Connie Willis - Blackout
And this was time travel. Polly might have failed to find out where Eileen was from the vicar because she had a train to catch, but the retrieval team wouldn’t have. They had literally all the time in the world.
And if Oxford hadn’t been destroyed, if Colin wasn’t dead, where was he? He had promised to come rescue her if she got in trouble.
“If you can,” Polly murmured. “If you’re not killed.”
The arrow above the lift door stopped at three, and she looked over at the lift, half expecting to see Colin standing there. But it wasn’t him. Or Mike and Eileen. It was Marjorie. “Oh, Polly!” she cried. “Thank goodness! I heard Padgett’s was hit, and I was so afraid… is your cousin all right?”
“Yes,” Polly said, grabbing her arm quickly to support her. She looked even whiter and more ill than yesterday.
“Oh, thank heavens,” Marjorie breathed. “No, I’m all right. It was just that I was afraid… I mean, I sent you there, and if something had happened to you…”
“It didn’t,” Polly assured her. “I’m quite all right, and so is she. You’re the one we’re concerned about,” she said reprovingly. “You can’t keep escaping from hospital and dashing over here. You’re an invalid, remember.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Marjorie said. “It was only… when I heard people had been killed-”
“Killed?” Polly said, thinking, Thank goodness. I can tell Mike that, and he’ll stop worrying.
“Yes,” Marjorie said. “One of them died on the way to hospital. That’s how I found out about it. I heard the nurses talking. The other four were dead when they found them.”
Way Out
– NOTICE IN LONDON UNDERGROUND STATIONLondon-17 September 1940
THE SHIMMER BLINDED HIM FOR A MOMENT, AND HE TOOK a stumbling step forward. And nearly killed himself. He was on a narrow spiral staircase, and only a last-moment grab for the iron railing kept him from pitching down it. He cracked his knee hard, barked both shins, and made a clanging, echoing racket in the process.
A brilliant beginning, he thought, nursing his bruised knee and looking at his surroundings. The staircase was in a narrow windowless shaft that extended up-and down-for farther than he could see, and he was apparently the only person in it, or at any rate no one had come to investigate the noise he’d made. And now that its echoes had stopped, he couldn’t hear anything.
Nothing could get through those walls, he thought, looking at the dimly lit stone. If the railing hadn’t been of iron, he’d have thought he was in the tower of a castle. Or the dungeon. In which case he should climb up to get out. But hopefully going either direction would bring him to some clue as to where-and when-this was, and down was easier than up, especially since his knee hurt.
He started down the stairs. Three turns down brought him to a bare lightbulb set in a wall socket, which meant he was in the correct century, but there was nothing to indicate what the staircase was a part of or where it led. If anywhere. He’d already come down a hundred steps, and there was still no end in sight.
I should have gone up, he thought, making another turn in the spiral, and there below him was a door. “Let’s hope it’s not locked,” he said, his voice echoing in the narrow space, and opened the door.
Onto a mob scene. Scores of people scurrying past in both directions, women in knee-length frocks, men in Burberry, uniformed soldiers, sailors, WAAFs, Wrens, all of them walking quickly, purposefully down a brightly lit, low-ceilinged tunnel. There was an arrow painted on the wall and the words “To the trains,” and below it, with an arrow pointing in the opposite direction, “Way Out.”
This is an Underground station, he thought, and started down the tunnel toward a poster on the wall. “Do your bit for the war effort,” it read. “Buy Victory Bonds. Defeat Hitler.”
I made it. I’m actually here in London in World War II, he thought, grinning from ear to ear-an expression which was completely inappropriate for an air raid (and a war), but he couldn’t seem to help himself. And at any rate no one was paying any attention to him. They pushed past him, totally intent on getting wherever it was they were going-workmen in coveralls, businessmen with toothbrush mustaches and furled umbrellas, mothers with children in tow. And every one of them was wearing a hat. The men all had bowlers, fedoras, woolen caps.
He should have worn a hat. The rest of his clothes seemed all right, but he hadn’t realized how universal hats had been in this era. Even the little boys were wearing cloth caps. I’ll stand out like the impostor I am, he thought, searching the crowd for anyone with a bare head.
There was one-a blonde in a WVS uniform-and walking just behind her was a gray-haired man. He began to relax a bit. The man was carrying a pillow under his arm.
He must be one of the shelterers, he thought, though no one was sitting down or lying along the tunnel. Perhaps they only sleep out on the platforms, or this isn’t one of the stations they used for a shelter. Or they haven’t started using the stations yet.
Whenever this was. He’d set the net so he’d come through at 7 p.m. on September 16, 1940. I need to make certain I did, he thought, hurrying down the tunnel, and then remembered he’d need to be able to find his way back to the drop and went back to take a hard look at the door he’d come through. It was black-painted metal, stenciled in white: Stairs to Surface. To Be Used in Case of Emergency Only, which explained the seemingly endless number of steps. And the reason it had been empty.
Near the foot of the door someone had scratched “E.H.+ M.T.” He made a mental note of the initials, of a peeling corner on the Victory Bonds poster, and of a second poster reading Don’t Leave It to Others: Enroll Today. And a notice at the end of the tunnel that said Central Line.
But no mention of what station it was. He needed to find that out, and the date and time of day, before he did anything else. The time should be easy. Nearly everyone was wearing a watch, and he could ask about the station at the same time, but just as he was about to tap a man with an ARP armband on the shoulder, he saw a notice: “Be alert for spies. Report all suspicious behavior.”
Did asking what station one was in count as suspicious behavior? He didn’t see why it would be-he could claim he’d got off at the wrong stop or something-but he’d already made an error about the hat. What if there was something else suspicious about his clothes? He’d better not do anything to attract attention to himself.
And it was more important to find out the date and the station. The name would be posted out on the platform. He started in the direction of the To the Trains arrow, and then stopped and elbowed his way back to a bench, where an elderly man sat snoring, the newspaper he’d been reading open on his chest. “London Damaged by Bombs,” the headline read. He leaned closer to see the date. September seventeenth. Not the sixteenth. He must have made an error in the settings.
And the seventeenth was the day Marble Arch had been hit. He needed to find out what station this was immediately. He hurried on toward the platform.
Halfway down the tunnel was an Underground map. Perhaps it had a You Are Here arrow marked on its crisscrossing multicolored lines.
It didn’t. He was going to have to go on out to the platform. Two children had come up next to him to look at the map-a small boy with a dirty face and an older girl with a half-untied sash and hair ribbon. Children usually took questions, no matter how odd, in stride. He said to the boy, “Can you tell me-?”
“I didn’t do nuthin’,” the boy said defensively and backed away. “I was only standin’ ’ere, lookin’ at the map.”
“We was seein’ which train to take,” the girl said.
So much for not attracting attention. “I only wanted to know what station this is.”
“Coo, ’e don’t know where ’e is,” the girl crowed, and the boy regarded him through narrowed eyes.
“’Ow much’ll you pay us if we tell you?”
“Pay?” How much did one pay an urchin in 1940 for information? Tuppence? No, that was Dickens. Sixpence?
“We’ll tell you for a shilling,” the girl said.
“All right,” he said and fumbled in his pocket for coins, hoping he could recognize a shilling, but he didn’t need to, the boy instantly plucked it out of the coins in his open hand.
“This ’ere’s St. Paul’s,” he said.
Good. This wasn’t Marble Arch. But if it was St. Paul’s Station, that meant he was just along the street from the cathedral itself. From St. Paul’s! I must go see it, he thought. Just for a moment.
If he could. During raids, they’d shut the gates to keep people from going outside. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked.
“’Ow much’ll you pay if-?” the boy began to say, but the girl poked him on the arm, pointing up the tunnel, and both of them took off at a dead run.
He turned to see what had spooked them and saw a uniformed guard coming. “Was them two giving you trouble, lad?”
“No,” he said. “I was only asking them for directions.”
The guard nodded grimly. “I’d check my money if I was you, lad. And your ration book.”
The last thing he needed was an official scrutinizing his papers, but the guard was standing there waiting. He pulled out his ration book, rifled quickly through the pages, and stuck it back into his pocket before the guard could get a good look. “All there…” he said, and oh, blast, how did one address a station guard? Sir? Officer? He decided he’d better not risk either. “No harm done,” he said, and walked quickly away as if he knew where he was going.
It turned out to be the right direction. He rode up the long, wooden-slatted escalator to the station entrance. Good, the gates were open. But as he started through the turnstile, a siren began winding into its up-and-down wail. It was a horrible sound. No wonder they call it the devil’s tri-tone, he thought. But at least now he knew what time it was. On September seventeenth, the sirens had gone at 7:28 P.M. He’d spent several minutes in the staircase and the station. And at least ten dealing with the children and the guard. That meant he’d come through at exactly the right time, so he had definitely made an error on the date.
Another guard was pulling the accordion-like metal gate across the exit. Blast. If those children hadn’t demanded payment, he thought. Now I’ve missed-
But there was still a narrow open space. He darted through it, through the throng of people hurrying into the station, up the steps, and outside onto a twilit narrow street with tall brick buildings on either side.
But no St. Paul’s. He turned to look behind him, but he still couldn’t see it. He craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the dome above the buildings.
“You’d best get under cover, lad,” a workman paused to say before hurrying past him into the station. “Jerry’ll be here any minute,” and the man was right. He had no business being out in the middle of an air raid, but the chance to actually see St. Paul’s was too good to pass up, and there’d been a twenty-minute gap between the sirens and the actual raids.
And all he wanted was a look. He loped to the opposite end of the station and looked down a side street. Not there, and how difficult was it to find an enormous cathedral with a towering dome? Had those urchins lied to him? He sprinted up to the next corner.
And there she was, at the end of the street, looking just as she did in photographs-the dome, the towers, the broad pillared porch-but far more beautiful. He wondered if he had time to go inside, just for a moment.
The siren was winding down. He thought he heard the faint hum of a plane and looked up at the darkening sky. Another siren started up and then another, farther off, each slightly out of sync with the others and drowning out any other sound with their discordant whine. He couldn’t see any planes and he still had at least a quarter of an hour, but the people on the street were hurrying now, their heads ducked as if they expected a blow any second. He’d better get back to the Underground station. He couldn’t afford to get killed. He had to do what he’d come to do. He took one long, last look at St. Paul’s and turned to run back.
And collided full-force with a young woman in a Wren’s uniform. The bundles she’d been carrying flew in all directions.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you,” he said, stooping to pick up a brown-paper-and-string-wrapped parcel.
“It’s all right,” she said, reaching for the shoulder bag she’d dropped. As she picked it up, it opened, spilling its entire contents-compact, handkerchief, ration book, coins, lipstick. The lipstick rolled across the pavement and into the gutter, and he leaped after it, retrieved it, and handed it to her, apologizing again.
She jammed the lipstick into her purse, looking anxiously up at the sky. He could definitely hear planes now, a heavy hum, and a distant whump that had to be a bomb. The Wren began gathering up her things more hurriedly. He scrambled to pick up another parcel and her handkerchief. An elderly man in a black suit stopped to help, and so did a naval officer, both of them stooping to pick up the scattered coins.
There was a deafening boom, much louder than the whump. After several seconds there was another and then another in a steady rhythm. The anti-aircraft guns, he thought, hoping he was out of range of the shrapnel from their shells, and then handed the Wren her comb and her ration book. The black-suited man handed her several coppers and hurried off up the street.
“Will you be all right then?” the naval officer asked her, handing her the last of her coins, and she nodded.
“I’m just down there,” she said, pointing vaguely off to her left, and the naval officer tipped his hat and walked away up the street toward St. Paul’s.
There was another whump, much nearer, and the sky lit briefly. He handed her the last of her parcels, and she hurried off. “I am sorry,” he called after her.
“No harm done,” she called back.
He turned and began to lope back to the station. There was another whump, and then a loud thud and a huge crash, and the entire sky lit up. He broke into a run.
For the riveting conclusion to Blackout,
be sure not to miss Connie Willis’s All Clear.
Coming from Spectra in Fall 2010.
