Mary spent the ride to Bethnal Green listening anxiously for the sound of a washing machine or an angry hornet and looking for nonexistent street signs. One of the V-1s had fallen at 3:50 in Darnley Lane and the other at 5:28 in King Edward’s Road. “What street is the USO canteen in?” she asked Talbot.
“I can’t remember,” Talbot said. “But I know the way,” which was no help.
“This is our stop,” Talbot said. They descended on a street lined with shops.
Good, Mary thought. This can’t be Darnley Lane. Darnley Lane was a residential street. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes to four. The 3:50 had already hit.
She looked up and down the street. She couldn’t see any sign of a railway bridge, so apparently this wasn’t Grove Road either. She hoped it wasn’t King Edward’s Road. And that the Darnley Lane one had already hit. She didn’t hear any ambulance bells, or an all clear.
“It’s a bit of a hike, I’m afraid,” Talbot said, setting off down the street.
Mary glanced up at the sky again, listening. She thought she could hear something to the southeast.
“What sort of men do you like?” Talbot asked.
“What?” The sound was a hum, rising to a steady wail. The all clear. And seconds later, she heard a fire engine.
“I don’t know why they even bother with an all clear,” Talbot said exasperatedly. “They’ll only have to sound the alert again five minutes from now.”
No, not for an hour and a quarter, and by then they’d be at the dance, and she’d have been able to ask one of the USO people the canteen’s address and make certain it wasn’t on King Edward’s Road. And she’d have been able to ask them how she could find Grove Road. “Sorry, what were you saying before?”
“I was asking you what sort of men you like,” Talbot said. “When we get there, I’ll introduce you to some of the chaps I know. Do you like them tall? Short? Younger men? Older?”
Every man at this dance will be at least a hundred years too old for me, Mary thought. “I’m not really interested in-”
“You’re not in love with someone, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. I don’t approve of people being in love during a war. How can anyone plan for the future when we don’t know if we’ll have one? When I was posted to Bournemouth, one of the girls got engaged to a naval officer who was on a destroyer guarding convoys. She worried herself sick about him, spent all her time devouring the newspapers and listening to the wireless. And then she was the one killed, driving an officer back to Duxton Airfield. And now with these flying bombs, any one of us might be killed at any minute.”
She turned down a narrow lane lined with shops with boarded-up windows. “I tried to tell Fairchild that, the little goose. She’s not really in love, you know. Where’s my lipstick?” She fumbled in her bag for it as she walked. “Where is my compact? May I borrow yours?”
Mary obligingly dug in her bag. “Never mind,” Talbot said, walking over to the one shop window which still had glass in it. She took the cap off her lipstick and twisted the base. “It will never work. He’s years older than she is.” She leaned forward to apply the lipstick in the window’s reflection. “You know the sort of thing, older boy worshipped by younger girl…”
“Mmm,” Mary said, listening to the ragged putt-putt of an approaching motorcycle coming down the street they’d just left.
Talbot didn’t seem to notice, even though she had to raise her voice over its noise. “She has some fairy-tale notion that he’ll see her in her uniform, all grown up, and realize he’s always loved her, even though she still looks fifteen.” She was nearly shouting, the motorcycle was so loud. The sound echoed rattlingly off the shops in the narrow lane. “She’s determined to have her heart broken.” She pursed her lips as she applied the Crimson Caress. “He’s in the RAF, after all, not exactly the safest of jobs.”
The sound of the motorcycle grew deafeningly loud and then shut off abruptly. That’s not a motorcycle. That’s a V-1, Mary thought.
And then, It can’t be, it’s only a quarter past four.
And then, What if my implant data’s wrong after all?
And then, Oh, God, I’ve only got fifteen seconds.
“And what if he doesn’t fall into Fairchild’s arms as planned?” Talbot said, leaning toward the window to appraise the effect. “Or his aeroplane crashes?”
Oh, God, the glass! Mary thought. She’ll be cut to ribbons. “Talbot!” she shouted and made a running dive at her, tackling her, flinging her off the curb. The lipstick flew out of her hand.
“Ow! Kent, what do you think you’re-?” Talbot said.
“Stay down!” She pushed Talbot’s head down into the gutter, flattened herself on top of her, and closed her eyes, waiting for the flash.
The girls won’t leave without me, and I won’t leave without the King. And the King will never leave.
Warwickshire-May 1940
THE ASPIRIN TABLETS EILEEN GAVE BINNIE BROUGHT HER fever down partway and kept it down, but she was still gravely ill. With each passing hour her breathing was more labored, and by morning she was calling wildly for Eileen, even though she was there next to her. Eileen telephoned Dr. Stuart.
“I think you’d best write her mother and ask her to come,” he said.
Oh, no, Eileen thought.
She went to ask Alf their address. “Is Binnie dyin’, then?” he asked.
“Of course not,” she said firmly. “It’s only that she’ll get well faster if your mother’s here to care for her.”
Alf snorted. “I’ll wager she don’t come.”
“Of course she will. She’s your mother.”
But she didn’t. She didn’t even reply. “Wicked,” Mrs. Bascombe said when she brought Binnie a cup of tea. “No wonder they’ve turned out the way they have. Is she breathing any easier?”
“No,” Polly said.
“This tea has hyssop in it,” Mrs. Bascombe said. “It will loosen her chest,” but Binnie was too weak to drink more than a few sips of the bitter-tasting tea and, worse, too weak to refuse to drink it.
That was the most frightening aspect of Binnie’s illness. She didn’t resist what Eileen did or even protest. All the fight had gone out of her, and she lay listlessly as Eileen bathed her, changed her nightgown, gave her the aspirin. “Are you sure she ain’t dyin’?” Alf asked her.
No, Eileen thought. I’m not sure at all. “Yes, I’m certain,” she said. “Your sister’s going to be fine.”
“If she did die, what’d ’appen to ’er?”
“You’d better worry over what’ll happen to you, young man,” Mrs. Bascombe said, coming in from the pantry. “If you want to get into heaven, you must change your ways.”
“I ain’t talking about that,” Alf said and then hesitated, looking guilty. “Would they bury ’er in the churchyard in Backbury?”
“What have you done to the churchyard?” Eileen demanded.
“Nuthin’,” he said indignantly. “I was talkin’ about Binnie,” and stomped off, but the next day when the vicar brought the post, Alf called down to him, “If Binnie dies, will she ’ave to ’ave a tombstone?”
“You mustn’t worry, Alf,” the vicar said. “Dr. Stuart and Miss O’Reilly are taking very good care of Binnie.”
“I know. Will she?”
