All Clear

But Alf popped up moments later and said, “If you’re lookin’ for the ambulance, you’re goin’ the wrong way.”

“Where’s your sister?” Eileen asked.

He shrugged. “I dunno. We split up. Where’s your coat?”

“I took it off. Show us the way.”

“Come along,” he said, and led her and Polly quickly and expertly to the dispensary.

Agatha Christie wasn’t there, which Eileen supposed was good, considering what had happened last time, but she’d have liked to see her again now that she knew who she was. And what? Tell her how much you love her novels? London’s burning to the ground, and you’ve got to get to St. Paul’s. She pushed out through the emergency doors.

The ambulance wasn’t there.

Of course not. There were hundreds of casualties, and Guy’s Hospital’s ambulances couldn’t get through. I should have taken the keys like Alf, she thought, feeling sick, staring at the empty spot where the ambulance had been.

Polly was staring at the sky. The wall of smoke was still there, but the red had faded to a pinkish charcoal gray, and above the pall the overcast sky was beginning to show a hint of paler gray. “It’s nearly morning,” she said. “We’ll never make it in time.”

“No, it isn’t,” Eileen said staunchly. “That’s the light from the fires reflecting off the cloud cover.”

Polly shook her head. “ ‘It is the lark.’ ”

“It isn’t. It’s only—” Eileen held her watch up, trying to see the time, but it was too dark to make out the hands. “There’s still time to get there before he leaves,” she said, though she didn’t see how. The Underground wouldn’t start running till half past six, and even if they could get to Blackfriars, they’d have to climb Ludgate Hill.

Polly was still staring blindly at the sky. “We won’t be able to find him,” she murmured as if to herself. “We’ll be too late.”

“Alf,” Eileen said, “do you think you could find us a taxi?”

“A taxi?” Alf said. “Whattya want a taxi for?”

Wretched child. “We must get to St. Paul’s immediately. It’s an emergency.”

“Why don’t you take the ambulance?” he said, and Binnie came driving around the corner of the hospital.

She leaned out the window. “I thought I better ’ide it so nobody else took it.”

Alf opened the passenger door, scrambled in, and rolled down his window. “Well?” he said. “Are we goin’ or what?”

That won’t be there in the morning.

—FIREMAN, ON SEEING ST. PAUL’S

SURROUNDED BY FIRES,

29 December 1940

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital—30 December 1940

MIKE WOKE UP WITH A SPLITTING HEADACHE, AND WHEN he tried to put his hand to his forehead, a searing pain shot along his arm.

He opened his eyes. His arm was swathed in gauze, and he was lying in a white-painted iron bed in a dimly lit ward. He turned his head to look at the sleeping patient in the bed next to him. It was Fordham, with his arm still in traction. “Oh God,” he murmured, trying to sit up. “How did I get here?”

“Shh,” a pretty, wimpled nurse—not Sister Carmody—said, pushing him back down and pulling the blankets up over him. “Lie still. You’ve been injured. You’re in hospital. Try to rest.”

“How did I get to Orpington?” he asked.

“Orpington?” she said. “You did get a knock on the head. You’re in St. Bartholomew’s.”

St. Bartholomew’s. Good. He was still in London. He must have … but then what was Fordham doing here? He looked over at him, and it wasn’t Fordham, after all. It was a teenaged boy.

“What time is it?” Mike asked, looking over at the windows, but they were completely covered by sandbags piled against them.

“Never you mind about that. Would you like some breakfast?”

Breakfast? Oh, Christ, he’d been out cold the whole night.

“You must try to rest,” the nurse was saying. “You’ve a concussion.”

“A concussion?” He felt his head. There was a painful bump on the left side.

“Yes, a burning wall fell on you,” she said, pulling out a thermometer. “You were extremely lucky. You’ve a burn on your arm, but it could have been far worse.”

How? he thought. I was supposed to be finding John Bartholomew, and I’ve been out of commission all night.

“Eight other firemen were killed in Fleet Street when a wall collapsed,” she said.

Mike tried to sit up. “I’ve got to go—”

She pushed him back down. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said, sounding exactly like Sister Carmody.

A horrible thought struck him. What if he’d been here for weeks, like in Orpington? “What day is it?”

“What day?” she said, looking worried. “I’ll fetch the doctor.” She stuck the thermometer into her pocket and hurried off.

Oh, God, it had been weeks. He’d missed the drop.

No, Eileen and Polly wouldn’t have gone without you, he told himself. They’d have made John Bartholomew wait. Or sent a retrieval team back for him.

But they wouldn’t have had any idea where he was. Even if they’d thought to search the hospitals, the nurse obviously thought he was a fireman …

“I heard you ask what day it was,” the kid in the next bed said. “It’s Monday.”

“No, the date,” Mike asked.

The kid gave him the same look the nurse had given him. “December thirtieth.”

Relief washed over Mike. “What time is it?”