Blackout

by Connie Willis

  She stopped short, remembering the vicar’s letter. Oh, no, she’d forgotten to give it to Mrs. Hodbin. She rummaged through her handbag, found it, and started back toward the Hodbins’, and then stopped again, trying to decide what to do. It was dangerous here in Whitechapel, but far more dangerous on board the City of Benares, and Mrs. Hodbin had looked as if she’d be glad to be rid of Alf and Binnie. If she took them to the Overseas Programme office today or tomorrow, they’d almost certainly end up on the City of Benares.

  You don’t know that, she told herself. You don’t even know that she’d want them to go. She grabbed for those ration books awfully quickly. And Alf and Binnie could just as easily be killed here. But here they’d have a chance. In the dark waters of the Atlantic… Besides, if she did go back, Mrs. Hodbin might not even open the door. And she didn’t have time. She had to get to Oxford Street before Padgett’s closed.

  Eileen put the envelope in her handbag, caught the tube to Marble Arch, walked to Padgett’s, and began searching it. Without Alf and Binnie to deal with, she should be able to check the floors and ask her questions much more quickly.

  But by the time the closing bell rang, she’d only completed the main floor, the mezzanine, and the first floor. For a terrified moment she thought that the closing bell was a siren, and her first panicked instinct was to hurry back to Stepney and the Anderson, but she’d so hoped to be safely back in Oxford by tonight. She forced herself to go to the staff entrance at the side of the store and stand there watching the shopgirls coming out, chattering. But Polly didn’t appear, and no one she asked knew her.

  The sirens went while Eileen was on her way to Marble Arch. There were people camping out in the tunnels and on the platform, and she was tempted to join them. That way she might be able to catch Polly on her way to work, but she was already too mussed and her clothes too wrinkled for the posh stores. She decided to go back to Stepney where she could tidy up, and set out again early in the morning.

  But the raids damaged two of the main streets in Stepney, so that she had to walk nearly two miles to catch the bus in the morning, and just as she reached Oxford Circus, the sirens went, and she had to spend a cramped three-quarters of an hour in the basement shelter of Peter Robinson’s.

  She didn’t reach Padgett’s till nearly noon. She walked purposefully in past the doorman, took the lift to the third floor, and then the stairs to the fifth and began working her way down, checking each department before she asked for Polly, in case she’d remembered her name wrong.

  By half-past twelve, she’d worked her way down to the ground floor, and still hadn’t found her. If Polly’s not on this floor, I’ll have to try Selfridges, she thought, walking toward the stationery department. But as she was asking the shopgirl if Polly Sebastian worked there, two saleswomen emerged chattering from the stairwell, obviously just back from lunch, and the one behind the stationery counter began putting on her hat.

  It’s lunchtime, Eileen thought. She hadn’t seen everyone after all. She’d have to search the store again after they were all back from lunch. And she might have missed Polly at John Lewis as well. She’d have to search it again, too.

  But there was no sign of her at either store, and no one who knew her. That left Selfridges, which stretched for miles, with all sorts of pillars and alcoves and recesses that made it impossible to see more than one department at a time. By closing time she’d only finished searching two of its six floors and wasn’t convinced she’d seen every part of those two. She went out to find Selfridges’ staff entrance, but by the time she did, employees were already streaming out and obviously had been for some time.

  A siren began its up-and-down whine nearby. I want to go home, Eileen thought, then smiled ruefully, thinking, You sound just like Theodore. At least she wouldn’t have to put up with this for weeks on end, as he would. You’ve only got to stand it one more night.

  But she wasn’t certain she could. The raids were so heavy Mrs. Owens abandoned her cupboard and came out to join Theodore and Eileen in the Anderson despite the dampness, and it was only the older woman’s presence and Theodore’s trembling little body pressed against her that kept Eileen from cowering in the corner and screaming. The bombs sounded as if they were right in the garden, though when Mrs. Willett arrived home from the factory, she said Stepney had been largely spared, that most of the bombing had been over Westminster and Whitechapel.

  I hope Alf and Binnie are all right, and that I did the right thing in not giving that letter to Mrs. Hodbin. Today was the thirteenth. If she sent the letter now, it probably wouldn’t arrive till after the City of Benares had sailed, and no other evacuee ship had sunk after that. And they’d be far safer in Canada than in London. Eileen borrowed a stamp from Theodore’s mother, wrote Mrs. Hodbin’s address on the envelope, intending to post the letter on the way to the tube station, and then changed her mind at the last moment. If the City of Benares hadn’t sailed…

  She’d hoped to get to Selfridges before it opened so she could watch the employees arriving, but her train was delayed twice because of damage on the line. When she finally reached Selfridges, she devised a new strategy: She took the lift up to the personnel office to ask if Polly was employed there. “Sorry,” the secretary said as she walked in. “We’ve already filled the opening for a waitress in our Palm Court Restaurant.”

  “Oh, but I’m not—” Eileen began.

  “I’m afraid we have no openings for sales assistants either.” She turned back to her typewriter.

  “I’m not looking to be hired on,” Eileen said. “I’m trying to locate someone who works here. Polly Sebastian.”

  The secretary didn’t even stop typing. “Selfridges does not give out information regarding its employees.”

  “But I must find her. You see, my brother Michael’s in hospital, and he’s asking for her. He’s an RAF pilot. His Spitfire was shot down,” she added, and the secretary not only looked up Polly’s name in the employee files for her, but, when she couldn’t find it there, checked the list of recent hires.

  She also asked a number of difficult-to-answer questions about which airfield Michael was stationed at, so when Eileen went to John Lewis, she said he’d been injured at Dunkirk.

  The secretary there couldn’t find Polly’s name in the files either, and at Padgett’s the secretary said, “I’m only temporary. I usually work in the perfume department, but Miss Gregory’s secretary was killed, and I was called in to substitute, so I don’t know about the personnel files, and Miss Gregory’s not here just now. If you’d care to leave your name, I can have her ring you when she returns.”

  Eileen gave her her name and Mrs. Owens’s telephone number and went back to Selfridges to ask the shopgirls in each department if they knew anyone named Polly Sebastian who worked on their floor, but none of them recognized the name. “She’d only just have started,” she told one in the millinery department. “She has fair hair and gray eyes,” but the young woman was shaking her head.

  “They haven’t hired anyone new since July,” she said, “even though several girls have left, and now I doubt they will, what with the raids causing business to fall off.”

  Which presented a whole new problem—what if Polly had been unable to get hired on at any of the stores she’d mentioned? Presumably she’d have got a job at some other store. But which one? There were dozens of department stores and shops on Oxford Street. It would take weeks to search them all. Polly had said Mr. Dunworthy had insisted she work in one that hadn’t been bombed, but except for the three she’d heard Polly mention, she had no way of knowing which ones those were. “Are you certain it was Padgett’s and not Parson’s?” the shopgirl was asking.

  “Yes,” Eileen said. “Her letter said she was coming to London to take a job at Padgett’s.”

  “Did she say when? Perhaps she hasn’t started yet.”

  She hadn’t thought of that either. Polly might not even be here yet. Eileen didn’t know how long the Blitz had lasted, bu
t she thought it was several months, and Polly’d said her assignment was only for a few weeks. She might not be coming till next week. Or next month.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” the shopgirl was asking.

  No, Eileen thought. “Yes,” she said, thanked her for her help, and started toward the lifts.

  “I hope you find her,” the shopgirl called after her.

  I hope I find her soon, Eileen thought. She had only money enough for two or three more days’ tube fares and meals, even if Theodore’s mother let her stay on. “Stay as long as you like,” she’d said, but she’d meant “till you find your cousin in a day or two,” not weeks.

  But if Polly wasn’t here in 1940 yet or was working in one of the dozens of smaller shops, it might take much longer to find her. Eileen would have to find work. But doing what? Her only experience was as a servant, but going into service was the worst thing she could do. She’d have a half-day out at most and no freedom to come and go.

  Perhaps I can get hired on at Lyons Corner House, she thought, but when she inquired there, the personnel office told her they were only hiring for the evening shift, which meant she’d have to work during the raids, and she didn’t know whether Lyons had been hit or not.

  She spent the rest of the day searching Parson’s, just in case that was the name Polly’d said, made a list of every shop and department store on Oxford Street so she could tick them off as she searched them, and then bought a newspaper and, on the train home to Stepney, circled all the Situations Vacant ads with Oxford Street addresses.

  There were only four, and none were for Selfridges, Padgett’s, or John Lewis. The best was Waitress wanted. Wisteria Tea Shoppe. 532 Oxford Street. 1 to 5 P.M. shift. It was several blocks from the department stores, but only a few doors down from Marble Arch tube station, so if the raids began before her shift ended, she could take shelter there. And the hours were perfect. She could spend all morning looking for Polly, work her shift, and then go watch the staff entrances as the shopgirls left.

  I’ll take the earliest bus so I can be first in line, she thought as she walked to Theodore’s house, but he met her at the door with, “A lady telephoned for you.”

  It’s Polly, she thought. She went to Padgett’s to apply, and Miss Gregory told her I’d been there and gave her my number. “What was the name of the lady who rang up?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Theodore said. “A lady.”

  “Did she leave her address, or a telephone number?”

  Theodore didn’t know that either. She took him next door to ask Mrs. Owens, thinking, Please don’t have let Theodore have been the one who spoke to her, but Mrs. Owens had taken the call. “What a pity. You only just missed her.”

  “What did she say?” Eileen asked eagerly.

  “Only that she wished to speak with you, and that you were to ring her at this number.” She gave it to Eileen.

  “May I use your phone to ring her? I’m afraid if I go down to the pillar box, Padgett’s will have closed.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Owens showed her to the phone. “Theodore, come with me into the kitchen and have your tea.”

  Good, Eileen thought, giving the operator the number. With them not here in the room, I’ll be able to ask Polly where her drop is. “Hullo, this is Eileen O’Reilly,” she said.

  “Yes, this is Miss Gregory from Padgett’s Department Store. You left your name and number with us.”

  “That’s right.” Polly must be there in the office with her.

  “I phoned to tell you that we have an opening in our sales staff.”

  “An opening?” Eileen said blankly.

  “Yes, to start immediately. As a junior assistant in our notions department.”

  They were offering her a job. Miss Gregory must have found the card she’d left and thought it was an application. But she’d so hoped it was Polly, that she was on her way home. “Are you available, Miss O’Reilly?” Miss Gregory was asking.

  Yes, she thought bitterly. But she couldn’t afford to pass up this job. It was in one of the stores where Polly might already be working, and near the others, and even if Polly didn’t work there, Eileen would be in the heart of Oxford Street and—on her lunch break—able to systematically go up one side of Oxford Street and down the other, searching every department store. “Yes,” Eileen said. “I’d very much like the job.”

  “Excellent. Can you begin tomorrow morning?” Miss Gregory asked, and when Eileen said yes, told her when and where to report and what to wear.

  “Are you going?” Theodore asked, his voice rising threateningly when she rang off.

  Not yet, Eileen thought. “No,” she said, and smiled at him. “I’m going to stay here and work at Padgett’s.”

  Is Your Journey Really Necessary?

  —MINISTRY OF TRANSPORT POSTER, 1940

  London—26 September 1940

  POLLY’S RETRIEVAL TEAM STILL HADN’T COME BY THURSDAY night. I can’t stand this waiting. I’ll give it till Saturday, and then I’m going up to Backbury, she thought, listening to Miss Laburnum and the others argue over which play to do.

  Surprisingly, Sir Godfrey had agreed to the idea of a full-scale theatrical production. “I’d be delighted to assist in such a worthy cause,” he’d said. “We must do Twelfth Night. With Miss Sebastian as Viola.”

  “Oh, I had my heart set on one of Barrie’s plays,” Miss Laburnum said.

  “Perhaps Peter Pan,” Mrs. Brightford suggested. “The children could be in it.”

  “Nelson could play Nana,” Mr. Simms said.

  Sir Godfrey looked aghast. “Peter Pan?”

  “We can’t,” Polly said quickly. “We’ve no way to manage the flying.”

  Sir Godfrey shot a grateful glance at her. “An excellent point. On the other hand, Twelfth Ni—”

  “It must be a patriotic play,” Mrs. Wyvern said decisively.

  “Henry V,” Sir Godfrey said.

  “No, not enough women. We must do a play with women in it so everyone in our little troupe can participate.”

  “And with a dog,” Mr. Simms said.

  “Twelfth Night has lots of women,” Polly said. “Viola, the Lady Olivia, Maria—”

  “I think we should do the clock one,” Trot said.

  “What a good idea!” Miss Laburnum exclaimed. “We can do Barrie’s A Kiss for Cinderella!”

  “Is there a part for a dog in it?” Mr. Simms asked.

  “What about a murder mystery?” the rector said.

  “The Mousetrap,” Sir Godfrey said dryly.

  When I get to Backbury, I must tell Merope that Sir Godfrey likes Agatha Christie, Polly thought, and then realized he was referring to Hamlet. And probably plotting the murder of Miss Laburnum.

  She half listened to them propose possible plays, trying to decide when to go. If she waited till after work on Saturday, she wouldn’t need to ask Miss Snelgrove for time off or run the risk of missing the retrieval team while she was gone. But she seemed to remember Merope saying her half-day off was Monday and that that was when she went through to Oxford to check in. If it took Polly longer than planned to get to Backbury, she ran the risk of Merope’s not being there when she arrived.

  Or not being there at all. Merope’s assignment had to be nearly over. What if she was going back for good on Monday? I’d better not wait till Saturday night, Polly thought.

  “I saw three copies of Mary Rose in a secondhand bookshop last week,” Miss Laburnum said. “Such an affecting play… That poor boy, searching for his lost love those years…” She put her hand to her bosom. “I shall make an expedition to Charing Cross on Saturday.”

  And I shall make one to Backbury, Polly thought. I’ll go Saturday and come back Sunday.

  She needed to find out about trains. It was too late to go to Euston to look at the schedule. The Underground trains had already stopped for the night. She would have to do it in the morning.

  But when the trains began running again at half past six
the next morning, there was a notice board saying the Central Line was out of service due to “damage on the line,” so instead she had to ask Marjorie to watch her counter while she ran up to the book department and consulted an ABC railway guide.

  The earliest train on a Saturday was at 10:02, with connections at Reading and Leamington. It didn’t get in to Backbury till… Oh, no, after ten o’clock at night. That meant she wouldn’t be able to go to the manor till Sunday morning. And depending on how far from Backbury it was, it might take her the better part of the day to walk there and back.

  And if Merope had already gone back, she couldn’t afford to miss the return train. And, according to the ABC, the only one from Backbury on Sunday went at 11:19 A.M.

  I shall to have to go tonight, she thought. If there’s a train.

  There were three, the first one at 6:48. If I go straight to Euston from work, I should be able to make the 6:48, she thought, starting down to her counter to relieve Marjorie.

  Marjorie. If Merope was in Backbury, Polly wouldn’t be coming back, which meant that before she left she needed to buy Marjorie stockings to replace the ones she’d borrowed. But she hadn’t enough money with her for them and her train fare. She’d have to go back to Mrs. Rickett’s for Mr. Dunworthy’s emergency money, and take the 7:55 instead, but that had a benefit. She’d be able to tell Mrs. Rickett where she was going. And if she was delayed for some reason, she could take the 9:03.

  She hurried back to her counter. Marjorie was busy with a customer. Polly brought Doreen over to write up the purchase and, when Marjorie finished waiting on her customer, took the stockings over to her. “They’re lovely,” Marjorie said, “but it wasn’t necessary for you to do that.”

  Yes, it is, Polly thought. You’ve no idea how scarce stockings are about to become. You may well have to make these last for the remainder of the war.

  “Thank you,” Marjorie said. She leaned over the counter toward Polly. “You’ll never guess who was here while you were gone,” she whispered, and before Polly’s heart could turn over, “The airman I told you about who’s always after me to go out with him. Tom. He wanted me to go out dancing.”