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!
—HITLER, SPEAKING OF HIMSELF AND HIS PLAN TO INVADE BRITAIN, 4 SEPTEMBER 1940
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