“I was taking them to the shelter in Pilgrim Street,” the warden said defensively.
“This whole area’s restricted,” the fireman said. “You’ll have to take them down to Blackfriars.”
“Wait,” another fireman said, coming over from the engine. He was carrying an infant. He thrust it into Eileen’s arms. “Here. Take this with you,” he said, as if it were a parcel.
The baby immediately began to scream. “But I can’t—” Eileen protested, and turned to Mike for support.
He was nowhere to be seen. He must have taken advantage of the confusion to go assist Polly. And left her here. With an infant.
The fireman was already walking away. “Wait, where’s its mother?” she shouted over the baby’s ear-splitting screams. “How will she know where to find it?”
He looked at her and then back at the burning building and shook his head grimly.
“Come along,” the warden said, and led Eileen and the others back to the corner and down the hill, stepping over the tangle of fire hoses which seemed to be everywhere.
The infant was screaming so loudly that Eileen couldn’t even hear the guns. “Shh, it’s all right,” she whispered to it. “We’re going to the shelter.”
It redoubled its screams. I know just how you feel, Eileen thought.
The couple and the teenaged girl had all hurried ahead, and the warden called back impatiently to Eileen, “Can’t you keep that child quiet?” as if she were violating some rule of the blackout.
At least they were going to Blackfriars. And between the fires and the searchlights, she could see the street ahead and the tube station below them. “Shh, we’re here, sweetheart. We’re at the shelter,” she told the baby, hurrying to the entrance, down the stairs, and inside.
The baby abruptly stopped crying and looked around at the busy station, rubbing its eyes. It was perhaps a year old, and covered with soot. Perhaps it got burned, and that’s why it’s screaming, Eileen thought, and examined its chubby arms and legs.
and that’s why it’s screaming, Eileen thought, and examined its chubby arms and legs.
She couldn’t see any injuries. Its cheeks were very red, but that was probably from crying, which it looked like it was winding up to do again. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” she asked, to distract it. “Hmm? What’s your name? And what am I going to do with you?”
She needed to find someone in a position of authority to give the infant to. She went over to the ticket booth. “Can you—?” she said, and the baby began to scream again. “This child’s been separated from its mother,” she shouted over its shrieks, “and the fireman asked me to take her to the authorities.”
“Authorities?” the ticket seller shouted back blankly.
A bad sign. “Have you an infirmary here?”
“There’s a first-aid station,” he said doubtfully.
“Where?”
“On the eastbound platform.”
But it wasn’t there, though she walked the full length of the platform, the baby squalling the entire time. “I don’t recall ever seeing one,” a shelterer said when she asked him. “Is there a first-aid station here, Maude?” he asked his wife, who was putting her hair up in pincurls.
“No,” Maude said, opening a bobby pin with her teeth. “There’s a canteen in the District Line hall.”
“Thank you,” Eileen said, and started along the tunnel. Surprisingly, it was deserted.
Or perhaps not so surprisingly, she thought, walking through a puddle and then another. Water was dripping from the ceiling, and there was a distinctly unwaterlike odor. She walked rapidly toward the stairs at the end.
Halfway there, she was suddenly surrounded by a gaggle of children. They ranged in age from about six to twelve or so, and were incredibly grubby. Fagin’s band of pickpockets, she thought, and tightened her grip on her handbag and the baby.
“Give us a tuppence?” one of them asked, holding out his hand.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Why’s your baby cryin’?” the eldest one asked challengingly.
“Is it sick?”
“Wot’s its name?”
“Has it got the colic?” the others chimed in, dancing around her.
“It’s crying because you’re frightening it,” she said. “So run along.”
“I ’eard ’er tell the ticket seller it weren’t ’er baby,” the girl said. “I think that’s why it’s crying.”
“I bet she pinched it,” the eldest boy said.
The girl circled around behind her.
“That’s why she won’t tell us its name,” the smallest one said, pointedly not looking at the girl, who was edging closer to Eileen’s handbag. “Because she don’t know it. If it is your baby, wot’s its name?”
“Michael,” Eileen said, and walked rapidly away.
They ran to catch up with her. “What’s your name?”
“Eileen,” she said without breaking stride and rounded the corner to a stairway crowded with people.
