them like that. “I don’t see them anywhere,” Talbot said. “Wait—Fairchild, isn’t that your true love?”

“It can’t be,” Paige said, looking where Talbot was pointing. “He’s in France. He … oh, Douglas, look!” Paige grabbed her arm. “It’s Stephen! Stephen! I was afraid he wouldn’t get here in time, and he’d miss all this. Oh, Mary, I’m so glad he’s here!”

So am I
, she thought. It was wonderful seeing him without the fear and strain that had been in his face when Paige was in hospital, without the fatigue and concentration he’d had when he’d been tipping V-1s every day. He looked years younger than the last time she’d seen him.

But he’s still too old for me
, she thought regretfully, though it wouldn’t matter if she were a FANY and not an historian. She still couldn’t have him. He hadn’t found Paige in the crowd yet, but he was clearly looking for her, and when he did, he’d only have eyes for her.

I’m still glad I get to see him one last time
, she thought, watching him work his way cheerfully through the jostling crowd, looking for Paige, his dark hair …

“He doesn’t see us!” Paige wailed. “Wave, Mary!”

She waved along with the others, and shouted, and Parrish emitted an ear-splitting whistle, which would have made her titled parents shudder but did the trick. He looked up, saw Paige, grinned that devastatingly crooked smile of his, and started straight for them.

“Oh, good,” Talbot said. “He’s seen—good God! Is that the Major?”

Talbot pointed three-quarters of the way across the square, beyond the bonfire, but they all spotted her instantly. And worse, she’d spotted them. “This is all your fault, Fairchild,” Talbot said. “If we hadn’t been waving at Stephen, she’d never have seen us.”

“What do you think she’s doing here?” Reardon asked apprehensively.

“If I know her,” Parrish said, “she’s probably come to tell us we’re all on report.”

“Or to send us to Edgware for sticking plaster,” Paige said.

“Should we start a pool on it?” Reardon asked.

Talbot laughed. “Oh, I’m going to
miss
all of you.”

“We’ll see each other again,” Paige said confidently. “You’re all invited to my wedding. Douglas is going to be my maid of honor, aren’t you, Mary?”

I can’t
, she thought.

“Only if you promise not to make me wear the Yellow Peril,” she said lightly.

“I knew I was glad the war was over,” Parrish said. “It means I’ll never have to wear the Yellow Peril again.”

“Or drive the Octopus,” Talbot said.

Or be afraid you’re going to be killed any moment. Or dig body parts and dead children out of the rubble again
, Mary said silently and thought of the man in the wrecked newspaper office in Croydon. After she’d got out of hospital, she’d telephoned St. Bart’s and Guy’s Hospital and then every ambulance unit within forty miles, but she hadn’t found any trace of him. He must not have been as badly injured as she’d thought, though that seemed impossible.

I hope he made it
, she thought.
I hope he’s here tonight to see this
.

“Oh, no,” Talbot said. “The Major’s coming this way!”

“Do you think she’ll make us go home?” Reardon said.

No, just me
, Mary thought. With the Major here, it was a perfect time to go back to the post, leave her a note saying, “My mother’s very ill. Must go,” and then head for the drop.

She was sorry she hadn’t got to see Maitland or Sutcliffe-Hythe or Reed one last time—she had grown amazingly attached to all the FANYs over the last year. But she was only experiencing what every person here in Trafalgar Square would be in the next few days and weeks. This wasn’t only an end to the war. It would be the end to who knew how many friendships, romances, careers. All sorts of partings, all sorts of goodbyes.

And if she was going, she needed to do it now, before the trains stopped for the night. And before the Major and Stephen got here. Stephen had nearly reached the foot of the steps. She gave him one last regretful glance and then looked at the other girls. Their eyes were still on the Major, on whose head an air-raid warden had just plunked a Nelson-style tricorn hat.