The way I was with the ambulance, Eileen thought. “The firewatcher wasn’t in the patient roster?”
“No.”
“Are you certain he was brought here?”
“Yes,” Polly said, then looked uncertain. “That is, the firewatcher I talked to said he thought they’d come here, but if the roads were blocked, they might have taken him to Guy’s.”
“No, it caught fire. They had to evacuate.”
“Where were they taking the patients?”
“I don’t know,” Eileen said. And if they set off to some other hospital, they might miss him, the way she and Polly had missed each other that day she’d gone to Townsend Brothers. “They might not even be here yet,” she said. “You may have been able to come here faster on foot, there are so many roads blocked. I’ll go check the ambulance entrance.”
If I can find it, she added silently, and set off to look for it, but before she was halfway down the corridor Polly called her back.
The nurse had returned. “I found the patient you were looking for,” she said. “Mr. Langby.”
“Where is he?” Polly asked.
“He’s just been taken upstairs from surgery.”
Eileen and Polly started toward the stairs, and the nurse moved swiftly to block their way. “I’m afraid no one’s allowed in the recovery room. If you’d like, you can wait in the waiting room.”
“Two men brought him in,” Polly said. “Members of the fire watch. Can you tell us where they are?”
And when the nurse seemed to hesitate, Eileen put in, “Dr. Cross sent me to find out. I’m his driver.”
“Oh,” the nurse said. “Of course. I’ll go and see.”
“One’s elderly and the other’s tall with dark hair,” Eileen called after the nurse, and described what she thought they were wearing.
“And let’s hope she doesn’t run into Dr. Cross while she’s finding out,” she said to Polly.
Binnie came tearing up. “I been to all the wards, and ’e ain’t there. You want me to go look someplace else?”
“No, stay here till the nurse comes back,” Eileen said. If the nurse didn’t bring any information, they could send her to surgery. “Where’s Alf?”
“I dunno,” Binnie said. “Me and ’im split up. Do you want I should go look for ’im?”
“No.” Eileen grabbed her to ensure she didn’t.
The nurse returned. “I spoke with the ambulance driver who brought Mr. Langby in. She said only one member of the fire watch came with Mr. Langby—a Mr. Bartholomew—and that he left as soon as Mr. Langby was safely inside the hospital.”
“Left?” Polly said, looking as though she’d been kicked in the stomach.
“Left to go where?” Binnie asked, and the nurse seemed to suddenly become aware of her presence.
“Children aren’t allowed in—” she began.
“Left to go where?” Eileen cut in. “It’s essential Dr. Cross speak with him immediately. When did he leave?”
“Over an hour ago,” the nurse said. “You’ll have to take that child to the waiting room.”
“She’s Dr. Cross’s niece,” Eileen said. “I’ll go and tell him.”
She let go of Binnie’s arm, grabbed Polly’s, and propelled her down the corridor. “Don’t worry. We can still catch him. We’ll drive to St. Paul’s,” she said. “Binnie—” But Binnie had disappeared.
An orderly was coming toward them, looking angry—no doubt the reason she’d vanished, and she’d reappear as soon as he passed. But she didn’t.
Good, Eileen thought, steering Polly through the maze of corridors, looking for something familiar to show her they were headed in the right direction. They obviously couldn’t take Alf and Binnie with them, and this way they wouldn’t have to waste time arguing with them over their staying here.
But Alf popped up moments later and said, “If you’re lookin’ for the ambulance, you’re goin’ the wrong way.”
“Where’s your sister?” Eileen asked.
He shrugged. “I dunno. We split up. Where’s your coat?”
“I took it off. Show us the way.”
“Come along,” he said, and led her and Polly quickly and expertly to the dispensary.
Agatha Christie wasn’t there, which Eileen supposed was good, considering what had happened last time, but she’d have liked to see her again now that she knew who she was. And what? Tell her how much you love her novels? London’s burning to the ground, and you’ve got to get to St. Paul’s. She pushed out through the emergency doors.
The ambulance wasn’t there.
Of course not. There were hundreds of casualties, and Guy’s Hospital’s ambulances couldn’t get through. I should have taken the keys like Alf, she thought, feeling sick, staring at the empty spot where the ambulance had been.
Polly was staring at the sky. The wall of smoke was still there, but the red had faded to a pinkish charcoal gray, and above the pall the overcast sky was beginning to show a hint of paler gray. “It’s nearly morning,” she said. “We’ll never make it in time.”
“No, it isn’t,” Eileen said staunchly. “That’s the light from the fires reflecting off the cloud cover.”
Polly shook her head. “ ‘It is the lark.’ ”
“It isn’t. It’s only—” Eileen held her watch up, trying to see the time, but it was too dark to make out the hands. “There’s still time to get there before he leaves,” she said, though she didn’t see how. The Underground wouldn’t start running till half past six, and even if they could get to Blackfriars, they’d have to climb Ludgate Hill.
Polly was still staring blindly at the sky. “We won’t be able to find him,” she murmured as if to herself. “We’ll be too late.”
“Alf,” Eileen said, “do you think you could find us a taxi?”
“A taxi?” Alf said. “Whattya want a taxi for?”
Wretched child. “We must get to St. Paul’s immediately. It’s an emergency.”
“Why don’t you take the ambulance?” he said, and Binnie came driving around the corner of the hospital.
She leaned out the window. “I thought I better ’ide it so nobody else took it.”
Alf opened the passenger door, scrambled in, and rolled down his window. “Well?” he said. “Are we goin’ or what?”
That won’t be there in the morning.
—FIREMAN, ON SEEING ST. PAUL’S
SURROUNDED BY FIRES,
29 December 1940
St. Bartholomew’s Hospital—30 December 1940
MIKE WOKE UP WITH A SPLITTING HEADACHE, AND WHEN he tried to put his hand to his forehead, a searing pain shot along his arm.
He opened his eyes. His arm was swathed in gauze, and he was lying in a white-painted iron bed in a dimly lit ward. He turned his head to look at the sleeping patient in the bed next to him. It was Fordham, with his arm still in traction. “Oh God,” he murmured, trying to sit up. “How did I get here?”
“Shh,” a pretty, wimpled nurse—not Sister Carmody—said, pushing him back down and pulling the blankets up over him. “Lie still. You’ve been injured. You’re in hospital. Try to rest.”
“How did I get to Orpington?” he asked.
“Orpington?” she said. “You did get a knock on the head. You’re in St. Bartholomew’s.”
St. Bartholomew’s. Good. He was still in London. He must have … but then what was Fordham doing here? He looked over at him, and it wasn’t Fordham, after all. It was a teenaged boy.
“What time is it?” Mike asked, looking over at the windows, but they were completely covered by sandbags piled against them.
“Never you mind about that. Would you like some breakfast?”
Breakfast? Oh, Christ, he’d been out cold the whole night.
“You must try to rest,” the nurse was saying. “You’ve a concussion.”
“A concussion?” He felt his head. There was a painful bump on the left side.
“Yes, a burning wall fell on you,” she
said, pulling out a thermometer. “You were extremely lucky. You’ve a burn on your arm, but it could have been far worse.”
How? he thought. I was supposed to be finding John Bartholomew, and I’ve been out of commission all night.
“Eight other firemen were killed in Fleet Street when a wall collapsed,” she said.
Mike tried to sit up. “I’ve got to go—”
She pushed him back down. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said, sounding exactly like Sister Carmody.
A horrible thought struck him. What if he’d been here for weeks, like in Orpington? “What day is it?”
“What day?” she said, looking worried. “I’ll fetch the doctor.” She stuck the thermometer into her pocket and hurried off.
Oh, God, it had been weeks. He’d missed the drop.
No, Eileen and Polly wouldn’t have gone without you, he told himself. They’d have made John Bartholomew wait. Or sent a retrieval team back for him.
But they wouldn’t have had any idea where he was. Even if they’d thought to search the hospitals, the nurse obviously thought he was a fireman …
“I heard you ask what day it was,” the kid in the next bed said. “It’s Monday.”
“No, the date,” Mike asked.
The kid gave him the same look the nurse had given him. “December thirtieth.”
Relief washed over Mike. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” the boy said. “But it’s early. They haven’t brought breakfast round yet.”
If St. Bart’s was like Orpington, they brought everybody’s breakfast at the crack of dawn, which meant there was still time. But not much. The nurse would be back with the doctor any minute.
Mike sat up carefully, testing for dizziness. His head was splitting, but not so bad he couldn’t stand up, and he didn’t have time to wait till the pain lessened. He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“What are you doing?” the kid asked, alarmed. “Where are you going?”
“St. Paul’s.”
“St. Paul’s?” he said. “You’ll never get anywhere near it. Our fire brigade tried. We couldn’t get any nearer than Creed Lane.”
“You’re a fireman?” Mike asked. The kid couldn’t be fifteen.
“Yes. Redcross Street Fire Brigade,” he said proudly. “You won’t be able to get through. They had to take me all the way round to Bishopsgate when they brought me here.”
“I have to get through.” Mike stood up, his head swimming. “Did you see what the nurse did with my clothes?”
“But you can’t just get dressed and walk out of here,” the kid protested. “You haven’t been discharged.”
“I’m discharging myself,” Mike said, yanking open the drawers of the nightstand.
His clothes weren’t there. “I said, did you see what the nurse did with my clothes?”
The kid shook his head. “You were already here when I was brought in,” he said, “and you heard what the nurse said. You’ve a concussion. Why don’t you wait for her to come back and—”
And have her what? Tell him not to worry? Promise to ask the matron and then disappear for hours? It could be days before they’d let him out of here.
“Or at least wait till the doctor’s had a chance to examine you,” the kid said, his eyes straying toward the bell on the nightstand between their beds.
Mike snatched the bell up and jammed it under his own pillow. “Did you see what the nurse did with your clothes?”
“In the cupboard there,” he said, pointing at a white metal cabinet. “But I don’t think you should—”
“I’m fine,” Mike said, limping over to the cupboard. His own clothes were on the top shelf, neatly folded on top of his shoes. He began pulling on his trousers, keeping one eye on the ward doors. The nurse would be back with the doctor any second. He tried not to wince as he eased his shirtsleeve over his bandaged arm. “Where’s the nearest tube stop?”
“Cannon Street,” the kid said, “but I doubt the trains are running. Waterloo and London Bridge were both hit last night.”
“What about Blackfriars?” Mike asked, buttoning his shirt and jamming the tail into his trousers. “Was it hit?”
“I don’t know. That whole part of the City was pretty much destroyed.”
Destroyed. Mike shoved his bare feet into his shoes and jammed his socks and his tie into his trouser pockets. “Did you see what they did with my coat?”
“No. Look, you’re not thinking clearly …”
There was no time to look for the coat. The nurse had already been gone longer than he’d had any right to expect. Mike pulled his jacket on, grunting with the pain, limped quickly to the doors, and opened one a crack. There were two nurses at the far end of the hallway, talking, but no one at the matron’s desk, and a third of the way down the hall, another hallway branched off it.
And I don’t look like a patient, he thought, glancing at his sleeve to make sure the bandage wasn’t showing and then smoothing down his hair.
Don’t limp, he told himself, and pushed the left-hand door open.
The nurses glanced up briefly and went back to talking. He walked quickly—but not too quickly—down the hallway, trying not to wince as he forced the weight onto his bad foot.
“Absolutely swamped all last night,” he could hear one of the nurses saying, “what with the patients from Guy’s Hospital and the firemen and all. And then, just as we’d got everyone settled, two horrid children came running through the wards …”
He reached the side hallway and turned down it, praying it was empty and that it led out of the hospital. It did, but it was raining outside—a drizzle so icy he debated going back inside to find his raincoat, especially since this seemed to be some sort of courtyard at the rear of the hospital. He wasn’t even sure he could get to the street from here.
“No, Doctor,” he heard someone say behind him.
He hobbled across the yard and through some bushes to the front of the hospital. He’d hoped he might be able to see St. Paul’s from here so he’d know which way to go, but a low pall of smoke and pinkish gray clouds hung over the buildings in every direction, hiding every possible landmark, including the Thames, and the fires were no help. Every way he looked there were flames.
And not a single pedestrian to ask directions of. The only person in sight was the red-coated attendant standing at the door of the hospital, his white-gloved hands clasped behind him. Mike supposed that was a good thing—at least there wasn’t a huddle of doctors and nurses around him, asking if he’d seen an escaped patient. But he would come to that conclusion on his own if Mike asked, “Which direction is St. Paul’s?” and there wasn’t time to wander around till he saw it on his own—
“Need a ride, guv’nor?” a voice called from behind him, and to his amazement, a taxi pulled up to the curb, and a cabbie stuck his head out the window. “Where to, guv?”
Mike hesitated, debating whether to have the cabbie take him to Blackfriars first to pick up Eileen. If she was still there. He’d told her to wait there for him, but if the all clear had sounded, she might have tried to get to St. Paul’s on her own. “Has the all clear gone?” he asked.
“Hours ago,” the cabbie said. “And a good thing. If the jerries had kept it up all night, I doubt this hospital’d still be standing. Now then, where to?”
St. Paul’s, he decided. If Eileen wasn’t there, he’d go get her in Blackfriars after he’d found out from Bartholomew where the drop was.
But he’d better not tell the cabbie where he wanted to go till he was inside the taxi. He didn’t want him saying, “Sorry, guv’nor, I’m not driving into that mess,” and driving off. And he’d better not phrase it as a question.
Mike scrambled into the back, shut the door, and waited till the cabbie’d pulled away from the curb before leaning forward and saying, “I need to get to St. Paul’s.”
“You’re an American,” the cabbie said.
“Yes.”
Now h
e was going to ask if the United States was coming into the war or not, and Mike was too tired to think what the correct answer for December of 1940 was, but instead the cabbie said, “In that case, guv, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
If only you could, Mike thought.
“St. Paul’s, you say? That may take a bit of doing. Most of the streets are blocked off this morning, but I’ve got my own ways. I’ll see you get there. Take you right to her front door, I will.”
“Thank you,” Mike said. He took a deep breath. It’s only half past six at the latest, he thought. The fire watch doesn’t come off duty till seven, and Polly’s had all night to find Bartholomew, even if she doesn’t know what he looks like. And all she had to do was tell him, and he’d wait for Eileen and me.
He leaned back, cradling his arm, which was throbbing badly. So was his head. It doesn’t matter. They can fix them both in Oxford.
“Want to see the old girl for yourself, eh, guv’nor?” the cabbie called back to him. “Make certain she’s still there? I don’t blame you. I thought she was a goner myself last night. It looked like London was a goner, too.”
He turned down a succession of smoky streets. “I was taking a passenger to Guy’s Hospital—a doctor it was, trying to get there to take care of casualties. And when we got to Embankment, it looked like the sky itself was on fire, so bright you could read a newspaper by it, and this queer red color, it was.
“ ‘Guy’s won’t be there,’ I told him, and blamed if the hospital wasn’t on fire when we got there. I had to take him back across London Bridge to St. Bart’s, and a good thing I got him there. I’ve never seen so many casualties.”
He stopped at a crossing to look down a street. “Newgate’s blocked off, but there’s a chance Aldergate’s open.”
It wasn’t. A wooden barricade stood across it.
“What about Cheapside?” the cabbie asked the officer standing next to it.
“No, this sector’s blocked off all the way to the Tower. Where were you trying to go?”
The cabbie didn’t answer him. “What about Farringdon?”
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