“Alf, Binnie, come with me,” Eileen said abruptly, and herded them back to the now-deserted chapel. She opened the gate.
“Why’re we goin’ back in ’ere?” Binnie asked as Eileen motioned them inside.
“We didn’t nick nothin’,” Alf said.
Oh, no, Polly thought. What did they steal now?
“We wasn’t even in ’ere,” Alf said. “We was lookin’ at that picture the whole time.”
Eileen shut and latched the gate and then turned to face them.
“We didn’t take nothin’,” Binnie said. “Honest.”
Eileen didn’t even seem to have heard that. “How long has your mother been dead?” she asked.
Dead?
“You’re daft,” Alf said. “Our mum ain’t dead.”
“She’s down at Piccadilly Circus this minute,” Binnie said, sidling toward the gate. “We’ll go fetch ’er.”
Eileen stepped firmly between them and the gate. “You’re not going anywhere.” She looked across at Polly. “Their mother was killed in a raid last autumn, and they’ve been covering it up ever since. They’ve been living on their own in the shelters.
“Haven’t you?” Eileen demanded, looking at the children. “How long has she been dead?”
“We told you,” Alf said, “she ain’t—”
“She died at St. Bart’s, didn’t she?” Eileen said. “That’s how you knew where the hospital was, isn’t it? And why you wanted to leave, because you were afraid a nurse would recognize you and tell me what happened.”
“No,” Alf said. “You said you needed to get to St. Paul’s. That’s why we was—”
“How long has she been dead, Binnie?”
“We told you—” Alf began.
“Since September,” Binnie said.
Alf turned on her furiously. “What’d you tell ’er that for? Now she’ll turn us in.”
Binnie ignored him. “We didn’t find out till October, though,” she said. “Sometimes Mum don’t come ’ome for two or three days, so we didn’t think nothin’ of it, but after a bit we got worried and went lookin’ for her, and one of Mum’s friends said she was in a pub what got ’it by a thousand-pounder.”
And there wasn’t a body left to identify, Polly thought. Like Mike. And the “friend” was either a fellow prostitute or one of Mrs. Hodbin’s clients, neither of whom would have wanted to have anything to do with the police, so her death hadn’t been reported to the authorities.
“She’d already been killed when I came to borrow the map, hadn’t she?” Eileen asked. “That was why you wouldn’t let me in and told me she was sleeping.”
Binnie nodded. “That’s what we told the landlady, too. Mum slept a lot when she was ’ome, you see, and we ’ad the ration books, so it was all right. Till we run out of money and couldn’t pay the rent.”
“And the landlady found out about Mrs. Bascombe,” Alf said.
“Their parrot,” Eileen explained to Polly.
“So we told ’er we was all goin’ to live with Mum’s sister in the country.”
“And you went to live in the shelters,” Eileen said.
“But what did you live on if you hadn’t any money?” Polly asked, and then thought, Picking pockets and stealing picnic baskets.
Mr. Humphreys and the vicar were coming back, Mr. Humphreys still talking of Captain Faulknor.
Binnie looked stricken. “You ain’t gonna tell the vicar, are you?”
“Promise you won’t tell nobody,” Alf said, “or we’ll ’afta go to a orphanage.”
“Ah, here you are,” Mr. Humphreys said.
The vicar looked at them, taking in the latched gate, Eileen’s sentrylike stance, the children’s expressions. “What’s going on here, Miss O’Reilly?” he asked.
Please, Binnie mouthed.
Eileen turned, unlatched the gate, and let them into the chapel. “Alf and Binnie were just telling me about their mother,” she said. “She was killed last autumn.
They’ve been living on their own in the shelters.”
Binnie looked utterly betrayed.
“What’d you do that for?” Alf wailed. “Now they’ll send us away, and you’re the only one what’s nice to us.”
“We don’t need no one to take care of us,” Binnie said belligerently. “Me ’n’ Alf can take care of ourselves.”
“I’ll take them in,” Eileen said.
“What?” Polly said. “You can’t—”
“Someone must. They obviously can’t go on living in the tube stations,” Eileen said. “Mr. Goode, can you arrange for me to be named their guardian?”
“Yes, of course, but …” He turned to Mr. Humphreys. “Would you mind terribly showing the children round the cathedral for a bit? We need to discuss—”
“Of course,” Mr. Humphreys said. “Poor things. Come along with me, children.”
“It’ll be all right,” Eileen said to Binnie.
“You swear?”
“I swear. Go on, go with Mr. Humphreys.”
They’ll bolt, just as they did the morning after the twenty-ninth, Polly thought, but they went docilely off with the verger.
“Come, I’ll show you The Light of the World,” Polly heard him say as they went up the aisle.
“We already seen it,” Alf said.
“Oh, but you’ll find that you see something different in it each time,” Mr. Humphreys replied.
I can imagine, Polly thought.
Their footsteps died away. “Are you quite certain you want to do this, Miss O’Reilly?” the vicar asked. “After all, the Hodbins are—”
“I know,” Eileen said.
“Mrs. Rickett will never allow it,” Polly said. “You know her rules.”
“And it would be better if they were safely out of London,” the vicar said. “The Evacuation Committee—”
“No,” Eileen said. “If they’re evacuated, they’ll run away, and they won’t survive on their own. Alf plays with UXBs, and Binnie’s a young girl. She can’t just run wild in the shelters, or …”
She’ll end up like her mother, Polly thought.
“They haven’t anyone else,” Eileen said to Polly. “If we don’t rescue them—”
“But what about Mrs. Rickett?” Polly said. “You know her rules—no cooking in the room, no pets, no children. And Mr. Goode’s leave is up today—”
“I’ll see if I can get additional time, since this is a matter involving my parishioners,” he said. “And perhaps I can persuade Mrs. Rickett to relax her rules, given the circumstances.”
I highly doubt that, Polly thought, and just as she expected, Mrs. Rickett was not impressed by either the vicar’s clerical collar or his arguments.
“You know the rules,” she said, her arms folded militantly across her chest. “No children.”
“But their mother was killed in a raid,” the vicar said, “and they’ve nowhere else to go. The Church will provide cots and bedding for them.”
“And we’ll see that they don’t cause you any bother,” Eileen added.
That’s not the way to Mrs. Rickett’s heart, Polly thought. “We’ll pay extra for their board,” she said, “and children are allowed an extra milk ration.”
“How large a ration?” Mrs. Rickett demanded, her eyes glittering at the thought of the milk puddings and cream soups she could cook up into inedible messes.
“Half a pint a day,” the vicar said.
“Very well,” Mrs. Rickett said, nearly snatching the children’s ration books out of Eileen’s hands, “but their board won’t begin till the day after tomorrow.”
Of course, Polly thought.
“And if there’s any playing on the stairs, or any noise—”
“There won’t be,” Eileen said earnestly. “They’re very nicely behaved children.”
“You should join the troupe,” Polly said after Mrs. Rickett had gone. “You’re a far better actress than I am.”
Eileen ignored her. “Thank you so much, Mr. Goode,” she said. “We couldn’t have managed it without you. You’ve been wonderful.”