Blackout - Connie Willis

I’ll take the earliest bus so I can be first in line, she thought as she walked to Theodore’s house, but he met her at the door with, “A lady telephoned for you.”

It’s Polly, she thought. She went to Padgett’s to apply, and Miss Gregory told her I’d been there and gave her my number. “What was the name of the lady who rang up?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Theodore said. “A lady.”

“Did she leave her address, or a telephone number?”

Theodore didn’t know that either. She took him next door to ask Mrs. Owens, thinking, Please don’t have let Theodore have been the one who spoke to her, but Mrs. Owens had taken the call. “What a pity. You only just missed her.”

“What did she say?” Eileen asked eagerly.

“Only that she wished to speak with you, and that you were to ring her at this number.” She gave it to Eileen.

“May I use your phone to ring her? I’m afraid if I go down to the pillar box, Padgett’s will have closed.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Owens showed her to the phone. “Theodore, come with me into the kitchen and have your tea.”

Good, Eileen thought, giving the operator the number. With them not here in the room, I’ll be able to ask Polly where her drop is. “Hullo, this is Eileen O’Reilly,” she said.

“Yes, this is Miss Gregory from Padgett’s Department Store. You left your name and number with us.”

“That’s right.” Polly must be there in the office with her.

“I phoned to tell you that we have an opening in our sales staff.”

“An opening?” Eileen said blankly.

“Yes, to start immediately. As a junior assistant in our notions department.”

They were offering her a job. Miss Gregory must have found the card she’d left and thought it was an application. But she’d so hoped it was Polly, that she was on her way home. “Are you available, Miss O’Reilly?” Miss Gregory was asking.

Yes, she thought bitterly. But she couldn’t afford to pass up this job. It was in one of the stores where Polly might already be working, and near the others, and even if Polly didn’t work there, Eileen would be in the heart of Oxford Street and-on her lunch break-able to systematically go up one side of Oxford Street and down the other, searching every department store. “Yes,” Eileen said. “I’d very much like the job.”

“Excellent. Can you begin tomorrow morning?” Miss Gregory asked, and when Eileen said yes, told her when and where to report and what to wear.

“Are you going?” Theodore asked, his voice rising threateningly when she rang off.

Not yet, Eileen thought. “No,” she said, and smiled at him. “I’m going to stay here and work at Padgett’s.”

Is Your Journey Really Necessary? 

London-26 September 1940

POLLY’S RETRIEVAL TEAM STILL HADN’T COME BY THURSDAY night. I can’t stand this waiting. I’ll give it till Saturday, and then I’m going up to Backbury, she thought, listening to Miss Laburnum and the others argue over which play to do.

Surprisingly, Sir Godfrey had agreed to the idea of a full-scale theatrical production. “I’d be delighted to assist in such a worthy cause,” he’d said. “We must do Twelfth Night. With Miss Sebastian as Viola.”

“Oh, I had my heart set on one of Barrie’s plays,” Miss Laburnum said.

“Perhaps Peter Pan,” Mrs. Brightford suggested. “The children could be in it.”

“Nelson could play Nana,” Mr. Simms said.

Sir Godfrey looked aghast. “Peter Pan?”

“We can’t,” Polly said quickly. “We’ve no way to manage the flying.”

Sir Godfrey shot a grateful glance at her. “An excellent point. On the other hand, Twelfth Ni-”

“It must be a patriotic play,” Mrs. Wyvern said decisively.

“Henry V,” Sir Godfrey said.

“No, not enough women. We must do a play with women in it so everyone in our little troupe can participate.”

“And with a dog,” Mr. Simms said.

“Twelfth Night has lots of women,” Polly said. “Viola, the Lady Olivia, Maria-”

“I think we should do the clock one,” Trot said.

“What a good idea!” Miss Laburnum exclaimed. “We can do Barrie’s A Kiss for Cinderella!”

“Is there a part for a dog in it?” Mr. Simms asked.

“What about a murder mystery?” the rector said.

“The Mousetrap,” Sir Godfrey said dryly.

When I get to Backbury, I must tell Merope that Sir Godfrey likes Agatha Christie, Polly thought, and then realized he was referring to Hamlet. And probably plotting the murder of Miss Laburnum.

She half listened to them propose possible plays, trying to decide when to go. If she waited till after work on Saturday, she wouldn’t need to ask Miss Snelgrove for time off or run the risk of missing the retrieval team while she was gone. But she seemed to remember Merope saying her half-day off was Monday and that that was when she went through to Oxford to check in. If it took Polly longer than planned to get to Backbury, she ran the risk of Merope’s not being there when she arrived.

Or not being there at all. Merope’s assignment had to be nearly over. What if she was going back for good on Monday? I’d better not wait till Saturday night, Polly thought.

“I saw three copies of Mary Rose in a secondhand bookshop last week,” Miss Laburnum said. “Such an affecting play… That poor boy, searching for his lost love those years…” She put her hand to her bosom. “I shall make an expedition to Charing Cross on Saturday.”

And I shall make one to Backbury, Polly thought. I’ll go Saturday and come back Sunday.

She needed to find out about trains. It was too late to go to Euston to look at the schedule. The Underground trains had already stopped for the night. She would have to do it in the morning.

But when the trains began running again at half past six the next morning, there was a notice board saying the Central Line was out of service due to “damage on the line,” so instead she had to ask Marjorie to watch her counter while she ran up to the book department and consulted an ABC railway guide.

The earliest train on a Saturday was at 10:02, with connections at Reading and Leamington. It didn’t get in to Backbury till… Oh, no, after ten o’clock at night. That meant she wouldn’t be able to go to the manor till Sunday morning. And depending on how far from Backbury it was, it might take her the better part of the day to walk there and back.

And if Merope had already gone back, she couldn’t afford to miss the return train. And, according to the ABC, the only one from Backbury on Sunday went at 11:19 A.M.

I shall to have to go tonight, she thought. If there’s a train.

There were three, the first one at 6:48. If I go straight to Euston from work, I should be able to make the 6:48, she thought, starting down to her counter to relieve Marjorie.

Marjorie. If Merope was in Backbury, Polly wouldn’t be coming back, which meant that before she left she needed to buy Marjorie stockings to replace the ones she’d borrowed. But she hadn’t enough money with her for them and her train fare. She’d have to go back to Mrs. Rickett’s for Mr. Dunworthy’s emergency money, and take the 7:55 instead, but that had a benefit. She’d be able to tell Mrs. Rickett where she was going. And if she was delayed for some reason, she could take the 9:03.

She hurried back to her counter. Marjorie was busy with a customer. Polly brought Doreen over to write up the purchase and, when Marjorie finished waiting on her customer, took the stockings over to her. “They’re lovely,” Marjorie said, “but it wasn’t necessary for you to do that.”

Yes, it is, Polly thought. You’ve no idea how scarce stockings are about to become. You may well have to make these last for the remainder of the war.

“Thank you,” Marjorie said. She leaned over the counter toward Polly. “You’ll never guess who was here while you were gone,” she whispered, and before Polly’s heart could turn over, “The airman I told you about who’s always after me to go out with him. Tom. He wanted me to go out dancing.”

“And are you going?” Polly asked.

“No, I told you, he’s terribly fast.” She frowned. “Though perhaps I should have. As he said, in times like these people need to seize happiness while they can.”

Which was also a very old line. “I need to ask you something,” Polly said. “Is it Miss Snelgrove I need to speak to about getting tomorrow off, or Mr. Witherill?”

“A day off?” Marjorie echoed. She sounded horrified.

“Yes. I’ve had a letter from my sister, you see. My mother’s ill, and I must go home.”

“But you can’t go tomorrow. Saturday’s Townsend Brothers’ busiest day of the week. They’ll never allow it.”

It had never occurred to Polly that she might not be able to get the day off, especially with an excuse like an ailing mother. She could just leave, of course, but if Merope wasn’t in Backbury, working here was her best chance of being found by the retrieval team.

“Miss Snelgrove’s already had her quota of human kindness for the week,” Marjorie was saying. “And Mr. Witherill will be convinced you’re doing a flit.” She looked at Polly sharply. “You’re not, are you? Not that I’d blame you. Sitting in that horrid cellar last night, listening to the bombs, I thought, ‘When the all clear goes, I’m going to go straight to Waterloo Station, take the train to Bath, and move in with Brenda.’”

“I’m not running away.” Polly pulled out the letter from Props and handed it over, making certain Marjorie saw the Northumbria postmark on the envelope. “It’s her heart. Surely if I tell Miss Snelgrove-”

But Marjorie was shaking her head. “Don’t say anything to her or Mr. Witherill,” she ordered, handing the letter back. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll say you rang me up and said you weren’t feeling well. Will you be back by Monday?”

“Yes, unless…” Polly said hesitantly. She hated to get Marjorie into trouble if she didn’t return.

“I’ll cover for you Monday as well. If you need to stay on longer, you can always write from home and tell them.”

“But what about tomorrow? You’ll be left shorthanded.”

“I’ll manage. No one’s buying girdles just now. They take too long to put on when there’s a raid. Do you leave tonight?”

Polly nodded. “Thank you so much for covering for me. If anyone should come in asking for me, tell them I’ll be back on Monday, or Tuesday at the latest.”

Marjorie leaned confidingly on the counter. “Who is this mysterious person you’re always hoping will come in and ask for you? A man?”

I don’t know, Polly thought. It was likely the retrieval team would be female, but not certain.

“Is he a pilot?”

“No. A cousin of mine is coming to London and might look me up,” she said and walked quickly back to her own counter before Marjorie could ask any more questions.

At a quarter past five, she began tidying up, hoping she might be able to leave early, but just before the closing bell Miss Snelgrove demanded to see her sales book.

Marjorie came over, already in her hat and coat. “I’m leaving now, Miss Snelgrove,” she said, and turned to Polly. “Are you feeling all right? You look rather pale.”

“I’m fine,” Polly said, then realized Marjorie was attempting to help her set up her alibi for tomorrow. “It’s only a headache, and my throat’s been a bit sore this afternoon.” She put her hand to her throat, but Miss Snelgrove didn’t look impressed. Marjorie was right; she’d used up her quota of kindness for the week.

“Where is your sales receipt for Mrs. Scott?” Miss Snelgrove demanded.

Polly had wanted to say goodbye to Marjorie-it was, after all, the last time she might ever see her-but by the time Miss Snelgrove finished reprimanding Polly for smudging her carbons, she’d already gone, and it was probably for the best. Polly couldn’t afford to have her ask what her “cousin”’s name-or gender-was. And at any rate, there was no time for goodbyes. It was already a quarter to six.

She had to leave. And to make the 6:48, she’d have to take a taxi to Mrs. Rickett’s. If she could find one. There weren’t any parked in front of Townsend Brothers or on the street. She finally ran the four blocks to Padgett’s and had its doorman hail her one, but it took several minutes, and by the time they reached Mrs. Rickett’s, it was twenty past. Polly told the cabbie to wait, and raced inside, hoping Miss Hibbard would be in the parlor so she wouldn’t have to deal with either Mrs. Rickett or the talkative Miss Laburnum, but there was no one there, or in the dining room, though the supper dishes still lay on the table. The sirens must have gone early again-the raids tonight didn’t start till nine.

She pelted up the stairs to her room to get her money, ran back downstairs, leaped in the taxi, and said, “Euston Station. And hurry. I’ve a train to catch.”

“I’ll get you there,” he said and roared down Cardle Street to Notting Hill Gate and past the Underground station.

Oh, no, Polly thought. I didn’t tell them I’m leaving. When she’d realized the siren had sounded, she’d forgotten all about it. I should have left a note.

It was too late now. It was already twenty till. She’d be lucky to catch her train as it was. But she was seeing the tears streaming down Miss Hibbard’s face and the look on Sir Godfrey’s ashen face before he saw her. She was remembering her own knees giving way when she saw the wrecked church.

I can’t do that to them again, she thought, not when they’ll have to face so many real deaths in the four and a half years ahead. She leaned forward and tapped the cabbie on the shoulder. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “Take me to Notting Hill Gate Underground Station.”

“But what about your train, miss?”

“I’ll take the next one,” she said.

He made a U-turn and headed back. “Do you want me to wait again?” he asked, pulling up in front of the station.

With the sirens already having gone, the guard wouldn’t let her out of the station. “No, I’ll take the tube from here,” she said, handed him the fare, and ran inside and down to the platform.

“Oh, good, the warden told you,” Miss Laburnum said the moment she saw her.

“Told me what?”

“About the gas leak.”

“A delayed-action bomb went off two streets over and ruptured a gas main,” Miss Hibbard said, coming over with her knitting. “During supper.”

A gas leak! A spark from the taxi’s ignition could have blown us both sky-high.

The rector and Mrs. Rickett were there, and Mrs. Brightford and her girls, all spreading out their blankets. “I’m glad you’re here,” Miss Laburnum said. “We’ve been discussing the play.”

“I can’t stay,” Polly said. “I only came to tell you I won’t be here tonight.”