entrance, but there was no one waiting there. They’re around front, she thought, walking rapidly out to the street and over to the main doors, but the only person there was the doorman, helping an elderly woman into a taxi.
He closed the door and spoke to the driver. It pulled away, and the doorman turned to Polly. “Can I assist you, miss?”
No, she thought. No one can help me. Where were they?
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’m waiting for someone.”
He nodded, tipped his visored cap at her, and went back inside.
The retrieval team doesn’t know that Townsend Brothers moved up their closing time, Polly thought, watching the shoppers walking quickly along the street and hailing taxis, the shopgirls and lift boys streaming from the staff entrance and hurrying toward the bus stop and the steps down to Oxford Circus. That’s why they’re late. They’ll be here at six. But as the minutes went by, the dread she’d been trying to hold off all day began to creep in like the fog that first night when she came through.
Where are they? she asked herself, shivering from the cold and her bare legs. She went out to the edge of the pavement and leaned out, trying to see up the street. What’s happened to them? What if they don’t come at all?
A hand closed on her arm. “There you are!” Marjorie said breathlessly. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Why did you run out like that? Come along. You’re to come home with me tonight. Miss Snelgrove’s orders.”
“Oh, but I can’t,” Polly said. If the retrieval team came-
“You can’t go back to your boardinghouse when there’s no one there. Miss Snelgrove and I agree you shouldn’t be alone.”
“But I need-”
“We can go fetch your things tomorrow. I’ll lend you a nightgown tonight, and tomorrow we’ll go over together and see about finding you a place to live.”
“But-”
“There’s nothing that can be done tonight. And tomorrow you’ll feel stronger and be better able to face things. Tomorrow’s Sunday. We’ll have all day to-”
Sunday, Polly thought, remembering the rector and Mrs. Wyvern planning the flowers for the altar. The altar that had crashed, along with the rest of the church, onto Sir Godfrey and Miss Laburnum and Trot-
“You see?” Marjorie said, taking her arm. “You’re not fit to be alone. You’re shaking like a leaf. And I promised Miss Snelgrove I’d take care of you. You don’t want me to get sacked, do you?” She smiled encouragingly. “Come along. It’s past six. My bus will be here-”
Past six, and the retrieval team still wasn’t here. Because they aren’t coming, Polly thought, staring numbly at Marjorie. And I’m trapped here.
“I know. It’s dreadful, what’s happened,” Marjorie said sympathetically.
No, you don’t know, Polly thought, but she let Marjorie lead her back along the street to the bus stop.
“Miss Snelgrove said I was to cook you a good hot meal,” Marjorie said as they joined the queue, “and see that you got a good night’s sleep. She would have taken you home with her, only her sister and her family were bombed out, and they’re staying with her. And I have lots of room. The girl I used to share with moved to Bath. Oh, good, here’s the bus.” She pushed Polly onto the crowded bus and down into an empty seat.
Polly leaned over the woman in the seat next to her to look out the window at Townsend Brothers, but the front of the store was deserted, and when the bus passed Selfridges, the clock read a quarter past six.
“We’ll be home in no time,” Marjorie said, standing over her. “We only have three stops.” But immediately after the bus had passed Oxford Circus, it pulled over to the side and stopped, and the driver got off.
“Diversion,” he said when he got back on. “UXB,” and turned down a side street and then another and another.
“Oh, dear, we should have taken the Underground,” Marjorie fretted, looking worriedly at Polly. “I’m sorry, Polly.”
“It’s not your fault.”
The bus stopped again. The driver conferred with an ARP warden and then set out again.
“Where are we going?” Marjorie said, leaning past Polly to peer out the window. “This is ridiculous. We’re nearly to the Strand. We’ll never get home at this rate.” She pulled the cord for the driver to stop. “Come along. We’re taking the Underground.”
They descended into a nearly dark street. Polly could see a church spire off to the left above the buildings. “Do you know where we are?” she asked.
“Yes. Charing Cross is that way.”
“Charing Cross?” Polly said and felt her legs begin to buckle again. She grabbed for the lamppost they were passing.
“Yes. It’s not far,” Marjorie said, still walking. “That’s the spire of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and beyond it is Trafalgar Square. I hope the Piccadilly Line’s running. It’s been hit twice this week. Yesterday there was a bomb on the tracks between-Polly, are you all right?” She hurried back to her. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have mentioned a bomb-” She looked wildly around the deserted street for assistance. “Here, come sit down over here.”
She led Polly over to a shop and sat her down on the steps leading up to the door. A door. How appropriate, Polly thought. But it’s no use. It won’t open. My drop’s broken.
“Is there anything I can do?” Marjorie said anxiously. “Should I go fetch a doctor?”
Polly shook her head.
“You mustn’t despair,” Marjorie said, sitting down next to her and putting her arm around her. “We’ll get through this.”
Polly shook her head.
“I know, it seems like this horrid war will last forever, but it won’t. We’ll beat old Hitler and win this war.”
You’re right, you will, Polly thought. She raised her head and looked off toward the spire of St. Martin-in-the- Fields. I know. I was at Charing Cross the day the war ended. But you’re wrong about my getting through this, unless my retrieval team pulls me out before my deadline. An historian can’t be in the same temporal location twice. And they should have been here yesterday. Yesterday. This is time travel.
“You’ll see,” Marjorie said, tightening her hold, “things will work out all right in the end,” and east of them a siren began to wail.
He is coming! He is coming!
War Emergency Hospital-Summer 1940
THE PATIENT SHOOK THE RAILS AT THE FOOT OF MIKE’S bed. “Hurry!” he shouted. “The Germans are coming! It’s the invasion! We must get out of here!”
Oh, God, Mike thought. We lost the war. I did affect events.
“What is it? What’s happening?” Fordham said sleepily from the next bed.
“The invasion’s begun!” the patient said, and the doors to the ward burst open, but it was only the night nurse. She ran over to Mike’s bed and put her hand on the patient’s arm.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed, Corporal Bevins,” she said calmly. “You need your rest. Come, let’s go back to bed.”
“We can’t,” Bevins said, shining his flashlight full in her face. “They’re marching into London. We must warn the King.”
