No, he thought, it’s October. But Colin meant when he’d been in London. “Yes, on the eleventh.”
“Where was Polly working when you left? Was she still working in Oxford Street?”
He nodded. “At Townsend Brothers. On the third floor. But she and Eileen—”
“Eileen? Merope’s there?” Colin said eagerly. “She and Polly are together? Do you know where they’re living?”
“Fourteen,” he said, swallowing. There was an odd metallic taste in his mouth. He swallowed, trying to get rid of it. “Cardle Street,” he attempted to say, but he couldn’t for coughing—and he must have coughed so hard he vomited because Colin was wiping at his mouth with a corner of the blanket. “Mrs.—”
“Don’t try to talk,” Colin said, dabbing at his chin. “They’re living at Mrs. Rickett’s in Cardle Street. Number fourteen.”
Ernest nodded. “In Kensington,” he tried to say, but more coughing overtook him.
But it was all right, Colin understood. “In Kensington, right? We worked that out from your messages. And the shelter they’re using is Notting Hill Gate?”
Ernest nodded, grateful he didn’t have to try to say all that because there was something else he needed to tell him, something important. “She didn’t come through in June. She came through in December of ’43. You have to get her out before the twenty-ninth.”
“I will. But first I’ve got to get you back.” He stooped over him. “Can you put your arms round my neck?”
“Don’t,” Ernest said, afraid the V-2 would hit again when he lifted him. “Get Polly to help you. Tell her to bring the stretcher.”
“She’s not here,” Colin said gently. “She’s in 1941. Remember? You told me where to find her.”
“No. Here. At the incident.” But Colin wouldn’t know that word. He wasn’t an historian. He was just a boy. “She was the one who found me in the wreckage,” he tried to say. “She rescued me. She’s an ambulance driver at Dulwich.”
But that must not have been what he said because Colin asked, “She wasn’t working at Townsend Brothers when you left? She was driving an ambulance?”
“No. Here. In the wreckage”—he swallowed—“after the V-1 hit—”
“Polly was here just now?” Colin cut in.
“No, Mary. She hasn’t gone to the Blitz yet. But it’s all right. She didn’t recognize me. I didn’t ruin it,” he said between coughs. “You’ve got to warn her. You’ve got to tell her not to go.”
“If I’d known—” Colin said, looking off into the distance, and Ernest knew they weren’t at the incident, that Colin had taken him somewhere else.
“Are we in the ambulance?” he asked.
“No, we’re at the drop. If I’d known Polly was there …,” Colin said, and his voice sounded full of despair and longing.
Like that night I left London, Ernest thought, when I knew I could never see her or Eileen again.
But he had to see her. “You have to stop her. Go back—”
“I’ve got to get you home first. The drop’ll open any second now. There’s an emergency medical team waiting for us in the lab. We’ll have you fixed up in no time, old man.”
“There’s no time. She’ll be gone,” he opened his mouth to say. “You have to go find her.” But without any warning he was vomiting again, all down Colin’s coverall, only it wasn’t vomit, it was blood.
“I’ll find them, I promise,” Colin said, and put his arms around him.
Good, he thought. I won’t have to die alone.
“Why the bloody hell doesn’t the drop open?” Colin said angrily.
“It’s broken. We’re all trapped here in the Blitz.”
“Stay with me, Davies. We’ll be there any second. We’ll get you to hospital, and they’ll get you all fixed up, they’ll get you a new leg, and I’ll go fetch Eileen and Polly. They’ll be there before you come out of surgery. They’ll be so glad to see you. You’re a hero, you know.”
“I know,” he said. “I saved Cess’s life.” And Chasuble’s. And Jonathan’s and the Commander’s. And that dog’s. He wondered what had happened to it, and whether it had helped to win the war.
“Don’t quit on me, Davies,” Colin said. “You can do this.”
Ernest shook his head. “Kiss me, Hardy,” he murmured.
“What?”
He bent nearer, and Ernest saw that it was Hardy. “I’m glad I saved your life,” he said. “No matter what.”
“Finally!” Hardy said, “Thank God!” and scooped him up in his arms.
Just like at St. Paul’s, Ernest thought, the captain dying in Honour’s arms, though he’d never seen it—the sandbags had hidden it. And the captain hadn’t seen it either. He’d died the moment after he’d tied the boats together. He’d never known whether they’d won or not.
“Did we?” he asked Colin.
And he must only be a boy after all because he was crying. “Don’t do this, Davies,” he pleaded. “Not now. Michael!”
No, not Michael. Or Mike Davis. Or Ernest Worthing. And not Shackleton. “That’s not my name,” he said, and tried to tell him what it was, but the blood was everywhere, in his mouth, his ears, his eyes, so he couldn’t hear
