“Where’s that?” Eileen asked, looking round at the hall.
“Embankment.”
“Embankment? Oh, but—”
“The westbound platform,” the woman said, and the two of them walked quickly away.
Before I could fob the baby off on them, Eileen thought.
What now? She couldn’t take it to Embankment. Mike had told her to wait for him here. If he found John Bartholomew …
But she couldn’t go with him with this infant on her hands. And Embankment was only two stops away.
But Polly’d said some of the lines had been hit. What if she couldn’t get back? She couldn’t risk it. She’d have to find someone here to take the baby. She surveyed the platform, looking for a motherly type.
There was one, bathing a baby in a dishpan. “Shh, sweetheart, don’t cry,” Eileen said, stepping carefully between people’s shoes and their stretched-out stocking feet to get to her.
“I was wondering if you could help me,” she said to the woman, who was wringing out a washcloth. “I’m trying to find this baby’s mother.”
“I’m not it,” the woman said, and began washing her baby’s face.
It didn’t like it. It began to cry, and so did Eileen’s baby. “I know,” Eileen shouted over the din. “I was wondering if you could watch the baby since you have one of your own.”
“I’ve six of my own,” the woman said, grabbing a bar of soap and rubbing it vigorously over her baby’s hair. It screamed even louder. “I can’t take on another.
You’ll have to find someone else.”
But everyone Eileen asked refused to help. Maybe I should just wait till no one’s looking, she thought, and set the baby down in the middle of them and walk off.
They won’t even notice it’s not one of theirs. And even if they did, they’d surely take care of it when they realized it didn’t belong to anyone.
And if they didn’t, and the baby toddled out to the edge of the platform and fell onto the tracks?
I’m going to have to take it to Embankment after all, Eileen thought, and went out to the platform.
It was even more jammed than the others. She stepped gingerly around picnic hampers and over a game of Parchesi. “You! Watch where you’re going!” someone called, but they weren’t speaking to her. They were shouting at two of the urchins who’d accosted her before.
They dashed up to her, just missing the Parchesi game. Eileen instinctively tightened her grip on her handbag. “You said you was named Eileen,” the boy said.
“Eileen wot?”
“Why?” Eileen said eagerly. “Is someone looking for me? A tall man with a limp?”
The boy shook his head.
“Is it the baby’s mother?” she asked, though it couldn’t be. The fireman had indicated that she was dead.
“I told you she pinched it,” the girl said to the boy.
“Eileen wot?” he repeated doggedly.
“O’Reilly,” she said. “Who asked what my name was?” but they were already tearing back down the platform at breakneck speed, vaulting over shelterers and darting between passengers who were getting off the train that had just pulled in.
“Mind the gap,” the guard called, standing inside the door of the train.
The train guard. She wouldn’t have to take the baby to Embankment after all. She could give it to the guard, and he could take it to the WVS post. If she could get to him.
But the platform was jammed, and the doors were already closing. “Wait!” she cried, but it was too late. I’ll have to wait for the next one, she thought, working her way out to the edge so she could hand the infant to the guard as soon as the doors opened.
It had been snuffling, but as soon as Eileen stood still, it set up a howl again. “Shh,” Eileen said. “You’re going to take a nice train ride. Would you like that?”
The baby howled louder.
“You’re going to go on a nice train, and then have some nice milk and biscuits.”
“If the train comes,” the old man next to her said. “They’re saying there’s been a disruption in service.”
“A disruption?” Eileen peered down the track into the tunnel, looking for an engine light in the blackness. Nothing.
This is the story of my life, she thought, standing on platforms waiting for trains which never come, with children who don’t want to go on them.
“That infant should be in bed,” the old man said disapprovingly.
“You’re quite right.” She looked at him consideringly, but he looked frail. And ill-tempered. “I’ll speak to Hitler about it,” she said, and noticed that people waiting had perked up and were looking down the track. She still couldn’t see a light, but there was a faint rumble, and a gust of air caught the skirt of her coat and blew it against her.
“Can you see it?” she turned to ask the old man. The baby gave a sudden ear-splitting shriek and launched herself out of Eileen’s arms.
“Don’t—” Eileen gasped, lunging for it.
“Maaah!” the baby shrieked, its little arms outstretched, and Eileen looked up the platform.
A woman was running toward them, her arms outstretched, too, stumbling over the shelterers sitting against the wall. Her face and arms were smeared with soot, and there was a nasty-looking gash on her cheek, but her face was alight with joy.
“Oh, my darling!” she sobbed, pushing past the old man, nearly knocking him down.
She snatched the baby out of Eileen’s arms and hugged it to her. “I thought I’d never see you again, and here you are! Are you all right?” she said, holding the baby out to look at it. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“It’s fine,” Eileen said. “Only a bit frightened.”
“The bomb knocked you out of my arms, and I couldn’t find you, and the fire … I thought …”
“I need to get to the train,” the old man said, and Eileen was surprised to see that it had pulled in.
He pushed past her to the opening doors.
“Mind the gap,” the guard Eileen had intended to give the baby to said, and passengers began to get off, buffeting mother and baby, but neither of them noticed.
The baby gurgled happily and the mother cooed, “Mummy’s been looking for you everywhere.”
One of the passengers crashed into Eileen, hurrying to get past. “Sorry,” he muttered, and darted past her, so quickly he was halfway to the end of the platform before she realized who it was. John Bartholomew.
He wasn’t wearing the fire-watch uniform—he had on an overcoat and a dangling wool scarf—but it was him. Eileen was certain of it, in spite of his looking younger, in spite of the fact that he was supposed to be at St. Paul’s, not here at Blackfriars. He must have been somewhere else and had returned as soon as the raid began. That was why he was pushing his way desperately through the crowd, to get to St. Paul’s.
“Mr. Bartholomew!” Eileen shouted, and ran after him down the platform.
He didn’t turn his head, he just kept plunging through the crowd, over to the exit and into the tunnel.
Oh, no, he’s here under another name, Eileen thought. And what were the fire watch called? “Officer!” she called as she ran along the tunnel to the stairs.
“Firewatcher! Wait!”
He was halfway up the stairs. “Officer Bartholomew!” she shouted, and stepped squarely onto the Parchesi board. It flipped up, and dice and wooden pieces flew everywhere.
“What the—?” the boys who’d been playing the game said.
“Sorry!” she called without stopping, and ran on up the stairs, sidestepping teapots and shoes.
“Watch where you’re going!” someone shouted as she raced along the tunnel and over to the escalators. “This isn’t a racecourse, you know.”
John Bartholomew was already at the top of the nearly empty escalator and stepping off. “Mr. Bartholomew!” she shouted desperately, vaulting up the moving John Bartholomew was already at the top of the nearly empty escalator and stepping off. “Mr. Bartholomew!” she shouted desperately, vaulting up the moving escalator two steps at a time.