And the Queen was three-quarters of an hour late. “She’s royalty,” Moncrieff said when Ernest complained. “She can keep us waiting, just not the other way round. Why don’t you spend the time writing up those articles you said were due?”
“I can’t.” He held up his bandaged hands.
“That’s not my fault. You were the one who decided to come as the ghost of King Tut. I don’t know why you felt it necessary to use so much bandage.”
Neither do I, he thought. Especially since it had turned out to be a false alarm. The hospital in Dover hadn’t been able to spare any nurses. These were from Ramsgate. He considered taking the facial bandages off, but just then the Queen—a stout, sweet-faced woman in pale blue—arrived along with a half dozen photographers from the London papers, and the affair commenced.
“You never did tell me how to address her,” Ernest whispered to Prism, who was in the bed next to him as they proceeded down the row.
“You don’t say anything unless she asks you a direct question,” Prism whispered. “And then it’s ‘Your Majesty.’ Shh. Here she comes.”
He should have asked him if she knew this was a hoax or not. It was impossible to tell. She spoke to the “patients” as if they actually had been injured in battle, asking them what unit they were with and where they were from. If she did know, she was doing an excellent job of acting. We could use her in Special Means, he thought.
The entire thing was over by half past two. The Queen declined to stay to tea and left at a quarter past, and the photographers took a few more pictures and departed. He could still make it to Croydon if they left now.
He put the case to Moncrieff. “All right,” Moncrieff said. “We’ll leave as soon as we’ve loaded the beds back onto the lorry.”
“And got me out of this plaster,” Cess said.
The former was no problem—they had the lorry loaded and off by three. But Cess’s plaster cast was another matter. Both tin snips and a hacksaw failed to work.
“Can’t we do this back at the post?” Ernest asked, but they couldn’t get Cess through the door of the car with the cast on. A servant had to fetch a hammer and chisel.
It was nearly seven before they got home. “We’d better not have to blow up any more tanks tonight,” Cess said, limping inside.
They didn’t, but Ernest had to write up the hospital event for the London papers and then phone it in, and it was past ten before he was able to start in on his own news articles. It was much too late for Croydon, but he’d made Moncrieff feel guilty enough about it on the way home that he’d promised to let him drive them over to Bexhill to meet the Village Gazette’s deadline, which meant he’d have an entire afternoon to do what he needed to do unobserved.
He rolled a new sheet of paper in the typewriter and typed the letter he’d thought up about the bull, and then an ad for a dentist in Hawkhurst. “New patients welcome. Specializes in American dental techniques.”
Cess leaned in the door. “Still at it?”
“Yes, and if you’re here to ask me to go blow up an aircraft carrier, the answer’s no,” he said, continuing to type in the hope that Cess would take the hint and go away, but he didn’t.
“I think I’m permanently crippled,” Cess said, coming in and perching on the desk. “It was worth it, though, to get to meet the Queen. D’you know what she said to me? She thanked me for my bravery in battle. Wasn’t that nice?”
“It would have been if you’d actually been in battle,” Ernest said, continuing to type.
“I was, when they were trying to get that plaster off my foot. And in that pasture with that bull last night. What did she say to you?”
“She asked me to elope. She said The Mummy was her favorite film and asked me to run off to Gretna Green with her.”
“All right, don’t tell me,” Cess said. “I’m off to bed.” He left and then leaned back in the door. “I’ll get it out of you eventually, you know.”
No, you won’t, Ernest thought, though Cess wouldn’t know what it meant if he did tell him, and she had probably told hundreds of soldiers the same thing. But it had cut a little too close to the bone.
He waited five minutes, typing up the fictitious wedding of Agnes Brown of Brixton to Corporal William Stokowski of Topeka, Kansas, “currently serving with the 29th Armored Division,” till he was sure Cess had really gone to bed. Then he took the manila envelope from the bottom drawer of the desk and rolled the story he’d been writing yesterday into the typewriter. But he didn’t begin to type. Instead, he stared at the keys and thought about the Queen and her words to him.
“Your King appreciates your sacrifice and your devotion to duty,” she’d said. “He and I are grateful for the important work you are doing.”
What of the future?… Will the rocket-bomb come? Will more destructive explosions come?
WINSTON CHURCHILL,
6 July 1944
Golders Green—July 1944
THE BRIDGE LAY JUST AHEAD, AND THERE WERE NO TURNOFFS that Mary could see. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, she thought. The bridge was less than a hundred yards from the ammunition dump. If this was the bridge the V-1 had hit, they’d be blown to bits. She glanced at her watch. 1:07.
Beside her in the ambulance Stephen Lang was still talking about the ineffectiveness of England’s rocket defenses. “The only way to stop them is to prevent them from being launched at all. I say, slow down a bit. You’ll get us both killed.”
Not if I can get us over this bridge before 1:08, she thought, stepping on the accelerator pedal. She shot over the bridge, braced for the blast and trying to gauge how far away they had to be to not be hit.
“The meeting’s not that important,” Stephen protested.
“I have orders to get you there on time,” she said, roaring down the lane.
And there was the road she’d taken to Hendon. Thank God. She turned south on it and, now that they were out of range, slowed down. “You were saying the only way to stop the rockets is to prevent them from being launched?” she asked.
“Yes, which is why I should be flying a bomber in France instead of being stuck here—not that I’m complaining. After all, it affords me a chance to be with you again,” he said and smiled that heartbreakingly crooked smile. “Where were you before?”
She looked at him, startled. “Before?”
“Before Dulwich. I’m attempting to determine where it is we first met.”
“Oh. Oxford.”
“Oxford,” he said, and frowned as if he was truly trying to remember.
Oh, no. She’d assumed he was only flirting. “Haven’t we met?” had been almost as common a pickup line during the war as “I’m shipping out tomorrow.” But there was a possibility she had met him. This was, after all, time travel. She might have known him on an upcoming assignment. And if she had, it could be a major problem, especially since she’d have been there under a different name. And if he’d seen her somewhere which didn’t match the story she’d told the FANYs and the Major, and he told Talbot … I need to get him off this topic before he remembers where he met me, she thought. “What do you fly?” she asked. “Hurricanes?”
“Spitfires,” he said, and for the rest of the way to London regaled her with tales of his flying exploits. But as they were coming into the city, he asked, “Where were you before Oxford?”
“I was in training. Were you in the Battle of Britain?”
“Yes, till I was shot down. You weren’t ever posted near Biggin Hill, were you?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m quite sure we’ve never met. I’m certain I’d remember someone as cheeky as you.”
“You’re quite right,” he said. “And I could never have forgotten meeting someone as beautiful as you.” He stretched his arm across the back of the seat, shifted so he was facing her, and edged closer. “Perhaps it’s déjà vu.”
“Or perhaps you’ve flirted with so many girls you’ve got them mixed. That’s what you get for having a girl in e
very port.”
“Port?” he said. “I’m in the RAF, not the Navy.”
“A girl in every hangar, then. Tell me, does that ‘destined to be together forever’ line of chat work on other girls?”
He grinned at her. “As a matter of fact, it does.” Then he gave her a puzzled look. “Why didn’t it work on you?”
Because I’m a hundred years older than you, she thought. You died before I was ever born, and then regretted it. He was a pilot. He might very well die before the end of the war.
Or before they reached Whitehall. London had had eleven V-1 attacks between two and six. “Where in Whitehall is your meeting?” she asked.
“The Ministry of Health,” he said wryly. “In St. Charles Street. Take the Tottenham Court Road. It’s quickest.”
And it had had a V-1 hit at 1:52. “Turn left here,” he ordered, and as she turned right, “No, left.”
“Sorry,” she said, continuing to drive away from Tottenham Court Road. “It was fate.”
“That’s unkind,” he said. “Isolde would never have said something like that to Tristan.”
“Sorry,” she said, turning down Charing Cross Road.
“Why is it you’re completely immune to my charms?” he asked. “Oh, no, don’t tell me you’re engaged?”
She wished she could. It would be the simplest way to put a stop to his nonsense, but it might create complications if Talbot drove him again. She shook her head.
“Promised to someone?” he persisted. “Betrothed at birth?”
“No,” she said, laughing, which was the worst possible thing to do. He wouldn’t take her protests seriously now. But his determination and irrepressible spirits were utterly disarming. It was a good thing they’d arrived. “Here we are,” she said, and pulled up in front of the Ministry of Health.
“Bang on time,” he said, looking at his watch. “You’re wonderful, Isolde.” He got out of the Daimler and then leaned back in. “I’ve no idea how long this will take, an hour, perhaps two, but as soon as it’s done, I’ll take you to tea, and then we’ll go to the nearest church and post the banns.”
“I can’t,” she said. “Those stretchers, remember?”
“Stretchers be damned. This is destiny.” He gave her his crooked smile and loped off toward the building, and as he did, she had a sudden sense of déjà vu, too, a feeling that she had met him before.
Which ruled out its having happened in the future. She couldn’t remember something which hadn’t happened yet. It had to have been here, on this assignment. Could they have met when she was on her way to Dulwich—in the railway station as she attempted to buy a ticket? Or in Portsmouth? No, she wouldn’t have forgotten those rakish good looks or that crooked smile. And it wasn’t so much that he looked familiar as that he reminded her of someone.
Who? Someone in Oxford? Or on a previous assignment? She squinted, trying to remember, but she couldn’t place him. Perhaps she’d only had the sensation of déjà vu because of Stephen’s having suggested they’d met before.
She gave up, reached for the map, and began plotting the coordinates of the V-1s which had fallen between two and five o’clock so she could plan a route back to Hendon which would avoid them. As soon as she’d finished, she mapped out a safe route back to Dulwich from Hendon. If Flight Officer Lang returned by four, and it didn’t take too long to get the stretchers in Edgware, she should be able to return the way she’d come, except that she’d have to go around Maida Vale and then cut through Kilburn.
He wasn’t back by four. Or half past. Or five. He’d clearly underestimated the time the meeting would take. She made a mental list of the V-1s that had fallen between five and six—no, best make it seven—and redid the route back to Hendon and then the one home, which was far longer and more complicated. She hoped she could follow it. If he wasn’t here soon, she’d be driving home in the dark. And the blackout.
He finally emerged from Whitehall at a quarter past six, looking furious. “Do you know what those fools said? ‘You in the RAF need to come up with more effective defensive tactics against the rocket bombs,’ ” he fumed, getting in and slamming the door. She started up the car and edged into traffic. “Exactly what do they suggest?” he said angrily. “It’s not as though there’s a pilot we can shoot, or a way to defuse the bomb en route. It’s already triggered when it’s launched.”
She nodded absently from time to time and concentrated on getting them out of London and onto the road to Hendon. At least he’d abandoned the “Haven’t I met you somewhere?” topic.
“And if we shoot them down,” he raved on, “we can’t control where they’ll land and we may end up killing more people than would have been killed if we’d let them continue on to their target. But could I make them understand that? No.”
She drove through the evening with her foot down hard on the accelerator pedal, wanting to reach Edgware Road while she could still make out landmarks, as he ranted on about how the generals knew nothing about rockets or aeroplanes.
“They demanded to know why the RAF couldn’t invent some method whereby the rockets would hit woods or a meadow instead of a populated area,” he told her, incensed. “But not a pasture, mind you. No, the explosion might disturb the cows!”
It was half past seven when they finally reached the turn to Hendon. By the time she dropped him off, went to Edgware, and talked the ambulance post out of the stretchers, it would almost certainly be dark.
“And you can imagine what wonderful sorts of suggestions they came up with,” Stephen said. “One of the generals suggested we use nets, and another—a hundred if he was a day; I shouldn’t be surprised to find he’d led the Charge of the Light Brigade—asked why we couldn’t toss a rope round the rocket’s nose, like roping a mare, and lead it back to France. A brilliant suggestion. Why on earth didn’t I think of that?
“Sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to inflict my rantings on you, even though we are destined to spend the rest of our lives together. I don’t suppose you gave any thought to where we should be married while I was in with that lot of fools, did you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I decided we shouldn’t, that wartime attachments are a bad idea. Particularly if you’re going to be lassoing flying bombs.”
“Well, then, I’ll simply have to think of something better. And in the meantime, I’ll take you to tea and—” He seemed suddenly to take in their surroundings. “We’re not out of London already, are we? I intended to take you to tea at the Savoy for being so patient. Where are we exactly?”
“Home.” She pulled up to the airfield gate.
“Wait,” he said as she brought the Daimler to a stop. “You can’t go yet.” He reached to take her hand.
She avoided letting him by reaching past him for the transport form at the same time. “Have you a pen?” she asked innocently. “Oh, never mind, I have one.”
He tried again. “You can’t go yet. We’ve only just met.”
“You forget, we met before,” she said, filling up the transport form. “You really do need to keep your pickup lines straight, Flight Officer Lang.”
“So I do,” he said ruefully. “But just because I’ve failed in the romance department doesn’t mean you should starve. You’ve already gone all day without food, thanks to me. Look, there’s a nice little pub only a few miles from here.”
She shook her head. “I must go to Edgware for those stretchers, remember?”
“I’ll go with you. I’ll help you load your stretchers, then we’ll have dinner and work out where it was we’ve met before.”
That was the last thing she needed. “No, I must get back. My commanding officer’s extremely strict.” She handed him the form to sign. “Sorry,” she said, and smiled at him. “It’s fate.”
“All right. You win, Isolde.” He signed the form, climbed out of the Daimler, and then leaned back in. “But keep in mind this is only round one. I have all sorts of techniques I haven’t tried yet, which I promise you, you
will not be able to resist—though I’m forced to admit you have better defenses than any girl I’ve ever met. Perhaps we should use you to stop the V-1s. You could turn them away with a flick of your hand or a well-timed word—”
He stopped and looked blindly at her, as if he’d suddenly remembered something.
Please don’t let it be where we met, she thought. “I really must be going,” she said quickly.
“What?”
“The stretchers.”
“Oh. Right,” he said, coming back from wherever he’d been. “Adieu, Isolde, but don’t think you’ve seen the last of me. It’s our destiny to meet again very soon. Very soon. It wouldn’t surprise me if I needed a driver again tomorrow.”
“I’m on duty tomorrow, and you’re lassoing V-1s, remember?”
“Quite right,” he said, and got that odd, looking-straight-through-her gaze again. She took the opportunity to say goodbye, pull the door shut, and drive off quickly.
“One can’t escape one’s destiny by driving away from it!” he called after her. “We were meant to be together, Isolde. It’s fate.”
I’ll have to make certain I’m on duty or away from the post for the next few days, she thought, turning toward Edgware. After which he’ll forget all about attempting to remember where he met me and begin calling some other girl Isolde.
She should have found a way to escape from him sooner. By the time she located Edgware’s ambulance post and managed to talk them out of one lone stretcher, it was not only dark but past eight o’clock. She was in unfamiliar territory, her shuttered headlamps gave almost no light at all, and if she got lost and took the wrong road, she’d be blown up.
But she also couldn’t creep along. Dulwich had had three V-1s tonight. They’d need every ambulance, and the route she’d mapped out was only good till twelve, and with the blackout, she’d have no way to look at the map. I must be home by midnight, she thought, leaning forward, both hands on the wheel, peering at the tiny area of road her headlamps illuminated. Just like Cinderella.
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