It did. A warm orange-gold light spread from it, lighting Christ’s robe, the door, the weeds that had grown up around it.
“Do you know what Dean Matthews said when he saw that glow? He said, ‘He’d better not let the ARP warden catch him with that lantern.’” Mr. Humphreys chuckled. “A fine sense of humor, the dean has. It’s a great help in times like these.”
The door clanged open again and another member of the fire watch came in and walked swiftly up the nave. “Humphreys!” Langby called from the transept.
“I’m afraid I must be going,” Mr. Humphreys said. “If you’d care to stay and look round a bit more…”
“No, I should be getting home.”
He nodded. “Best not to be out after dark if one can help it,” he said and hurried toward Langby.
He was right. It was a long way to Kensington, and she had to find somewhere open where she could get supper before she went back. There was no way she could make it through another night without having eaten. And the raids tonight began at 6:54. She needed to go.
But she stayed a few minutes longer, looking at the painting. Christ’s face, in the dimming light, no longer looked bored, but afraid, and the woods surrounding him not only dark but threatening.
Best not to be out after dark if one can help it, Polly thought, and then, looking at the locked door, I wonder if that’s the door to an air-raid shelter.
Wouldn’t it be lovely if it was true?
London-7 May 1945
WHEN THE THREE GIRLS TURNED ONTO THE ROAD THAT led to the Underground station, it was deserted. “What if it was a false alarm and the war’s not really over?” Paige asked.
“Don’t be silly,” Reardon said. “It was on the wireless.”
“Then where is everyone?”
“Inside,” Reardon said. “Come along.” She started down the street.
“Do you think it could be another false alarm, Douglas?” Paige asked, turning to her.
“No,” she said.
“Do come on,” Reardon said, motioning them to hurry. “We’ll miss all the fun.”
But when they got inside the station, there was no one there either. “They’re down on the platform,” Reardon said, pushing through the wooden turnstile, and when there was no one on the platform either, “They’re all in London already, just like we’d be, if it weren’t for Colonel Wainwright’s gout. Why couldn’t his big toe have waited till next week to get inflamed? Only just think,” Reardon smiled beatifically, “we’ll never have to put up with Colonel Wainwright again.”
“Unless the war’s not actually over,” Paige said. “Remember last week, when West Ham rang up and said General Dodd had told them it was all over? If this is another false alarm, we’ll not only look like complete idiots, we’ll be put on report. We should have rung up HQ in London and verified it.”
“Which would have made us even later,” Reardon said, “and we’ve missed hours, as it is.”
“But if it hasn’t ended…” Paige said doubtfully. “Perhaps we should ring them up now, before we-”
“We’ll miss the train and the end of the war,” Reardon said, looking down the track toward where the train was coming. “It’s eight o’clock. Don’t you agree, Douglas?”
“Actually, it’s twenty past eight,” Douglas said. And every minute we stand here is one less minute I have to see the celebrations, she thought.
The train pulled in. Reardon said, “Stop fretting and come along.”
Paige turned to Douglas. “What do you think, Douglas?”
“It’s not a false alarm,” she said. “The Germans have surrendered. The war’s over. We’ve won.”
“Are you certain?”
More certain than you can possibly imagine, she thought. Here was something she’d never expected from her research, that it could be VE-Day, and the contemps wouldn’t know it. Or, rather, VE-Day eve. VE-Day, with its speeches by Churchill and the King and its thanksgiving services at St. Paul’s, had been-correction, wouldn’t be till- tomorrow, but the celebrating had begun today, and the party would go on all night.
“Douglas is certain,” Reardon was saying. “I’m certain. The war’s over. Now get on the train.” Reardon grabbed Paige’s arm and propelled her onto the car, and she got on with them.
The car was empty, too, but Paige didn’t seem to notice. She was looking at the tube map on the wall of the car. “Where should we go when we get there, do you think? Piccadilly Circus?”
“No, Hyde Park,” Reardon said. “Or St. Paul’s.”
“Where do you think people will be, Douglas?” Paige asked.
All of the above, she thought, plus Leicester Square and Parliament Square and Whitehall and every street in between. “Trafalgar Square is where one usually goes for that sort of thing,” she said, thinking of which place would have the easiest connection to her drop.
“What sort of thing?” Paige asked, and it was clear she thought nothing like this had ever happened before.
And she may be right, she thought. “I meant it’s where people have gathered in the past after military victories-the Battle of Trafalgar and the siege of Mafeking and all that.”
“This isn’t only a military victory,” Reardon said. “It’s our victory as well.”
“If it’s actually happened,” Paige said, peering out the window as they pulled into the next stop, which was deserted as well. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid it is a false alarm, Douglas.”
“No, it’s not,” she said firmly, though privately she was beginning to worry, too. Historical accounts had said the victory celebration had begun as soon as the news of the German surrender came over the wireless at three o’clock. Could they have got that wrong? Could everyone have doubted the news like Paige? There had been a number of false alarms, and everyone had been on tenterhooks for the last two weeks.
And it wouldn’t be the first time the historical record had been wrong or incomplete. But VE-Day was well documented. And the historical accounts said people should be pouring onto the train by now, waving Union Jacks and singing “When the Lights Go on Again All Over the World.”
“If the war’s over, then where is everyone?” asked Paige.
“At the next stop,” Reardon said imperturbably.
Reardon was right. When the doors opened, a veritable flood of people swept into their car. They were waving flags and rattling noisemakers, and two elderly gentlemen were singing “God Save the King” at the top of their lungs.
“Now do you believe the war’s over?” she and Reardon asked Paige, and she nodded excitedly.
More people pushed on. A little boy holding tightly to his mother’s hand asked, “Are we going to the shelter?”
“No,” his mother said, and then, as if she had just realized it, “We’re never going to the shelter again.”
People were still squeezing on. Many were in uniform, and some had red, white, and blue crepe paper draped around their necks, including two middle-aged men in Home Guard uniforms, brandishing a copy of the Evening News with the headline “IT IS OVER” and two bottles of champagne.
The train guard squeezed and pushed his way through the crush to them. “No alcoholic beverages allowed in the tube,” he said sternly.
“What do you mean, mate?” one of the men said. “’Aven’t you heard? The war’s over!”
“’Ere!” the other one said, handing his bottle to the guard. “Drink to the King’s ’ealth! And the Queen’s!” He snatched his friend’s bottle and shoved it into the guard’s other hand. He draped a chummy arm over the guard’s shoulders. “Why don’t you come to the palace with us and toast ’em to their face?”
