Time is the Fire

by Connie Willis

  “The Underground?” the girl at Foyle’s, the third place I’d tried, said vaguely. “The Tube Museum might have something.”

  “Where’s that?” I asked.

  She didn’t know, and neither did the ticket vendor back at the tube station, but I remembered seeing a poster for it on the platform at Oxford Circus during my travels yesterday. I consulted my tube map, took the train to Victoria, and changed for Oxford Circus, where I checked five platforms before I found it.

  Covent Garden. The London Transport Museum. I checked the map again, took the Central Line across to Holborn, transferred to the Piccadilly Line, and went to Covent Garden.

  And apparently it had been hit, too, because a gust of face-singeing heat struck me before I was a third of the way down the tunnel. There was no smell of explosives, though, or of sulfur or dust. Just ash and fire and hopeless desperation that it was all, all burning down.

  The scent of it was still with me as I hurried upstairs and out into the market, through the rows of carts selling T-shirts and postcards and toy double-decker buses, to the Transport Museum.

  It was full of T-shirts and postcards, too, all sporting the Underground symbol or replicas of the tube map. “I need a book on the Tube during the Blitz,” I asked a boy across a counter stacked with “Mind the Gap” place mats and playing cards.

  “The Blitz?” he said vaguely.

  “World War II,” I said, which didn’t elicit any recognition, either.

  He waved a hand loosely to the left. “The books are over there.”

  They weren’t. They were on the far wall, past a rack of posters of tube ads from the twenties and thirties, and most of what books they had were about trains, but I finally found two histories of the Tube and a paperback called London in Wartime. I bought them all and a notebook with a tube map on the cover.

  The Transport Museum had a snack bar. I sat down at one of the plastic tables and began taking notes. Nearly all the tube stations had been used as shelters, and a lot of them had been hit—Euston Station, Aldwych, Monument. “In the aftermath of the bombing, the acrid smell of brick dust and cordite was everywhere,” the paperback said. Cordite. That was what I had smelled.

  Marble Arch had taken a direct hit, the bomb bursting like a grenade in one of the passages, ripping tiles off the walls as it exploded, sending them slicing through the people sheltered there. Which explained the smell of blood. And the lack of heat. It had been pure blast.

  I looked up Holborn. There were several references to its having been used as a shelter, but nothing in any of the books that said it had taken a hit.

  Charing Cross had, twice. It had been hit by a high-explosive bomb, and then by a V-2 rocket. The bomb had broken water mains and loosed an avalanche of dirt down onto the room containing the escalators. That was the damp earthiness I’d smelled—mud from the roof collapsing.

  Nearly a dozen stations had been hit the night of May 10, 1941: Cannon Street, Paddington, Blackfriars, Liverpool Street—

  Covent Garden wasn’t on the list. I looked it up in the paperback. The station hadn’t been hit, but incendiaries had fallen all around Covent Garden, and the whole area had been on fire. Which meant that Holborn wouldn’t have to have taken a direct hit, either. There could have been a bombing nearby, with lots of deaths, that was responsible for Holborn’s charnel house smell. And the fact that there had been fires all around Covent Garden fit with the fact that there hadn’t been sulfur, or concussion.

  It all fit—the smell of mud and cordite in Charing Cross, of smoke in Cannon Street, of blast and blood in Marble Arch. The winds I was feeling were the winds of the Blitz, trapped there by London’s inversion layer, caught belowground with no way out, nowhere to go, held and recirculated and intensified through the years in the mazelike tunnels and passages and pockets of the Tube. It all fit.

  And there was a way to test it. I copied a list of all the stations I hadn’t been to that had been hit—Blackfriars, Monument, Paddington, Liverpool Street. Praed Street, Bounds Green, Trafalgar Square, and Balham had taken direct hits. If my theory was correct, the winds should definitely be there.

  I started looking for them, using the tube map on the cover of my notebook. Bounds Green was far north on the Piccadilly Line, nearly to the legendary Cockfosters, and Balham was nearly as far south on the Northern Line. I couldn’t find either Praed Street or Trafalgar Square. I wondered if those stations had been closed or given other names. The Blitz had, after all, been fifty years ago.

  Monument was the closest. I could get there by way of the Central Line and then follow the Circle Line around to Liverpool Street and from there go on up to Bounds Green. Monument had been down near the docks—it should smell like smoke, too, and the river water they’d sprayed on the fire, and burning cotton and rubber and spices. A warehouse full of pepper had burned. That odor would be unmistakable.

  But I didn’t smell it. I wandered up and down the passages of the Central and Northern and District Lines, stood on each of the platforms, waited in the corners near the stairways for over an hour, and nothing.

  It doesn’t happen all the time, I thought, taking the Circle Line to Liverpool Street. There’s some other factor—the time of day or the temperature or the weather. Maybe the winds only blew when London was experiencing an inversion layer. I should have checked the weather this morning, I thought.

  Whatever the factor was, there was nothing at Liverpool Street, either, but at Euston the wind hit me full force the minute I stepped off the train—a violent blast of soot and dread and charred wood. Even though I knew what it was now, I had to lean against the cold tiled wall a moment till my heart stopped pounding and the dry taste of fear in my mouth subsided.

  I waited for the next train and the next, but the wind didn’t repeat itself, and I went down to the Victoria Line, thought a minute, and went back up to the surface to ask the ticket seller if the tracks at Bounds Green were aboveground.

  “I believe they are, sir,” he said in a thick Scottish brogue.

  “What about Balham?”

  He looked alarmed. “Balham’s the other way. It’s not on the same line, either.”

  “I know,” I said. “Are they? Aboveground?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. Sorry. If you’re going to Balham, you go down to the Northern Line and take the train to Tooting Bec and Morden. Not the one to Elephant and Castle.”

  I nodded. Balham was even farther out in the suburbs than Bounds Green. The tracks were almost certain to be aboveground, but it was still worth a try.

  Balham had taken the worst hit of any of the stations. The bomb had fallen just short of the station, but in the worst possible place. It had plunged the station into darkness, smashed the water and sewer pipes and the gas mains. Filthy water had rushed into the station in torrents, flooding the pitch-black passages, pouring down the stairs and into the tunnels. Three hundred people had drowned. And how could that not still be there, even if Balham was aboveground? And if it was there, the smell of sewage and gas and darkness would be unmistakable.

  I didn’t follow the ticket vendor’s directions. I detoured to Blackfriars, since it was nearly on the way, and stood around its yellow-tiled platforms for half an hour with no result before going on to Balham.

  The train was nearly deserted for most of the long trip. From London Bridge out there were only two people in my car, a middle-aged woman reading a book and, at the far end, a young girl, crying.

  She had spiked hair and a pierced eyebrow, and she cried helplessly, obliviously, making no attempt to wipe her mascaraed cheeks, or even turn her head toward the window.

  I wondered if I should go ask her what was wrong or if the woman with the book would think I was hitting on her. I wasn’t even sure she would be aware of me if I did go over—there was a complete absorption to her sorrow that reminded me of Cath, intent on finding her china. I wondered if that was what had broken this girl’s heart, that they had discontinue
d her pattern? Or had her friends betrayed her, had affairs, gotten old?

  “Borough,” the automated voice said, and she seemed to come to herself with a jerk, swiped at her cheeks, grabbed up her knapsack, and got off.

  The middle-aged woman stayed on all the way to Balham, never once looking up from her book. When the train pulled in, I went over and stood next to her at the door so I could see what classic of literature she found so fascinating. It was Gone with the Wind.

  But the winds aren’t gone, I thought, leaning against the wall of Balham’s platform, listening for the occasional sound of an incoming train, futilely waiting for a blast of sewage and methane and darkness. The winds of the Blitz are still here, endlessly blowing through the tunnels and passages of the Tube like ghosts, wandering reminders of fire and flood and destruction.

  If that was what they were. Because there was no smell of filthy water at Balham, or any indication that any had ever been there. The air in the passages was dry and dusty. There wasn’t even a hint of mildew.

  And even if there had been, it still wouldn’t explain Holborn. I waited through three more trains on each side and then caught a train for Elephant and Castle and the Imperial War Museum.

  “Experience the London Blitz,” the poster had said, but the exhibit didn’t have anything about which tube stations had been hit. Its gift shop yielded three more books, though. I scoured them from cover to cover, but there was no mention at all of Holborn or of any bombings near there.

  And if the winds were leftover breezes from the Blitz, why hadn’t I felt them the first time we were here? We had been in the Tube all the time, going to the conference, going to plays, going off on the Old Man’s wild hares, and there hadn’t been even a breath of smoke, of sulfur.

  What was different that time? The weather? It had rained nearly nonstop that first time. Could that have affected the inversion layer? Or was it something that had happened since then? Some change in the routing of the trains or the connections between stations?

  I walked back to Elephant and Castle in a light rain. A man in a clerical collar and two boys with white surplices over their arms were coming out of the station. There must be a church nearby, I thought, and realized that could be the solution for Holborn.

  The crypts of churches had been used as shelters during the Blitz. Maybe they had also been used as temporary morgues.

  I looked up “morgue” and then, when that didn’t work, “body disposal.”

  I was right. They had used churches, warehouses, even swimming pools after some of the worst air raids to store bodies.

  I doubted if there were any swimming pools near Holborn, but there might be a church.

  There was only one way to find out—go back to Holborn and look. I looked at my tube map. Good. I could catch a train straight to Holborn from here. I went down to the Bakerloo Line and got on a north-bound train. It was nearly as empty as the one I’d come out on, but when the doors opened at Waterloo, a huge crowd of people surged onto the train.

  It can’t be rush hour yet, I thought, and glanced at my watch. Six-fifteen. Good God. I was supposed to meet Cath at the theater at seven. And I was how many stops from the theater?

  I pulled out my tube map and clung to the overhead pole, trying to count. Embankment and then Charing Cross and Piccadilly Circus. Five minutes each, and another five to get out of the station in this crush. I’d make it. Barely.

  “Service on the Bakerloo Line has been disrupted from Embankment north,” the automated voice said as we pulled in. “Please seek alternate routes.”

  Not now! I thought, grabbing for my map. Alternate routes.

  I could take the Northern Line to Leicester Square and then change for Piccadilly Circus. No, it would be faster to get off at Leicester Square and run the extra blocks.

  I raced off the train the minute the doors opened and down the corridor to the Northern Line. Five to seven, and I was still two stops away from Leicester Square, and four blocks from the theater. A train was coming in. I could hear its rumble down the corridor. I darted around people, shouting, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” and burst onto the packed northbound platform.

  The train must have been on the southbound tracks. Next train 4 min., the overhead sign said.

  Great, I thought, hearing it start up, pushing the air in front of it, creating a vacuum in its wake. Embankment had been hit. And that was all I needed right now, a blast from the Blitz.

  I’d no sooner said it than it hit, whipping my hair and my coat lapels back, rattling the unglued edges of a poster for Showboat. There was no blast, no heat, even though Embankment was right on the river, where the fires had been the worst. It was cold, cold, but there was no smell of formaldehyde with it, no stench of decay. Only the icy chill and a smothering smell of dryness and of dust.

  It should have been better than the other ones, but it wasn’t. It was worse. I had to lean against the back wall of the platform for support, my eyes closed, before I could get on the train.

  What are they? I thought, even though this proved they were the residue of the Blitz. Because Embankment had been hit.

  And people must have died, I thought. Because it was death I’d smelled. Death and terror and despair.

  I stumbled onto the train. It was jammed tight, and the closeness, the knowledge that any wind, any air, couldn’t reach me through this mass of people, revived me, calmed me, and by the time I pulled in to Leicester Square, I had recovered and was thinking only of how late I was.

  Seven-ten. I could still make it, but just barely. At least Cath had the tickets, and with luck Elliott and Sara would get there in the meantime and they’d all be busy saying hello.

  Maybe the Old Man changed his mind, I thought, and decided to come. Maybe yesterday he’d been under the weather, and tonight he’d be his old self.

  The train pulled in. I raced down the passage, up the escalator, and out onto Shaftesbury. It was raining, but I didn’t have time to worry about it.

  “Tom! Tom!” a breathless voice shouted behind me.

  I turned. Sara was frantically waving at me from half a block away.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” she said breathlessly, catching up to me. “I’ve been calling you ever since the Tube.”

  She’d obviously been running. Her hair was mussed, and one end of her scarf dangled nearly to the ground.

  “I know we’re late,” she said, pulling at my arm, “but I must catch my breath. You’re not one of those dreadful men who’ve taken up marathon running in old age, are you?”

  “No,” I said, moving over in front of a shop and out of the path of traffic.

  “Elliott’s always talking about getting a Stairmaster.” She pulled her dangling scarf off and wrapped it carelessly around her neck. “I have no desire to get in shape.”

  Cath was wrong. That was all there was to it. Her radar had failed her and she was misinterpreting the whole situation.

  I must have been staring. Sara put a defensive hand up to her hair. “I know I look a mess,” she said, putting up her umbrella. “Oh, well. How late are we?”

  “We’ll make it,” I said, taking her arm, and setting off toward the Lyric. “Where’s Elliott?”

  “He’s meeting us at the theater. Did Cath get her china?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since this morning,” I said.

  “Oh, look, there she is,” Sara said, and began waving.

  Cath was standing in front of the Lyric, next to the water-spotted sign that said tonight’s performance sold out, looking numb and cold.

  “Why didn’t you wait inside out of the rain?” I said, leading them both into the lobby.

  “We ran into each other coming out of the Tube,” Sara said, pulling off her scarf. “Or, rather, I saw Tom. I had to scream to get his attention. Isn’t Elliott here yet?”

  “No,” Cath said.

  “He and Mr. Evers came back after lunch. The day was not a success, so don’t bring up the subject. Mrs. Evers ins
isted on buying everything in the entire gift shop, and then we couldn’t find a taxi. Apparently there are no taxis down in Kew. I had to take the Tube, and it was blocks to the station.” She put her hand up to her hair. “I got blown to pieces.”

  “Did you change trains at Embankment?” I asked, trying to remember which line went out to Kew Gardens. Maybe she’d felt the wind, too. “Were you on the Bakerloo Line platform?”

  “I don’t remember,” Sara said impatiently. “Is that the line for Kew? You’re the tube expert.”

  “Do you want me to check your coats?” I said hastily.

  Sara handed me hers, jamming her long scarf into one sleeve, but Cath shook her head. “I’m cold.”

  “You should have waited in the lobby,” I said.

  “Should I?” she said, and I looked at her, surprised. Was she mad I was late? Why? We still had fifteen minutes, and Elliott wasn’t even here yet.

  “What’s the matter?” I started to say, but Sara was asking, “Did you get your china?”

  “No,” Cath said, still with that edge of anger in her voice. “Nobody has it.”

  “Did you try Selfridge’s?” Sara asked, and I went off to check Sara’s coat. When I came back, Elliott was there.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. He turned to me. “What happened to you this—?”

  “We were all late,” I said, “except Cath, who, luckily, was the one with the tickets. You do have the tickets?”

  Cath nodded and pulled them out of her evening bag. She handed them to me, and we went in. “Right-hand aisle and down to your right,” the usher said. “Row three.”

  “No stairs to climb?” Elliott said. “No ladders?”

  “No rock axes and pitons,” I said. “No binoculars.”

  “You’re kidding,” Elliott said. “I won’t know how to act.”

  I stopped to buy programs from the usher. By the time we got to Row 3, Cath and Sara were already in their seats. “Good God,” Elliott said as we sidled past the people on the aisle. “I’ll bet you can actually see from here.”

  “Do you want to sit next to Sara?” I said.