All Clear

“Bartholomew, John Bartholomew,” she said quickly, and drove off before Alf could do any more damage.

“Bartholomew,” Dr. Cross said musingly. “How fitting that you and your children, the angels who’ve come to St. Bartholomew’s aid, should be named Bartholomew.”

Binnie began, “We ain’t—”

“Angels,” Eileen finished neatly.

“Oh, but you are,” Dr. Cross said. “I don’t know what we should have done without you. Half of our drivers were caught on the other side of the fire and couldn’t make it in. If it hadn’t been for you and your children—”

“We ain’t—”

“Which way do I turn up here?” Eileen cut in to ask.

“Left,” Alf said, “but—”

“It was extraordinarily good luck that Mrs. Mallowan told me she’d seen you leaving,” Dr. Cross said, and Eileen realized she’d heard him say that name before, when they were leaving St. Bart’s on that first run. But it had to be some other Mrs. Mallowan.

“Mrs. Mallowan?” she asked, to be certain.

He nodded. “Our dispenser, though actually she’s not ours. Our regular dispenser couldn’t make it in, and Mrs. Mallowan kindly offered to—”

“Her given name isn’t Agatha, is it?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Agatha Christie Mallowan?”

“I believe so. She lives in Holland Park.”

“I believe so. She lives in Holland Park.”

Binnie had said, “The dispenser looks like she don’t miss a trick,” and she was certainly right about that.

I finally get to meet Agatha Christie, Eileen thought ruefully, and when I do, she stops me from making my getaway and going to St. Paul’s.

“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Mallowan?” Dr. Cross was asking.

“Yes. No. I’ve heard of her.”

“Oh, yes, I believe she writes some sort of novels. Are they good?”

“People will still be reading them a hundred years from now,” Eileen said, and turned into Alwell Lane.

And into a scene of chaos. Nearly every building on both sides of the narrow street was on fire, bright yellow flames shooting from the windows and boiling up violently from the roofs and over the narrow street, threatening to engulf it at any moment. Three firemen had their hoses aimed at the burning buildings, even though there was no way they could save any of it. The stream from their hoses was only a thin trickle.

But they kept on spraying the buildings, oblivious to the flames arching dangerously over their heads. And to Dr. Cross. He had to shout at them twice before they told him where to find the injured fireman, and there turned out to be three other casualties as well—two firemen unconscious from smoke inhalation and a young boy with badly burned hands. They had to cram the four of them into the rear of the ambulance, and Binnie had to sit on the doctor’s lap on the way back to St. Bart’s.

The journey took even longer than the others had. Every road they turned up was blocked with fallen masonry or roaring flames or both. They could no longer catch even glimpses of St. Paul’s. It had been swallowed up in a boiling mass of smoke that filled the entire sky. When they pulled in to St. Bart’s, the smoke stood like a great red wall stretching from horizon to horizon.

There was no one at the entrance to take the patients inside. Binnie had fallen asleep on Dr. Cross’s lap. Eileen had to shake her gently awake to get her off him so he could go in to get help.

“I’m awake,” Binnie murmured crankily and curled up again next to the drowsing Alf.

“Shove off!” he said, then sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily. “ ’E’s gone. Why ain’t you takin’ off for St. Paul’s?”

“Because we have four patients in the back.” And Dr. Cross was coming out the door with a trolley.

“I couldn’t find anyone,” he said. “We’ll have to take them in ourselves.”

Somehow they managed—with Alf and Binnie helping—to get all four patients onto trolleys, into the hospital, and through an endless maze of corridors to a place where they could be turned over to the staff.

And it was no wonder there hadn’t been anyone at the entrance. Every ward, every examining room, was filled with patients, scurrying nurses, soot-covered rescue workers, doctors shouting orders, harried-looking attendants—one of whom detached himself at Dr. Cross’s order from the ARP warden he was bandaging to come take Eileen’s end of the trolley from her. “What are you doing?” he asked. “You’re injured. Sit down. I’ll fetch a doctor.”

Why did everyone keep saying that? “I’m Dr. Cross’s driver.”

“What are you doing?” Dr. Cross said impatiently to the attendant. “Grab hold of the trolley.” To Eileen he said, “Wait here.”

Eileen nodded, and he and the attendant disappeared with the trolley through a pair of double doors. And she was suddenly free to leave and go to St. Paul’s, as long as she wasn’t waylaid by some other doctor on the way out.