All Clear

by Connie Willis

  He was on a flat surface. A stone floor, so this had to be on the main floor of the cathedral, which meant it was far earlier than four A.M. But even if it were midnight, there should be some light. The raids in the early morning hours of the tenth had been less than half a mile from here, and some of the docks had still been burning from the first two nights’ raids. And there should be searchlights.

  And noise. But he couldn’t hear anything—no clatter of incendiaries, the bane of St. Paul’s. No muffled thud of bombs. No droning of planes overhead. No sound at all, except the distinctive hush. What if Linna had got the coordinates wrong in her haste, and this wasn’t 1940? Or what if Dr. Ishiwaka had been right?

  But when Dunworthy put his hand out, it connected with canvas and a yielding weight, which could only be a sandbag. He patted around it. More sandbags, and when he felt his way around them to the wall and along it, he came to a carved wooden doorway. The north doors. Which meant he was exactly where he was supposed to be, and the sandbags meant he was in the general vicinity of when.

  There should be two steps leading down to the doors. He felt his way carefully down and tried to open them. They were locked. Locked? John Bartholomew had said they kept the cathedral unlocked. But he wasn’t here yet. He wouldn’t arrive till the twentieth, and perhaps St. Paul’s hadn’t unlocked the doors till later, after the necessity of getting fire hoses in became apparent.

  It should have been apparent from the beginning, Dunworthy thought irritably, groping his way back up the steps. Now he’d have to go all the way down the nave to the west doors. Which would take him an hour at this rate.

  Perhaps he should sit down and wait for it to grow light enough to see, but it was too cold. His teeth were already chattering. And the longer he waited, the more likely he was to run into the fire watch and have to explain what he was doing here. He could always tell them he’d come in looking for shelter when the sirens went and had fallen asleep, but if he and Polly were seen when he brought her back here, there could be complications. Worse, they might decide they needed to make a sweep of the cathedral every night. Or lock the west doors.

  He needed to get out now, before anyone saw him. And if he was lucky, and it was as early as the darkness and the lack of raids suggested, the trains would still be running, and he could make it to Notting Hill Gate before they stopped. He could spend the night searching that station, search High Street Kensington and the others on the list as soon as the trains began again in the morning, and find Polly before nightfall and have her back in Oxford before breakfast. And he could stop worrying over what might happen to her if Dr. Ishiwaka was right.

  He patted his way cautiously back along the wall, around the sandbags. Wall, more sandbags, pillar …

  His foot hit something metal, and it fell over with a terrific, echoing clatter. He dived to silence whatever it was, and his hand came down in a bucket of freezing water and nearly knocked it over. He felt frantically for the thing he’d banged into.

  A stirrup pump. He could tell by the metal handle, the rubber hose. He straightened, clutching the pump in both hands and peering anxiously into the blackness, listening for running footsteps or a shouted “What was that?”

  Neither came, which meant the entire fire watch was still up on the roofs, thank heavens, and if he could just reach the nave with its high windows, there should be a bit more light and he’d be able to see where he was going.

  There wasn’t any more light. The wall he’d been patting his way along ended and the quality of the hush changed, so that he could tell he was in a wider, higher space, but it was still pitch-black. Bartholomew had said they’d kept a small light burning on the altar at night for the fire watch to orient itself by, but when he looked toward where the choir and the altar should be, there was nothing but a black blankness.

  And I will have a few things to say to Mr. Bartholomew on the accuracy of his historical reporting when I return to Oxford, he thought, feeling for the angled and fluted pillars that formed the corner of the wall. He didn’t dare go out into the middle of the nave. It was full of wooden folding chairs to crash into. He’d best keep to the north aisle.

  He felt along the aisle’s wall, one hand on the cold stone and the other hand in front of him, attempting to remember what lay along it. Lord Leighton’s statue, he thought, and promptly stumbled over it, the sandbags breaking his fall.

  I’m too old for this, he thought, getting to his feet again and working his way past it, past an alcove, a rectangular pillar, another alcove. And another bucket, this one full of sand—which he nearly broke his toe against but, thankfully, did not knock over.

  Colin was right, I should have brought a pocket torch, he thought, feeling his way around another pillar. And up against what was unmistakably a brick wall.

  There aren’t any brick walls in St. Paul’s, he thought. Could I be somewhere else altogether? Then he realized what it was. The Wellington Monument, which they’d bricked up because it was too large to move. He worked his way quickly along its face to the next pillar. After this there should be only the All Souls’ Chapel and then St. Dunstan’s Chapel before he reached—

  A door slammed somewhere behind him, and footsteps hurried down the nave toward him. Dunworthy ducked behind the pillar, hoping he was out of sight. “I’m certain I heard something,” a man’s voice said.

  “An incendiary?” a second voice asked.

  No, you heard me crashing about, Dunworthy thought. They were obviously members of the fire watch.

  A pocket torch flashed briefly. Dunworthy shrank further behind the pillar. “I don’t know,” the first man said. “It might have been a DA.”

  A delayed-action bomb, Dunworthy thought.

  “Bloody hell, that’s all we need,” the second one said. And bloody hell was right. They’d search the entire cathedral.

  “It sounded like it was in the nave,” the first one said, and Dunworthy braced himself, wondering what sort of tale he could concoct to explain his presence. But when the torch flashed again, it was over toward the south aisle, and their footsteps grew softer as they moved away from him.

  Dunworthy stayed where he was, trying to hear what they were saying, but he only caught snatches. “… have been on the south chancel roof? … likely put it out …”

  They must have decided it was an incendiary after all. They were all the way to the west end of the nave. He caught, “… over for tonight …” and something that sounded like “Coventry,” though that was unlikely. He didn’t think Coventry had been bombed before the fourteenth of November.

  “… north aisle?” one of them said, and Dunworthy looked back toward the transept, wondering if he should retreat there.

  “No … check the gallery first.” There was a brief flash of light, and Dunworthy heard a clank of metal and footsteps ascending.

  They’re going up Wren’s Geometrical Staircase, he thought, and took advantage of the covering sound of their footsteps to walk quickly along the aisle, his hand on the wall for guidance. Pillar, pillar, iron grille. That was St. Dunstan’s Chapel. The vestibule and the door should be just beyond.

  “… find anything?” he heard from somewhere above him. He ducked for cover moments before the pocket torch’s light flared down.

  “Here it is!” one of them shouted; it must have been the first one because he said triumphantly, “I told you I heard something. It’s an incendiary. Fetch a stirrup pump.”

  Dunworthy heard the second one racket along the gallery overhead. He felt his way quickly to the door, opened it, and slipped out to the porch and the steps.

  And into pouring rain. Which explains why it’s so dark, he thought, ducking back under the porch’s roof. It was nearly as dark out here as inside. If he hadn’t known there was a pillared porch and then steps, he couldn’t have found his way down to the courtyard.

  He squinted across it. He could only just make out the dark outlines of the buildings opposite. The rain also explained the absence of sea
rchlights and of bombers droning overhead—the Luftwaffe would have had to call off the raids when this started. And it explained there not being any fires. The rain would have put all of them—except for the incendiary that had come through the gallery’s roof—out.

  Dunworthy glanced up at the bell tower to see if they were up there and then splashed down the steps. To reach the tube station, he needed to find Paternoster Row and then Newgate.

  And watch where he was going, though that was almost impossible to do in this downpour. It beat against him icily, more like sleet than rain. He hunched forward, ducking his head against its onslaught.

  At any rate, no one else will be mad enough to be out in this, he thought, pulling the collar of his tweed jacket up tightly round his neck, but he was wrong. There were two figures walking straight toward him. Members of the fire watch? Or civilians on the way home from the tube station? Or an ARP warden who would demand to know what he was doing out on the streets and hustle him off to a surface shelter?

  He splashed quickly across the road and down the narrow lane to his left. It was scarcely six feet across, and what little light he’d had to see by was utterly shut out by the buildings on either side. It was as dark as it had been inside the cathedral. He had to return to feeling his way, and it took him forever to reach Paternoster Row.

  If it was Paternoster Row. It didn’t look like it. It was no wider than the lane and was lined with ramshackle houses instead of publishers’ offices and book warehouses. It also seemed to have a deeper descent than it should, though that might be a trick of the darkness.

  Its abrupt end in a courtyard wasn’t. He must have missed Paternoster Row in the dark. He retraced his way back to the lane and up the way he’d come.

  But it wasn’t the same lane. This one ended in a wooden stable. You’re lost, he thought furiously. You should have known better than to wander about in the dark in the City.

  There was no worse place in London—or history—to be lost. The area surrounding St. Paul’s had been a rabbit warren of confusing lanes and mazelike passages, most of them leading nowhere. He could wander in here forever and never find his way out. And the rain was coming down harder than ever.

  “I am positively too old for this,” he muttered, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of St. Paul’s, but the buildings were too tall, and there was nothing to orient himself by. He no longer even knew which direction the cathedral lay in.

  Yes, you do, he thought. You know exactly where it is. On top of Ludgate Hill. All you need to do is climb up the hill. But that was easier said than done. There were no streets going up. They all led inexorably downhill, away from St. Paul’s and from the tube station. But if he continued downhill, he’d eventually come to Blackfriars, or, if he was too far east, Cannon Street. Either tube station would have trains which could take him to the station where Polly was. He turned down a lane and then another.

  After two more turns and another cul-de-sac, he came to a broader street. Old Bailey? If so, Blackfriars lay at the foot of it. It was finally growing light, at least enough to see that the street was lined with shops, and the shops had awnings. He splashed across the street, eager to get even partially out of the rain.

  Nearly all the shop windows were boarded up. Only the second from the corner still had glass in it, and as he drew nearer, he saw it was boarded up as well. What he’d thought was glass was actually a reflection from a garland of silver-paper letters nailed to the wood. They spelled out Happy Christmas.

  It can’t be Christmas, he thought. If it was, there’d have been a Christmas tree in the nave and another outside in the porch. John Bartholomew had talked about its having been repeatedly knocked over by blast.

  But the trees could very well have been there. He wouldn’t have seen them in the darkness.

  But if it’s Christmas, he thought, that means there’s been nearly four months’ slippage, and that’s impossible. The increase was only two days. But he knew it was true. That was why it was so cold. And so dark. The net had sent him through at four A.M., but in December four A.M. would be pitch-black.

  “Ascertain your temporal location immediately upon arrival.” Wasn’t that what he was always enjoining his students to do? He should have realized it couldn’t be September tenth when there weren’t any fires. They hadn’t got the ones on the docks out for nearly a week.

  But he’d ignored the clues, and now he’d have to climb all the way back up that hill in the rain. Because Polly wasn’t here. Her assignment had ended the twenty-second of October. She’d been safely back in Oxford for at least a month and a half, and this had been an exercise in futility.

  Except that now he had the proof he’d been looking for that the slippage was beginning to spike. He had to return to St. Paul’s immediately, go back through to Oxford, and tell Badri to pull all the historians out. He started back up the hill, looking for a taxi, but the streets were completely deserted.

  No, wait, there was one, in the darkness at the end of a side lane. He stepped into the lane and hailed it.

  It had seen him. It pulled out and began to move toward him, and thank God Colin had insisted on his bringing money. Dunworthy pulled out his papers and shuffled through them, looking for the five-pound notes, and then looked up again.

  The taxi was moving away. It hadn’t seen him after all. “Hullo!” Dunworthy shouted, his voice echoing in the narrow street, and rushed toward it, waving.

  There, it had seen him now. The taxi began to move toward him again. It must be farther away than he’d thought because he couldn’t hear the engine at all. He hurried toward it, but before he’d gone half the distance, he saw it wasn’t a taxi. What he’d thought was the vehicle’s bonnet was the rounded edge of a huge black metal canister, swinging gently back and forth from a lamppost. A dark shroud was draped over the lamppost. A parachute.

  It’s a parachute mine, he thought, watching as the canister swung gently back and forth, missing the lamppost by inches. And if the wind shifted slightly, or the parachute ripped …

  He took two stumbling steps backward, and then turned and ran for the mouth of the lane, listening for the tearing of parachute silk, for the scrape of the mine against the lamppost, for the deafening boom of the explosion.

  It didn’t come. There was a faint sigh, and he was suddenly on the ground, his hands out in front of him on the pavement. He thought at first he must have tripped and fallen, but when he got to his feet, he was covered with dust and glass.

  It must have broken the stationer’s window, he thought, and then, confusedly, The mine must have gone off.

  He brushed the glass and dirt off his trousers, his coat. And he must have cut himself in the process because the palms of his hands were scraped and bloody, and blood was trickling down behind his ear. He could hear ambulance bells.

  I can’t let them find me here, he thought. I must get back to Oxford. I must pull everyone out. He started down the lane, wishing there was a wall to lean against for support, but all the buildings seemed to have fallen down except the one at the very end. He walked toward it as quickly as he could. The bells were growing louder. The ambulance would be here any second, and so would an incident officer. He needed to be out of the lane, across the road, around the corner …

  He made it just past the corner before he collapsed, falling to his knees.

  Colin was right. He said I’d get into trouble, he thought. I should have let him come with me. And he must have been unconscious for a few minutes, because when he opened his eyes, it was nearly light and the rain had stopped. He got heavily to his feet and then stood there a moment, looking confused. What had he—?

  Oxford, he thought. I must get back to Oxford. And started down the hill to Blackfriars to take the tube to Paddington Station to catch the train.

  The rain it raineth every day.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,

  TWELFTH NIGHT

  London—December 1940

  MIKE STARED AT POLLY, SITTING THERE ON T
HE STEPS OF the Albert Memorial. “You were the historian we were talking about that day in Oxford?” he said angrily. “The one we couldn’t believe Mr. Dunworthy would let do something so dangerous?”

  Polly nodded.

  “Which means your deadline’s not April second, 1945. It’s what? When did the V-1 attacks start?”

  “A week after D-Day.”

  “A week—in 1944?”

  “Yes. June thirteenth.”

  “Jesus.” VE-Day had been bad enough, but D-Day was only three and a half years away, and if the slippage had increased enough for Dunworthy to be canceling drops right and left … “Why didn’t Dunworthy cancel your assignment if you had a deadline?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Polly said.

  “But if he didn’t, then perhaps he was changing the order for some other reason,” Eileen suggested. “Because he was putting the less dangerous ones first or something. The Reign of Terror was more dangerous than the storming of the Bastille, wasn’t it? And Pearl Harbor was more dangerous than—”

  She stopped, flustered, and looked down at Mike’s foot.

  “It would have been more dangerous,” Mike said, “if I’d gone to Dover like I was supposed to. Eileen’s right, Polly. The assignments could have been switched for lots of reasons. And the fact that they didn’t cancel yours is a good sign Oxford doesn’t think you’re in danger.”

  “And her seeing me at VE-Day might be a good sign, too. I could have gone there after we got back to Oxford. Because Mr. Dunworthy felt badly about our having been trapped. He knows I’ve always wanted to go to VE-Day.”

  You may get your wish, Mike thought grimly.

  He looked at Polly, who hadn’t said anything. Her expression was guarded, wary, as if there was still something she hadn’t told them, and he thought about her saying, “You asked me if I’d been to Bletchley Park.” Could she still be lying to them and carefully answering exactly what they asked and nothing else?