Alf said, “We ain’t—”
Binnie cut him off. “Mum ain’t ’ome. She’s at work.”
Binnie cut him off. “Mum ain’t ’ome. She’s at work.”
“And if you make us go to a shelter, who’ll tell you ’ow to get back to St. Bart’s?” Alf asked.
He was right. She wouldn’t have a prayer of getting the ambulance back to the hospital without him. She was completely disoriented in the smoky fog, and Dr.
Cross was even worse. “No sense of direction, even in the daytime, I’m afraid,” he’d said on the first trip. “That’s why I never learned to drive.”
“You can leave us behind in some shelter,” Binnie said, “but you can’t make us stay there.”
She was right, and God knew what the two of them would do or where they’d go if they weren’t with her. “Get in the ambulance,” Eileen said, and went over to Dr. Cross and the incident officer.
The doctor was speaking on a field telephone. As she came up, the incident officer said, “Are you injured, miss?”
“Doctor,” he said, turning to Dr. Cross, “this young lady is—”
“I’m not injured. I’m Dr. Cross’s driver.”
Dr. Cross took the receiver from his mouth and said, “I’ve just been in contact with Moor Lane Fire Station. They’ve a fireman in Alwell Lane with burns and a broken leg. Guy’s Hospital was supposed to send an ambulance, but they can’t. The hospital’s on fire, and they’re busy evacuating their own patients.” He handed the telephone back to him and turned to Eileen. “We need to go pick up the fireman.”
He started for the ambulance.
“Wait,” Eileen said. If she could phone the fire watch and get a message to John Bartholomew, she could tell him they were trying to get to him and to wait till they arrived.
“Can you get through to St. Paul’s on that telephone?” she asked the incident officer. “My husband’s a member of the fire watch. I was on my way there to take him his supper when I was recruited into driving. He’ll be frantic with worry over where I—where the children and I are. If I could only telephone him to let him know I’m all right —”
The incident officer looked doubtful. “These phones are supposed to be for official business only.”
“This is official business,” Dr. Cross said. “We don’t want any of those lads worrying. We want their full attention on saving that cathedral.”
The incident officer nodded, cranked up the telephone, then put it to his ear and said, “Put me through to the fire watch at St. Paul’s,” and handed it to her. “It’ll take some time to patch it through.”
Eileen nodded, listening to a series of hums and trying to think what to say. She couldn’t mention their drops or time travel with the incident officer listening. And Mr. Bartholomew hadn’t met her yet. Who should she say was calling?
Mrs. Mr. Dunworthy, she thought, and I’ll tell him I’m trying to get to St. Paul’s so we can go home together, and to—
There was a sharp crackle, and a man’s voice said, “St. Paul’s Fire Watch here.”
“Yes, hello, I’m trying to reach—”
There was a volley of static, and then silence.
“Hello? Hello?”
The incident officer took the telephone from her. “Hullo?” He flicked the switching mechanism back and forth. “Are you there? Hullo?” He listened for a moment.
Eileen could hear a woman’s voice on the line.
“They just lost the telephone exchange at Guildhall,” the incident officer said. “They’re trying to get it back.”
But they won’t, Eileen thought. The Guildhall’s on fire. They’re evacuating the telephone operators.
“I’ll see if I can patch you through,” he said.
But that didn’t work either. “The operator says lines are down all over the city. If I do get through, what should I tell him?”
She thought quickly. “Tell him Eileen said that we can’t get through, but the three of us are coming to him as soon as we can, and to stay at St. Paul’s till we arrive.
Tell him on no account is he to leave for Mr. Dunworthy’s in Oxford without us,” Eileen instructed, and at his curious look, she added, “We were to have gone to our friends in Oxford for the New Year.”
He nodded, then ran up to the ambulance as she was pulling away. “You didn’t tell me your husband’s name.”
“Husband?” Alf said incredulously. “She ain’t—”
“Bartholomew, John Bartholomew,” she said quickly, and drove off before Alf could do any more damage.
“Bartholomew,” Dr. Cross said musingly. “How fitting that you and your children, the angels who’ve come to St. Bartholomew’s aid, should be named Bartholomew.”
Binnie began, “We ain’t—”
“Angels,” Eileen finished neatly.
