All Clear

by Connie Willis

  “Very well. We shall act the scene as you have written it. You have found young love and have no time for an old man with a foolish fondness for you. And I, heartbroken, shall retire from the field and set about finding another principal boy. Miss Laburnum might look well in tights,” he mused.

  “I’m sorry you had to come all this way for nothing,” Polly said, taking her costume off its hanger.

  “Oh, but it wasn’t for nothing,” he said. “I learned a good deal. And I found a theater to house our pantomime. On my way here last night as I came down Shaftesbury, I saw that the Phoenix was standing empty, and I arranged with the owner—an old friend of mine, we did Lear together—to let us use it for Sleeping Beauty. If you should change your mind—”

  “I won’t.”

  “If you should change your mind,” he repeated firmly, “I shall be there both tonight and tomorrow. I will be backstage looking at possible sets and attempting to forestall the disaster which I know is to come. So if your young man should turn out to be a bounder and a cad, and you should reconsider—”

  “I’ll know where to find you,” she said lightly, stepping behind the screen. “Now, I’m afraid I really must change. Goodbye.” She shrugged off her wrapper and flung it carelessly over the screen. “Tell everyone hullo for me, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, and after a pause, added, “my lady.”

  And it was a good thing she was behind the screen, that he couldn’t see her face, because that was the line from Lady Mary’s final scene with Crichton. She had to clutch her costume to her chest to keep from holding her hand impulsively out to him as Lady Mary had done, to keep from saying, “I will never give you up.”

  She swallowed hard. “Tell them to break a leg,” she said lightly.

  There was no answer, and when she peeked around the screen a long minute later, he was gone. For good. Because that was what that last scene of The Admirable Crichton was all about, lovers parting forever. And that was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? What she’d—

  The girls came tumbling through the door, grabbing costumes, plunking down to touch up their makeup. “No wonder you wouldn’t go out with the stage-door hangers-on,” Cora said. “Clever girl. You had your eyes on something much better, didn’t you?”

  Polly didn’t answer. She stepped into her costume and turned to have Hattie do the slide fastener.

  “What I don’t understand is, what are you doing at ENSA?” Hattie asked. “He could get you a part in a real show.”

  Reggie leaned in again. “Curtain.”

  Polly hurried onstage, glad to have something to take her mind off Sir Godfrey. When she came off, Mr. Tabbitt told her to go change into her Air Raid Adelaide costume.

  “But what about the barrage-balloon skit?”

  “Cora can do it,” he said. “I have a feeling the raids are going to be bad tonight.”

  He was right. She’d scarcely had time to get into her bloomers before the sirens went, and it was a bad raid—nearly all HEs. Polly, changing into her nurse’s costume for the hospital skit, felt her heart jerk with each one. What if she hadn’t sent Sir Godfrey away soon enough?

  I shouldn’t have talked to him at all, she thought. I should have shut the door in his face.

  Tabbitt knocked and then leaned in. “The bombs are making the audience nervy. I need you to do another air-raid bit,” and sent her out to show her knickers again.

  “I don’t like this,” Hattie said nervously as Polly came off. “That last one sounded like it was next door.”

  “It was two streets over,” Reggie said, pulling on his general’s uniform. “On Shaftesbury.”

  “How do you know?” Hattie demanded.

  “I was outside, smoking a fag, and the warden told me. The Phoenix got hit.”

  I cannot overemphasize the importance of maintaining as long as humanly possible the Allied threat to the Pas-de-Calais area.

  —GENERAL DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER,

  June 1944

  London—May 1944

  ERNEST STARED STUPIDLY AT CESS ACROSS THE RAISED hood of the car. “We’re to take Colonel von Sprecht to Kensington Palace?”

  “Yes,” Cess said, looking from him to the colonel, still asleep inside the car. “What’s wrong, Worthing?”

  Kensington Palace is only two streets away from Notting Hill Gate Station, that’s what’s wrong. It’s only a few streets away from Mrs. Rickett’s.

  “You don’t think the colonel will die before we get him there, do you?” Cess asked nervously.

  “No,” Ernest said, pulling himself together. “I thought we were done with him, that’s all. Every mile we’re in that car with him, there’s a chance he’ll tumble to what we’re doing.”

  “Not if we keep our mouths shut,” Cess said. “There’s nothing he can see now to give it away. It was brilliant, your driving while he was asleep so we’d come in from the east. And Kensington Palace isn’t far.”

  “Where is it exactly? Show me on the map,” Ernest said, hoping it wasn’t as close to Notting Hill Gate as Cess had said, but it was. There was a road which went directly to the palace, though. He wouldn’t have to drive past the tube station, and with dignitaries like Patton there, civilians wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the palace.

  And there wouldn’t be any air raids till after the invasion, so Eileen wouldn’t be going to the tube shelter, and the chances of running into her, even in Notting Hill or Kensington, were tiny. You looked for her and Polly for weeks during the Blitz and couldn’t find them.

  Right, and you managed to collide with Alan Turing not ten minutes after you’d arrived in Bletchley. And this was the time of day when she could be arriving home from work.

  But she wouldn’t still be working in Oxford Street. When the National Service Act had gone into effect, she’d have been assigned to some kind of war work. She might not even still be in London.

  And if you didn’t get them out, you didn’t get them out, and seeing Eileen—or not seeing her—doesn’t change whether she’s here or not, whether you’re going to be able to reach Atherton or not. It’s already happened.

  But he couldn’t rid himself of the idea that now, at the very last minute, this close to contacting Atherton, he’d ruin things by catching sight of her stepping off a bus or coming down the street in her green coat, and it was a huge relief to turn down the road to the palace, to pull up to the gates.

  The guard looked at their papers and said, “If you’ll just pull in there, sir, behind that staff car.” He indicated the last car in a long line stretching all the way to the palace.

  “Our passenger’s ill. He can’t possibly walk that far,” Ernest said. “We need to take him to the door.”

  After examining their papers again and looking in the backseat at the colonel, the guard waved them on, but Ernest wasn’t sure they’d make it through the already-parked staff cars and Rolls-Royces. It was like threading a needle. This is where Churchill or Patton steps out suddenly in front of me and I run over him, he thought, but they made it safely up to the palace.

  He pulled the car up to the foot of the stairs, got out, and came around to help the colonel out of the car. It took both of them. Ernest had to hold him up, while Cess got his suitcase out and shut the car door.

  “I’m sorry to cause so much trouble,” the colonel said to Ernest, and he felt a sudden pang of pity for him.

  You’re going to cause them to lose the war, he thought, and not even know it.

  “Sorry, sir, but you can’t park there,” a regimental guard said, hurrying up. “You’ll have to move your car.”

  “It’s only till we can get the colonel inside,” he said.

  “This is Colonel von Sprecht,” Cess said, holding out their papers. “We’ve just brought him all the way from Dover. We have orders to deliver him directly to General Moreland.” But the guard was shaking his head.

  “Sorry, sir. You can’t leave your car here.”

  “Well, then, at leas
t let me run inside and fetch someone to assist Lieutenant Wilkerson,” Ernest said. “The colonel can’t make it up those stairs without assistance.”

  “I can’t let you do that, sir. Captain’s orders. You must move it now.”

  “I want to speak to the captain—” Ernest began, but Cess shook his head.

  “We can’t stand here arguing,” he said. “I can manage the colonel.” He draped the colonel’s arm around his shoulder. “You go park the car, Lieutenant Abbott.”

  “But—” Ernest began, and Cess nodded toward the top of the steps, where two officers were hurrying down to help. Good. “Where do you want me to park?” he asked the guard.

  “At the end of this road,” he said, pointing, but that end of the narrow lane was packed with cars, too, some with young women in FANY and ATS uniforms at the wheel, waiting for the generals they’d delivered.

  Oh, Christ, what if one of the drivers was Eileen? She’d talked about trying to get the National Service to assign her to be one. He glanced in the rear-vision mirror. Two more staff cars were pulling in to the lane behind him. Jesus, it was more dangerous here than out on the streets of Kensington.

  He pulled his visored cap down over his forehead and drove as fast as he dared to the end of the lane. Another guard stood there. He came over to the car. “Sir, you can’t stop here.”

  “I know. Tell Lieutenant Wilkerson that Lieutenant Abbott’s taken the car round the corner to park it.” Then he drove out onto Kensington and back along the edge of Kensington Gardens, where they’d been when Polly told them she had a deadline.

  Polly. She might be one of the drivers, too, only that wouldn’t be her name. It would be Mary Kent, and right now she was at an ambulance post in Oxford, waiting to be transferred to Dulwich, but he knew from the FANYs he’d run into that they were often assigned to driving officers, and it looked like every officer in England was here tonight. What if she was, too?

  She can’t be, he told himself, because if she was, you could rap on her window and warn her, and if you warn her, she’ll go back to Oxford and tell Mr. Dunworthy what happened, and he’d never have let them come through. Just like with Bartholomew.

  It’s Atherton you need to concentrate on finding, he thought. And there’s a phone booth. And Cess isn’t here. And Lady Bracknell had sent along a purse full of money in case something went wrong while they had the colonel and they had to phone the castle. He pulled over to the curb, took the purse out of the glove compartment, and got out of the car. He went into the phone booth, dialed the operator, and gave her the number the Wren had told him. “Just one moment, please,” the operator said.

  Let it go through, let it go through, he repeated silently.

  “I have that number for you, sir,” she said.

  “Yes, hullo, is Major Atherton there?” he said.

  Too quickly. It was still the operator. “I have your number for you, sir,” she repeated. “I’ll connect you.”

  He waited, thinking, Any second now I’ll see Cess turning that corner, wondering where the hell I’ve gotten to. “You’re through, sir,” the operator said, and in the next instant, an American woman’s voice said, “Major Atherton’s office.”

  Thank God. “Hullo,” he said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “I need to speak to Major Atherton.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, he’s not here right now.”

  Of course not. “When will he be back? It’s urgent.”

  “I don’t know, sir. I can have him ring you as soon as he returns. Is there a number where he can reach you?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m in transit. Will he be back tonight?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you wish to try again later?”

  No. I need to talk to him now.

  “Yes,” he said. “And tell him I called. Tell him Michael Da—”

  “I never,” a boy’s voice said, and he looked up sharply. A boy and a girl were coming down the street toward the phone booth. The boy was nine or ten, and the girl older. They were arguing loudly.

  “You did so,” the girl said.

  “I didn’t nick it,” the boy said. “She give it me.”

  Oh, God, he thought, it’s Alf and Binnie Hodbin.

  They hadn’t seen him yet, they were so busy arguing. He had to get out of here. He hung up and was out of the phone booth and back in the car in a flash. He snatched up the map Cess had left on the seat and opened it out to shield himself from them.

  “I seen you,” Binnie said.

  Oh, Jesus.

  “You did not,” Alf said. They weren’t talking about him. They were talking about whatever it was that Alf had “nicked.” But his relief was short-lived. Because there was only one reason they’d be here, this far from the East End. They were on their way to see Eileen, or on their way home from seeing her. Which meant she was still here. And if he didn’t get out of here, Alf and Binnie would see him, they’d tell Eileen he was alive, that he’d gone off and abandoned them.

  He reached to turn the key in the ignition, but they were already even with the car. They’d hear the engine start and look over and see him. He’d have to wait till they were past.

  “I’m going to tell,” Binnie said.

  “You better not!” Alf said, and then, “Look!”

  Oh, Christ. They were running right at the car. He’d have to convince them he was Lieutenant Abbott and that he had no idea who this Mike Davis was. But when had anybody ever been able to put anything over on the Hodbins?

  They ran straight past the car into the street. He peeked cautiously over the map. A staff car pulled up and stopped. The children ran up to the car window.

  Oh, Christ, he’d been right about Eileen being a driver.

  “Where’s Mum?” Alf asked. “She said to meet ’er ’ere.”

  Mum?

  “She’s going to be late,” a woman’s voice—not Eileen’s—said. Ernest slid up on the seat to where he could see the children leaning in to talk to a blonde in an ATS cap and uniform. And now that his adrenaline wasn’t raging, he saw what he hadn’t before, that both children were wearing school uniforms and carrying book bags, and that their hair, or at least the girl’s, was neatly combed. They looked much too well cared for to be Alf and Binnie, in spite of the similarity in looks, in their voices.

  “Your mother had to drive General Bates to Chartwell for a meeting,” the blonde said, and from what Eileen had told him about Mrs. Hodbin, he couldn’t imagine her driving anyone anywhere, and certainly not a general. “She told me to pick you two up and give you some supper.”

  “Can we go to Lyons Corner House?” the boy asked.

  “We’ll see,” the blonde said. “She also said to see that you did your lessons.”

  “We haven’t any,” the boy said. “We done ’em all at school.” He turned to the girl. “Didn’t we?”

  “Don’t be a noddlehead,” the girl said. “He’s got spelling, and I’ve got maths. But I’ve done my history lesson.” She pulled a paper out of her book bag to show the blonde.

  The Alf and Binnie he’d seen that morning at St. Paul’s would never have done lessons in their life. Or have voluntarily gone to school.

  It wasn’t them. He’d jumped to the conclusion it was because he’d been thinking about Eileen. He’d broken off his call to Denys Atherton for nothing, damn it. He watched the children, whoever they were, pile into the car, waiting for it to drive away so he could go call again. He’d have to tell the woman he’d talked to that he’d been cut off. Maybe the interruption would turn out to be a good thing. Atherton might be back by now, and he’d be able to talk to him instead of leaving a message.

  The car rounded the corner and was gone. Ernest got out of the car and started over to the phone booth. And there was Cess, trotting toward him, waving. “They told me you’d come over here to park,” he said, coming up to him.

  “Did you hand the colonel over?”

  “Yes,” Cess said. “Now all I have to do is report in to
Lady Bracknell, and we’re free to go home.”

  If only that were true, Ernest thought, watching Cess as he went into the phone booth to call Bracknell. How was he going to call Atherton now? He might not have a chance to get away on his own for days, and he was running out of time.

  “No luck,” Cess said, coming out. “I couldn’t get through.”

  “We can try again on the way home,” Ernest said. And next time I’ll see to it I’m the one who makes the call. “An hour or two won’t make any difference now that the colonel’s been safely handed over.” He got into the car.

  “Right,” Cess said. “It was a near thing, though.”

  “A near thing? What do you mean?”

  “After I’d handed him over and was leaving, who should I run into but Old Blood and Guts—”

  “General Patton?”

  “None other,” Cess said. “He looked straight at me, and I could tell he was trying to place me, and I was afraid he was about to remember he’d seen me at the reception and shout out ‘Holt!’ in that carrying voice of his. But luckily his aide came up just then and dragged him off, and I was able to get away with the colonel none the wiser.”

  “And Patton didn’t see you with him?”

  “No, and I’m fairly certain he didn’t remember where he’d seen me. But the sooner we’re out of here, the safer I’ll feel,” he said.

  “My sentiments exactly.” Ernest started the car and pulled away from the curb.

  “Besides, I’m starving,” Cess said. “Turn right. I know a little place on Lampden Road that has—Where are you going? That’s the wrong way.”

  “I know,” Ernest said, racing down Gloucester Road. “I just thought of something. If we hurry, we can make it to Croydon before the Call closes, and I can turn in my pieces.”

  “Croydon?” Cess yelped. “That’s miles, and I’m starved!”

  “There’s a good pub there. Excellent shepherd’s pie,” he said, even though he’d never set foot in the place. “And a very pretty barmaid.” And a phone booth down the street from the Call which I can call Atherton from while you’re in the pub.