And this was time travel. Polly might have failed to find out where Eileen was from the vicar because she had a train to catch, but the retrieval team wouldn’t have. They had literally all the time in the world.
And if Oxford hadn’t been destroyed, if Colin wasn’t dead, where was he? He had promised to come rescue her if she got in trouble.
“If you can,” Polly murmured. “If you’re not killed.”
The arrow above the lift door stopped at three, and she looked over at the lift, half expecting to see Colin standing there. But it wasn’t him. Or Mike and Eileen. It was Marjorie. “Oh, Polly!” she cried. “Thank goodness! I heard Padgett’s was hit, and I was so afraid… is your cousin all right?”
“Yes,” Polly said, grabbing her arm quickly to support her. She looked even whiter and more ill than yesterday.
“Oh, thank heavens,” Marjorie breathed. “No, I’m all right. It was just that I was afraid… I mean, I sent you there, and if something had happened to you…”
“It didn’t,” Polly assured her. “I’m quite all right, and so is she. You’re the one we’re concerned about,” she said reprovingly. “You can’t keep escaping from hospital and dashing over here. You’re an invalid, remember.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Marjorie said. “It was only… when I heard people had been killed-”
“Killed?” Polly said, thinking, Thank goodness. I can tell Mike that, and he’ll stop worrying.
“Yes,” Marjorie said. “One of them died on the way to hospital. That’s how I found out about it. I heard the nurses talking. The other four were dead when they found them.”
Way Out
London-17 September 1940
THE SHIMMER BLINDED HIM FOR A MOMENT, AND HE TOOK a stumbling step forward. And nearly killed himself. He was on a narrow spiral staircase, and only a last-moment grab for the iron railing kept him from pitching down it. He cracked his knee hard, barked both shins, and made a clanging, echoing racket in the process.
A brilliant beginning, he thought, nursing his bruised knee and looking at his surroundings. The staircase was in a narrow windowless shaft that extended up-and down-for farther than he could see, and he was apparently the only person in it, or at any rate no one had come to investigate the noise he’d made. And now that its echoes had stopped, he couldn’t hear anything.
Nothing could get through those walls, he thought, looking at the dimly lit stone. If the railing hadn’t been of iron, he’d have thought he was in the tower of a castle. Or the dungeon. In which case he should climb up to get out. But hopefully going either direction would bring him to some clue as to where-and when-this was, and down was easier than up, especially since his knee hurt.
He started down the stairs. Three turns down brought him to a bare lightbulb set in a wall socket, which meant he was in the correct century, but there was nothing to indicate what the staircase was a part of or where it led. If anywhere. He’d already come down a hundred steps, and there was still no end in sight.
I should have gone up, he thought, making another turn in the spiral, and there below him was a door. “Let’s hope it’s not locked,” he said, his voice echoing in the narrow space, and opened the door.
Onto a mob scene. Scores of people scurrying past in both directions, women in knee-length frocks, men in Burberry, uniformed soldiers, sailors, WAAFs, Wrens, all of them walking quickly, purposefully down a brightly lit, low-ceilinged tunnel. There was an arrow painted on the wall and the words “To the trains,” and below it, with an arrow pointing in the opposite direction, “Way Out.”
This is an Underground station, he thought, and started down the tunnel toward a poster on the wall. “Do your bit for the war effort,” it read. “Buy Victory Bonds. Defeat Hitler.”
I made it. I’m actually here in London in World War II, he thought, grinning from ear to ear-an expression which was completely inappropriate for an air raid (and a war), but he couldn’t seem to help himself. And at any rate no one was paying any attention to him. They pushed past him, totally intent on getting wherever it was they were going-workmen in coveralls, businessmen with toothbrush mustaches and furled umbrellas, mothers with children in tow. And every one of them was wearing a hat. The men all had bowlers, fedoras, woolen caps.
He should have worn a hat. The rest of his clothes seemed all right, but he hadn’t realized how universal hats had been in this era. Even the little boys were wearing cloth caps. I’ll stand out like the impostor I am, he thought, searching the crowd for anyone with a bare head.
There was one-a blonde in a WVS uniform-and walking just behind her was a gray-haired man. He began to relax a bit. The man was carrying a pillow under his arm.
He must be one of the shelterers, he thought, though no one was sitting down or lying along the tunnel. Perhaps they only sleep out on the platforms, or this isn’t one of the stations they used for a shelter. Or they haven’t started using the stations yet.
Whenever this was. He’d set the net so he’d come through at 7 p.m. on September 16, 1940. I need to make certain I did, he thought, hurrying down the tunnel, and then remembered he’d need to be able to find his way back to the drop and went back to take a hard look at the door he’d come through. It was black-painted metal, stenciled in white: Stairs to Surface. To Be Used in Case of Emergency Only, which explained the seemingly endless number of steps. And the reason it had been empty.
Near the foot of the door someone had scratched “E.H.+ M.T.” He made a mental note of the initials, of a peeling corner on the Victory Bonds poster, and of a second poster reading Don’t Leave It to Others: Enroll Today. And a notice at the end of the tunnel that said Central Line.
But no mention of what station it was. He needed to find that out, and the date and time of day, before he did anything else. The time should be easy. Nearly everyone was wearing a watch, and he could ask about the station at the same time, but just as he was about to tap a man with an ARP armband on the shoulder, he saw a notice: “Be alert for spies. Report all suspicious behavior.”
Did asking what station one was in count as suspicious behavior? He didn’t see why it would be-he could claim he’d got off at the wrong stop or something-but he’d already made an error about the hat. What if there was something else suspicious about his clothes? He’d better not do anything to attract attention to himself.
And it was more important to find out the date and the station. The name would be posted out on the platform. He started in the direction of the To the Trains arrow, and then stopped and elbowed his way back to a bench, where an elderly man sat snoring, the newspaper he’d been reading open on his chest. “London Damaged by Bombs,” the headline read. He leaned closer to see the date. September seventeenth. Not the sixteenth. He must have made an error in the settings.
And the seventeenth was the day Marble Arch had been hit. He needed to find out what station this was immediately. He hurried on toward the platform.
Halfway down the tunnel was an Underground map. Perhaps it had a You Are Here arrow marked on its crisscrossing multicolored lines.
It didn’t. He was going to have to go on out to the platform. Two children had come up next to him to look at the map-a small boy with a dirty face and an older girl with a half-untied sash and hair ribbon. Children usually took questions, no matter how odd, in stride. He said to the boy, “Can you tell me-?”
“I didn’t do nuthin’,” the boy said defensively and backed away. “I was only standin’ ’ere, lookin’ at the map.”
“We was seein’ which train to take,” the girl said.
So much for not attracting attention. “I only wanted to know what station this is.”
“Coo, ’e don’t know where ’e is,” the girl crowed, and the boy regarded him through narrowed eyes.
“’Ow much’ll you pay us if we tell you?”
“Pay?” How much did one pay an urchin in 1940 for information? Tuppence? No, that was Dickens.
