Blackout - Connie Willis

She also looked for somewhere to eat, but every restaurant she saw had a Closed Sundays sign, and there was no one to ask. She finally spotted a teenaged boy and girl standing outside Parson’s, but as she started over to them, Polly saw they were poring over a map, which meant they weren’t from here either. “We could go to the Tower of London,” the girl said, pointing at the map, “and see the ravens.”

The boy, who didn’t look any older than Colin, shook his head. “They’re using it for a prison, like in the old days, only now it’s German spies, not royalty.”

“Will they cut their heads off?” the girl asked. “Like they did Anne Boleyn?”

“No, now they hang them.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointed. “I did so want to see them.”

The ravens or the cut-off heads? Polly wondered.

“They’re good luck, you know,” the girl said. “So long as there are ravens at the Tower, England can never fall.”

Which is why, when they’re all killed by blast next month, the government will secretly dispose of the bodies and substitute new ones.

“It’s so unfair!” The girl pouted. “And on our honeymoon!”

Honeymoon? Polly was glad Colin wasn’t here to hear that. It would give him ideas.

The boy pored over the map for several moments and then said, “We could go to Westminster Abbey.”

They’re here sightseeing, Polly thought, amazed. In the middle of the Blitz.

“Or we could go to Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks,” the boy was saying, “and see Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII’s other wives.”

No, you can’t. Madame Tussaud’s was bombed on the eleventh, Polly thought, and then, I should go sightseeing. She couldn’t look for a job till tomorrow, and she couldn’t observe life in the shelters till tonight. And once she began working, she’d have almost no time to travel about London. This might be her only opportunity.

And there might be a restaurant open near Westminster Abbey or Buckingham Palace. I can see where the bomb hit the north end of the palace and nearly killed the King and Queen, she thought, walking back to the tube station. Or perhaps she should go see something that wouldn’t survive the Blitz, like the Guildhall or one of the Christopher Wren churches that would be destroyed on the twenty-ninth of December.

Or I could go see St. Paul’s, she thought suddenly. Mr. Dunworthy adored St. Paul’s. He was always talking about it, and perhaps if she told him she’d been to see it and all the things he’d raved about-Nelson’s tomb and the Whispering Gallery and Holman Hunt’s The Light of the World-and told him how beautiful she thought they were, she might be able to talk him into letting her stay an extra week. Or at least prevent him from canceling her assignment.

No, wait, Mr. Dunworthy had said an unexploded bomb had buried itself under St. Paul’s in September. But that had been early on the twelfth, which was this past Thursday, and he’d said it had taken them three days to dig it out, so it would have been removed on the fourteenth-yesterday. So the cathedral would be open again.

She started toward the Central Line and then changed her mind and took the Bakerloo to Piccadilly Circus instead. She could catch a bus from there and see some of London on the way. And there might be a restaurant in Piccadilly Circus.

There were more people in Piccadilly Circus than there had been on Oxford Street-soldiers, and elderly men hawking newspapers next to sandwich boards reading Latest War News-but there was nothing open here either. The statue of Eros in the center of the Circus had been boarded up. The Guinness clock and the giant signs advertising Bovril and Wrigley’s Chewing Gum were still there, though not in their full electric glory. Their lightbulbs had been taken out when the blackout began.

Polly went a short way down Shaftesbury and Haymarket, looking for an open cafй, then came back to the Circus and found a bus to St. Paul’s. She climbed aboard and up the narrow spiral staircase to the open upper deck so she could have a good view. She was the only one up there, and as soon as the bus started off, she could see why. It was freezing. She dug her gloves out of her pockets and pulled her coat closer about her, debating whether to go back down. But up ahead she could see Trafalgar Square, so she stayed where she was.

The broad plaza was nearly empty, and the fountains were shut off. Five years from now it would be crammed to bursting with cheering crowds celebrating the end of the war, but today even the pigeons had abandoned it. The base of Nelson’s monument was swathed in a Buy National War Bonds banner, and someone had stuck a Union Jack behind one of the bronze lions’ ears. She looked at its paws, trying to see if they’d fallen victim to shrapnel, but that apparently hadn’t happened yet. Then she craned her neck up to look at Nelson, high atop his pillar, his tricorn hat in his hand.

Hitler had planned to take the memorial-lions and all-to Berlin after the invasion and have it set up in front of the Reichstag. He’d also planned to have himself crowned emperor of Europe in Westminster Abbey-he’d written it all down in his secret invasion plans-and then begin systematically eliminating everyone who got in his way, including all of the intelligentsia. And, of course, the Jews. Virginia Woolf had been on the “elimination” list, and so had Laurence Olivier and C. P. Snow. And T. S. Eliot. And Hitler had come incredibly close to carrying his plans out.

The bus drove past the National Gallery and started down the broad Strand. There were many more signs of the war here-sandbags and shelter notices and a large water tank outside the Savoy for fighting fires. She didn’t see any damage. That will change tonight, she thought. By this time tomorrow nearly every shop window they were passing would have been shattered, and there’d be an enormous crater in the spot the bus was driving over. It was a good thing she’d come today.

The bus turned onto Fleet Street. And ahead, for a brief moment, was St. Paul’s. Mr. Dunworthy had spoken of its pewter-colored dome, standing high on Ludgate Hill above the city, but she could only catch intermittent glimpses of it between and above the newspaper offices lining Fleet Street. They’d all be hit several weeks from now, so badly that only one newspaper would manage to get out an edition the next morning. Polly smiled, thinking of its headline: “Bomb Injured in Fall on Fleet Street.”

St. Bride’s was just ahead. Polly leaned forward to look at its wedding-cake steeple, with its decorated tiers and arched windows. On the twenty-ninth of December, those windows would be alight with fire. So would most of the buildings they were passing now. This entire part of London’s old City had burnt that night in what history would call the Second Great Fire of London, including the Guildhall, and eight Wren churches.

But not St. Paul’s, she thought, even though the reporters watching from here that night had thought it was doomed. The American reporter Edward R. Murrow had even begun his radio broadcast, “Tonight, as I speak to you now, St. Paul’s Cathedral is burning to the ground.” But it hadn’t. It had survived the Blitz, and the war.

But not the twenty-first century, Polly thought. Not the terrorist years. Nothing they were driving past had survived a terrorist with a martyr complex and a pinpoint bomb under his arm. She looked up at the dome again, which she could see looming ahead.

We’re nearly there, she thought, but moments later the bus turned sharply to the right away from it. She leaned over the side to look down at the street. It was blocked off with sawhorses and notices reading This Area Off-Limits.

There must be bomb damage ahead. The bus drove down two streets and turned east again, but that way was blocked, too, with a rope and a hand-lettered notice reading Danger, and when the bus stopped, a black-helmeted policeman came over to confer with the driver, after which he pulled the bus over to the curb, and passengers began to disembark. Was it a raid? She hadn’t heard anything, but Colin had warned her that engine sounds sometimes drowned the sirens out, and everyone seemed to be getting off. Polly ran down the winding steps. “Is it a raid?” she asked the driver.

He shook his head, and the policeman said, “Unexploded bomb. This entire area’s cordoned off. Where were you going, miss?”

“St. Paul’s.”

“You can’t go there. That’s where the UXB is. It fell in the road next to the clock tower and burrowed into the foundations. It’s under the cathedral.”

No, it’s not. It’s already been removed, but she could scarcely tell them that.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to go there another time, miss,” the policeman said, and the driver added, “This bus can take you back to Piccadilly Circus, or you can take the tube from Blackfriars. It’s just down there.” He pointed down the hill to where she could see an Underground station.

“Thank you. That’s what I’ll do,” Polly said and walked in the direction he’d pointed down to the first side street, then glanced back to see if they were watching. They weren’t. She ducked down the side street and walked quickly to the next street and back up the hill, looking for a way through the barricade. She wasn’t worried about being seen, except by the policemen. This area was all offices and warehouses. It would be deserted on a Sunday. That was how the fire on the twenty-ninth had got out of control. That had been a Sunday, too, and there’d been no one there to put out the incendiaries.

There was a policeman standing guard at the end of this street as well, so she cut over to the next one, which led into a maze of narrow lanes. It was easy to see why this had burned. The warehouses were mere feet apart. Flames could easily jump from building to building, from street to street. She couldn’t see the cathedral’s dome or west towers, but the lane she was on led uphill, and through the obscuring white paint on the curb, she could make out “Amen Corner.” She must be getting near it.

She was. Here was Paternoster Row. She started along it, keeping close to the buildings so she could duck into a doorway if necessary, and there was the front of St. Paul’s, with its wide steps and broad pillared porch.

But Mr. Dunworthy had been wrong about how long it had taken to remove the UXB, because a lorry and two fire pumpers stood in the courtyard, and just past the end of the steps was a huge hole surrounded by heaps of yellow clay littered with shovels, winches, pickaxes, planks. Two men in clay-covered coveralls were inching ropes down into the hole, two held fire hoses at the ready, and several more, some in clerical collars, watched in strained attention. The bomb was obviously still down there, and from the looks on the bomb squad’s faces, liable to go off at any moment.

But it hadn’t. They’d successfully got it out and taken it to Hackney Marshes to be detonated. Which meant it was perfectly safe to be here and go inside whether they had the bomb out or not. If she could only get past them without being seen.

She looked over at the cathedral doors at the top of the wide steps. They appeared too heavy to open quickly-and silently-even if they weren’t locked.

A man’s voice shouted, “I can’t-where’s that damned-?” and cut off abruptly, followed by a hollow, heart-stopping thud.

Oh, God, they’ve dropped it, Polly thought, and then, Mr. Dunworthy was wrong about how long it took to get it out. What if he was wrong about the bomb going off as well?

But if the bomb had gone off, the cathedral would have collapsed. There’d have been no valiant effort to save it on the night of December twenty-ninth, no morale-lifting photograph of it standing defiant above the flames and smoke, the symbol of England’s determination and refusal to surrender. And the Blitz-and the war-would have gone very differently.

All those thoughts had gone through her head in the fraction of a second it had taken her to look over at the hole and realize the thud hadn’t come from there. The men were still lowering the ropes inch by inch, still watching. She looked back at the porch. A man in a long black cassock and a tin helmet appeared from behind one of the pillars and hurried across the porch toward the hole, carrying a crowbar.

There’s another door there, behind that pillar. Its opening was what I heard, she thought, and as soon as the clergyman reached the end of the porch and started down the side steps, she crept out of the doorway to look, keeping a sharp eye on the group of men. But no one looked up, not even when the clergyman handed the crowbar to one of the firemen.

Yes, there was the door, smaller than the central doors and obviously not locked, but there might still be someone inside, and if they caught her, what could she say, that she somehow hadn’t noticed the barricades and the pumpers and the firemen? If she got arrested… But she was so close. She started cautiously across the courtyard.

“Stop!” someone shouted, and Polly froze, but they weren’t looking at her. They were staring intently down at the hole. The men had ceased to lower the ropes, and a fireman was down on one knee, his hands cupped around his mouth, shouting down into the hole. “Try it to the left.”

It’s stuck, Polly thought, and sprinted across the courtyard, up the broad steps and across the porch, and yanked on the door. It was so heavy she thought for a moment it was locked after all, but then it gave, and she was through it and easing the door silently shut behind her.

She was in a dark, narrow vestibule. She stood there for a moment, listening, but the only sound was the audible hush of a large building. She tiptoed out of the vestibule into the side aisle and looked out into the nave. A wooden admissions desk stood there, but no one was manning it, and there was no one in the north aisle.

Polly stepped out into the nave. And gasped.

Mr. Dunworthy had said St. Paul’s was unique, and she’d seen vids and photographs, but they hadn’t begun to convey how beautiful it was. Or how vast. She’d expected a narrow-aisled Gothic church, but this was wide and airy. The nave stretched away in a series of rounded arches supported by massive rectangular pillars, revealing vista after vista-dome, choir, chancel, altar-all of them lit with a rich, warm golden light that streamed from curved golden ceilings, from the golden-railed galleries, the gilt mosaics, the gold-tinged stone itself, turning the air itself golden.

“It’s beautiful,” Polly murmured, and felt for the first time what its destruction really meant. How could he? she thought. Even if he was a terrorist? He’d walked into the cathedral one September morning in 2015 and killed half a million people. And destroyed this.

But it had only been there to destroy because the bomb underneath it at this very moment hadn’t gone off, and because Hitler and his air force had failed to blow St. Paul’s up or burn it down.

Though they certainly tried, she thought, walking up the nave, her footsteps echoing in the vast open space. They’d dropped hundreds of incendiaries on its roofs, to say nothing of the V-1s and V-2s Hitler would send at it in 1944 and ’45.

But St. Paul’s was ready for them. Tubs of water stood next to every pillar, and pickaxes and pails of sand were propped against the walls at intervals, next to coils of rope. On the night of the twenty-ninth, when dozens of incendiaries would fall on the roofs and the water mains would fail, they-and the volunteers wielding them-would be all that stood between the cathedral and destruction.