they watched, the Hurricane went into a long, shallow dive across the endless expanse of blue sky, and vanished beyond the trees. Eileen closed her eyes and waited for the impact. It came, faint as a footstep.
I want to go home, she thought.
“’E bailed out,” Alf said. “There’s ’is parachute.” He pointed confidently at the empty blue and white sky.
“Where?” Theodore asked.
“I don’t see no parachute,” Binnie said.
“We must go,” Eileen said, picking up her suitcase and taking Theodore’s hand.
“But what if ’e crash-landed and needs first aid?” Alf asked. “Or a ambulance? The RAF are wizard pilots. They can land anywhere.”
“Even with their wing on fire?” Binnie said. “I’ll wager ’e’s dead.”
Theodore clutched Eileen’s hand and looked imploringly up at Eileen. “You don’t know that, Binnie,” Eileen said.
“My name ain’t Binnie.”
Eileen ignored that. “I’m certain the pilot’s fine, Theodore,” she said. “Now come along. We’ll miss the bus. Alf, Binnie—”
“I told you, I ain’t Binnie no more,” Binnie said. “I decided on my new name.”
“What is it?” Alf asked disdainfully. “Dandelion?”
“No. Spitfire.”
“Spitfire?” Alf hooted. “’Urricane, more like. ’Urricane ’Odbin.”
“No,” Binnie said. “Spitfire, ’cause they’re what’s gonna beat old ’Itler. Spitfire ’Odbin,” she said, trying it out. “Ain’t that a good name for me, Eileen?”
All lost!
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST
London—21 September 1940
MISS SNELGROVE TOLD POLLY SHE WAS IN NO CONDITION to work and insisted on her lying down. “Miss Hayes can take charge of your counter,” she said.
“Shouldn’t she go home?” Doreen asked, coming over.
“She can’t,” Marjorie said, and whispered something to her. How does she know about the drop being damaged? Polly wondered.
“Come along,” Miss Snelgrove said and took her down in the lift to Townsend Brothers’ basement shelter. “You need to rest,” she said, pointing to one of the cots normally reserved for customers, and when Polly still stood there, “Here, take off your coat.” Miss Snelgrove unbuttoned it for her and laid it over a chair.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get a black skirt,” Polly said. She hadn’t projected an air of calm and courage either. All employees were supposed to be cool under fire. “And I’m sorry I—”
“You mustn’t worry about that now,” Miss Snelgrove said. “You mustn’t worry about anything except having a good sleep. You’ve had a bad shock.”
A bad shock, Polly thought, sitting down obediently on the cot. Sir Godfrey and Miss Laburnum and all the others dead and the drop not working. And the retrieval team not here. They were supposed to be here yesterday. Yesterday.
“Take off your shoes, there’s a good girl. Now, lie down.” She patted the cot’s pillow.
I shouldn’t have left the old man’s fringed pink pillow there on the pavement, Polly thought. It’ll be stolen. I should have put it inside the incident perimeter.
“Lie down, that’s a good girl,” Miss Snelgrove said. She covered Polly with a blanket and switched off the lights. “Try to rest.”
Polly nodded, her eyes filling with tears at Miss Snelgrove’s surprising kindness. She closed her eyes, but the moment she did, she saw the wrecked church, and it seemed to her that she was not looking at the church but at the people in it, mangled and smashed and splintered—the rector and Mrs. Wyvern and the little girls. Bess Brightford, aged six, died suddenly, from enemy action. Irene Brightford, aged five. Trot—
“You won’t hear it,” Mr. Dorming had said. “You’ll never know what hit you.” Was that true? She hoped fervently that it was, that they hadn’t had time to realize they were trapped, to feel the church crashing down, to know what was going to happen to them.
Like I do, Polly thought sickly. She pushed the panic forcibly back down. You’re not trapped. Just because the drop is damaged doesn’t mean they can’t pull you out. There’s plenty of time.
But that was just it. Oxford didn’t need any time. They had all the time in the world. Even if they had to repair the drop, and it took weeks—or months—they could still have been here as soon as it happened. So where are they?
Perhaps they couldn’t find me, she thought, the panic pushing up into her throat again. She hadn’t checked in, hadn’t told them her address. And there was no one at Mrs. Rickett’s to tell them she lived there.
But Mr. Dunworthy would have made the retrieval team check every room and flat listed under “To Let” in the newspapers. And they knew she was working on Oxford Street. Mr. Dunworthy would have made them check every department of every store.