Blackout

by Connie Willis

  “No,” she said stiffly to Gerald. “I’m observing World War II evacuees.”

  He laughed. “Are that and VE-Day the most exciting assignments you could think of?” he asked, and for a moment she actually wished Alf and Binnie were there to set him on fire.

  “The lab rescheduled your departure date?” she asked to change the subject.

  “Yes,” he said, glancing impatiently over at Linna, who was still on the phone.

  “No, I know you were supposed to do the storming of the Bastille first—” Linna said.

  “But it can’t be changed,” Gerald said. “I’ve already been through and made all the arrangements. And got my costume from Wardrobe. If my arrival’s changed from August, I’ll need a whole new suit of clothes. I’m certain when I explain the circumstances, they’ll change it back. This isn’t an ordinary assignment where one can waltz in anytime. It was difficult enough getting it set up in the first place.” He launched into a long explanation of where he was going and the preparations he’d made.

  Eileen only half listened. It was obvious he’d pounce on Linna the moment she got off the phone, and by the time he finished shouting at her and Eileen got to speak to her, Linna would be in no mood to move another departure date. And in the meantime, her two days were ticking away, and she hadn’t even been to Oriel yet to sign up for lessons with Transport. “I think I’d best come back later,” she interrupted Gerald to say, and started for the door.

  “Oh, but I thought we could get together after this, and I could—”

  Tell me more about your assignment? No, thank you. “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m going back almost immediately.”

  “Oh, too bad. I say, will you still be there in August? I could take the train up to—where is it you are?”

  “Warwickshire.”

  “Up to Warwickshire some weekend to brighten your existence with tales of my derring-do.”

  I can imagine. “No, I’m afraid I come back at the beginning of May.” Thank goodness. She waved to Linna and walked quickly out of the lab before he could propose anything else. First the Hodbins and now Gerald, she thought, stopping outside the door to put on her coat and gloves.

  But this wasn’t February, it was April, and a lovely day. Linna’d said rain was forecast for late this afternoon, but for now it was warm. She took her coat off as she walked. That was the most difficult thing about time travel, remembering where and when one was. She’d forgotten she wasn’t still a servant and called Linna “ma’am” twice, and now she kept looking nervously behind her to make certain Alf and Binnie weren’t following her. She reached the High, stepped into the street, and was nearly hit by a bicycle whizzing past.

  You’re in Oxford, she told herself, stepping hastily back up on the curb, not Backbury. She crossed the street, looking both ways this time, and started along the sunlit High, suddenly jubilant. You’re in Oxford. There’s no blackout, no rationing, no Lady Caroline, no Hodbins—

  “Merope!” someone shouted. She turned around. It was Polly Churchill. “I’ve been calling to you all the way down the street,” Polly said breathlessly as she caught up to her. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “No… I mean, yes… I mean, I didn’t realize you were calling me at first. I’ve been trying so hard to think of myself as Eileen O’Reilly these last months, I don’t even recognize my own name anymore. I had to have an Irish name because of my posing as a maid—”

  “And your red hair,” Polly said.

  “Yes, and Eileen is all anyone’s called me in months. I’ve practically forgotten my name is Merope, though I suppose that’s better than forgetting one’s cover name, which is what I kept doing the first week I was in Backbury, and on my very first assignment! How do you manage to remember your cover names?”

  “I’m lucky. Unlike your Christian name, mine’s been around for a good part of history, and I can always use it or one of its many nicknames. I can sometimes even use my last name. When I can’t—Churchill’s not really an option for World War II—I use Shakespeare.”

  “Polly Shakespeare?”

  “No,” Polly said, laughing. “Names from Shakespeare. I had the plays implanted when I did that sixteenth-century assignment, and they’re full of names. Especially the history plays, though for the Blitz it’s going to be Twelfth Night. I’ll be Polly Sebastian.”

  “I thought you’d already gone to the Blitz.”

  “No, not yet. The lab’s had difficulty finding me a drop site that met all of Mr. Dunworthy’s requirements. He’s such a fusspot. So, since it’s a multitime project, I did one of the other parts first. I only just got back yesterday.”

  Eileen nodded. She remembered Polly having said something about observing the World War I zeppelin attacks on London.

  “I’m on my way to Balliol to report in to Mr. Dunworthy,” Polly said. “Is that where you’re going?”

  “No, I must go to Oriel.”

  “Oh, good, then we’re going the same direction.” She took Eileen’s arm. “We can walk part of the way together and catch up on things. So you’ve been in Backbury observing evacuees—”

  “Yes, and I have a question,” Eileen said earnestly. “You’ve had loads of assignments. How do you keep from getting them all mixed together? It’s not only the names. I’m already getting confused as to where I am and when.”

  “You’ve got to forget you’ve ever been anywhere or anyone else and focus completely on the situation at hand. It’s like acting. Or being a spy. You’ve got to shut out everything and be Eileen O’Reilly. Thinking about other assignments only ruins your concentration on the task at hand.”

  “Even if you’re doing a multitime assignment?”

  “Especially if you’re doing a multitime assignment. Focus entirely on the part or the assignment until it’s over, and then shut that out and go on to the next. Why are you going to Oriel?”

  “For driving lessons.”

  “Driving lessons? You’re not planning to drive to VE-Day, are you? You’ll never get through. The crowds—”

  “This isn’t for VE-Day. If only it were. Mr. Dunworthy refuses to send me.”

  “But you—” Polly said and stopped, frowning.

  “Had my heart set on going? That doesn’t matter two pins to Mr. Dunworthy. I met with him this morning, and he told me VE-Day was already part of another assignment, and having two historians in the same temporal and spatial location was too dangerous, which is ridiculous. It isn’t as if we’d run into each other—there were thousands of people in Trafalgar Square on VE-Day. And even if we did, what does he think we’d do? Shout, ‘Oh, my, another time traveler!’ or something? I don’t suppose you know whose assignment he was talking about, Polly? I thought I might be able to persuade them to switch if they haven’t already gone. Who else is doing World War II?”

  “What?” Polly said blankly. She clearly hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

  “I said, who else has an assignment in World War II?”

  “Oh,” Polly said. “Rob Cotton, and I believe Michael Davies does.”

  “Do you know what he’s observing?”

  “No, why?”

  “I want to know who’s going to VE-Day.”

  “Oh. I think he said something about Pearl Harbor.”

  “When was Pearl Harbor?”

  “The seventh of December, 1941. If it’s not VE-Day, where are you going that you need to learn how to drive?”

  “Back to Warwickshire and the manor. I still have months to go on my assignment.”

  “I wish I could have months. Mr. Dunworthy’s only allowing me to go to the Blitz for a few weeks. But I thought you were a maid. Servants didn’t usually drive, did they?”

  “No, Lady Caroline’s insisting the staff learn so we can drive an ambulance if there’s an incident.”

  “But Backbury wasn’t bombed, was it?”

  “No, but Lady Caroline’s determined to do her bit—or, rather, to make her staff do it for her. She’s also made
us learn to administer first aid and put out incendiaries. Next week she’ll have us all learning to fire an anti-aircraft gun.”

  “You sound better prepared for the Blitz than I am. I should have done my prep in Backbury.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” Eileen said. “You’d have had to deal with the Horrible Hodbins.”

  “What are Horrible Hodbins? Some sort of weaponry?”

  “That’s exactly what they are. A deadly secret weapon. They’re the worst children in history.” She told Polly about the haystack fire and trying to put Theodore on the train and about Alf and Binnie’s painting white stripes on Mr. Rudman’s Black Angus cows, “‘So’s ’e can see ’em in the blackout.’”

  “It’s a pity they couldn’t have been evacuated to Berlin instead of Backbury,” Eileen said. “Two weeks of coping with Alf and Binnie, and Hitler would be begging to surrender.” They’d reached King Edward Street. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I must get to Transport. You don’t know when it closes, do you, Polly?”

  “No. What automobile are you planning to learn on? A Daimler?”

  “No, a Bentley. That’s what Lady Caroline—or, rather, her chauffeur—drives. Why?”

  “Nothing. I was going to warn you about the Daimler’s gearbox, that’s all—one has to yank the gear stick very hard to shift into reverse gear—but you’re not going to be driving an actual ambulance, so it doesn’t matter. Does Transport have a period Bentley?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t been there yet. I only came though this morning.”

  “Do you have your driving authorization form?”

  “Driving authorization?” Eileen said blankly.

  “Yes. You must get it from Props before you go to Oriel.”

  “You mean I’ve got to go all the way back to Queen’s—?”

  “No, I mean you’ve got to go to Balliol and get approval from Mr. Dunworthy, and then you must go to Props.”

  “But that will take all afternoon,” Eileen protested, “and I only have two days. I’ll never learn to drive in one day.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought the vicar was going to teach you to drive.”

  “He is, but I’ve never even been in a 1940s automobile. I’ve got to learn how to open the door and switch on the ignition and—”

  “Oh, I can easily teach you that in an hour or two. Come with me to Balliol. You can get your approval, and then I’ll go with you and show you the ropes. And I’ll speak to Mr. Dunworthy about letting you do VE-Day.”

  “It won’t do any good,” Eileen said glumly. “I’ve already tried, and you know how he is when he’s made his mind up—”

  “True,” Polly said almost to herself. “But he must change his mind sometimes if…”

  “Polly!” They both turned and looked back. Seventeen-year-old, sandy-haired Colin Templer came racing up to them with a sheaf of printouts. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Polly,” he said breathlessly. “Hullo, Merope.” He turned back to Polly. “I finished the list of bombed Underground stations.”

  “Colin’s been helping me with my Blitz prep,” Polly explained to Eileen.

  Colin nodded. “Here.” He handed Polly several of the printouts. “This list is by station, but some of them were hit more than once.”

  Polly looked through the pages. “Waterloo…” she murmured. “… St. Paul’s… Marble Arch…”

  Colin nodded again. “It was hit on the seventeenth of September. There were over forty casualties.”

  I hope they don’t plan to stand here and go through the entire list, Eileen thought, looking at her watch. It was already half past three. Even if they could get in to see Mr. Dunworthy immediately, they’d be at Balliol at least an hour, and if Transport closed at five—

  “… Liverpool Street,” Polly said. “… Cannon Street… Blackfriars. Good Lord, this is every tube station in London!”

  “No, only half,” Colin said, “and most of them only had minor damage.” He handed her another set of pages. “I also listed the dates so you’d know when not to be in them. I know Mr. Dunworthy doesn’t want you in the ones that were hit at all, but they’re only dangerous for that day, and how are you going to get anywhere if you can’t go to Victoria or Bank?”

  “A man after my own heart,” Polly said and grinned at him. “Don’t tell Mr. Dunworthy I said that.”

  He looked horrified. “You know I wouldn’t, Polly.”

  Hmm, Eileen thought.

  “Is the list of air-raid and all-clear siren times here?” Polly asked, leafing through the pages.

  “I haven’t finished it yet,” he said, “but here’s the list of London landmarks that were damaged.” He handed her the rest of the pages. “Did you know they bombed Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks? And did you know it knocked the statue of Churchill over and took off Wellington’s ear, but neither Hitler nor Mussolini got so much as a scratch? I call that unfair.”

  “Yes, well, they got theirs later,” Polly said, looking through the pages. “Thank you, Colin. You’ve no idea how much help you’ve been.”

  He reddened. “I’ll have the list of siren times to you in an hour or two. Where will you be?”

  “Balliol.”

  He dashed off.

  “Thank you again, Colin! You’re marvelous!” she called after him. “Sorry,” she said to Eileen as they started walking again. “He’s been a wonderful assistant. All this would have taken me weeks.”

  “Yes, well, it’s amazing what a motivation love can be.”

  “Love?” Polly shook her head. “It’s not me he’s in love with, it’s time travel. He’s constantly after Mr. Dunworthy to waive the age requirement and let him do an assignment now.”

  “And what does Mr. Dunworthy say?”

  “You can imagine.”

  “Being in love with time travel may explain why he’s helping you with your prep,” Eileen said, “but it doesn’t explain why he blushes whenever you look at him. Or the way he says your name. Face it, Polly, he’s head over heels.”

  “But he’s a child!”

  “He’s what? Seventeen? In 1940, seventeen-year-olds are lying about their age and joining up and getting killed by the Germans. And what does age have to do with anything? One of the evacuees at the manor when I first arrived wanted to marry me, and he was only three.”

  “Oh, dear, do you truly think—?” Polly looked back up the street. “Perhaps I’d better not ask him to help me with any more research.”

  “No, that would be cruel. He’s trying to please and impress you. I think you should let him. You’re only going to be here—how long?”

  “Two weeks, if the lab can find me a drop site. I expected them to have found one by the time I got back, but they still haven’t.”

  “But they’ll find you one eventually, and then you’ll go to the Blitz—is this one real-time or flash-time?”

  “Real-time.”

  “And you’ll be gone how long?”

  “Six weeks.”

  “Which is an eternity for a seventeen-year-old. By the time you come back, he’ll have fallen in love with someone his own age and forgotten all about you.”

  “I don’t know, I was gone nearly that long last time…” she said thoughtfully. “And just because someone’s young, it doesn’t mean their attachment’s not serious. On my last assignment—” She bit off whatever she had been going to say and said brightly, “I think it’s much more likely he’s trying to impress me with his research skills so that I’ll help him convince Mr. Dunworthy to let him go to the Crusades.”

  “The Crusades? That’s even more dangerous than the Blitz, isn’t it?”

  “Far more dangerous, particularly when one knows where and when all the Blitz’s bombs will be falling, which I will. And it’s less dangerous than—Sorry, I’ve been doing all the talking. I want to hear about your assignment.”

  “There’s nothing much to tell. It’s mostly washing up and dealing with children and irate farmers. I’d hope
d I might meet the actor Michael Caine—he was evacuated when he was six—but I haven’t, and—I just thought of something. You might meet Agatha Christie. She was in London during the Blitz.”

  “Agatha Christie?”

  “The twentieth-century mystery novelist. She wrote these marvelous books about murders involving spinsters and clergymen and retired colonels. I used them for my prep—they’re full of details about servants and manor houses. And during the war she worked in hospital, and you’re going to be an ambulance driver. She—”

  “I’m not going to be an ambulance driver. I’m going to be something far more dangerous—a shopgirl in an Oxford Street department store.”

  “That’s more dangerous than driving an ambulance?”

  “Definitely. Oxford Street was bombed five times, and more than half its department stores were at least partly damaged.”

  “You’re not going to work in one of those, are you?”

  “No, of course not. Mr. Dunworthy won’t even allow me to work in Peter Robinson, though it wasn’t hit till the end of the Blitz. I can understand why he wouldn’t let me.…”

  Eileen nodded absently, listening to the bells of Christ Church tolling the hours. Four o’clock. They’d stood there talking to Colin longer than she’d thought. Perhaps instead of going with Polly, she should go to Oriel and find out when Transport closed.

  “… John Lewis and Company…” Polly was saying.

  Or she could ask Polly to ask Mr. Dunworthy to ring Props and approve the lessons over the phone for her.

  “… Padgett’s or Selfridges…”

  I could go to Props, Eileen thought, pick up the authorization form, go to Oriel, and have Polly meet me there.

  “But I daren’t dare push too hard,” Polly said, “or he may cancel it altogether. He’s thought this entire assignment was too dangerous from the beginning, and when he finds out—” She stopped, frowning again.

  “Finds out what?” Eileen asked.

  Polly paused. “How many tube stations were hit,” she said finally, and Eileen had the feeling that hadn’t been what she’d intended to say. “I’m going to be spending my nights sleeping in the Underground stations.”