All Clear

“Here,” Polly said, drawing a map of St. Paul’s with her finger on the leather back of the seat and pointing to where the stairway down to the Crypt was.

“Where are the stairs to the roof?” Eileen asked.

“I don’t know, and it’s not roof, it’s roofs. There are layers and layers of levels and roofs. That’s what made putting out the incendiaries so difficult. But there’ll be someone in the Crypt who can take a message up to Mr. Bartholomew,” she said, and filled Eileen in on the raid. “St. Paul’s didn’t burn—”

“Because of the fire watch,” Mike said.

“Yes, but the entire area around it did. And Fleet Street and the Guildhall and the Central Telephone Exchange—all the operators had to be evacuated—and at least one of the surface shelters. I don’t know which one.”

“Then we need to stay out of all of them,” Mike said. “You said some of the tube stations were hit? Which ones?”

“Waterloo, I think,” she said, trying to remember. “And Cannon Street, and Charing Cross Railway Station had to be evacuated because of a land mine.”

“St. Paul’s Station wasn’t hit?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did they drop lots of high-explosive bombs?” Eileen asked nervously.

“No,” Mike said. “It was nearly all incendiaries, but the tide was out, and the primary water main got hit. And it was really windy.”

Polly nodded. “The fires nearly became a firestorm like Dresden.”

“Which means it will be a great time to have already gone home,” Mike said. “How many more stops do we have till we get to St. Paul’s?”

“One more till Monument, where we change for the Central Line, and then one to St. Paul’s,” Polly said.

But when they got to the Central Line platform, there was a sandwich board in the entranceway: No service on Central Line until further notice. All travelers are advised to take alternate routes.

“What other line is St. Paul’s on?” Mike asked, starting over to the tube map.

“None. We’ll have to use another station,” Polly said, thinking rapidly. Cannon Street was the nearest, but it had been hit, and she didn’t know at what time. “We need to go to Blackfriars,” she said. “This way.”

She led them out to the platform. “Blackfriars isn’t one of the stations that burned, is it?” Eileen asked.

She led them out to the platform. “Blackfriars isn’t one of the stations that burned, is it?” Eileen asked.

“No,” Polly said, though she didn’t know. But it was only a bit past five. It wouldn’t be on fire now.

“How far is Blackfriars from St. Paul’s?” Mike asked.

“A ten-minute walk.”

“And from here back to Blackfriars, what? Ten minutes?”

Polly nodded.

“Good, we’ve still got plenty of time,” he said and headed for the platform.

But they had just missed the train and had to wait a quarter of an hour for the next one, and when they got off at Blackfriars, they had to work their way through scores of shelterers putting down their blankets and unpacking picnic hampers.

Oh, no, the sirens must already have gone, Polly thought, looking at the crowd, and the guard won’t let us leave.

A band of ragged children ran past them, and Polly grabbed the last one and asked him, “Have the sirens gone?”

“Not yet,” he said, wriggling free of her, and tore off after the other children.

“Hurry,” Polly said, pushing her way through the mob pouring in. Mrs. Owens must not have been the only one who’d “had a feeling” about there being a raid tonight.

Polly led Mike and Eileen quickly toward the entrance, fearful that at any moment the siren would sound and that, even if they did make it out, it would be too dark to see anything. The tangle of narrow, dead-ending lanes around St. Paul’s was bad enough in daylight, let alone after dark and in the blackout.

But when they came up the stairs and emerged onto the street, St. Paul’s dome was clearly outlined against the searchlit sky. They started up the hill toward it.

We’re actually going to make it, Polly thought. Which meant it was true. Mr. Dunworthy and Mr. Bartholomew—and Colin—had kept what had happened secret all these years, had been willing to sacrifice them to keep the secret.

Like Ultra, she thought. That secret had been kept by hundreds and hundreds of people for years and years—because it was absolutely essential to winning the war.

What if their getting trapped, their coming back, had had to be kept secret for some reason equally vital to time travel? Or to history? And that was why they couldn’t be told, why they’d had to be sacrificed …

“What time is it?” Mike asked.

Polly squinted at her watch. “Six.”

“Good, we’ve still got plenty of time—” Mike said, and a siren cut sharply across his words.

I knew it, Polly thought, and took off at a trot, Mike and Eileen following.

“It’s only the siren,” Mike said, panting. “That still gives us twenty minutes till the planes, doesn’t it?”

I don’t know, Polly thought, sprinting up the hill. Please let there be twenty minutes. That’s all we need.