All Clear

They were clearly the women he was looking for, after all. But another van had arrived, and they were pouring into the lobby too quickly for him now, shaking out They were clearly the women he was looking for, after all. But another van had arrived, and they were pouring into the lobby too quickly for him now, shaking out their umbrellas, shedding raincoats, talking excitedly. He stood by the door till they were all inside and then made a circuit of the noisy lobby, scanning the faces of the ones he’d missed as they called to one another across the room and greeted each other with cries of delight, oblivious to him as he worked his way through the crowd, searching their faces, looking for Eileen.

He caught snatches of their conversations as he moved among them:

“No, she couldn’t come, poor dear. Her rheumatism, you know …”

“Are you still married to your American—what was his name? Jack?”

“Jack? Lord, no, I’ve had two husbands since then …”

“… were not, you were a dreadful driver. Remember that poor American admiral you ran over?”

“He wasn’t an admiral! He was only a commander, and he had no business looking the wrong way like that. If Americans drove on the proper side of the road, they’d know which way to look when they were crossing …”

“Ladies!” a large, florid-faced woman with iron-gray hair in front of the door to the museum shouted. “Ladies!” She was holding name badges and a sheet of gold stars. “Ladies! Attention please!” she cried, to no avail. The women were intent on locating old friends, finding familiar faces.

Like I am, he thought, working his way past the name-badge woman and over to the corner where the four women he hadn’t got a close look at yet were passing around snapshots, he assumed of children and grandchildren. He pulled out his notebook and pretended to take notes on the V-1 and the Spitfire while he scanned their faces.

Don’t let any of them be Merope, he prayed.

They were all huddled over the snapshots, their faces hidden, and it took several moments before they raised them again and he was able to see their faces.

Merope wasn’t here. That meant he hadn’t failed, at least not yet, that there was still time to find someone who could tell him where Polly was after March 1941, and he could find her and Merope and pull them both out. And this was the place to find that someone. These women had all done war work, and most of them would have been in London during the Blitz. One of them was bound to have known Polly.

Beginning with the group he’d just been watching. They’d finished looking at the snapshots and were discussing the war.

He edged nearer to hear what they were saying and to find a way to insinuate himself into the conversation. “Do you remember when we went to that dance at Biggin Hill?” the one who’d been passing around the snapshots was asking the woman next to her. “And that RAF pilot—what was his name?”

“Flight Officer Boyd. I certainly do. He kept begging me to go out to see his plane,” she said, even though it was difficult to believe any man had ever begged her to go anywhere. She was a stout, washed-out-looking woman, and her face was a railway map of wrinkles. “And I said good girls didn’t go out alone in the dark with men they’d only just met, and he said there was a war on and we might both be dead by tomorrow—”

“Original,” the woman next to her said.

“My particular favorite was ‘It’s your patriotic duty,’ ” a third woman said, and the others nodded. “Think of it as doing your bit.”

Somehow I don’t think this is the right moment to break in, he thought, and looked studiously up at the Spitfire.

“So did you go with him?” one of the women was asking.

The first woman looked offended. “No. I told him I wasn’t about to fall for an antiquated line of chat like that, and I didn’t intend to go anywhere with him, and a good thing I refused, too. A few moments later his plane took a direct hit. Blown to bits. They couldn’t even make out where it had been. It had vanished without a trace.

“I saved his life,” she said. “I told him that. ‘You should be grateful I’m a good girl,’ I told him. ‘If I weren’t, we’d both be dead.’ ”

“And was he grateful?” the second woman asked dryly.

“I knew a girl who vanished without a trace,” the woman next to her said.

So do I, he thought. And it was clear he wasn’t going to find out whether these women had known Polly just by eavesdropping. He approached them, notebook in hand. “What was her name?” the woman was saying. “It began with an S. You remember, Lowry, she was hit by an HE. Totally vaporized—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, ladies,” he said. “I’m Calvin Knight. I’m here to do a story on the opening of the exhibition, and I was wondering if I might interview you.

You all did war work during World War Two, is that right? Were you all in London?”

“She was,” the white-haired one with the lace collar said, pointing at the one who’d spoken of the girl vanishing without a trace, “and these two”—she pointed at the crone and the one with the photographs—“were WAACs.”