Connie Willis - Blackout

But she had to see those casualties lists, so after rehearsal the next night she borrowed Sir Godfrey’s Times to find a death notice she could use, borrowed a handkerchief from Miss Laburnum, and waited for Friday night when the raids over Clerkenwell would hopefully prevent Miss Snelgrove from getting to work on time the next morning.

They did. Polly grabbed the handkerchief and ran upstairs to Personnel to ask Mr. Witherill if she could be gone for the morning. “To attend my aunt’s funeral.”

“You must obtain permission from your floor supervisor.”

“Miss Snelgrove’s not here.”

He glanced over at his secretary, who nodded confirmation. “She telephoned to say the trains weren’t running, and she was going to attempt to take a bus.”

“Oh. Your aunt, you say?”

“Yes, sir. My Aunt Louise. She was killed in a raid.” She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.

“My condolences. When is the funeral?”

“Eleven o’clock at St. Pancras Church,” Polly said, and if Mr. Witherill (or, more likely, Miss Snelgrove) checked the funeral notices, they would find “Mrs. James (Louise) Barnes, aged 53, St. Pancras Church. 11 A.M. No flowers.”

“Very well,” he said, “but I expect you to return immediately after the funeral.”

“Yes, sir, I will,” Polly said and ran down to tell Doreen where she was going and to tell anyone who inquired after her that she’d be back by one, took the tube to Fleet Street, and walked quickly to the Times office, hoping ordinary people were allowed access to the morgue.

They were. She asked for the morning and evening editions from September twentieth through the twenty-second and was shocked to be handed the actual newspapers-though this was of course before digital copying or even microfilm. She paged through the large sheets, looking for the death notices and reading down through them-“Joseph Seabrook, 72, died suddenly of enemy action. Helen Sexton, 43, died suddenly. Phyllis Sexton, 11, died suddenly. Rita Sexton, 5, died suddenly.”

Polly’s name wasn’t on any of the lists, and the news article was only a brief paragraph headed “Beloved Eighteenth-Century Church Blitzed”. There were no details, no photo, not even the name of the church.

Good, she thought. She returned the papers to the desk and went on to the Daily Herald, checking the news story about St. George’s-“Fourth Historic Church Destroyed by Luftwaffe in Failed Campaign to Demoralize Brits”-and the death notices. Her name wasn’t there either, or in the Standard, which was all she had time to check. She would have to check the others later.

She raced back to Townsend Brothers, stopping at Padgett’s to rub a bit of rouge around her eyes in the ladies’ lounge and splash water on her eyelashes, cheeks, and handkerchief. And a good thing she had. Miss Snelgrove had arrived and clearly did not believe she’d been to a funeral.

And Colin wouldn’t believe I was dead either, she thought, even if he did see my death notice. Colin would refuse to give up. He’d insist they continue looking for her just as Sir Godfrey had.

Then where are they? she thought, writing up purchases and waiting for Miss Snelgrove to leave so she could ask Doreen whether anyone had asked for her while she was gone. Why aren’t they here? It had been nearly four weeks since the drop was damaged and five since she should have checked in.

She had to wait till after the closing bell to speak to Doreen. Doreen told her no one had come in and asked her about Marjorie. “Miss Snelgrove said she won’t be well enough to have visitors for at least a fortnight,” she said. “You don’t think it means she’s getting worse, do you?”

“No, of course not,” Polly lied.

“I keep thinking about her lying in that rubble and us not knowing what had happened,” Doreen said, “thinking she was safely in Bath when all the time… I feel so guilty not sensing she was in trouble.”

“You had no way of knowing,” Polly said, which seemed to reassure her. She went off to cover her counter, but Polly stood there, lost in thought.

No way of knowing. What if the reason the retrieval team hadn’t come wasn’t divergent points or their thinking she was dead or any of the other things she’d imagined? What if it was simply because the lab didn’t know they needed to send a team? That they didn’t know anything was wrong? Like I didn’t know Marjorie was lying in the rubble.

The lab had been swamped with retrievals and drops and schedule changes, and Mr. Dunworthy had been busy as well, meeting with people and going off to London. Could they all have been so busy and distracted they’d forgotten she was supposed to check in? Or could something have happened to Michael Davies at Dover or Pearl Harbor, and everyone’s attention was on pulling him out, and they’d put every other retrieval on hold?

If that was the case, they wouldn’t find out her drop wasn’t working till the day she was supposed to be back. Which meant they’d be here on the twenty-second, and all she needed to do was last a few more days. No, she was forgetting Colin. No matter what was distracting other people, he wouldn’t have forgotten about her. He’d have been at the lab every day, demanding to know whether she’d checked in. And when she didn’t, he’d have gone straight to Mr. Dunworthy.

No, wait, he couldn’t. He wasn’t allowed in the lab.

That wouldn’t stop him, Polly thought. Unless Colin himself was the distraction. He’d been determined to go on assignment so he could “catch up” to her. What if he’d gone through the net without permission to the Crusades or something, and they’d had to send a retrieval team to fetch him, or Mr. Dunworthy had gone after him? And in all the resultant chaos they’d completely forgotten about her? It was all too likely a scenario, and she spent the time till the twenty-second worrying about Colin. And Marjorie.

October twenty-second came and went without the retrieval team appearing. It will take them time to find me, she told herself, ignoring the laws of time travel and the trail of bread crumbs she’d so carefully laid. They’ll be here tomorrow.

But they weren’t, nor on the twenty-fourth. Or outside Notting Hill Gate the next morning. And it’s a good thing I didn’t apply for that position at Padgett’s, Polly thought, walking past the store on her way to Townsend Brothers. Tonight was the night it had been bombed. A direct hit by a thousand-pound HE had demolished the building, and because it had been hit just after closing and there were still people in the building, there’d been three deaths.

Polly stopped to take a last look at the store’s grandiose columns, at its glass display windows and the mannequins dressed in wool coats and small-brimmed felt hats. “End-of-Summer Sale,” a banner read. “Last chance to buy at these prices.”

Or to do anything else, Polly thought, wondering who the three fatalities had been. Late shoppers? Or junior sales assistants who’d had to stay behind to add up their sales receipt books or wrap parcels?

I’d best put my hat and coat behind the counter tonight and take the tube instead of the bus. Unless the retrieval team’s waiting for me when I get to work, she thought, walking the last three blocks to Townsend Brothers.

But they weren’t there. Where are they? Polly thought sickly, going up to third. Where are they?

There was four and a half days’ slippage when I came through, she told herself, uncovering her counter. If they’d tried to come through on the twenty-second and had encountered the same amount of slippage, they wouldn’t be here till tomorrow night.

And what will you tell yourself the day after tomorrow when they still haven’t come? And the next day? And the day before your deadline? She looked anxiously over at Doreen and Sarah, who were discussing where they were going after work tonight. I wish I knew, Polly thought.

But they didn’t know either. They were making plans to go see a film in Leicester Square, but if Padgett’s had been hit just after closing, then the sirens would go just as they were leaving. They might have to spend the night in Oxford Circus Station.

Or be blown to bits on their way there, or on the way home. They had no more idea what would happen, or whether they’d make it through alive, than she did, and they had the threat of invasion and losing the war to worry about as well. And if they were Jewish, like Sarah…

And they have no retrieval team or Mr. Dunworthy-or Colin-to rescue them, Polly thought, ashamed. Yet they managed somehow to not give way to anxiety or despair, to wait cheerfully on Miss Eliot, who was berating Sarah for Townsend Brothers’ being out of woolen vests, and on Mrs. Stedman, who’d brought her unevacuated toddlers with her today.

If they could put on a brave face, surely she could, too. She was, after all, an actress. Starring opposite a knighted actor in a play by J. M. Barrie.

“Courage, Lady Mary,” she murmured and went to rescue Doreen from the toddlers. She showed them how the pneumatic tubes worked and then walked them-holding tightly on to their small hands-over to Miss Snelgrove to ask if she’d heard anything about Marjorie’s having visitors.

“I telephoned this morning,” Miss Snelgrove said, “but the matron said she was still too ill to see anyone,” which sounded ominous, and apparently Miss Snelgrove thought so, too, because she added, “You must try not to worry.”

Polly nodded, took the toddlers back to their mother and a grateful Doreen, and went to wait on Mrs. Milliken and a succession of ill-tempered customers. Difficult Mrs. Jones-White came in, followed by Mrs. Aberfoyle and her nippy little Pekingese, and elderly Miss Pink, who was notorious for asking to examine every single piece of merchandise in every single drawer and then not buying anything.

“Every unpleasant person in London has decided to shop at Townsend Brothers today,” Doreen whispered on her way to the workroom.

“I know,” Polly said, wrapping Miss Gill’s purchases. She’d told Polly she wanted them sent and then changed her mind and decided to take them with her. It took Polly till closing to wrap them all, by which time Miss Gill had changed her mind again.

“Thank heavens,” Doreen said when the closing bell rang, and began covering her counter.

Polly put on her coat and was reaching for her hat when Miss Snelgrove came over. “You waited on Mrs. Jones-White earlier?”

“Yes, she purchased two pairs of stockings. She wanted them sent,” Polly said, thinking, Please don’t say she’s changed her mind and wants her purchases wrapped, too.

“Mrs. Jones-Smith has decided she wishes-”

“Ohh!” Doreen gave a strangled cry and rushed past Polly’s counter toward the lifts.

“Where are you going, Miss Timmons?” Miss Snelgrove said, annoyed, and then, in an entirely different tone of voice, “Oh, my!” and started after her toward the lift.

A young woman was stepping off it. She moved stiffly, as if she hurt, and her arm was in a sling. It was Marjorie.

Here Comes the Navy-with the Army! 

MARJORIE STEPPED OFF THE LIFT AND STARTED ACROSS the floor toward Polly, who was still putting on her coat. “Marjorie!” Polly breathed and ran over to her.