All Clear

by Connie Willis

  “You won’t need that,” he said, plucking it out of her hands and folding it up. “I can show you the way.” There was nothing for her to do but start the engine. “It’s quickest to take the Great North Road. Follow this lane till the first turning, and then bear right.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, heading in the direction he indicated and trying to think of an excuse for getting the map back so she could see what towns lay along the Great North Road.

  “Definitely fate,” Flight Officer Lang was saying. “It’s clear we were destined to meet, Lieutenant—what’s your name?”

  “Kent, sir,” she said absently. She should have told him that the Major insisted her FANYs take the Edgware Road to London. That way they’d be out of range nearly the entire way.

  “Lieutenant Kent,” he said sternly. “Lovers brought together by fate do not call each other by their last names. Antony and Cleopatra, Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet. Stephen”—he pointed at himself—“and?”

  “Mary, sir.”

  “Sir?” His voice was filled with mock outrage. “Did Juliet call Romeo sir? Did Guinevere call Lancelot sir? Well, actually, I suppose she may have done. He was a knight, after all, but I don’t want you to do it. It makes me feel a hundred years old.”

  A hundred and thirty-some old, actually, she thought.

  “As your superior officer, I order you to call me Stephen, and I shall call you Mary. Mary,” he said, looking over at her and then frowning puzzledly. “Have we met before?”

  “No,” she said. “Does this route take us through Edgware?”

  “Edgware?” he said. “No, that’s the other direction. This road goes through Golders Green, and then we take the Great North Road south through Finchley.”

  Oh, no. There’d been a V-1 in East Finchley this afternoon, and two in Golders Green. “Oh, dear, I thought this went through Edgware,” she said, and didn’t have to feign the distress in her voice. “I was to pick up some stretchers for the Major at Edgware’s ambulance post.” She slowed the car, looking for a place to pull off and turn around. “We must go back.”

  “You’ll have to do it after we return, I’m afraid. I’ve a meeting at two, and I’ll be cashiered if I’m not there on time. And we’re late as it is. It’s already half past twelve.”

  The Golders Green V-1s had hit at 12:56 and 1:08. And let’s hope Flight Officer Lang isn’t right about our meeting being fate, and that that fate is to be blown to bits by a V-1. I should have memorized the casualties from each rocket attack, she thought, so I’d know if an RAF flight officer and his driver were killed this afternoon.

  But there’d scarcely been room in her implant for all the rockets which had hit in the areas she was most likely to be in, so all she knew was that the 12:56 one had been on Queen’s Road and the 1:08 one on abridge somewhere outside the village. And they were heading straight toward both of them.

  The net wouldn’t have let her come through if her presence in the past would affect events, but that didn’t mean she could blithely drive into the path of a V-1, certain that nothing would happen.

  For one thing, she could be killed even if he wasn’t. And for another, Flight Officer Lang had a constantly dangerous job. It might not make a difference to the course of history whether he was killed this afternoon or on a mission tomorrow.

  But it made a great deal of difference to her, which was why she needed to get off this road. “I promise you we’ll go straight to Edgware after my meeting,” Lang was saying. “And to make up for it I’ll take you out for dinner and dancing. What do you say?”

  I’d say that won’t make up for my being dead, she thought.

  There was a crossroads ahead. Good. She’d ask him again which way to turn, then pretend she’d misheard his instructions, turn right instead of left, and get them somehow onto a road that would lead them back out of range.

  She waited till they were nearly to the crossroads and then said, “Which road did you say I take?”

  “We stay on this. In another mile it turns into Queen’s Road. Are you certain we haven’t met before?”

  “Yes,” she said, only half listening. She peered ahead, looking for another crossroads. She wouldn’t ask this time, she’d simply turn off.

  “You’re certain you haven’t driven me before?” he persisted. “Last spring?”

  Absolutely certain. She wished he’d stop talking so she could hear. She might be able to swerve—or stop—if she heard the V-1 soon enough, but the noise of a car engine sometimes masked the sound, and with him prattling on—

  “Or last winter?”

  “No, I’ve only been in Dulwich for six weeks,” she said, glancing at her watch: 12:53. She rolled down the window. She couldn’t hear anything yet. And she didn’t know where on Queen’s Road the V-1 would—

  “Stop,” he ordered. “There’s a lorry ahead!” There was—a U.S. Army transport, apparently stopped. She nearly ran up the rear end of it, and as she braked, she saw it was the last in a line of lorries loaded with what looked like crates of ammunition.

  Oh, no, she thought, and then realized the lorries were her salvation. “It’s a convoy,” she said, backing the Daimler up. “We’ll never get through.” She began turning it around, wishing the road wasn’t so narrow.

  “There’s no need to turn round,” Stephen said, leaning out to look ahead. “The front of the line’s beginning to move.”

  “You said you were late,” she said briskly, then yanked on the wheel, completed the turn, and shot back the way they’d come.

  “I’m not that late,” he said. “And it would be a blessing if I missed the entire thing. It’s one of those utterly pointless conferences on what should be done to stop these rocket attacks.” He had the map out and was poring over it. “If we turn right at the next opportunity, it will take us—”

  Straight back toward that V-1, she thought. “I know a shortcut,” she said, and turned left instead and then left again.

  “I’m not certain this road …,” he said doubtfully, peering at the map.

  “I’ve taken it before,” she lied. “Why is it pointless?” she asked, to prevent him from looking at the map. “Your conference. Or can’t you talk about it? Military secrets and all that?”

  “It would be secret if there was anything to be done to stop them on this end which hasn’t been done already—anti-aircraft defenses, detection devices, barrage balloons, none of which has been at all effective, as you and your ambulance unit no doubt know.”

  And none of which stopped the ones that are about to hit here, she thought, driving as fast as she dared to get them out of the danger zone. The lanes were narrow and rutted, and there was no room to turn. If they ran into a car going the other way …

  Behind them, she heard a muffled explosion. The 12:56 V-1. She waited for a second one, which would mean it had hit the convoy, but it didn’t come.

  “As I was saying, none of our defenses is at all effective,” Stephen said calmly. “The only way to stop them is to prevent them from being launched in the first place.”

  The lane was narrowing. She turned off it onto another, which was just as narrow and even more rutted. She glanced at her watch: one o’clock.

  She needed to get them out of the danger area before 1:08, when the second V-1 had hit the bridge. She drove faster, praying for a road to turn onto. They passed a field of barley and then an ammunition dump, which the convoy had probably originated from, another field, another, and then a small grove of trees. Beyond it lay a bridge.

  Of course, Mary thought, and glanced at her watch again. 1:06.

  We are all going to have whistles as Mr. Bendall thinks if we are buried, it will be useful to our rescues. This I consider quite useful, and if buried shall whistle with all my might.

  —VERE HODGSON’S DIARY,

  28 February 1944

  London—26 October 1940

  AS SOON AS THEY REACHED THE LANDING OF THE EMERGENCY staircase, Mike asked Polly, “What if t
he retrieval team was in Padgett’s looking for Eileen, just like we were?”

  “But … they can’t have been,” Polly stammered. The idea that some of the fatalities might have been the retrieval team had never occurred to her. The possibility so knocked her back on her heels that for a moment it seemed entirely possible. It would explain why there’d been five casualties—the three there were supposed to be and the two-man retrieval team.

  “Why couldn’t they have been?” Mike pressed her. “Who else could they be? You heard Eileen’s supervisor. Everyone who worked there had been accounted for. And that would explain why they haven’t been found yet—because they don’t know there’s anyone to look for.”

  “But they knew Padgett’s was going to be hit. They wouldn’t have gone—”

  “We knew it was going to be hit, and we did. What if they saw us go in and followed us? If they didn’t realize we’d taken the elevator down, they might still have been looking for us when the HE hit.”

  There was no reason why a retrieval team, like historians, couldn’t be killed on assignment. And if that was what had happened, then Oxford hadn’t been destroyed and Colin hadn’t been killed. And Mike hadn’t lost the war.

  She wondered if that was why he was so determined that this was what had happened. Because, bad as it was, it was better than the alternative. On the other hand, it could explain why their retrieval teams hadn’t shown up, and why there were five fatalities.

  You don’t know for certain that there are, she reminded herself. You need to find out. And soon, before Mike heard about the five.

  I must go to the hospital tomorrow. And keep him away from Miss Laburnum and newspapers till then. He’d said they needed to check her drop and see if it was working. If she could take him there as soon as they got out of here—

  “As soon as the all clear goes, I’m going back to Padgett’s,” he said. “I’ve got to tell them there may still be casualties in the wreckage. If it’s the retrieval team, they won’t be looking for them.”

  “But you can’t—”

  “I won’t tell them it’s the retrieval team. I’ll say I saw some people going in while I was waiting for Eileen. We can’t just leave them there. They may still be alive.”

  No, they aren’t, Polly thought. Whoever it is, they’ve already been pulled out of the wreckage dead. But she couldn’t say that.

  “We have to help them,” Mike said.

  “We can’t—”

  “Mike?” Eileen called from above them. “Polly? Where are you?”

  “Down here!” Mike shouted, and they heard her start down the clanking steps.

  “Don’t say anything to her about this till we know for certain,” Polly whispered to Mike. “She’s—”

  “I know,” he whispered back. “I won’t.”

  Eileen came down to where they were standing. “You weren’t leaving to go to the drop without me, were you?”

  “Not a chance,” Mike said. “We were just trying to figure out what other historians might be here besides Gerald Phipps.”

  “Why did you come down here to do that?”

  “We didn’t want to disturb you,” Polly said.

  Mike nodded. “We couldn’t sleep, and we thought we might as well make use of the time. Don’t worry. We wouldn’t go off and leave you.”

  “I know you wouldn’t,” Eileen said shamefacedly. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I can’t bear the thought of being here all alone again.” She sat down on the step. “So have you thought of anyone?”

  And you’d better come up with something quickly, Polly said silently, or she’ll know we’re lying.

  “Yeah,” Mike said, “Jack Sorkin, but unfortunately, he’s on the USS Enterprise in the Pacific.”

  “What about your roommate?” Eileen asked. “Wasn’t he doing World War II?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t do us any good either. Charles is doing Singapore.”

  Oh, my God. Singapore! Polly thought. And if his drop isn’t working, like ours, he’ll still be there when the Japanese arrive. He’ll be captured and put in one of their prison camps. She wondered if Mike realized that. She hoped not. “Who else?” she asked to change the subject. “Eileen, what about the other people in your year? Were any of them doing World War II?”

  “I don’t think so. Damaris Klein might … no, I think she was doing the Napoleonic Wars. What about the historian who was doing the rocket attacks?” She turned to Polly. “When did those begin, Polly?”

  “June thirteenth of 1944,” Polly said, “which is too late to be of any use. We need someone here now.”

  “And we don’t know who it was who did the V-1 attacks,” Mike said.

  “But if we can’t find anyone else …,” Eileen said. “Mike, are you certain they didn’t say who it was?”

  “They might have …,” he said, frowning as if trying to remember.

  “Could it have been Saji Llewellyn?” Polly asked.

  “No, she was observing Queen Beatrice’s coronation. You know that, Polly,” Mike said. “Do either of you know Denys Atherton?”

  “I’ve seen him at lectures and things,” Eileen said, “but I’ve never spoken to him. What’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Mike said, “but it’s something from March first to June fifth, 1944, which is also too late to help us. What would he be observing then, Polly? The war in Italy?”

  “No, he would have come through earlier for that. He’s likelier to have been observing the buildup to the invasion, especially since his return date’s one day before D-Day.”

  “Which means he’ll be here in England,” Mike said. “Where? Portsmouth? Southampton?”

  “Yes, or Plymouth or Winchester or Salisbury,” Polly said. “The buildup was spread over the entire southwestern half of the country. Or he could be observing Fortitude, in which case he’d be in Kent. Or Scotland.”

  “Fortitude?” Eileen said. “What’s that?”

  “An intelligence operation to fool Hitler and the German High Command into believing the Allies were attacking somewhere other than Normandy. They built dummy Army installations and planted false news stories in the local papers and sent faked radio messages. Fortitude North was in Scotland. Its mission was to convince the Germans the invasion would be in Norway, and Fortitude South in southeast England’s mission was to convince them it was coming at the Pas de Calais.”

  “So Denys Atherton could be anywhere,” Mike said.

  “And if he’s working in Intelligence, he won’t be using his own name,” Polly said.

  “But I know what he looks like,” Eileen said. “He’s tall and has dark curly hair—”

  “Christ,” Mike said. “I hadn’t even thought about names. That means Phipps could be here under some other name, too. Eileen, did he say anything about whether he’d be using his own name or not?”

  “No.”

  Polly asked Mike, “And you didn’t see his name on the letters he was carrying?”

  “No,” he said disgustedly.

  “But you and Eileen both know what he looks like.”

  “If I can only remember the name of his airfield,” Eileen said ruefully. “I know I’d know it if I heard it.”

  “It’ll be in the railway guide,” Polly said. “I’ll see if Mrs. Rickett has one in the morning, and if she doesn’t, I know Townsend Brothers has one in the book department. I used it to look up the trains to Backbury. I’ll buy it on Monday. And in the meantime, the best thing we can do is get some sleep. We’ll all be able to think more clearly if we’ve had some rest.” And I’ll be able to think of a way to keep Mike from going to Padgett’s in the morning, she thought.

  But how? Telling him that they couldn’t help, that historians couldn’t affect events, brought them back to Hardy. And telling him it had already happened and there were fatalities, and therefore there was no point in trying, not only sounded completely heartless but was too much like their own situation. And hopefully Mr. Dunworthy wasn’t te
lling Colin the same thing at this very moment.

  She would have to persuade Mike that she should be the one to go to Padgett’s. “Mr. Fetters is less likely to recognize me than Eileen or you,” she could tell him, “especially if I change my clothes and put my hair up. I can tell him I was waiting outside for Eileen and saw people go in just as the store closed.”

  But when she tried to persuade him, waking him up before the all clear so the sleeping Eileen wouldn’t hear, he insisted on going himself.

  “But shouldn’t I show you where the drop is first?” Polly asked. “If it’s working, you can go through and tell Oxford to send a team disguised as rescue workers.”

  He shook his head. “We’ll go to Padgett’s first and then the drop.”

  “But what will we tell Eileen?”

  He finally agreed to take Eileen back to Mrs. Rickett’s, tell her the two of them were going to the drop, and then go to Padgett’s.

  Which created a whole new problem. If they left now, they’d run straight into the troupe, and Miss Laburnum would almost certainly say something about the five fatalities.

  “We need to wait here till everyone’s gone so they don’t see us leaving the emergency staircase,” she said. “Once they realize it’s not locked, all sorts of people will want to use it. And we should let Eileen sleep, poor thing. I doubt if she’s had a good night’s rest since she came to London.”

  “All right,” he said, and agreed to let Eileen sleep another half hour, during which Polly hoped he’d fall asleep and she could go find out alone. But he didn’t, and after they’d walked Eileen home and Polly had got her safely upstairs without seeing anyone, he insisted on going straight to Padgett’s, even though it had begun to rain again. And there was nothing for it but to go with him and hope a rescue crew was digging, or Mike might insist on going down into the pit himself.

  But a crew was there, at least a dozen men hard at work with picks and shovels in spite of the rain, and the incident officer had just come on duty and didn’t know if they’d recovered any victims or not. “But they must think there are some of them under there,” he said when Mike told him he’d seen three people going in. “Or they wouldn’t be working like that.”