Connie Willis - Blackout

Whoever composed that has obviously never eaten at Mrs. Rickett’s, she thought and went to look at the lending library. It consisted of a stack of newspapers, one of magazines, and a single row of worn paperbacks, most of which seemed to be murder mysteries.

“Book, dear?” the ginger-haired librarian asked her. “This one’s very good.” She handed Polly Agatha Christie’s Murder in Three Acts. “You’ll never guess who did it. I never do with her novels. I always think I have the mystery solved, and then, too late, I realize I’ve been looking at it the wrong way round, and something else entirely is happening. Or perhaps you’d like a newspaper. I’ve got last evening’s Express.” She pressed it into Polly’s hands. “Just bring it back when you’re done with it so someone else can have a read.”

Polly thanked her and looked at her watch. She still had twenty minutes to fill. She got in the queue for the canteen, again keeping an eye on the escalators so she could dart to claim a step as soon as they stopped, and observing the contemps in the queue: a couple in evening dress, complete with fur cloak and top hat; an elderly woman in a bathrobe and carpet slippers; a bearded man reading a Yiddish newspaper.

A group of ragged, dirty urchins hovered nearby, playing tag and obviously hoping someone would offer to buy them a biscuit or an orange squash. The woman ahead of Polly carried a fretful toddler, and the one ahead of her had two pillows, a large black handbag, and a picnic basket. When she neared the front of the queue, she shifted the pillows to one arm, set the basket on the floor beside her, and opened her handbag. “I do so hate people who wait till they reach the counter to look for their money,” she said, digging in the bag. “I know I had a sixpence in here somewhere.”

“You’re it!” one of the urchins shouted, and a ten-year-old girl ran by, knocking against the handbag. Its contents, including the elusive sixpence, spilled out in all directions, and everyone except Polly stooped to gather up the lipstick, handkerchief, comb.

Polly was looking after the girl. She knocked against her on purpose, she thought and glanced back at the picnic basket. It was gone.

“Stop, thief!” the woman shouted, and the rest of the urchins scattered.

A station guard took off in hot pursuit, shouting, “Come back here, you hooligans!”

He was back in moments, pulling a small boy along by the ear. “Ow,” the boy protested. “I didn’t do nuthin’.”

“That’s him,” the woman said, “the one who stole my basket.”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” the boy said, outraged. “I never-”

A workman came up, carrying the basket. He pointed at the boy. “I saw him stowin’ this behind a dustbin.”

“I put it there for safekeeping,” the boy said, “till I could take it to the lost-and-found. I found it layin’ on the platform, without a soul round it.”

“What’s your name?” the guard demanded.

“Bill.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“At ’er work,” an older girl said, coming up, and Polly recognized her as the one who had knocked against the woman’s handbag. She was wearing a dirty, too-short dress, and a filthy hair ribbon. “Mum works in a munitions factory. Making bombs. It’s dreadful dangerous work.”

“Is this your sister?” the guard asked the boy, and he nodded. “What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Vronica. Like the film star.” She clutched the guard’s sleeve. “Oh, please don’t tell Mum about this, sir. She’s enough worries already, what with our dad in the war.”

“’E’s in the RAF,” the boy put in. “’E flies a Spitfire.”

“Mum ain’t ’eard from him in weeks,” the girl said tearfully. “She’s ever so worried.”

She’s nearly as good as Sir Godfrey, Polly thought admiringly.

“Poor little tykes,” the woman murmured, and several of the people who’d gathered around glared at the guard. “There’s no harm done. After all, I’ve got my basket back.”

I think you’d better check the contents before you say that, Polly thought.

“Oh, thank you, ma’am,” the girl said, clutching the woman’s arm. “You’re ever so kind.”

“I’ll let you go this time,” the guard said sternly, “but you must promise never to do it again.” He let go of the boy, and the two children instantly darted off through the crowd and down the escalator. Which had been switched off at some point during the altercation and was now crammed with people sitting and lying on the narrow steps.

Little wretches, Polly thought. They cheated me out of my place, and she made the rounds again, looking for an unoccupied space. There weren’t any. Shelterers slept down on the rails after the trains stopped, but even though there were no historical accounts of anyone having been run over, it still struck her as a dangerous practice, to say nothing of all those emptied-out chamber pots.

She finally found an unoccupied space in one of the connecting tunnels between two already sleeping women. Polly took off her coat, spread it out, and sat down. She set her shoulder bag next to her, then remembered the Artful Dodger and his sister and tucked it behind her back, leaned against it, and tried to go to sleep, which should have been easy. She hadn’t slept at all last night and only a bit more than three hours the night before. But it was too bright and too noisy, and the wall was as hard as a rock.

She stood up, folded her coat into a pillow, and lay down, but the floor was even harder, and when she closed her eyes, all she could think about was how upset Mr. Dunworthy would be at her taking so long to check in and what Miss Snelgrove would say when she saw she still didn’t have a black skirt. Which did no good. There wasn’t anything she could do about either one at the moment.

She sat up and unfolded the Express the librarian had lent her. The ocean liner City of Benares, packed with evacuees, had been sunk by a German U-boat, the RAF had shot down eight German fighters, and Liverpool had been bombed. There was nothing about John Lewis-only a story headed “Mass Bombing of City Continues,” which said, “Among the targets Tuesday night were two hospitals and a shopping street”-but there was a John Lewis ad on page four.

Polly wondered if they’d forgotten to take it out of the paper, or if it was an attempt to deceive the Germans into believing it hadn’t been hit. During the V-1 attacks, they’d planted false information in the papers about where the rockets had landed. She looked to see if there was an ad for Peter Robinson’s, which had also been hit.

There wasn’t. Selfridges was having a sale on siren suits, a one-piece wool coverall, “perfect for nights in the shelter-stylish and warm.” That’s what I need, Polly thought. The cement floor was cold. She unfolded her coat, draped it over herself, put her head on her bag, and tried again to sleep.

To no avail, even though at half past eleven the lights dimmed and conversation dropped to a murmur. She couldn’t hear the bombs-the sound didn’t penetrate this far underground. It was unnerving, not knowing what was going on up there. She lay there, listening to the shelterers snoring, and then sat up again and read the rest of the paper, including the “Cooking in Wartime” column-which it was clear Mrs. Rickett got her recipes from-the casualties list, and the personal ads.

They gave an intimate glimpse into what life was like for the contemps. Some were funny-L. T., Apologize for behavior at Officer’s Club dance last Sat. Please say you’ll give me another chance. Lt. S. W.-and others heartbreaking-Anyone having any information regarding Ensign Paul Robbey, last seen aboard the Grafton at Dunkirk, please contact Mrs. P. Robbey, 16 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. And there was no one who wasn’t affected by the Blitz, as witness: Lost, white cat, answers to Moppet, last seen during night raid 12 September. Frightened of loud noises. Reward.

Poor thing, Polly thought, trapped in a terrifying situation it couldn’t understand. She hoped it was all right. She read through the rest of the personals-Homes wanted for evacuees and R. T., Meet me Nelson Monument noon Friday, H. and Ambulance drivers needed. Enlist in the FANY today-and lay down again, determined to sleep.

She did, only to be wakened by a crying baby, a woman on her way to the loo, murmuring “Sorry… sorry… sorry,” and then a guard saying sharply, “Put that cigarette out. No smoking allowed in the shelter due to the fire danger.” The idea that the authorities were concerned about fire when half of London was on fire above them struck her as extremely funny, and she laughed to herself and fell asleep.

This time it was the guard shouting “All clear!” that woke her. She put on her coat, yawning, and went down to the Central Line to catch the first westbound train, only to be met by a notice board: “No train service between Queensway and Shepherd’s Bush.” That included Notting Hill Gate, which ruled out any chance of getting to the drop before work. She would have to buy a skirt at Townsend Brothers before the store opened.

But the train took half an hour to arrive and then promptly stopped between stations. Twice. She scarcely had time to reach the store and wash her face and comb her hair in the employee loo before the opening bell. Her blouse was wrinkled and the back had a brown streak between the shoulder blades from where she’d sat against the wall. She brushed at it awkwardly, tucked the blouse in, and went out to the floor, praying Nan wasn’t back.

She apparently was. Miss Snelgrove came over to Polly’s counter immediately, her lips pursed in disapproval, and said, “I believe I told you on being hired that Townsend Brothers’ shopgirls wear black skirts and neat, clean white blouses.”

“Yes, ma’am, you did,” Polly said. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’ve been unable to get home these past two nights because of the raids. I spent both nights in a shelter.”

“I will let it go today,” Miss Snelgrove said. “I realize the current situation has created certain… complications. However, it is our job to overcome them. Townsend Brothers cannot allow its standards to drop, no matter what the circumstances.”

Polly nodded. “I’ll have it by tomorrow, I promise.”

“See that you do.”

“Old bat,” Marjorie whispered to Polly as soon as she was gone. “Have you got money enough for a skirt? If you haven’t, I could loan you a bit.”

“Thanks, I can manage it,” Polly said.

“I’ll cover your counter if you want to leave early so you can buy it before the shops close.”

“Would you?” Polly said gratefully. “But won’t we get in trouble?”

“I’ll tell Miss Snelgrove Mrs. Tidwell asked if we have the Dainty Debutante girdle in extra large. Looking for it will keep her in the workroom till well after closing.”

“But what if she finds it?”

“She won’t. We only had one, and I’ve already sent it out to Mrs. Tidwell.”

Marjorie was as good as her word, and Polly was able to leave half an hour early, which was wonderful since she’d decided the only way to ensure her making it to the drop was to walk. She couldn’t risk being caught underground again, and a bus would have to pull over and stop if the sirens went. The raids weren’t till nearly nine tonight, but after last night she wasn’t taking any chances.