Blackout - Connie Willis

“I’m not in shock. I’m only a bit banged up, and I want-”

“Miss Snelgrove said you were to rest,” Marjorie repeated, “and that I was to give you this.” She handed Polly the parcel. It had perfectly even ends, and the string around it was taut and tied in a precise bow.

“Is this to practice wrapping on?” Polly asked.

“No, of course not,” Marjorie said, looking at her oddly. “You are shocky, no matter what you say. Here.” She took the package back from Polly. “Let me open it for you.”

It was a black skirt. “Miss Snelgrove said it cost seven and six, but that you’re not to worry about paying her the money and the ration points till you’re on your feet again.”

“Seven and six?” Polly said. That was nothing at all. A pair of stockings cost three times that. “It can’t have-”

“She said she bought it at Bourne and Hollingsworth’s bomb sale. Water damage.” She handed it to Polly.

It was clearly not from a bomb damage sale. It was brand-new and spotless and, Polly guessed, had come straight from Townsend Brothers’ Better Ladies Wear department and cost five pounds at the least. Polly held the skirt in both hands, too overcome to speak. “Tell her it was very kind of her,” she said finally.

Marjorie nodded. “She can be almost human on occasion. But she’ll have my head if I stay down here any longer.” She took the skirt gently from Polly and draped it over a chair back. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes. Tell her I’m ready to come back to my counter.”

“I most certainly will not. You’re not thinking clearly and you’re still white as a sheet. And there’s no need for heroics. This is Townsend Brothers, not Dunkirk. Now, lie down.”

Polly did, and Marjorie tucked a blanket around her. “Now stay there.”

Polly nodded, and Marjorie stood up to leave. “Wait,” Polly said, grabbing her wrist, “if anyone asks for me, if they ask if I work here, you’ll tell them where I am?”

“Of course,” Marjorie said, giving her that odd look again.

“And you’ll ask Miss Snelgrove if I can come back to the floor this afternoon?”

“Not unless you promise to try to sleep,” Marjorie said and left. She was back in a few minutes with a sandwich and a glass of milk. “Miss Snelgrove says you’re to rest till three,” she said, “and then she’ll see. And you’re to eat something.”

“I will,” Polly lied. The thought of food made her ill. She lay back down and tried to sleep as ordered, but it was no use. What if the retrieval team didn’t ask Marjorie if she was there? What if they walked through the department, pretending to be browsing, and when they didn’t see her, concluded she didn’t work there and left? She flung off the blanket, got up, grabbed the skirt, and went into the ladies’ to tidy up.

And was horrified by the sight of herself in the mirror. No wonder Miss Snelgrove had given her a skirt. Hers was not only dirty and brick dust-covered, but one entire side was torn. She must have caught it on a jagged timber. And no wonder they were all being so nice to her-she looked ghastly. Her hair and face were white with plaster dust, and her cheeks streaked with tears. Blood from her knee had trickled all down her leg and clotted her torn stockings.

They both had wide ladders in them, and several holes. She washed the blood off, but they still looked dreadful, so she stripped them off and stuck them in her handbag. It would be all right-young women had gone bare legged because of the shortage of stockings.

But that was later on in the war, not in 1940. Marjorie was right, she wasn’t thinking clearly. She’d have to keep behind her counter and hope the customers didn’t notice. Her blouse wasn’t too bad. Her coat had partially protected it. She sponged the smears off as best she could, put on the new skirt, washed her face, and combed her hair. She needed to put on lipstick-she looked so white-but when she did, it simply made her look paler. She wiped most of it off and went back up to her counter.

“What are you doing here?” Marjorie said when she saw her. “It’s only two o’clock. You were to rest till three. Miss Snelgrove!” she called before Polly could stop her, and Miss Snelgrove hurried over, looking concerned.

“Miss Sebastian, you should be resting,” she said reprovingly.

“No, please, let me stay.”

“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully.

“I feel much better now. Truly,” Polly said, trying to think what would persuade her. “And Mr. Churchill says we must soldier on, that we can’t give in to the enemy.”

“Very well. But if you feel at all ill or faint-”

“Thank you,” Polly said fervently, and as soon as Miss Snelgrove had ordered Marjorie to keep an eye on her and had gone over to the lift to greet Miss Toomley, looked around the floor, searching for anyone who might be the retrieval team.

Marjorie had been telling the truth. They had scarcely any customers at all, and the ones who came in as the afternoon wore on, she recognized as regular shoppers: Miss Varley and Mrs. Minnian and Miss Culpepper. Miss Culpepper wanted to try on pigskin gloves, then decided on woolen ones instead. “The newspapers say it may be an exceptionally bad winter,” she said.

You’re right, it may be, Polly thought, tying up the gloves for her and watching the lifts, willing the arrows above their doors to stop on third, willing the doors to open and the retrieval team to step out.

But no one came, and by five the floor was deserted except for Miss Culpepper, who had decided to buy a flannel nightgown as well and was over at Marjorie’s counter. All the other girls were putting boxes away or leaning on their counters, watching the clock above the lifts.

That’s why the retrieval team hasn’t come up, Polly thought. Because everyone was watching. Everyone would see them come out, would see her run toward them, would see the look of relief on her face. They’re waiting downstairs till the store closes so they can speak to me alone.

As soon as the closing bell rang, Polly hurried into her coat and hat, down the stairs, and out the staff entrance, but there was no one waiting there. They’re around front, she thought, walking rapidly out to the street and over to the main doors, but the only person there was the doorman, helping an elderly woman into a taxi.

He closed the door and spoke to the driver. It pulled away, and the doorman turned to Polly. “Can I assist you, miss?”

No, she thought. No one can help me. Where were they?

“No, thank you,” she said. “I’m waiting for someone.”

He nodded, tipped his visored cap at her, and went back inside.

The retrieval team doesn’t know that Townsend Brothers moved up their closing time, Polly thought, watching the shoppers walking quickly along the street and hailing taxis, the shopgirls and lift boys streaming from the staff entrance and hurrying toward the bus stop and the steps down to Oxford Circus. That’s why they’re late. They’ll be here at six. But as the minutes went by, the dread she’d been trying to hold off all day began to creep in like the fog that first night when she came through.

Where are they? she asked herself, shivering from the cold and her bare legs. She went out to the edge of the pavement and leaned out, trying to see up the street. What’s happened to them? What if they don’t come at all?

A hand closed on her arm. “There you are!” Marjorie said breathlessly. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Why did you run out like that? Come along. You’re to come home with me tonight. Miss Snelgrove’s orders.”

“Oh, but I can’t,” Polly said. If the retrieval team came-

“You can’t go back to your boardinghouse when there’s no one there. Miss Snelgrove and I agree you shouldn’t be alone.”

“But I need-”

“We can go fetch your things tomorrow. I’ll lend you a nightgown tonight, and tomorrow we’ll go over together and see about finding you a place to live.”

“But-”

“There’s nothing that can be done tonight. And tomorrow you’ll feel stronger and be better able to face things. Tomorrow’s Sunday. We’ll have all day to-”

Sunday, Polly thought, remembering the rector and Mrs. Wyvern planning the flowers for the altar. The altar that had crashed, along with the rest of the church, onto Sir Godfrey and Miss Laburnum and Trot-

“You see?” Marjorie said, taking her arm. “You’re not fit to be alone. You’re shaking like a leaf. And I promised Miss Snelgrove I’d take care of you. You don’t want me to get sacked, do you?” She smiled encouragingly. “Come along. It’s past six. My bus will be here-”

Past six, and the retrieval team still wasn’t here. Because they aren’t coming, Polly thought, staring numbly at Marjorie. And I’m trapped here.

“I know. It’s dreadful, what’s happened,” Marjorie said sympathetically.

No, you don’t know, Polly thought, but she let Marjorie lead her back along the street to the bus stop.

“Miss Snelgrove said I was to cook you a good hot meal,” Marjorie said as they joined the queue, “and see that you got a good night’s sleep. She would have taken you home with her, only her sister and her family were bombed out, and they’re staying with her. And I have lots of room. The girl I used to share with moved to Bath. Oh, good, here’s the bus.” She pushed Polly onto the crowded bus and down into an empty seat.

Polly leaned over the woman in the seat next to her to look out the window at Townsend Brothers, but the front of the store was deserted, and when the bus passed Selfridges, the clock read a quarter past six.

“We’ll be home in no time,” Marjorie said, standing over her. “We only have three stops.” But immediately after the bus had passed Oxford Circus, it pulled over to the side and stopped, and the driver got off.

“Diversion,” he said when he got back on. “UXB,” and turned down a side street and then another and another.

“Oh, dear, we should have taken the Underground,” Marjorie fretted, looking worriedly at Polly. “I’m sorry, Polly.”

“It’s not your fault.”

The bus stopped again. The driver conferred with an ARP warden and then set out again.

“Where are we going?” Marjorie said, leaning past Polly to peer out the window. “This is ridiculous. We’re nearly to the Strand. We’ll never get home at this rate.” She pulled the cord for the driver to stop. “Come along. We’re taking the Underground.”

They descended into a nearly dark street. Polly could see a church spire off to the left above the buildings. “Do you know where we are?” she asked.

“Yes. Charing Cross is that way.”

“Charing Cross?” Polly said and felt her legs begin to buckle again. She grabbed for the lamppost they were passing.

“Yes. It’s not far,” Marjorie said, still walking. “That’s the spire of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and beyond it is Trafalgar Square. I hope the Piccadilly Line’s running. It’s been hit twice this week. Yesterday there was a bomb on the tracks between-Polly, are you all right?” She hurried back to her. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have mentioned a bomb-” She looked wildly around the deserted street for assistance. “Here, come sit down over here.”

She led Polly over to a shop and sat her down on the steps leading up to the door. A door. How appropriate, Polly thought. But it’s no use. It won’t open. My drop’s broken.

“Is there anything I can do?” Marjorie said anxiously. “Should I go fetch a doctor?”

Polly shook her head.

“You mustn’t despair,” Marjorie said, sitting down next to her and putting her arm around her. “We’ll get through this.”

Polly shook her head.

“I know, it seems like this horrid war will last forever, but it won’t. We’ll beat old Hitler and win this war.”

You’re right, you will, Polly thought. She raised her head and looked off toward the spire of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. I know. I was at Charing Cross the day the war ended. But you’re wrong about my getting through this, unless my retrieval team pulls me out before my deadline. An historian can’t be in the same temporal location twice. And they should have been here yesterday. Yesterday. This is time travel.

“You’ll see,” Marjorie said, tightening her hold, “things will work out all right in the end,” and east of them a siren began to wail.

He is coming! He is coming! 

War Emergency Hospital-Summer 1940

THE PATIENT SHOOK THE RAILS AT THE FOOT OF MIKE’S bed. “Hurry!” he shouted. “The Germans are coming! It’s the invasion! We must get out of here!”

Oh, God, Mike thought. We lost the war. I did affect events.

“What is it? What’s happening?” Fordham said sleepily from the next bed.

“The invasion’s begun!” the patient said, and the doors to the ward burst open, but it was only the night nurse. She ran over to Mike’s bed and put her hand on the patient’s arm.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, Corporal Bevins,” she said calmly. “You need your rest. Come, let’s go back to bed.”

“We can’t,” Bevins said, shining his flashlight full in her face. “They’re marching into London. We must warn the King.”

“Yes, yes, someone will warn His Majesty.” She gently took the flashlight away from him. “Let’s go back to bed now.”

“What’s happening?” the patient next to Fordham asked.

“The Germans are invading,” Fordham said. “Again.”

“Oh, that’s all we bloody need,” the patient said and stuck his pillow over his head.

“I must get back to my unit!” Bevins cried, his voice rising. “They’ll need every man!”

“Shell shock,” Fordham said to Mike. “It’s the sirens that set him off. This is the third time this fortnight.” He closed his eyes. “He’ll be all right as soon as the all clear goes.”

But I won’t, Mike thought, lying there, trying to slow his pounding heart. What if they do invade? Or you read in tomorrow’s newspaper that Churchill was killed in a raid on an airfield?

The all clear went, its steady, sweet note as reassuring as Sister Gabriel’s voice murmuring, “You mustn’t worry about that now,” as she led Bevins back to bed. “You must try to sleep,” she said, tucking him in. “Everything’s all right.”

Is it? Mike thought, and in the morning made Fordham read him the rest of his Herald. The RAF had shot down sixteen planes, and the Germans had only downed eight, but that didn’t prove anything. The RAF had had far fewer than the Luftwaffe to lose, and he knew from his first-year lectures that they’d come within a hairsbreadth of losing the Battle of Britain. And the war.

In the afternoon, a middle-aged woman in a green WVS uniform came into the ward, pushing a cart full of books and magazines, and Mike waylaid her and asked if she had any newspapers. “Oh, yes,” the volunteer, whose name tag read “Mrs. Ives,” chirped. “What would you like? The Evening Standard? The Times? The Daily Herald? It has a lovely crossword.”