“Because of the fire watch,” Mike said.
“Yes, but the entire area around it did. And Fleet Street and the Guildhall and the Central Telephone Exchange—all the operators had to be evacuated—and at least one of the surface shelters. I don’t know which one.”
“Then we need to stay out of all of them,” Mike said. “You said some of the tube stations were hit? Which ones?”
“Waterloo, I think,” she said, trying to remember. “And Cannon Street, and Charing Cross Railway Station had to be evacuated because of a land mine.”
“St. Paul’s Station wasn’t hit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they drop lots of high-explosive bombs?” Eileen asked nervously.
“No,” Mike said. “It was nearly all incendiaries, but the tide was out, and the primary water main got hit. And it was really windy.”
Polly nodded. “The fires nearly became a firestorm like Dresden.”
“Which means it will be a great time to have already gone home,” Mike said. “How many more stops do we have till we get to St. Paul’s?”
“One more till Monument, where we change for the Central Line, and then one to St. Paul’s,” Polly said.
But when they got to the Central Line platform, there was a sandwich board in the entranceway: No service on Central Line until further notice. All travelers are advised to take alternate routes.
“What other line is St. Paul’s on?” Mike asked, starting over to the tube map.
“None. We’ll have to use another station,” Polly said, thinking rapidly. Cannon Street was the nearest, but it had been hit, and she didn’t know at what time. “We need to go to Blackfriars,” she said. “This way.”
She led them out to the platform. “Blackfriars isn’t one of the stations that burned, is it?” Eileen asked.
“No,” Polly said, though she didn’t know. But it was only a bit past five. It wouldn’t be on fire now.
“How far is Blackfriars from St. Paul’s?” Mike asked.
“A ten-minute walk.”
“And from here back to Blackfriars, what? Ten minutes?”
Polly nodded.
“Good, we’ve still got plenty of time,” he said and headed for the platform.
But they had just missed the train and had to wait a quarter of an hour for the next one, and when they got off at Blackfriars, they had to work their way through scores of shelterers putting down their blankets and unpacking picnic hampers.
Oh, no, the sirens must already have gone, Polly thought, looking at the crowd, and the guard won’t let us leave.
A band of ragged children ran past them, and Polly grabbed the last one and asked him, “Have the sirens gone?”
“Not yet,” he said, wriggling free of her, and tore off after the other children.
“Hurry,” Polly said, pushing her way through the mob pouring in. Mrs. Owens must not have been the only one who’d “had a feeling” about there being a raid tonight.
Polly led Mike and Eileen quickly toward the entrance, fearful that at any moment the siren would sound and that, even if they did make it out, it would be too dark to see anything. The tangle of narrow, dead-ending lanes around St. Paul’s was bad enough in daylight, let alone after dark and in the blackout.
But when they came up the stairs and emerged onto the street, St. Paul’s dome was clearly outlined against the searchlit sky. They started up the hill toward it.
We’re actually going to make it, Polly thought. Which meant it was true. Mr. Dunworthy and Mr. Bartholomew—and Colin—had kept what had happened secret all these years, had been willing to sacrifice them to keep the secret.
Like Ultra, she thought. That secret had been kept by hundreds and hundreds of people for years and years—because it was absolutely essential to winning the war. What if their getting trapped, their coming back, had had to be kept secret for some reason equally vital to time travel? Or to history? And that was why they couldn’t be told, why they’d had to be sacrificed …
“What time is it?” Mike asked.
Polly squinted at her watch. “Six.”
“Good, we’ve still got plenty of time—” Mike said, and a siren cut sharply across his words.
I knew it, Polly thought, and took off at a trot, Mike and Eileen following.
“It’s only the siren,” Mike said, panting. “That still gives us twenty minutes till the planes, doesn’t it?”
I don’t know, Polly thought, sprinting up the hill. Please let there be twenty minutes. That’s all we need.
And it looked like they’d be granted it. They were nearly to the top of Ludgate Hill before the searchlights switched on, and the anti-aircraft guns still hadn’t started firing by the time they came to the iron fence surrounding the cathedral. And why couldn’t it, of all the fences in London, have been taken down and donated to the scrap-metal drive so they could go in the north transept door? They’d have to go around to the west front.
She started along the fence. “Damn it,” Mike said behind her.
“What is it?” she asked, and heard what he had, the drone of a plane. “There’s still time. Come along,” and rounded the corner to the west front and started up the broad steps to where a Christmas tree stood in front of the Great West Door.
“You, there!” a man’s voice called from behind them. “Where do you think you’re going?” A shuttered pocket torch fixed its narrow beam on Polly and then on Mike and Eileen. A man in an ARP helmet emerged from the darkness at the foot of the steps. “What are you lot doing outside? You should be in a shelter. Didn’t you hear the sirens?”
“Yes,” Mike said. “We were—”
“I’ll take you to the shelter.” He started up the steps toward Polly. “Come along.”
Not again, Polly thought. Not when we’re so near.
She glanced up the steps, wondering if she could make it the rest of the way up to the porch and over to the door before he caught her. She didn’t think so. “We weren’t looking for a shelter, sir,” she said. “We’re looking for a friend of ours. He’s on the St. Paul’s fire watch.”
“We have to talk to him,” Mike said. “It’s urgent.”
“So’s that,” the warden said, jamming a thumb skyward. “Hear those planes?”
It was impossible not to. They were nearly overhead, and the fire watch would already be heading up to the roofs, preparing for them.
“In a minute those planes’ll be here,” the warden said, “and the watch’ll have more than they can deal with. They won’t have time for any chats.” He extended his hand toward Polly. “Now, come on, you three. There’s a shelter near here. I’ll take you there.”
“You don’t understand,” Eileen said. “All we need to do is to get a message to him.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” Mike added, backing down the steps and off to the side so the warden had to turn to face him.
He’s doing that to distract him, Polly thought, and took a silent backward step up the broad stone stairs, and then another, grateful for the growing roar of the planes, which hid the sound of her footsteps. “I know right where to find him!” Mike shouted to the warden over the noise. “I can be in and out in no time.”
Polly took another step backward up the stairs.
An anti-aircraft gun behind her started up, and the warden turned at the sound and saw her. “You there, where do you think you’re going?” He scrambled up the steps toward her. “What are the three of you up to?”
There was a strange, swooping swish above them. Polly looked up and had time to think, If that’s a bomb. I shouldn’t have done that, and there was a clatter, like an entire kitchenful of pots and pans falling on the floor.
Something landed on the stair between her and the warden and burst into a furious, fizzing fountain of sparks. Polly backed away from it, putting up her hand to shield her eyes from the blinding blue-white light. The warden had jumped away from it, too, as it sputtered and spun, throwing off molten st
ars.
It’ll catch the Christmas tree on fire, Polly thought, and had turned to run into the cathedral for a stirrup pump when she realized this was her chance. She darted up the stairs and across the porch to the door. She grabbed the handle.
“Hey! You there!” the warden shouted. “Come back here!”
Polly yanked on the heavy door. It didn’t budge. She yanked again, and this time it opened a narrow crack.
She glanced back down at Mike and Eileen, but the incendiary was jerking and spitting too violently and erratically for them to risk running past it, and the warden was already nearly upon her.
“Go!” Mike shouted, waving her on. “We’ll catch up with you!”
Polly turned and fled into the blackness of the cathedral.
Tonight, the bomber planes of the German Reich hit London where it hurts the most—in the heart … St. Paul’s Cathedral is burning to the ground as I talk to you now.
—EDWARD R. MURROW, RADIO BROADCAST,
29 December 1940
St. Paul’s Cathedral—29 December 1940
THE DOOR CLANGED SHUT BEHIND POLLY.
It was pitch-black inside the cathedral. There was supposed to be a light under the dome for the fire watch to orient themselves by, but she couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see anything. She couldn’t hear anything either, except the still-reverberating echo of the door shutting behind her. Not planes, not the sputtering incendiary, nothing, not even the sirens.
But the warden had been just below her on the steps. He would come through that door any moment. She had to hide.
She paused a second, willing her eyes to adjust, trying to remember what lay on this side of the cathedral. Not the Wren staircase—it was blocked off—and The Light of the World was too small to hide behind. She should have paid more attention when Mr. Humphreys was showing her around.
She still couldn’t see anything, not even outlines. She groped for the wall, arms outstretched in front of her, like a child playing blind man’s bluff. Stone and then open space and narrow iron bars. The chapel’s grille. She ran her hand hurriedly along the bars, anxious to get past the chapel, and felt the gate open under her touch.
She was through it instantly and into the chapel, feeling her way. The chapel had had an altar with a tall carved reredos behind it. She could hide behind that.
She crashed into something wooden, banging her knee. The prayer stalls, she thought, reaching down to feel their waist-high fronts. They had lined either side of the chapel, which meant the altar was—
A door opened somewhere. Polly dove down behind the prayer stall and crouched there, holding her breath, listening.
A voice, too soft and too distorted to make out, and then a second, answering, and then footsteps. The warden? Or a member of the fire watch making the rounds?
It must be the fire watch. She heard more footsteps, quicker this time, and walking away, and then a door—too quiet to be the heavy door she’d come in through—shutting.
She waited a bit longer, hoping Mike or Eileen—or both of them—would have got away from the warden and come back. They both knew what John Bartholomew looked like, and Mike could pretend to be a volunteer on the fire watch. There hadn’t been any women on it, and it was unlikely they’d let one up on the roofs to look for someone, even if she knew how to get there.
But she did know how to get to the Crypt. She could ask the officer in charge to take a message to Mr. Bartholomew.
She crept cautiously out from behind the prayer stall, checked to make certain there was no sweep of a pocket torch in the aisle or in the nave beyond, and felt her way toward the gate.
Light flashed suddenly in her face, blinding her. Polly dived for the haven of the stall, cracking her knee again, and then realized what she’d seen. A flare. A rattling clatter overhead like someone tossing a handful of pebbles made her look up. Incendiaries on the roofs. And then voices from the direction of the dome and more banging of doors and footsteps running up stairs.
Still blinded, Polly felt for the gate and opened it, trying not to make any noise. She went out into the nave and stood for a minute, waiting for her eyes to recover. When they did, she could just discern the shadowy outlines of the arches, the bricked-up Wellington Monument across the nave, and the choir, and she thought her eyes must finally have adjusted to the darkness. But when she glanced up behind her she saw the windows were lit with yellow.
Fire, she thought, guiltily grateful for the light. There was just enough for her to find her way and not crash into the tin baths full of water sitting at the base of the massive pillars or into the stirrup pumps propped against them.
They’ll need all of those tonight, she thought, hurrying along the south aisle, past The Light of the World, though nothing of the painting but the lantern was visible in the near darkness. It glowed dimly golden, though the light from the windows seemed to be growing steadily brighter and oranger and to be coming from the north transept as well.
Out here in the aisle she could hear the drone of the planes, punctuated by the thud of the anti-aircraft guns. Another batch of incendiaries clattered onto the roofs as she passed the ranked rows of wooden chairs, so loud she looked up, expecting them to clatter onto the marble floor in front of her, but there were no more running footsteps. The fire watch must all be up on the roofs already.
A door banged heavily at the end of the cathedral she’d just come from, and this time it was definitely an outside door. Polly looked wildly about for a place to hide, then ducked behind the nearest pillar and flattened herself against it, listening. Whoever it was was running this way, straight down the middle of the nave, his footsteps ringing on the marble floor.
Polly inched her way around the pillar to get a look at him. If it was a member of the fire watch, she could ask him to take her to Mr. Bartholomew. There wasn’t enough light to see him clearly, but she could see that he was wearing an overcoat. It flapped about his legs as he ran. It’s Mike, she thought.
No, it wasn’t him. He wasn’t limping. Someone looking for shelter? People had taken shelter in the Crypt, hadn’t they? But whoever this was knew exactly where he was going. He ran between the rows of wooden folding chairs set up for evensong and toward the dome.
He had to be one of the fire watch. She ran out from behind the pillar, but he was already across the wide floor under the dome. “Wait!” Polly called. “Sir!” She ran after him, but he’d already vanished into the shadows.
A door slammed. Where? Had he gone into the south choir aisle or into the transept? She darted down the near side of the transept and then around to the other side, looking for a door. The stairs up to the Whispering Gallery were along here somewhere, but she didn’t know if they led on up to the roofs.
Here were the stairs leading down to the Crypt, but they were barred by a gate, not a door, and what she’d heard was definitely a door. It must be somewhere in the choir. She started into it.
And ran into a young man in a black robe. She jumped a foot, and so did he, but he recovered immediately.
“Were you looking for the shelter, miss? It’s this way.” He took her arm and led her back to the Crypt stairs.
“No, I’m looking for someone,” she said. “A member of the fire watch.”
“They’re all on duty just now,” he replied, as if she’d asked for an appointment. “If you’ll come back tomorrow—”
She shook her head. “I must speak to him now. His name is John Bartholomew—”
“I’m afraid I don’t know most of the watch by name.” He unlatched the gate. “I’m only filling in tonight, you see.”
“Is Mr. Humphreys here?”
“I don’t know if he’s on duty. As I said, I’m only—”
“Then is there someone in charge I could speak to?”
“No, I’m afraid Dean Matthews and Mr. Allen are both up on the roofs. The raids are very bad tonight. The shelter’s down these stairs,” he said, motioning for her to precede him.
“I do
n’t …,” she began, and thought better of it. She didn’t want him taking her out through the nave and delivering her into the hands of the air-raid warden.
They started down the stone steps. “Mind your step,” he said. “I’m afraid these stairs are rather badly lit. The blackout, you know.”
“Badly lit” was an understatement. Below the first landing there was no light at all, and Polly had to put her hand on the cold stone wall and feel her way.
“I’m only a chorister, you see. One of the volunteers fell ill, and Dean Matthews asked me to help out. Nearly there,” he said helpfully, and pulled aside a black curtain for Polly.
She slipped through it into the Crypt. In spite of the vaulted ceiling and the tombs in the floor, it didn’t look like a crypt. It looked like an ARP post. A paraffin lamp sat on a wooden table next to a gas ring with a kettle on it, and beyond the table was a row of made-up cots, with coveralls and helmets hanging on hooks behind them. But no members of the fire watch.
“Will they come back down during the night to rest and have a cup of tea?” Polly asked.
“It’s not likely they will tonight,” he said, looking up at the low ceiling, through which the droning planes could be heard faintly. “The shelter’s along here.”
He led her past what had to be Wellington’s tomb—an enormous black-and-gold sarcophagus—toward the west end. “I expect they’ll be up on the roofs all night, with all these bombs.”
“Then could you go up and tell John Bartholomew that I must speak with him?”
“Go up? Onto the roofs, you mean?” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to get up there. That’s why Dean Matthews put me in charge down here. Our shelter’s just over here,” he added and led her into a sandbagged arch at the end of the church where a half dozen women and a young boy huddled against one wall on folding chairs.
“Here’s another for your little band,” the chorister said to them. He explained to Polly, “These ladies were evacuated from a shelter in Watling Street.”
“It was on fire,” the boy explained, sounding disappointed that they’d been forced to leave.
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