your station?” Polly asked, praying it wasn’t one of the ones that had been hit.
“Russell Square.”
The streets bordering Russell Square had been pummeled with bombs in September, and the square had been hit by a V-1 in 1944, but the station itself wouldn’t be hit till the terrorist attacks of 2006. They’d be safe there.
But when they reached it, the gates hadn’t been pulled across. “Oh, good, Russell Square’s siren hasn’t gone yet. They don’t close the gates till then,” Marjorie said, and started outside. “I’m glad. I promised Miss Snelgrove I’d give you supper, and one can’t get so much as a cup of tea here.”
“Oh, but I don’t want to—”
“I told you, you’re not imposing. In fact, you may well have saved me.”
“Saved you? How?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when we reach my boardinghouse. Come along. I’m starving.” She took Polly’s arm and struck off down the darkened street.
As they walked, Polly tried to remember what parts of Bloomsbury had been hit on the twenty-first. Bedford Place had been almost completely destroyed in September and October, and so had Guildford Street and Woburn Place. The British Museum had been hit three times in September, but except for the first time, on the seventeenth, the specific dates hadn’t been on Colin’s list. And a Luftwaffe dive-bomber had crashed in Gordon Square, but she didn’t know the date of that either.
Marjorie led Polly down a series of winding streets, stopped in front of a door, knocked, and then used her latchkey. “Hullo?” she called, opening the door. “Mrs. Armentrude?” She listened a moment. “Oh, good, they’ve all gone to St. Pancras. She leaves early to get a good space. We’ll have the house to ourselves.”
“Don’t you go to St. Pancras?”
“No,” she said, leading the way up a flight of carpeted stairs. “There’s a gun in Tavistock Square that goes all night long so that it’s impossible to get any sleep.”
Which meant this wasn’t near Tavistock Square.
“So which shelter do you go to?”
“I don’t.” They went up another carpeted flight and then an uncarpeted one and down a dark corridor. “I stay here.”
“There’s a shelter here, then?” Polly asked hopefully.
“The cellar,” Marjorie said, opening the door onto a room exactly like Polly’s except for an enamel stand with a gas ring, a worn chintz-covered chair with a pair of stockings draped over the back, and a shelf with several tins, boxes, and a loaf of bread on it. Apparently Mrs. Armentrude wasn’t as strict as Mrs. Rickett. Oh, God, Mrs. Rickett was dead. And so was Miss Laburnum. And—
“Though I don’t know but what our cellar’s more dangerous than the bombs.” Marjorie pulled the blackout curtain across the single window and then switched on the lamp by the bed. “I nearly broke my neck two nights ago running down the stairs when the sirens went.” She picked up the kettle. “Now sit down. I’ll be back in a trice.”
She disappeared down the corridor. Polly went over to the window and peeked out between the blackout curtains, hoping the light from the searchlights would let her see if they were near the British Museum, or the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, which had also been hit in the autumn, but the searchlights hadn’t switched on yet.
She could hear Marjorie returning. She let the curtain fall and stepped hastily away from the window. When Marjorie came in with the kettle, she asked, “Is this Bedford Place?”
“No,” Marjorie said, setting the kettle on the gas ring.
It could still be Guildford Street or Woburn Place, though, but at the moment Polly couldn’t think of any reason she could give for pressing Marjorie further.
“Sit down,” Marjorie said, striking a match and lighting the gas under the kettle and getting a teapot and a tin of tea down from the shelf. “The tea will be ready in no time,” she said, as casually as if they weren’t in the middle of Bloomsbury, in a house that might very well be bombed tonight.
And she had to survive not only tonight, but tomorrow night and all the other nights of the Blitz—the twenty-ninth of December and the eleventh of January and the tenth of May. She felt the panic welling up. “Marjorie,” she said to stop it from washing over her, “at the station you said my coming here had saved you. From what?”
“From doing something I knew I shouldn’t,” Marjorie said, smiling wryly. “This RAF pilot I know—hang on.” She switched off the light, opened the curtains,