“It’s not your fault,” she said.
But it was his fault. He hadn’t been able to find Denys Atherton, and none of his messages had got through to Oxford. If they had, she wouldn’t be here. “I am so sorry,” he tried to say, choking on dust, on despair. It had all been useless—all those personal ads and wedding announcements and letters to the editor. His messages hadn’t got through. No one had come. She’d still been here when her deadline arrived.
“I thought if I left, I could get you and Eileen out,” he said, looking up at her, but the fire must have burned out, he couldn’t see her face, though he knew she was still there. He could hear her scrabbling at the bricks and wood, pushing them off his chest, freeing his arm.
“I didn’t think you’d be here—”
“Don’t try to talk.” She crawled over him to reach his other arm.
“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he tried to say. “You were supposed to be in Dulwich.”
But the only part that came out must have been “Dulwich,” because she said, “We’ll take you to Norbury. It’s quicker. You mustn’t worry about that. That’s our job.”
He could hear her raise her head suddenly, as if she had heard something, and then he heard Fairchild call from a long way off, “I can’t get the stretcher out! It’s stuck!”
“Leave it! Just bring the medical kit,” Polly called back.
But Fairchild must not have heard her because she shouted, “What? I can’t hear you, Mary!”
Mary? “Mary?” he said.
“Yes,” she said, so softly he could scarcely hear her, and relief broke over him in a great wave. She wasn’t here after her deadline. She wasn’t Polly. She was Mary, and this was her rocket-attacks assignment, and he wasn’t too late. None of it had happened yet—she hadn’t even gone to the Blitz—and there was still time to save her, to already have saved her, and he must be weeping with relief and the tears must be running down his cheeks into his mouth because he could feel wetness on his tongue, in the back of his throat.
“Fairchild!” she shouted. “Bring the kit! Hurry!”
He had to tell her the drops wouldn’t open, had to warn her. “You mustn’t go! There’s something wrong with the net. The drops won’t open. Don’t go!”
But she didn’t understand. “I need to,” she said. “I’m going,” and started to leave.
“No!” he shouted, and grabbed hold of her wrist. “You can’t go! You’ll be trapped there!”
“I won’t leave you trapped here. I promise.”
“No! You don’t understand! You can’t go to the Blitz!” he cried, but he couldn’t get the words out, the tears and dust in his mouth had mixed into a choking mud.
“Your drop, it won’t open—” And there was a sudden, shattering noise and a blast so powerful it knocked them both down.
No, that wasn’t right. He was already down. The Arizona, he thought. It took a bomb right down its stack, and the concussion knocked her off her feet.
She was getting back to her feet, running toward him. “No!” he tried to call to her. “Get down! The Zero’s coming around again!”
She hadn’t heard him, she was still running. “Hit the deck!” he called, but it was too late. The Zero had already strafed her. She fell across him.
“Where are you hit?” he asked her, afraid she was dead, but she wasn’t. She was getting to her knees, fumbling with his collar.
“It was a V-2,” she said, but it couldn’t be. He’d made the Germans shorten their trajectories so they’d fall on Croydon.
“I need to go,” Polly said, bending over him, or had he said that? He couldn’t tell.
“I have to leave,” he said again, in case it hadn’t been him who’d said it. “It’s the only way I can get you out before your deadline.” But she wasn’t listening. She’d stood up and was running across the deck.
And he had been wrong about its being a Zero. It was a Stuka. It had dropped a stick of bombs and sunk the Grafton. And the Lady Jane was pulling away from the mole, leaving without him. “Don’t go!” he shouted. “The Germans will be here any minute.”
Then, miraculously, she was back, bending over him again, and he had to tell her something, only he couldn’t remember what. Something important. “Tell Eileen Padgett’s was hit,” he said, but that wasn’t it.
What was it? He couldn’t think for coughing. “Tell her to take the stairs,” he said, thinking of the stuck elevator, and remembered. He had to warn Polly not to go through to the Blitz.
“It’s a trap,” he said again. “You won’t be able to get out!” But it wasn’t her, it was a soldier wearing a helmet.
Oh, God, it’s the Germans. I didn’t get off Dunkirk in time.
The German shone a flashlight full in his face, and he flinched away from it. They’ve captured me, and they’re interrogating me. If they find out about Fortitude South, they’ll know we’re going to invade at Normandy.
But it was an English soldier. “How badly are you hurt?” he was asking, bending over Ernest, and his helmet was the tin hat of an ARP warden. “What’s your name?”
He thinks I’m Cess, Ernest thought. Thank goodness he’s not here, and tried to tell the warden about Cess’s having traded duties with Chasuble, and his having traded with Cess, and about the harvest fête and Daphne at the Crown and Anchor.
No, that wasn’t right. That was the other Daphne, and she wasn’t there. She was in Manchester, and she was married …
The warden was shaking him. “Davies?” he asked, wiping the plaster dust from his face. “Michael?”
Yes, he thought. But he wasn’t sure, it had been so long since he’d heard his real name, and he’d had so many names since he was killed …
The warden was shaking him and saying urgently, “Can you hear me, Davies? Michael?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank God. Michael, listen, I’m here to take you back to Oxford. I’m Colin Templer.”
But he couldn’t be. Colin was only a boy. “You’re too old,” he murmured.
“I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
“You got my messages,” Ernest said, feeling sick with relief. They were here, they could warn Polly not to go to the Blitz. And they could …
“You have to get Charles out,” he said, trying to raise himself by his elbows. “He’s in Singapore. You have to get him out before the Japanese—”
“We did,” he said. “He’s safe. He’s waiting for you in the lab. Do you think you can stand up?”
He shook his head. “You have to tell Polly—”
“She’s alive? She was alive when you left her?”
Ernest nodded.
“Oh, thank God,” Colin breathed.
It was Colin after all. “You have to tell her—”
“I’ll find her and get her out,” Colin said, “but first I’ve got to get you out of here.”
“No, she’s here,” he tried to say, but he was coughing too hard.
“Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”
“My foot,” he said. “I was unfouling the propeller,” but Colin wasn’t listening. He was digging someone out of the rubble.
It must be Mr. Jeppers, he thought. “Is he all right?” he asked, and heard a siren.
“We need to get to a shelter,” he said.
“That’s the ambulance. I’ve got to get you out of here before they arrive,” Colin said, stooping to lift him. “We can’t let them see us.”
“No, wait, you have to tell Polly not to go,” he tried to say, but he was overcome with a spasm of coughing. It was all the plaster Colin had stirred up digging out Mr. Jeppers. It was making him choke, and all he could get out was her name.
“I’ll go fetch Polly, I promise, as soon as I get you back to Oxford.”
Oxford, Ernest thought, and could see the spires of Christ Church and St. Mary’s, and Magdalen Tower, and Balliol’s quad green in the April sunshine.