There was one, bathing a baby in a dishpan. “Shh, sweetheart, don’t cry,” Eileen said, stepping carefully between people’s shoes and their stretched-out stocking feet to get to her.
“I was wondering if you could help me,” she said to the woman, who was wringing out a washcloth. “I’m trying to find this baby’s mother.”
“I’m not it,” the woman said, and began washing her baby’s face.
It didn’t like it. It began to cry, and so did Eileen’s baby. “I know,” Eileen shouted over the din. “I was wondering if you could watch the baby since you have one of your own.”
“I’ve six of my own,” the woman said, grabbing a bar of soap and rubbing it vigorously over her baby’s hair. It screamed even louder. “I can’t take on another. You’ll have to find someone else.”
But everyone Eileen asked refused to help. Maybe I should just wait till no one’s looking, she thought, and set the baby down in the middle of them and walk off. They won’t even notice it’s not one of theirs. And even if they did, they’d surely take care of it when they realized it didn’t belong to anyone.
And if they didn’t, and the baby toddled out to the edge of the platform and fell onto the tracks?
I’m going to have to take it to Embankment after all, Eileen thought, and went out to the platform.
It was even more jammed than the others. She stepped gingerly around picnic hampers and over a game of Parchesi. “You! Watch where you’re going!” someone called, but they weren’t speaking to her. They were shouting at two of the urchins who’d accosted her before.
They dashed up to her, just missing the Parchesi game. Eileen instinctively tightened her grip on her handbag. “You said you was named Eileen,” the boy said. “Eileen wot?”
“Why?” Eileen said eagerly. “Is someone looking for me? A tall man with a limp?”
The boy shook his head.
“Is it the baby’s mother?” she asked, though it couldn’t be. The fireman had indicated that she was dead.
“I told you she pinched it,” the girl said to the boy.
“Eileen wot?” he repeated doggedly.
“O’Reilly,” she said. “Who asked what my name was?” but they were already tearing back down the platform at breakneck speed, vaulting over shelterers and darting between passengers who were getting off the train that had just pulled in.
“Mind the gap,” the guard called, standing inside the door of the train.
The train guard. She wouldn’t have to take the baby to Embankment after all. She could give it to the guard, and he could take it to the WVS post. If she could get to him.
But the platform was jammed, and the doors were already closing. “Wait!” she cried, but it was too late. I’ll have to wait for the next one, she thought, working her way out to the edge so she could hand the infant to the guard as soon as the doors opened.
It had been snuffling, but as soon as Eileen stood still, it set up a howl again. “Shh,” Eileen said. “You’re going to take a nice train ride. Would you like that?”
The baby howled louder.
“You’re going to go on a nice train, and then have some nice milk and biscuits.”
“If the train comes,” the old man next to her said. “They’re saying there’s been a disruption in service.”
“A disruption?” Eileen peered down the track into the tunnel, looking for an engine light in the blackness. Nothing.
This is the story of my life, she thought, standing on platforms waiting for trains which never come, with children who don’t want to go on them.
“That infant should be in bed,” the old man said disapprovingly.
“You’re quite right.” She looked at him consideringly, but he looked frail. And ill-tempered. “I’ll speak to Hitler about it,” she said, and noticed that people waiting had perked up and were looking down the track. She still couldn’t see a light, but there was a faint rumble, and a gust of air caught the skirt of her coat and blew it against her.
“Can you see it?” she turned to ask the old man. The baby gave a sudden ear-splitting shriek and launched herself out of Eileen’s arms.
“Don’t—” Eileen gasped, lunging for it.
“Maaah!” the baby shrieked, its little arms outstretched, and Eileen looked up the platform.
A woman was running toward them, her arms outstretched, too, stumbling over the shelterers sitting against the wall. Her face and arms were smeared with soot, and there was a nasty-looking gash on her cheek, but her face was alight with joy.
“Oh, my darling!” she sobbed, pushing past the old man, nearly knocking him down.
She snatched the baby out of Eileen’s arms and hugged it to her. “I thought I’d never see you again, and here you are! Are you all right?” she said, holding the baby out to look at it. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“It’s fine,” Eileen said. “Only a bit frightened.”
“The bomb knocked you out of my arms, and I couldn’t find you, and the fire … I thought …”
“I need to get to the train,” the old man said, and Eileen was surprised to see that it had pulled in.
He pushed past her to the opening doors.
“Mind the gap,” the guard Eileen had intended to give the baby to said, and passengers began to get off, buffeting mother and baby, but neither of them noticed.
The baby gurgled happily and the mother cooed, “Mummy’s been looking for you everywhere.”
One of the passengers crashed into Eileen, hurrying to get past. “Sorry,” he muttered, and darted past her, so quickly he was halfway to the end of the platform before she realized who it was. John Bartholomew.
He wasn’t wearing the fire-watch uniform—he had on an overcoat and a dangling wool scarf—but it was him. Eileen was certain of it, in spite of his looking younger, in spite of the fact that he was supposed to be at St. Paul’s, not here at Blackfriars. He must have been somewhere else and had returned as soon as the raid began. That was why he was pushing his way desperately through the crowd, to get to St. Paul’s.
“Mr. Bartholomew!” Eileen shouted, and ran after him down the platform.
He didn’t turn his head, he just kept plunging through the crowd, over to the exit and into the tunnel.
Oh, no, he’s here under another name, Eileen thought. And what were the fire watch called? “Officer!” she called as she ran along the tunnel to the stairs. “Firewatcher! Wait!”
He was halfway up the stairs. “Officer Bartholomew!” she shouted, and stepped squarely onto the Parchesi board. It flipped up, and dice and wooden pieces flew everywhere.
“What the—?” the boys who’d been playing the game said.
“Sorry!” she called without stopping, and ran on up the stairs, sidestepping teapots and shoes.
“Watch where you’re going!” someone shouted as she raced along the tunnel and over to the escalators. “This isn’t a racecourse, you know.”
John Bartholomew was already at the top of the nearly empty escalator and stepping off. “Mr. Bartholomew!” she shouted desperately, vaulting up the moving escalator two steps at a time.
At the top, the station was full of people swarming in carrying children and bedrolls and, improbably, a tall stack of books. For a moment she couldn’t see him, and then she spotted his dark head. He was going toward the turnstiles.
She started after him, swimming upstream through the crowd, calling, “Mr. Bartholomew! Wait!” But there was no way he could hear her in this din.
She pushed past a cluster of women, all in robes and nightgowns, and ran toward him. “Mr. Barthol—” she shouted, and two urchins jumped out in front of her.
“I told you it was ’er,” Binnie said.
“Alf, Binnie!” Eileen said, looking desperately past them at John Bartholomew, who was through the turnstile and heading toward the exit. “I haven’t time—” She tried to elbow past.
But they planted themselves firmly in front of her, blocking her way, and Binnie
grabbed her arm. “We been lookin’ for you everywhere,” she said.
“Yeah.” Alf folded his arms belligerently. “Where’s my map?”
It’s going to be a warm night.
FIREMAN,
29 December 1940
Ludgate Hill—29 December 1940
MIKE ROUNDED THE CORNER AND FLATTENED HIMSELF into the first doorway he came to and waited, hoping the ARP warden wasn’t right on his heels. When the fireman had begun shouting at the warden, Mike had started backing away from the group, keeping close to the buildings, and as soon as he was even with the corner, had darted up the lane they’d just come down and into the next side street. It was narrow and pitch-black after the light of the fires, which was why he’d ducked into the doorway—so his eyes could adjust and he could see if he was being followed.
He wasn’t. There was no one in the street or at the end of it, though he’d half hoped Eileen would manage to get away from the warden, too. He’d hated abandoning her, but he’d been afraid he might not have another chance. Once inside the shelter, they’d have had a hell of a time getting out. And he had to get to St. Paul’s. Polly didn’t know what John Bartholomew looked like, and besides, there was no way they’d let a woman up on the roofs, which was where Bartholomew was bound to be. Another wave of incendiary-bearing planes was already coming this way, the rumbling drone growing louder by the second.
The fastest way back to St. Paul’s was the way they’d come with the warden, but he didn’t dare risk it. That warden had been doggedly determined. When he discovered Mike was missing, he was liable to come after him. I’d better take the next street over, Mike thought. He emerged from the doorway, looked quickly in both directions, and took off running, thinking, At least I don’t have to worry about being heard. The roar of the planes drowned out everything else.
Before he’d gone a hundred yards, he regretted his decision to come this way. The street curved sharply, and the lane branching off it was not the next street over. It was no wider than an alley, with several other, darker alleys opening off it.
Mike picked the one that looked like it led out of the maze, hampered by the fact that he couldn’t see anything.
The alley didn’t lead anywhere. It ended in a brick wall. Mike retraced his steps, cursing. Why couldn’t they have figured out John Bartholomew was at St. Paul’s two weeks ago, two months ago, so all they’d have had to do was walk into the cathedral and ask for him? He’d known where he was. He should have asked Polly when St. Paul’s had nearly burned down instead of assuming it was in May, and he should have asked Eileen what John Bartholomew’s assignment was. But they’d all been so focused on airfields and then Bletchley Park. And now, instead of walking into St. Paul’s and politely asking Polly’s Mr. Humphreys for Bartholomew, he had to fight his way through a raid at the last minute in the dark.
He realized he must have missed a turning. The street he found himself on led back downhill, and when he turned and went in the opposite direction, twisted back on itself, and ran downhill, too. The drone grew louder, so loud he could barely hear the clatter of incendiaries falling on all sides. They were several streets over, but they lit the whole area in a garish white light.
Good, Mike thought. At least I’ll be able to see where I am. But nothing looked familiar at all. He glanced up, searching for the dome of St. Paul’s to orient himself by, but the buildings on either side of the narrow street were too tall.
He ran down to the corner, but he couldn’t see it from there either. The only thing visible was thick, roiling smoke, reflecting the light from the fires in a pinkish orange, and above it thick clouds. And flames. There were fires everywhere. The lack of water to fight them with was supposed to have been the problem, but no amount of water could have made a dent in this many blazes.
Another batch of incendiaries rattled down, making him dive into a doorway for cover. “Heddson and Poldrey, Booksellers, has moved to 22 Paternoster Row,” a notice posted on the door said, and there was an arrow pointing up to the next street. Paternoster Row ran right alongside the cathedral.
But the entrance to it was blocked by a blaze which filled the whole street. He backtracked and went up the next lane over, but it didn’t go through. He tried the next.
And there was the blaze which had blocked his way to what had to be Paternoster Row. He had to be really close to St. Paul’s, though he still couldn’t see it. The dome was supposed to have floated like a beacon above the smoke and flames that night, so where the hell was it? All he could see was smoke. And more flames. The entire far side of the street was on fire, red flames leaping from the windows of the warehouses and book depositories that lined it, but he couldn’t afford to backtrack again. He had to get to St. Paul’s.
He ducked his head against the intense heat and started along the street.
A man with an axe grabbed him by the sleeve. “Where do you think you’re going?” he shouted over the roar of the fire.
“St. Paul’s!”
“You can’t get through that way!” the man shouted. “Help me break this door down!”
Mike shook his head. “I’m not a fireman!” he shouted back.
“Neither am I!” the man bellowed, hacking at the door. “I’m a reporter. I’m supposed to be covering this fire, not fighting it, but there’s no one else here!”
I don’t have time for this, Mike thought.
“I’ll go get the fire brigade!” he said, to get away from the reporter.
“No use! That’s the fire station,” the reporter shouted, pointing with the axe at a flaming building down the street and chopping ineffectually at the door again. “I just saw an incendiary land on the roof!”
And if it burned through to the floor below, the building and this whole end of the street would go up, and he’d never get through. Mike grabbed the axe from the reporter and began hacking at the door, splintering the heavy wood while the reporter ran to get one of the sandbags piled up against the corner lamppost.
“Why in God’s name they’ve locked every one of these buildings when they knew there were bound to be raids, I don’t know,” the reporter said, coming back with the sandbag. “And what good did they think putting a bucket of water and a stirrup pump outside the door would do?”
Mike had the door open. The reporter dumped the sandbag across his arms, grabbed the stirrup pump and bucket, and raced up a rickety staircase. Mike ran up after him, but by the time he got there with the sandbag, the reporter already had the incendiary out.
Mike smothered it with sand, just in case, and the reporter said, “That’s one less fire I’ll have to cover tonight,” but by the time they got downstairs again, flames from the warehouse next door were licking at the side of the building, and yet another wave of planes was buzzing overhead.
“Do you hear that?” the reporter said unnecessarily, and then Mike realized he was talking about a jangle of bells. A fire brigade.
A fire engine pulled into the street, and men swarmed off it and began hooking up a hose to the hydrant. Water belched from the hose and then slowed to a trickle. “There’s no water in the main!” one of the firemen shouted.
“We’ll have to hook them up to the pumps!” the one in charge said, and the men connected the hoses to portable pumps and began playing water on the flames.
Good, Mike thought. The professionals can take over. The reporter seemed to be thinking the same thing. He picked up his camera from where he’d left it on the doorstep and began snapping pictures of the firemen training a hose on the fire station.
Mike edged away from him, gauging whether he could get down Paternoster Row to the cathedral or was going to have to go around. The blaze didn’t seem to be any bigger, but the wind was starting to pick up, fanning the flames.
“Here,” a fireman said, shoving a hose into Mike’s hands. “Take this branchpipe down to Officers Mullen and Dix.”
“I’m not one of your firemen,” Mike said, determined not to get caught again. He thrust
the hose back at him and said what he should have said to the reporter. “I have to get to the cathedral. I’m a member of the St. Paul’s fire watch.”
The fireman slapped the heavy nozzle and hose back into Mike’s hands. “Then this is where you belong.”
“But—”
“If we don’t stop it here, nothing you can do at the cathedral will save her. Run it along there, where Mullen and Dix are,” he ordered, pointing at two firemen, barely visible through the smoke, playing water on a warehouse fifty yards or so up the street.
And fifty yards closer to St. Paul’s, Mike thought.
“Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” he muttered, and slung the hose over his shoulder and limped off with it down the wet street, stepping over two other hoses and going around a pile of burning debris. He’d hand the branchpipe to Mullen and Dix and take off, and hopefully the smoke would keep the first fireman from seeing what he’d done. Or at least give him a head start.
If he could get past the fire they were trying to put out. It was a bookstore—he could see the wrought-iron signboard above the door: T. R. Hubbard, Fine Books—and the inside of the store was an inferno, flames leaping from every single window all the way up to the roof and lunging out into the middle of the narrow street.
Mullen and Dix, playing a pathetic stream of water—which turned instantly to steam—on it, were backed almost up against the warehouse across the street, even though it was on fire, too—as if they were afraid the flames in front of them would make a sudden lunge—and their helmeted heads were ducked against the blaze.
And the heat. The air was hideously hot and full of burning cinders. One landed on Mike’s ear, sizzling, and he swiped wildly at it as if it was a wasp.
The hose snagged on something, jerking him back so hard he nearly stumbled. He hobbled back to see what it had caught on. A piece of stone coping. It must have fallen from the top of one of the buildings. He kicked it aside and began hauling the hose again toward Mullen and Dix, who had backed up even farther against the warehouse so that it seemed to loom over them.
All Clear Page 32