“The problem is how to get it to you. I can’t reach far enough to get it over to you, I’m afraid. Can you get out of bed, do you think?”
I have to, Mike thought, but when he tried to sit up, hot and cold and nausea washed over him, and he had to lie back, swallowing hard.
“I could read it to you, if you like,” Fordham offered.
“Thank you.”
Fordham patted around on the bed for the newspaper and propped it up against his elevated arm. “Let’s see, a rector in Tunbridge Wells rang his church’s bells in violation of the official edict that they’re only to be rung to signal invasion—”
That’s why I didn’t hear the bells that night on the beach, Mike thought.
“—and was fined one pound ten,” Fordham said. “There’s been an overwhelming response to Lord Beaverbrook’s Spitfire drive. They’ve collected five tons of aluminum saucepans alone. Sir Godfrey Kingsman is rehearsing a new production of King Lear at—”
“Isn’t there anything about the war?”
“The war… let’s see…” Fordham muttered. “A barrage balloon broke loose from its moorings and drifted into the spire of St. Albans Church and damaged some of the slates.”
“I meant, news about how the war’s going.”
“Badly,” he said. “As usual. The Italians hit one of our bases in Egypt—”
Egypt? Had Britain been in Egypt in August? He didn’t know enough about the war in North Africa to know what was supposed to have been happening there then. “What about the…?” He hesitated. Had they been calling it the Battle of Britain at this point? “—the air war?”
Fordham nodded. “The Germans attacked one of our convoys yesterday, and the RAF shot down sixteen of their planes. We lost seven.” He turned the page, rattling the sheets. “Good Lord, the Prime Minister—”
“What about the Prime Minister?” Mike said sharply. Oh, God, what if something had happened to Churchill? England could never have won the war without him. If he’d been killed—
“He looks dreadful in this photograph. It’s of him rejecting Germany’s latest peace proposal, but he looks like a suet pudding.”
Mike let out the breath he’d been holding. England was still refusing to surrender, the RAF was still holding off the Luftwaffe, and Churchill was all right.
Fordham had finished the news stories and was reading the personal ads: “Anyone having information regarding the whereabouts of Pvt. Derek Huntsford, last seen at Dunkirk, please contact Mr. and Mrs. J. Huntsford, Chifford, Devon.” Fordham shook his head. “He must not have made it back. He wasn’t as lucky as you, poor chap.”
Lucky, Mike thought. But at least he hadn’t altered events. And the war was still on track.
Fordham was reading another ad. “To let, country home in Kent. Restful location…”
Restful, Mike thought, and fell asleep.
He jerked awake to the up-and-down wail of sirens. And shouting. One of the patients, in pajamas and bare feet, was waving a flashlight wildly around the dark ward. “Wake up!” he shouted, shining the light full in Mike’s face. “They’re here!”
“Who’s here?” Mike said, trying to shield his eyes from the blinding light.
“The Germans, they’ve invaded. I only just heard it on the wireless. They’re coming up the Thames.”
I do not get panicky. I stay put. I say to myself: Our chaps will deal with them. I do not say: I must get out of here.
—INVASION INSTRUCTIONS, 1940
Warwickshire—August 1940
THE ARMY GAVE THEM TILL THE FIFTEENTH OF SEPTEMBER to vacate the manor, before which they had to cover all the furniture, crate Lady Caroline’s ancestor and the other paintings, pack away the crystal and china, and keep Alf and Binnie from “helping.” When Eileen went to take down the priceless medieval tapestry, she found them tossing it out the window. “We was tryin’ to see if it was magic,” Binnie said. “Like that flyin’ carpet in the fairy story you read us.”
They also had to make arrangements for the evacuees still at the manor. Mrs. Chambers found new homes for the Potters, the Magruders, Ralph and Tony Gubbins, and Georgie Cox. Mrs. Chalmers came and took Alice and Rose, and Theodore’s mother wrote to say that she would be up on Saturday. Eileen was relieved. She’d been afraid she’d have to send him kicking and screaming on the train again. “I don’t want to go home,” Theodore’d said when she told him his mother was coming. “I want to stay here.”