to start up again in new locations after a few weeks. But what about the day after the bombing? Would the stores which hadn’t been damaged be open, or would the whole street be off-limits, like the area around St. Paul’s? And for how long? If I haven’t got a job by tomorrow night—
Of course they’ll be open, she thought. Think of all those window signs the Blitz was famous for: “Hitler can smash our windows, but he can’t match our prices,” and “It’s bomb marché in Oxford Street this week.” And that photograph of a woman reaching through a broken display window to feel the fabric of a frock. It might even be a good day to apply for a position. It would show that the raids didn’t frighten her, and if some of the shopgirls weren’t able to make it into work because of bombed bus routes, the stores might hire her to fill in.
But she’d also have to compete with all those suddenly unemployed John Lewis shopgirls, and they’d be more likely to be taken on than she would, out of sympathy. Perhaps I should tell them I worked there, she thought.
She folded her coat into a pillow and lay down, but she couldn’t sleep. The droning planes were too loud. They sounded like monstrous buzzing wasps, and they were growing louder—and nearer—by the moment. Polly sat up. The noise had wakened the rector, too. He’d sat up and was looking nervously at the ceiling. There was a whoosh, and then a huge explosion.
Mr. Dorming jerked upright. “What the bloody hell—?” he said, and then, “Sorry, Reverend.”
“Quite understandable given the circumstances,” the rector said. “They seem to have begun again.” Which was an understatement even for a contemp. The gun in Battersea Park was going full blast, and he had to shout to make himself heard. “I do hope those girls are all right. The ones who were trying to find Gloucester Terrace.”
The gun in Kensington Gardens started in again, and Irene sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Shh, go back to sleep,” Mrs. Brightford murmured, looking over at Mr. Dorming, who was staring at the ceiling. The raid seemed to be directly overhead, whumps and bangs and long, shuddering booms that woke up Nelson and Mr. Simms and the rest of the women. Mrs. Rickett appeared annoyed, but everyone else looked wary and then worried.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t have let the girls go,” Miss Laburnum said.
Trot crawled into her mother’s lap. “Shh,” Mrs. Brightford said, patting her. “It’s all right.”
No, it’s not, Polly thought, watching their faces. They had the same look they’d had when the knocking began. If the raid didn’t let up soon…
Every antiaircraft gun in London was firing—a chorus of deafening thump-thump-thumps, punctuated by the thud and crash of bombs. The din grew louder and louder. Everyone’s eyes strayed to the ceiling, as if expecting it to crash in at any moment. There was a screech, like tearing metal, and then an ear-splitting boom. Miss Hibbard jumped and dropped her knitting, and Bess began to cry.
“The bombardment does seem rather more severe this evening,” the rector said.
Rather more severe. It sounded as if the planes—and the antiaircraft guns—were fighting it out in the sanctuary upstairs. Kensington wasn’t hit, she told herself.
“Perhaps we should sing,” the rector shouted over the cacophony.
“That’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Wyvern said, and launched into “God save our noble King.” Miss Laburnum and then Mr. Simms gamely joined in, but they could scarcely be heard above the roar and scream outside, and the rector made no attempt to go on to the second verse. One by one, everyone stopped singing and stared anxiously up at the ceiling.
A high-explosive bomb exploded so close that the beams of the shelter shook, followed immediately by another HE, even closer, drowning out the sound of the guns but not the planes droning endlessly, maddeningly overhead. “Why isn’t it letting up?” Viv asked, and Polly could hear the panic in her voice.
“I don’t like it!” Trot wailed, clapping her small hands over her ears. “It’s loud!”
“Indeed,” the elderly gentleman said from his corner. “‘The isle is full of noises,’” and Polly looked over at him in surprise. His voice had changed completely from the quiet, well-bred voice of a gentleman to a deep, commanding tone that made even the little girls stop crying and stare at him.
He shut his book and laid it on the floor beside him. “‘With strange and several noises,’” he said, getting