All Clear

And not a single pedestrian to ask directions of. The only person in sight was the red-coated attendant standing at the door of the hospital, his white-gloved hands clasped behind him. Mike supposed that was a good thing—at least there wasn’t a huddle of doctors and nurses around him, asking if he’d seen an escaped patient.

But he would come to that conclusion on his own if Mike asked, “Which direction is St. Paul’s?” and there wasn’t time to wander around till he saw it on his own—

“Need a ride, guv’nor?” a voice called from behind him, and to his amazement, a taxi pulled up to the curb, and a cabbie stuck his head out the window. “Where to, guv?”

Mike hesitated, debating whether to have the cabbie take him to Blackfriars first to pick up Eileen. If she was still there. He’d told her to wait there for him, but if the all clear had sounded, she might have tried to get to St. Paul’s on her own. “Has the all clear gone?” he asked.

“Hours ago,” the cabbie said. “And a good thing. If the jerries had kept it up all night, I doubt this hospital’d still be standing. Now then, where to?”

St. Paul’s, he decided. If Eileen wasn’t there, he’d go get her in Blackfriars after he’d found out from Bartholomew where the drop was.

But he’d better not tell the cabbie where he wanted to go till he was inside the taxi. He didn’t want him saying, “Sorry, guv’nor, I’m not driving into that mess,” and driving off. And he’d better not phrase it as a question.

Mike scrambled into the back, shut the door, and waited till the cabbie’d pulled away from the curb before leaning forward and saying, “I need to get to St. Paul’s.”

“You’re an American,” the cabbie said.

“Yes.”

Now he was going to ask if the United States was coming into the war or not, and Mike was too tired to think what the correct answer for December of 1940 was, but instead the cabbie said, “In that case, guv, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

If only you could, Mike thought.

“St. Paul’s, you say? That may take a bit of doing. Most of the streets are blocked off this morning, but I’ve got my own ways. I’ll see you get there. Take you right to her front door, I will.”

“Thank you,” Mike said. He took a deep breath. It’s only half past six at the latest, he thought. The fire watch doesn’t come off duty till seven, and Polly’s had all night to find Bartholomew, even if she doesn’t know what he looks like. And all she had to do was tell him, and he’d wait for Eileen and me.

He leaned back, cradling his arm, which was throbbing badly. So was his head. It doesn’t matter. They can fix them both in Oxford.

“Want to see the old girl for yourself, eh, guv’nor?” the cabbie called back to him. “Make certain she’s still there? I don’t blame you. I thought she was a goner myself last night. It looked like London was a goner, too.”

He turned down a succession of smoky streets. “I was taking a passenger to Guy’s Hospital—a doctor it was, trying to get there to take care of casualties. And when we got to Embankment, it looked like the sky itself was on fire, so bright you could read a newspaper by it, and this queer red color, it was.

“ ‘Guy’s won’t be there,’ I told him, and blamed if the hospital wasn’t on fire when we got there. I had to take him back across London Bridge to St. Bart’s, and a good thing I got him there. I’ve never seen so many casualties.”

He stopped at a crossing to look down a street. “Newgate’s blocked off, but there’s a chance Aldergate’s open.”

It wasn’t. A wooden barricade stood across it.

“What about Cheapside?” the cabbie asked the officer standing next to it.

“No, this sector’s blocked off all the way to the Tower. Where were you trying to go?”

The cabbie didn’t answer him. “What about Farringdon?”

The officer shook his head. “They still haven’t got the fires out. The whole City’s impassable.”

The cabbie nodded and backed around. “Don’t worry,” he said to Mike. “Just because one way don’t work don’t mean another won’t, does it? I’ll get you there.”

Mike hoped he was right. Every street they tried was either roped off or blocked by fallen masonry. A huge crater had been blown out of the middle of one lane, Mike hoped he was right. Every street they tried was either roped off or blocked by fallen masonry. A huge crater had been blown out of the middle of one lane, and in the next one over, two portable fire pumps and an ambulance had been abandoned. He was obviously going to have to walk, which meant he’d better put his socks on. He pulled them out of his pockets, took off his shoes, and began putting them on.

“You wanted a look at her,” the cabbie called back to him. “Well, there she is.”

Mike looked up, and there was St. Paul’s, the dome framed by the opening of the lane they were passing, and the ball and gold cross standing out clearly against the dark gray sky.

“Not a scratch on her,” the cabbie said admiringly. “Not that Hitler didn’t try his best. Beautiful, ain’t she, sir?”