All Clear

That’s her over there in the green dress,” she said, pointing at a thin, birdlike woman looking at a display of clothing ration books.

But Pudge, whose name tag read Pauline Rainsford, had worked at Padgett’s, not Townsend Brothers. “Till it was hit,” she said matter-of-factly, “at which point I decided I might as well be in the armed services, and I volunteered to be a Wren.”

“Do you know of anyone who did work at Townsend Brothers?” he asked.

“No, but I know who you should ask. Mrs. Lambert. She’s our group’s historian.”

“I was told she wasn’t here.”

“She’s not,” Pudge said, “but she’s coming. In fact, I expected her here already. I’ll let you know as soon as she arrives, and in the meantime, you can ask the others. Hatcher!” she called to an elegant elderly woman in tweeds and pearls. “You were in London during the Blitz, weren’t you?”

“No. Bletchley Park,” she said, coming over, “which was not nearly as romantic as the historians make it sound. It was mostly drudgery, sorting through thousands upon thousands of combinations, looking for one that might work.”

Like the last eight years of my life, he thought, calculating coordinate after coordinate, searching for clues, trying to find a drop that would open.

“Do you know of anyone who was in London during the Blitz?” Pudge was asking Hatcher.

“Yes,” she said, pointing at two women looking at a display of war posters. “York and Chedders were.”

But neither York nor Chedders—Barbara Chedwick, according to her name tag—remembered a Polly Sebastian, and neither did any of the other women they passed him on to.

“There was a Polly in our troupe,” a large woman whose name tag read “Cora Holland” said.

“In your troop?” he asked. “You were in the WAACs?”

“No, not troop, troupe.” She spelled the word out. “We were in an ENSA show together. We were both chorus girls.” He must not have succeeded in hiding his astonishment because she snapped, “I realize you may find that difficult to believe, but I had quite a good figure in those days. What did you say her last name was?”

“Sebastian.”

“Sebastian,” Cora repeated. “No, that doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid, though that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I might not have ever heard her last name. Mr.

Tabbitt called us all by our stage names. Polly’s was Air Raid Adelaide. If her name was Polly. It might have been Peggy.”

Well, and Polly wouldn’t have been a chorus girl in any case. But he couldn’t afford to leave any stone unturned. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said apologetically. “It’s so easy to lose track of people in a war, you know.”

Yes.

“I seem to remember having heard that she’d been assigned to one of the groups touring airfields and Army camps.”

So, definitely not his Polly. And neither was the Polly who’d worked with Miss Dennehy on a barrage-balloon crew, even though Miss Dennehy was certain her last name had been Sebastian. “She was killed in August of ’40,” Miss Dennehy said.

By half past eleven he’d interviewed the entire group except for another white-haired woman too deaf to understand anything he’d said to her, and Mrs. Lambert still wasn’t there. And if he waited any longer, he’d miss the ones at St. Paul’s.

He went to find Pudge to ask for Mrs. Lambert’s address and telephone number, but she’d disappeared. He checked the blackout room, holding the curtain aside so he could see, and then the mockup of a tube shelter.

Pudge wasn’t in there, but Talbot was, looking at a “Report Suspicious Behavior” poster on the tiled tunnel wall. “Did you find Lambert?” she asked. “Did she know what your grandmother did during the Blitz?”

“No,” he said. “She’s not here yet, and I’m afraid I must go. I was wondering if you—”

“She’s not here yet? I can’t imagine what’s keeping her,” she said, and dragged him off to find the woman who’d been too deaf to interview.

“Rumford,” Talbot said, “did Goody Two-Shoes tell you what she had to do before she came here?”

“What?” Rumford said, cupping her hand to her ear.

“I said,” Talbot shouted, “did Goody Two-Shoes—Mrs. Lambert—tell you what she had to do before she came here? Mrs. Lambert!”

“Lantern?”

“No. Lambert. Do you know where she was going this morning before she came here?”

Rumford looked round vaguely. “Isn’t she here yet?”

“No. And this young man wants to speak to her. Do you know where she went?”

“Yes,” she said. “To St. Paul’s.”

St. Paul’s, where he could already be if he hadn’t waited here for her.

“St. Paul’s?” Talbot said. “Why did she need to go there?”

“What?” Rumford cupped her hand to her ear again.

“I said, why did—oh, good, she’s here,” Talbot said, pointing at the far side of the exhibit where a plump, friendly-looking woman was rummaging in her handbag.

“Goody Two-Shoes!” Talbot called, and when she didn’t look up, “Lambert! Over here. Eileen!”

Do you know why they’re waving as we come along? We’re all bloody heroes.

—SERGEANT LESLIE TEARE ON

ARRIVING IN ENGLAND AFTER BEING

EVACUATED FROM DUNKIRK

Kent—June 1944