The frizzy-haired librarian at Holborn had said almost the same thing, that the ending made her realize she’d been looking at things the wrong way round.
Eileen put on her coat. “The theater’s the Phoenix on Shaftesbury Avenue,” she said, and went off to Stepney to fetch Theodore. Polly washed out her blouse and stockings, hung them up to dry, fended off an invitation from Miss Laburnum to go to a prayer service at Westminster Abbey “for our dear boys in uniform,” and ironed her skirt, keeping one ear cocked the entire time for the telephone.
It finally rang at half past eleven.
It was Mike. “Mike! Oh, thank goodness!” she said. “Where are you?”
“In Rochester. I’ve only got a couple of minutes to talk. The train’s about to leave. I just wanted to tell you I’m okay, and I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
“Did you find—?” She stopped and looked into the kitchen and then the parlor. She couldn’t see anyone, but she lowered her voice anyway. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“No,” he said. “It turned out to be a guy I knew in the hospital. In the bed next to me. Guy named Fordham. He’d finally got out and thought he’d look me up.”
She had known for days it wasn’t the retrieval team, but she still felt a lurch of panic at his words. They were nearly out of options, and in two more days they wouldn’t know where or when the raids were, and what then?
Mike was saying, “I’m sorry I didn’t call before, but it took me forever to track Daphne down. She’d got married and moved to Manchester.”
“Manchester? Oh, God, you weren’t there during the bombing, were you?”
“As a matter of fact, I was, and then couldn’t get out because the train station had been hit. I couldn’t call you either. The lines were down. I had to hitch a ride to Stoke-on-Trent and take the train from there.”
“Oh, it’s my fault!” Polly cried. “I should have warned you. But I didn’t think you’d have any reason to be in the Midlands. I’m so sorry. Listen, I have to tell you”—she lowered her voice again and cupped her hand over her mouth and the receiver—“tonight’s a horrible raid, one of the worst of the war. A huge part of the City burned and St. Paul’s was nearly destroyed, and several of the railway lines and stations were hit—Waterloo and—”
“What did you say?” Mike asked.
“I said, Waterloo Station and—”
“No, about St. Paul’s. You said it was nearly destroyed?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “It was hit by twenty-eight incendiaries, and everything else around it burned, Paternoster Row and—”
“I thought the incendiaries at St. Paul’s were on May tenth.”
“No, you’re thinking of the House of Commons. It—”
“But you said May ninth and tenth were the worst raids of the Blitz.”
“They were,” Polly said, wondering what this had to do with anything. “They had the most casualties, and caused the most damage, but the worst fire was on the twenty-ninth.”
“So the twenty-ninth is the night the fire watch is famous for? The night they saved St. Paul’s?”
“Yes.”
“Was St. Paul’s hit on the tenth?”
“No. What’s this all—?”
“Listen,” Mike said urgently. “I know where—damn it, my train’s pulling out. I’ve got to run for it. But, I need you to—”
“Do you want me to meet you somewhere?”
“No, you and Eileen both stay right where you are. And be ready to go when I get there. I know how we can get out. Bye.”
“Eileen’s not here,” she said, but he’d already rung off.
Polly replaced the receiver.
At least I warned him about tonight, she thought, though she wasn’t at all certain he’d been listening. But if he was in Rochester and there weren’t any delays, he’d be here well before the raids began. Or if his train was delayed, he’d ring up again in a few minutes, and she could warn him.
She stood there, looking down at the telephone, trying to decide whether she should go fetch Eileen. He’d said to be here and be ready to go when he arrived. But Eileen wouldn’t be at the theater yet—it was scarcely noon— and if Polly set out for Stepney, they’d be certain to miss each other.
Eileen wouldn’t be at the theater yet—it was scarcely noon—and if Polly set out for Stepney, they’d be certain to miss each other.
She rang the Phoenix, but no one answered. Or at half past. Or at one, and Mike didn’t phone again, which meant he was on his way.
He’d obviously thought of an historian who was here now, and it had something to do with St. Paul’s. She doubted if another historian would have been assigned to observe the fire watch besides Mr. Bartholomew, so he —or she—must be observing something else in that area: the Guildhall fire or one of the Wren churches which had burned. But why wouldn’t Mike have thought of him or her before now? And how could he know for certain where this historian would be?
Polly tried the theater again at half past one, but there was still no answer. She’d have to go there herself after Eileen, but she was afraid of missing Mike, and there was no one home to leave a message with. Miss Hibbard was visiting her aunt, Mr. Dorming was at a football match in Luton, and Miss Laburnum wasn’t back from Westminster Abbey yet. And a note left for Mike could easily go unnoticed or astray.
