the drop was only a little way from the cliff’s edge, and mines were much more likely to be near the water’s edge, or in between the tank traps. They were expecting an invasion from the beach, not from the land.
It was windy here on top of the hill, and freezing standing in the misty rain. He pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck, wishing he hadn’t sold his overcoat. Especially if it took a while for the drop to open. But it shouldn’t. The good thing about all this barbed wire and the wretched weather was that he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone being out in it, including coastwatchers. And if there were any boats out in that choppy water, which he doubted, their crews’ eyes would be trained on the Channel, not on the beach. So he should have a clear shot.
If he could get to the drop. He walked a little farther, trying to see around the jutting cliff, but it was still in the way. He went back to the car, got in, pretended to try the ignition, then got out again and limped north along the road as if looking for a house where he could ask for help. When he judged he was past the jutting cliff, he hobbled out to the edge again.
The drop was clearly visible from here. He could see the rock’s two sides sticking jaggedly up out of the sand. And between them in the middle, right on top of the drop site, a six-inch artillery gun.
And there sprang up all around the park briars and brambles, twined one within the other, so that no one could pass through.
—“SLEEPING BEAUTY”
London—October 1940
POLLY STARED SICKLY AT DOREEN, STANDING THERE SOBBING in the middle of the bustling tube station, oblivious to the people pushing past them. “Hit?” she repeated, thinking, Marjorie’s dead. That’s why she didn’t tell anyone she was leaving.
“And the worst part…” Doreen said, trying to talk through her tears, “oh, Polly, she was in the rubble for three days before they found her!”
Marjorie’s poor mangled body had lain there for three days. Because no one knew she was there. Because no one even knew she was missing. “But her landlady said she’d left,” Polly said, “that she’d taken her things. Why—?”
“I don’t know,” Doreen said. “I asked her, but she said they won’t let her in to see Marjorie—”
“Let her—she’s alive?” Polly said, grabbing both of Doreen’s arms. “Where is she?”
“In hospital. Mrs. Armentrude—that’s her landlady—said she’s very badly hurt… her insides…”
Oh, God, Polly thought. She has internal injuries.
“Mrs. Armentrude said she had a ruptured spleen…”
Polly felt a surge of hope. They’d known how to deal with a ruptured spleen, even in 1940. “Did she say anything about infection?”
Doreen shook her head. “She said some of her ribs were broken and… and… her arm!” And broke down completely.
People didn’t die from broken arms in any century, and if peritonitis hadn’t set in, Marjorie might be all right. “Here, my dear,” Miss Laburnum was saying, offering Doreen a lace-edged handkerchief. “Miss Sebastian, would you like me to fetch your friend a cup of tea from the canteen?”
“No, I’m all right,” Doreen said, wiping at her cheeks. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I feel so dreadful that I was angry at her for going off and leaving us shorthanded, when all the time…” She began to cry again.
“You didn’t know,” Polly said, thinking, We should have. I should have known she wouldn’t have gone off to Bath without telling me, that she wouldn’t have let me down when she’d said she’d cover for me—
“That’s what Miss Snelgrove said,” Doreen sniffled, “that it was no one’s fault. That even if we’d known Marjorie was still in London, we wouldn’t have known where she was. I don’t know what she was doing in Jermyn Street. She must have been on her way to the railway station when the raid began.”
But Jermyn Street’s nowhere near Waterloo Station, Polly thought. It’s in the opposite direction.
“Imagine, thinking you’ll be safely out of London soon, and then…” Doreen began to cry again. “I only wish there were something we could do, but Mrs. Armentrude said she’s not allowed any visitors.”
“Perhaps you could send her flowers,” Miss Laburnum suggested, “or some nice grapes.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Doreen said, cheering up. “Marjorie always liked grapes. Oh, Polly, she’ll be all right, won’t she?”
“Yes, of course she will,” Miss Laburnum said, and Polly looked gratefully at