So am I, Polly thought. Like one of those fiendish delayed-action bombs set to go off when someone comes too near.
It took her two days to find the courage to tell Eileen. Polly remembered how sick she’d looked when she’d found out about Polly’s deadline, remembered her refusal to budge from the foot of the escalator when she found out Mike was dead, and was afraid the same thing would happen, but she took the news with an almost frightening calmness. “I knew it had to be bad when you brought him in,” she said. “He’s certain we lost the war?”
“Mr. Dunworthy says there’s no way to be absolutely certain, and there’s a possibility the continuum will be able to correct itself—”
“But it won’t help us.”
“No,” Polly said, feeling like a doctor giving a patient a terminal diagnosis.
“And he’s certain there’s nothing we could do that would change things back?”
“Yes.”
“So we’re in an unwinnable situation.”
“Yes.”
An unwinnable situation with not even a way to get out of it. If Polly killed herself, or even let a convenient HE do it for her, that still wouldn’t put an end to the damage she could do, the changes she might effect. She would endanger the rescue crews who had to dig for her. Or delay them from digging for someone else, and that someone else would die from a broken gas main in the meantime. And her death would affect Doreen and Miss Snelgrove and the troupe.
And Sir Godfrey, who last time he thought she was buried in the rubble had moved heaven and earth to find her, who had sent ripples out in all directions.
She’d been wrong—she wasn’t a delayed-action bomb. She was a UXB that would blow up if someone didn’t defuse it—but that, if someone attempted to, was even more likely to explode. And once the bomb squad had set it ticking, they didn’t dare stop, and the only safe way to dispose of it was to take it out to Barking Marshes, where it could explode without harming anyone.
But the continuum had no Barking Marshes, and short of being dead, there was no way Polly could get out of her service with ENSA and out of endangering everyone in the cast, to say nothing of all those soldiers and sailors in the audience.
She lay awake nights, thinking of everyone she might have unwittingly endangered—Fairchild and Lady Denewell and Talbot, whose knee she’d wrenched, and Sarah Steinberg and the other shopgirls at Townsend Brothers and the guard at Padgett’s who’d chased her up the stairs, the old man with the fringed pink silk cushion who’d caught her when her legs gave way and eased her down to the curb after she’d seen St. George’s.
And that was only her. What about Eileen’s evacuees and Agatha Christie and the nurses and doctors and patients at the hospital in Orpington? And at St. Bart’s?
Mr. Dunworthy had clearly thought he’d put his nurses and doctors in danger. He’d also said that perhaps not everyone they’d come into contact with had to be part of the correction, but even if only a few of them were …
She knew now how Theodore’s neighbor felt. She wanted to shut herself in the cupboard under the stairs and stay there, even if it offered no protection at all. But that was impossible. She had to make Mr. Dunworthy soft- boiled eggs and tea and keep Alf from asking him how it felt to be blown up and Binnie from sharing her opinions of fairy tales, had to learn her lines, practice tap routines, rip ruffles off her costumes and sew sequins on them. And face Eileen’s unquenchable optimism.
“I don’t think Mr. Dunworthy’s right,” she said the day after Polly told her. “Saving people’s lives is a good thing, and after all, Mr. Dunworthy didn’t intend to run into the Wren—”
“And the German pilots who got lost didn’t mean to start the London Blitz,” Polly said. “The sailor lighting a cigarette on deck didn’t mean to get his convoy blown up. History’s a chaotic system. Cause and effect aren’t —”
“Linear. I know. But even in a chaotic system, good deeds and good intentions—and courage and kindness and love—must count for something, or else history would be even worse than it already is,” Eileen said.
She refused to send Alf and Binnie away. “When the vicar tried to place them last summer before we left Backbury, no one would take them,” she said. “And even if we could find someone, they’d only run away to London and begin living on their own again. And collecting UXBs. They’d be in just as much danger as they are with me.”
Except that the continuum wouldn’t be after them. “But by sending them away, you’d be saving their lives,” Polly argued.
“I thought you said saving lives was a bad thing,” Eileen said. “That that was how we got into this mess in the first place. That if I’d let Alf and Binnie go on the City of Benares and drown, if I’d let that man in the back of the ambulance bleed to death, that everything would be fine.”
“Eileen—”
“Don’t you see? If I send them away, they may be killed, and if I keep them here, they may be killed. But if I send them away, they’ll think I’m abandoning them, and that will kill them. They’ve already been abandoned by everyone they’ve ever known. They can’t survive that again. And I swore I’d take care of them.”
But don’t you see? You can’t, Polly thought.
But Eileen was right, it was a no-win situation, so it probably made no difference where they were. Eileen had saved both of their lives once and Binnie’s twice, and that would clearly have to be corrected. She tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that the Hodbins could take care of themselves. That if anyone could survive a correction—or a war—it was the two of them.
Polly wanted desperately to believe that it was possible for them, and at least some of the others, to survive. And that it was possible to do something even now to protect them, even though she feared it was as useless as Sleeping Beauty’s father burning the spinning wheels.
But she kept away from St. Paul’s and Kensington anyway and took the bus instead of the tube, searching for a seat where she wouldn’t have to be next to someone, taking care to watch where she was going so that she didn’t collide with anyone. She stayed strictly away from Oxford Street, and when
