“You’re going to go on a nice train, and then have some nice milk and biscuits.”
“If the train comes,” the old man next to her said. “They’re saying there’s been a disruption in service.”
“A disruption?” Eileen peered down the track into the tunnel, looking for an engine light in the blackness. Nothing.
This is the story of my life, she thought, standing on platforms waiting for trains which never come, with children who don’t want to go on them.
“That infant should be in bed,” the old man said disapprovingly.
“You’re quite right.” She looked at him consideringly, but he looked frail. And ill-tempered. “I’ll speak to Hitler about it,” she said, and noticed that people waiting had perked up and were looking down the track. She still couldn’t see a light, but there was a faint rumble, and a gust of air caught the skirt of her coat and blew it against her.
“Can you see it?” she turned to ask the old man. The baby gave a sudden ear-splitting shriek and launched herself out of Eileen’s arms.
“Don’t—” Eileen gasped, lunging for it.
“Maaah!” the baby shrieked, its little arms outstretched, and Eileen looked up the platform.
A woman was running toward them, her arms outstretched, too, stumbling over the shelterers sitting against the wall. Her face and arms were smeared with soot, and there was a nasty-looking gash on her cheek, but her face was alight with joy.
“Oh, my darling!” she sobbed, pushing past the old man, nearly knocking him down.
She snatched the baby out of Eileen’s arms and hugged it to her. “I thought I’d never see you again, and here you are! Are you all right?” she said, holding the baby out to look at it. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“It’s fine,” Eileen said. “Only a bit frightened.”
“The bomb knocked you out of my arms, and I couldn’t find you, and the fire … I thought …”
“I need to get to the train,” the old man said, and Eileen was surprised to see that it had pulled in.
He pushed past her to the opening doors.
“Mind the gap,” the guard Eileen had intended to give the baby to said, and passengers began to get off, buffeting mother and baby, but neither of them noticed.
The baby gurgled happily and the mother cooed, “Mummy’s been looking for you everywhere.”
One of the passengers crashed into Eileen, hurrying to get past. “Sorry,” he muttered, and darted past her, so quickly he was halfway to the end of the platform before she realized who it was. John Bartholomew.
He wasn’t wearing the fire-watch uniform—he had on an overcoat and a dangling wool scarf—but it was him. Eileen was certain of it, in spite of his looking younger, in spite of the fact that he was supposed to be at St. Paul’s, not here at Blackfriars. He must have been somewhere else and had returned as soon as the raid began. That was why he was pushing his way desperately through the crowd, to get to St. Paul’s.
“Mr. Bartholomew!” Eileen shouted, and ran after him down the platform.
He didn’t turn his head, he just kept plunging through the crowd, over to the exit and into the tunnel.
Oh, no, he’s here under another name, Eileen thought. And what were the fire watch called? “Officer!” she called as she ran along the tunnel to the stairs.
“Firewatcher! Wait!”
He was halfway up the stairs. “Officer Bartholomew!” she shouted, and stepped squarely onto the Parchesi board. It flipped up, and dice and wooden pieces flew everywhere.
“What the—?” the boys who’d been playing the game said.
“Sorry!” she called without stopping, and ran on up the stairs, sidestepping teapots and shoes.
“Watch where you’re going!” someone shouted as she raced along the tunnel and over to the escalators. “This isn’t a racecourse, you know.”
John Bartholomew was already at the top of the nearly empty escalator and stepping off. “Mr. Bartholomew!” she shouted desperately, vaulting up the moving John Bartholomew was already at the top of the nearly empty escalator and stepping off. “Mr. Bartholomew!” she shouted desperately, vaulting up the moving escalator two steps at a time.
At the top, the station was full of people swarming in carrying children and bedrolls and, improbably, a tall stack of books. For a moment she couldn’t see him, and then she spotted his dark head. He was going toward the turnstiles.
She started after him, swimming upstream through the crowd, calling, “Mr. Bartholomew! Wait!” But there was no way he could hear her in this din.
She pushed past a cluster of women, all in robes and nightgowns, and ran toward him. “Mr. Barthol—” she shouted, and two urchins jumped out in front of her.
“I told you it was ’er,” Binnie said.
“Alf, Binnie!” Eileen said, looking desperately past them at John Bartholomew, who was through the turnstile and heading toward the exit. “I haven’t time—” She tried to elbow past.
But they planted themselves firmly in front of her, blocking her way, and Binnie grabbed her arm. “We been lookin’ for you everywhere,” she said.
“Yeah.” Alf folded his arms belligerently. “Where’s my map?”
It’s going to be a warm night.
