Oxford Time Travel 1 - Blackout

by Connie Willis

  “You’ve got to go back to Dover,” he shouted, trying to make himself heard against the sound of the chugging engine and the wet, salt-laden wind. “The Navy—”

  “The Navy?” the Commander snorted. “I wouldn’t trust those paper-pushers to lead me across a mud puddle. When we bring back a boatload of our boys, they’ll see just how seaworthy the Lady Jane is!”

  “But you don’t have any charts, and the Channel’s mined—”

  “I’ve been piloting this Channel by dead reckoning since before those young pups from the Small Vessels Pool were born. We won’t let a few mines stop us, will we, Jonathan?”

  “Jonathan? You brought Jonathan? He’s fourteen years old!”

  Jonathan emerged out of the bow’s darkness half dragging, half carrying a huge coil of rope. “Isn’t this exciting?” he said. “We’re going to go rescue the British Expeditionary Force from the Germans. We’re going to be heroes!”

  “But you don’t have official clearance,” Mike said, desperately trying to think of some argument that would convince them to turn back. “And you’re not armed—”

  “Armed?” the Commander bellowed, taking one hand off the wheel to reach inside his peacoat and pull out an ancient pistol. “Of course we’re armed. We’ve got everything we need.” He waved one hand toward the bow. “Extra rope, extra petrol—”

  Mike squinted through the darkness to where he was pointing. He could just make out square metal cans lashed to the gunwales. Oh, Christ. “How much gas—petrol—do you have on board?”

  “Twenty tins,” Jonathan said eagerly. “We’ve more down in the hold.”

  Which is enough to blow us sky-high if we’re hit by a torpedo.

  “Jonathan,” the Commander bellowed, “stow that rope in the stern and go check the bilge pump.”

  “Aye, aye, Commander.” Jonathan started for the hatch.

  Mike went after him. “Jonathan, listen, you’ve got to convince your grandfather to turn back. What he’s doing is—” he was going to say “suicidal,” but settled for “against Navy regulations. He’ll lose his chance to be recommissioned—”

  “Recommissioned?” Jonathan said blankly. “What do you mean? Grandfather was never in the Navy.”

  Oh, Christ, he’d probably never been across the Channel either.

  “Jonathan!” the Commander called. “I told you to go check the bilge pump. And, Kansas, go below and put your shoes on. And have a drink. You look like death.”

  That’s because we’re going to die, Mike thought, trying to think of some way to get him to turn the boat around and head back to Saltram-on-Sea, but nothing short of knocking him out with the butt of that pistol and taking the wheel would work, and then what? He knew even less than the Commander did about piloting a boat, and there weren’t any charts on board, even if he could decipher them, which he doubted.

  “Get yourself some dinner,” the Commander ordered. “We’ve a long night’s work ahead of us.”

  They had no idea what they were getting into. More than sixty of the small craft that had gone over to Dunkirk had been sunk and their crews injured or killed. Mike started down the ladder.

  “There’s some of that pilchard stew left,” the Commander called down after him.

  I don’t need to eat, Mike thought, descending into the hold, which now had a full foot of water in it. I need to think. How could they be going to Dunkirk? It was impossible. The laws of time travel didn’t allow historians anywhere near divergence points.

  Unless Dunkirk isn’t a divergence point, he thought, wading over to the bunk to retrieve his shoes and socks.

  They were in the farthest corner. Mike clambered up onto the bunk to get them and then sat there with a shoe in his hand, staring blindly at it, considering the possibility. Dunkirk had been a major turning point in the war. If the soldiers had been captured by the Germans, the invasion of England, and its surrender, would have been inevitable. But it wasn’t a single discrete event, like Lincoln’s assassination or the sinking of the Titanic, where an historian’s making a grab for John Wilkes Booth’s pistol or shouting “Iceberg ahead!” could alter the entire course of events. He couldn’t keep the British Expeditionary Force from being rescued, no matter what he did. There were too many boats, too many people involved, spread over too great an area. Even if an historian wanted to alter the outcome of the evacuation, he couldn’t.

  But he could alter individual events. Dunkirk had been full of narrow escapes and near misses. A five-minute delay in landing could put a boat underneath a bomb from a Stuka or turn a near-miss into a direct hit, and a five-degree change in steering could mean the difference between it being grounded or making it out of the harbor.

  Anything I do could get the Lady Jane sunk, Mike thought, horrified. Which means I don’t dare do anything. I’ve got to stay down here till we’re safely out of Dunkirk. Maybe he could feign seasickness, or cowardice.

  But even his mere presence here could alter events. At a divergence point, history balanced on a knife’s edge, and his merely being on board could be enough to tilt the balance. Most of the small craft that had come back from Dunkirk had been packed to capacity. His presence might mean there wasn’t room for a soldier who’d otherwise have been saved—a soldier who would have gone on to do something critical at Tobruk or Normandy or the Battle of the Bulge.

  But if his presence at Dunkirk would have altered events and caused a paradox, then the net would never have let him through. It would have refused to open, the way it had in Dover and Ramsgate and all those other places Badri had tried. The fact that it had let him through at Saltram-on-Sea meant that he hadn’t done anything at Dunkirk to alter events, or that whatever he’d done hadn’t affected the course of history.

  Or that he hadn’t made it to Dunkirk. Which meant the Lady Jane had hit a mine or been sunk by a German U-boat—or the rising water in her hold—before she ever got there. She wouldn’t be the only boat that had happened to.

  I knew I should have memorized that asterisked list of small craft, he thought. And I should have remembered that slippage isn’t the only way the continuum has of keeping historians from altering the course of history.

  There was a sudden pounding of footsteps overhead and Jonathan poked his head down the hatch. “Grandfather sent me to fetch you,” he said breathlessly.

  “Get the bloody hell up here!” the Commander shouted over Jonathan’s voice.

  They’ve spotted the U-boat that’s going to kill us, Mike thought, grabbing his shoes and wading over to the ladder. That’s why this is possible. Because the Lady Jane never made it to Dunkirk. He clambered up it. Jonathan was leaning over the hatch, looking excited. “Grandfather needs you to navigate,” he said.

  “I thought he didn’t have any charts,” Mike said.

  “He doesn’t,” Jonathan said. “He—”

  “Now!” the Commander roared.

  “We’re here,” Jonathan said. “He needs us to guide him through the harbor.”

  “What do you mean, we’re here?” Mike said, hauling himself up the ladder and out onto the deck. “We can’t be—”

  But they were. The harbor lay in front of them, lit by a pinkish-orange glow that illuminated two destroyers and dozens of small boats. And behind it, on fire and half obscured by towering plumes of black smoke, was Dunkirk.

  Raid in Progress

  —NOTICE ONSTAGE IN LONDON THEATER, 1940

  London—17 September 1940

  BY MIDNIGHT ONLY POLLY AND THE ELDERLY, ARISTOCRATIC gentleman who always gave her his Times were awake. He had draped his coat over his shoulders and was reading. Everyone else had nodded off, though only Lila and Viv and Mrs. Brightford’s little girls had lain down, Bess and Trot with their heads in their mother’s lap. The others sat drowsing on the bench or the floor, leaning back against the wall. Miss Hibbard had let go of her knitting, and her head had fallen forward onto her chest. The rector and Miss Laburnum were both snoring.

  Polly was
surprised. The historical accounts had said lack of sleep had been a major problem. But this group didn’t seem bothered by the uncomfortable sleeping conditions or the noise, even though the raid was picking up in intensity again. The anti-aircraft gun in Kensington Gardens started up, and another wave of planes growled overhead.

  She wondered if this was the wave of bombers that had hit John Lewis. No, they sounded nearer—Mayfair? It and Bloomsbury had both been hit tonight as well as central London, and after they’d finished with Oxford Street, they’d hit Regent Street and the BBC studios. She’d better try to sleep while she could. She would need to start off early tomorrow morning, though she wondered if the department stores would even be open.

  London businesses had prided themselves on remaining open throughout the Blitz, and Padgett’s and John Lewis had both managed to start up again in new locations after a few weeks. But what about the day after the bombing? Would the stores which hadn’t been damaged be open, or would the whole street be off-limits, like the area around St. Paul’s? And for how long? If I haven’t got a job by tomorrow night—

  Of course they’ll be open, she thought. Think of all those window signs the Blitz was famous for: “Hitler can smash our windows, but he can’t match our prices,” and “It’s bomb marché in Oxford Street this week.” And that photograph of a woman reaching through a broken display window to feel the fabric of a frock. It might even be a good day to apply for a position. It would show that the raids didn’t frighten her, and if some of the shopgirls weren’t able to make it into work because of bombed bus routes, the stores might hire her to fill in.

  But she’d also have to compete with all those suddenly unemployed John Lewis shopgirls, and they’d be more likely to be taken on than she would, out of sympathy. Perhaps I should tell them I worked there, she thought.

  She folded her coat into a pillow and lay down, but she couldn’t sleep. The droning planes were too loud. They sounded like monstrous buzzing wasps, and they were growing louder—and nearer—by the moment. Polly sat up. The noise had wakened the rector, too. He’d sat up and was looking nervously at the ceiling. There was a whoosh, and then a huge explosion.

  Mr. Dorming jerked upright. “What the bloody hell—?” he said, and then, “Sorry, Reverend.”

  “Quite understandable given the circumstances,” the rector said. “They seem to have begun again.” Which was an understatement even for a contemp. The gun in Battersea Park was going full blast, and he had to shout to make himself heard. “I do hope those girls are all right. The ones who were trying to find Gloucester Terrace.”

  The gun in Kensington Gardens started in again, and Irene sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Shh, go back to sleep,” Mrs. Brightford murmured, looking over at Mr. Dorming, who was staring at the ceiling. The raid seemed to be directly overhead, whumps and bangs and long, shuddering booms that woke up Nelson and Mr. Simms and the rest of the women. Mrs. Rickett appeared annoyed, but everyone else looked wary and then worried.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t have let the girls go,” Miss Laburnum said.

  Trot crawled into her mother’s lap. “Shh,” Mrs. Brightford said, patting her. “It’s all right.”

  No, it’s not, Polly thought, watching their faces. They had the same look they’d had when the knocking began. If the raid didn’t let up soon…

  Every anti-aircraft gun in London was firing—a chorus of deafening thump-thump-thumps, punctuated by the thud and crash of bombs. The din grew louder and louder. Everyone’s eyes strayed to the ceiling, as if expecting it to crash in at any moment. There was a screech, like tearing metal, and then an ear-splitting boom. Miss Hibbard jumped and dropped her knitting, and Bess began to cry.

  “The bombardment does seem rather more severe this evening,” the rector said.

  Rather more severe. It sounded as if the planes—and the antiaircraft guns—were fighting it out in the sanctuary upstairs. Kensington wasn’t hit, she told herself.

  “Perhaps we should sing,” the rector shouted over the cacophony.

  “That’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Wyvern said, and launched into “God save our noble King.” Miss Laburnum and then Mr. Simms gamely joined in, but they could scarcely be heard above the roar and scream outside, and the rector made no attempt to go on to the second verse. One by one, everyone stopped singing and stared anxiously up at the ceiling.

  A high-explosive bomb exploded so close that the beams of the shelter shook, followed immediately by another HE, even closer, drowning out the sound of the guns but not the planes droning endlessly, maddeningly overhead. “Why isn’t it letting up?” Viv asked, and Polly could hear the panic in her voice.

  “I don’t like it!” Trot wailed, clapping her small hands over her ears. “It’s loud!”

  “Indeed,” the elderly gentleman said from his corner. “‘The isle is full of noises,’” and Polly looked over at him in surprise. His voice had changed completely from the quiet, well-bred voice of a gentleman to a deep, commanding tone that made even the little girls stop crying and stare at him.

  He shut his book and laid it on the floor beside him. “‘With strange and several noises,’” he said, getting to his feet, “‘of roaring…’” He shrugged his coat from his shoulders, as if throwing off a cloak to reveal himself as a magician. Or a king. “‘With shrieking, howling, and more diversity of sounds, all horrible, we were awaked…’”

  He strode suddenly to the center of the cellar. “‘To the dread rattling thunder have I given fire,’” he shouted, seeming to Polly to have grown to twice his size. “‘The strong-bas’d promontory have I made shake!’” His resonant voice reached every corner of the cellar. “‘Sometime I’d divide and burn in many places,’” he said, pointing dramatically at the ceiling, the floor, the door in turn as he spoke, “‘on the topmast, the yards, and bowsprit would I flame—’” He flung both arms out. “‘Then meet and join.’”

  Above, a bomb crashed, close enough to rattle the tea urn and the teacups, but no one spared them a glance. They were all watching him, their fear gone, and even though the terrifying racket hadn’t diminished, and his words, rather than attempting to distract them from the noise, were drawing attention to it, describing it, the din was no longer frightening. It had become mere stage effects, clashing cymbals and sheets of rattled tin, providing a dramatic background to his voice.

  “‘A plague upon this howling!’” he cried. “‘They are louder than the weather or our office,’” and went straight into Prospero’s epilogue and from there into Lear’s mad scene, and finally Henry V, while his audience listened, entranced.

  At some point the cacophony outside had diminished, fading till there was nothing but the muffled poom-poom-poom of an anti-aircraft gun off to the northeast, but no one in the room had noticed. Which was, of course, the point. Polly gazed at him in admiration.

  “‘This story shall the good man teach his son, from this day to the ending of the world,’” he said, his voice ringing through the cellar, “‘but we in it shall be remembered—we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.’” His voice died away on the last words, like a bell echoing into silence.

  “‘The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve,’” he whispered. “‘Sweet friends, to bed,’” and bowed his head, his hand on his heart.

  There was a moment of entranced silence, followed by Miss Hibbard’s “Oh, my!” and general applause. Trot clapped wildly, and even Mr. Dorming joined in. The gentleman bowed deeply, retrieved his coat from the floor, and returned to his corner and his book. Mrs. Brightford gathered her girls to her, and Nelson and Lila and Viv composed themselves to sleep, one after the other, like children after they’d been told a bedtime story.

  Polly went over to sit next to Miss Laburnum and the rector. “Who is he?” she whispered.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Miss Laburnum said.

  Polly hoped he wasn’t so famous that her failing to recognize him would be suspicious.

  “He’s Godfrey
Kingsman,” the rector said, “the Shakespearean actor.”

  “England’s greatest actor,” Miss Laburnum explained.

  Mrs. Rickett sniffed. “If he’s such a great actor, what’s he doing sitting in this shelter? Why isn’t he onstage?”

  “You know perfectly well the theaters have closed because of the raids,” Miss Laburnum said heatedly. “Until the government reopens them—”

  “All I know is, I don’t let rooms to actors,” Mrs. Rickett said. “They can’t be relied on to pay their rent.”

  Miss Laburnum went very red. “Sir Godfrey—”

  “He’s been knighted, then?” Polly asked hastily.

  “By King Edward,” Miss Laburnum said. “I can’t imagine that you’ve never heard of him, Miss Sebastian. His Lear is renowned! I saw him in Hamlet when I was a girl, and he was simply marvelous!”

  He’s rather marvelous now, Polly thought.

  “He’s appeared before all the crowned heads of Europe,” Miss Laburnum said. “And to think he honored us with a performance tonight.”

  Mrs. Rickett sniffed again, and Miss Laburnum was only stopped from saying something regrettable by the all clear. The sleepers sat up and yawned, and everyone began to gather their belongings. Sir Godfrey marked his place in his book, shut it, and stood up. Miss Laburnum and Miss Hibbard scurried over to him to tell him how wonderful he’d been. “It was so inspiring,” Miss Laburnum said, “especially the speech from Hamlet about the band of brothers.”

  Polly suppressed a smile. Sir Godfrey thanked the two ladies solemnly, his voice quiet and refined again. Watching him putting on his coat and picking up his umbrella, it was hard to believe he’d just given that mesmerizing performance.

  Lila and Viv folded their blankets and gathered up their magazines, Mr. Dorming picked up his thermos, Mrs. Brightford picked up Trot, and they all converged on the door. The rector pulled the bolt back and opened it, and as he did, Polly caught an echo of the tense, frightened look they’d had before Sir Godfrey intervened, this time for what they might find when they went through that door and up those steps: their houses gone, London in ruins. Or German tanks driving down Lampden Road.