Polly didn’t hear what the vicar said, but she saw how cheerful Eileen was and couldn’t be sorry they’d decided to take in the Hodbins. Especially since the vicar had told Eileen he was being assigned to active duty.
Chaplains hadn’t been armed—even though they were often in the thick of battle—and the vicar, with his slight frame and mild manner, was scarcely the soldier sort. And how many earnest young men, eager like him to help the war effort, had died in the sands of North Africa and on the beaches of Normandy? Polly wasn’t certain Eileen could bear another loss.
They all went to see him off at Victoria Station. “We got to,” Alf said, “ ’cause he seen us off that day we come to London. Remember, Vicar? How you come to tell us goodbye that day?”
“I do,” the vicar said, looking at Eileen.
“And now we’re tellin’ you goodbye. It’s funny, ain’t it, Eileen?”
“Yes,” she said, blinking back tears. “Thank you so much for everything, Mr. Goode.”
“It was a pleasure,” he said solemnly. He picked up his duffel bag. “I’d best board. You have my address for now, and I’ll let you know where I’m going as soon as I’m able. Promise me you’ll write me if you need any further assistance with Alf and Binnie, and I’ll see to it.”
If you can, Polly thought. If you’re not killed.
They said goodbye, and the vicar boarded the train, the romance of it somewhat spoiled by Alf and Binnie shouting after him, “Shoot heaps of Germans!” and “Kill that old ’Itler!”
Eileen watched the train out of sight.
“Whatcha waitin’ for?” Binnie asked curiously.
“Nothing,” Eileen said. “Come along, we’re going home.”
“We can’t,” Alf said. “We got to go to Blackfriars to get our things.”
“What things?”
“You know,” Binnie said innocently, “our clothes and things.”
“And that book you give me about the Tower of London,” Alf said, heading for the entrance to the Underground. “The best part was when they cut off Mary Queen of Scots’s ’ead.”
And after they’d boarded the train to Blackfriars, he regaled them with the details. “The executioner chopped it off, whack, like that.” He demonstrated for the benefit of the other passengers in the car. “And then he picked it up by the ’air. That’s what they done back then. They picked up the ’ead, all gory and dripping blood like, and said, ‘This is what ’appens to queens what commits treason.’ ”
“And then they stuck it up on London Bridge,” Binnie finished.
“Not ’er they didn’t,” Alf said. “She was wearin’ a wig, and when they picked up ’er ’ead, it fell on the floor and rolled under the bed, and ’er dog ran after it and
—”
“This is Blackfriars,” Eileen said, standing up and pushing them both off the train ahead of her.
“Stop pushin’,” Binnie said.
“Don’t you wanna know what Mary Queen of Scots’s dog done?”
“No,” Polly said.
“You said you needed to get your things,” Eileen said. “Where are they? On the platform?”
“Are you daft?” Binnie said, leading the way. “People’d pinch ’em.”
“They’re in the tunnel,” Alf said as they reached the platform. “Wait ’ere.” And before Eileen could stop them, both children darted to the end of the platform and disappeared into the blackness of the tunnel.
“They’ll be killed,” Eileen said.
“No such luck,” Polly said, and in a moment they each reappeared with an armful of belongings—a cap, a ragged-looking cardigan, a pair of Wellingtons, a stack of film magazines.
Alf dumped his in Eileen’s arms. “I got to go get Mrs. Bascombe,” he said, and darted back toward the tunnel.
“Mrs. Bascombe?” Polly asked. “Who’s Mrs. Bascombe?”
“Their parrot,” Eileen said despairingly. “I assumed it had been left behind when the children moved into the shelters.” She turned to Binnie. “I thought animals weren’t allowed in shelters.”
“They ain’t,” Binnie said. “That’s why we ’ad to keep ’er ’id in the tunnel.”
“This isn’t the parrot who can imitate an air-raid alert, is it?” Polly asked, afraid she already knew the answer.
“And the all clear,” Alf said, appearing with a large, rusty cage in which sat a gray-and-red parrot. “But we’ve taught ’er lots of things since then.”
It Is Over.
—LONDON EVENING NEWS HEADLINE,
7 May 1945
London—7 May 1945
THAT IS MEROPE, SHE THOUGHT, LEANING OUT OVER THE National Gallery’s stone railing to get a better look at the young woman in the green coat, standing there in Trafalgar Square. Oh, good. She wanted to do VE-Day. She raised her arm to wave and shout to her, then decided against it. She didn’t know what name she was here under.
