I think you’d better check the contents before you say that, Polly thought.
“Oh, thank you, ma’am,” the girl said, clutching the woman’s arm. “You’re ever so kind.”
“I’ll let you go this time,” the guard said sternly, “but you must promise never to do it again.” He let go of the boy, and the two children instantly darted off through the crowd and down the escalator. Which had been switched off at some point during the altercation and was now crammed with people sitting and lying on the narrow steps.
Little wretches, Polly thought. They cheated me out of my place, and she made the rounds again, looking for an unoccupied space. There weren’t any. Shelterers slept down on the rails after the trains stopped, but even though there were no historical accounts of anyone having been run over, it still struck her as a dangerous practice, to say nothing of all those emptied-out chamber pots.
She finally found an unoccupied space in one of the connecting tunnels between two already sleeping women. Polly took off her coat, spread it out, and sat down. She set her shoulder bag next to her, then remembered the Artful Dodger and his sister and tucked it behind her back, leaned against it, and tried to go to sleep, which should have been easy. She hadn’t slept at all last night and only a bit more than three hours the night before. But it was too bright and too noisy, and the wall was as hard as a rock.
She stood up, folded her coat into a pillow, and lay down, but the floor was even harder, and when she closed her eyes, all she could think about was how upset Mr. Dunworthy would be at her taking so long to check in and what Miss Snelgrove would say when she saw she still didn’t have a black skirt. Which did no good. There wasn’t anything she could do about either one at the moment.
She sat up and unfolded the Express the librarian had lent her. The ocean liner City of Benares, packed with evacuees, had been sunk by a German U-boat, the RAF had shot down eight German fighters, and Liverpool had been bombed. There was nothing about John Lewis—only a story headed “Mass Bombing of City Continues,” which said, “Among the targets Tuesday night were two hospitals and a shopping street”—but there was a John Lewis ad on page four.
Polly wondered if they’d forgotten to take it out of the paper, or if it was an attempt to deceive the Germans into believing it hadn’t been hit. During the V-1 attacks, they’d planted false information in the papers about where the rockets had landed. She looked to see if there was an ad for Peter Robinson’s, which had also been hit.
There wasn’t. Selfridges was having a sale on siren suits, a one-piece wool coverall, “perfect for nights in the shelter—stylish and warm.” That’s what I need, Polly thought. The cement floor was cold. She unfolded her coat, draped it over herself, put her head on her bag, and tried again to sleep.
To no avail, even though at half past eleven the lights dimmed and conversation dropped to a murmur. She couldn’t hear the bombs—the sound didn’t penetrate this far underground. It was unnerving, not knowing what was going on up there. She lay there, listening to the shelterers snoring, and then sat up again and read the rest of the paper, including the “Cooking in Wartime” column—which it was clear Mrs. Rickett got her recipes from—the casualties list, and the personal ads.
They gave an intimate glimpse into what life was like for the contemps. Some were funny—L. T., Apologize for behavior at Officer’s Club dance last Sat. Please say you’ll give me another chance. Lt. S. W.—and others heartbreaking—Anyone having any information regarding Ensign Paul Robbey, last seen aboard the Grafton at Dunkirk, please contact Mrs. P. Robbey, 16 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. And there was no one who wasn’t affected by the Blitz, as witness: Lost, white cat, answers to Moppet, last seen during night raid 12 September. Frightened of loud noises. Reward.
Poor thing, Polly thought, trapped in a terrifying situation it couldn’t understand. She hoped it was all right. She read through the rest of the personals—Homes wanted for evacuees and R. T., Meet me Nelson Monument noon Friday, H. and Ambulance drivers needed. Enlist in the FANY today—and lay down again, determined to sleep.