Connie Willis - Blackout

I’ll have to ask one of the villagers, she thought, but there was no one in sight. They might be in church. It was Sunday, and even if Backbury didn’t have an early mass, the local equivalent of Mrs. Wyvern might be there arranging the altar flowers. But when she pushed open the door and looked in the sanctuary, she couldn’t see anyone. “Hullo?” she called. “Anyone there?”

The only response was a distant whistle. So I know which direction the railway station is, she thought, going back outside and following the sound and the plume of smoke. She arrived at the station platform in time to see a troop train race by at top speed.

Why couldn’t they have moved that quickly last night? she thought, walking over to the station, though it could hardly be called that. It was no larger than a potting shed. There was probably no point in knocking, but when she did, there was the sound of a cough and then a shuffle and an unshaven and obviously hungover-or drunken-man opened the door.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Polly said, taking a step back so he didn’t fall on her. “Can you direct me to the manor?”

“Manor?” he said, weaving and squinting blearily at her. Definitely drunk.

“Yes. Can you tell me how to get there?”

He waved vaguely. “Road just beyond the church.”

“Which way?”

“Only goes one way,” he said and would have shut the door if she hadn’t grabbed it and held it open.

“I’m looking for someone who works at the manor. One of the maids. Her name’s Eileen. She cared for the evacuees at the manor. She has red hair and-”

“Evacuees?” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You ain’t here about those bloody Hodbin brats, are you?”

Hodbin? That was the name of the evacuees who’d given Merope so much trouble.

“You’d better not be bringin’ ’em back.”

“I’m not. Does Eileen still work at the manor?” she asked, but he’d already slammed the door, and it would have been on her hand if she hadn’t snatched it away at the last second. “Can you tell me how far it is?” she called through the door, but got no answer.

It can’t be that far. Merope walked it, Polly thought, going back to the church and then along the road beyond it. It was more a lane than a road-and the sort of lane that looked as if it would peter out in the middle of a field-but there was nothing else resembling either a road or a lane, and it led only south. It was also rutted with tire tracks, and Merope had been going to take driving lessons.

But it sounded from what the station agent had said that the Hodbins were no longer here, and if the evacuees had gone home, Eileen would have, too. From what Eileen had said, though, the Hodbins might have been sent home in disgrace. Or shipped off to a reform school.

The lane led past a hayfield and then into woods. There was a scent of rain in the air. Rain, Polly thought. That’s all I need. Merope had better be here, after all this.

Where was the manor? Polly’d already come at least a mile, and there was still no gateway, or, in spite of all the tire tracks, a vehicle in which she could catch a ride. There were only woods. And more woods.

Merope-correction, Eileen; she had to remember to call her Eileen-had said her drop site was in the woods, near the manor house. If she wasn’t there, perhaps Polly could still find it, though if she’d gone back it would no longer be working.

The lane curved to the left. It can’t be much farther, Polly thought, trudging along the ruts, but there was still no sign of a manor house through the woods, or any other house, for that matter, and the lane seemed to be narrowing. And ahead, the woods had been fenced off with barbed wire.

It is going to peter out in a field, she thought. I must have come the wrong way.

No, wait, there was the manor’s gateway ahead, with its stone pillars and wrought-iron gate. And a sentry box, complete with a bar to keep vehicles out. And a uniformed sentry.

“State your name and business,” he said.

“I’m Miss Sebastian. I was looking for someone, but I must have come the wrong way. I was trying to find the manor.”

“This is it. Or was. Now it’s the Royal Riflery Training School.”

And it was a good thing she hadn’t tried to find the drop on her own. She might have been shot. “When-how long has the school been here?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Lieutenant Heffernan that. I’ve only been here two weeks.”

“You don’t know if any of the staff stayed on after the manor was taken over, do you?”

“You’ll have to ask Lieutenant Heffernan.” He stepped back into the sentry box and picked up the telephone. “A Miss Sebastian to see Lieutenant Heffernan. Yes, sir,” he said. He hung up and came back out. “You’re to go up.” He raised the bar so she could pass through. “Follow the drive up to the house and ask for Operations.” He handed her a pasteboard visitor’s pass. “It’s just through there,” he said, pointing between a pair of new-looking barracks.

“Thank you,” Polly said and started up the gravel drive, even though there was no point. Merope’s assignment had obviously ended with the takeover of the manor. Unless the remaining evacuees had been transferred to another village and she’d gone with them. But Lieutenant Heffernan couldn’t tell her anything about the evacuees.

“I didn’t arrive till after the school was in operation,” he said.

“When did the Army take over the manor?”

“August, I believe.”

August. “Did any of the staff stay on here?”

“No. Some of them may have gone with the lady of the manor. I believe she went to stay with friends.”

In which case she’d only have taken her personal maid and chauffeur.

“I can give you her ladyship’s address,” he said, looking through a stack of papers. “It’s here somewhere…”

“No, that’s all right. Do you know if the evacuees who were here returned home or were billeted somewhere else?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. I believe Sergeant Tilson was here then. He might be able to help.”

But Sergeant Tilson hadn’t been there either. “I didn’t come till September fifteenth, and the evacuees had already gone back to their parents by then.”

“To their parents? In London?”

He nodded.

Then Merope definitely hadn’t gone with them. “What about the staff?”

“From what Captain Chase said, they went home to their families as well.”

“Captain Chase?”

“Yes. He was in charge of setting up the school. He’d be able to tell you-he was here when they all left-but I’m afraid you just missed him. He left for London early this morning and won’t be back till Tuesday.” He frowned. “The vicar in the village might be able to tell you where they went.”

If I can find him, Polly thought. But if she could make it back to Backbury before eleven, he’d be at the church, preparing for the service. She quickly took her leave of the sergeant-and the sentry, who solemnly raised the bar again to let her out-and hurried back along the road.

It was already past ten. I’ll never make it walking, she thought, and it was too far to run. And just outside the gate, it began to rain in earnest, turning the lane into a muddy mire. She had to stop twice to scrape the caked mud off her shoes with a stick.

They’ll already be in church, she thought when she finally splashed into the village. She spotted the vicar, half running, half walking along the side of the church toward the vestry door, clutching a sheaf of paper, his robe flying out behind him.

“Vicar!” she called, running after him. “Vicar!” Or was he the vicar? Now that she grew closer, he looked awfully young. Perhaps he was the choir director, and those papers were the morning’s anthems. “Sir! Wait!”

She caught up to him just as he was going in. “What is it, miss?” he said, his hand on the half-open vestry door. His eyes swept over her damp hair, her muddy shoes. “What’s happened? Has there been an accident?”

“No,” she said, out of breath from running. “I’ve just been out to the manor. I came in on the bus this morning-”

“Vicar!” A small boy poked his head out of the half-opened door. “Miss Fuller said to tell you they’ve finished the prelude.” He tugged at the vicar’s sleeve.

“Coming, Peter,” he said, and to Polly, “Has something happened at the riflery school?”

“No. I only wanted to ask you a question. I-”

“It’s time for the invocation,” Peter hissed.

“I must go,” the vicar said regretfully, “but I’ll be glad to speak with you as soon as the service is over. Would you care to join us?”

“Vicar, it’s time!” Peter said, and dragged him into the church.

And that’s that, Polly thought and walked out to the station to wait for the train. Unless the stationmaster knows where the evacuees have gone.

But he’d apparently spent the last three hours drinking. “Whaddya want?” he demanded, and it was obvious he didn’t recognize her from this morning.

“I’m waiting for the 11:19 to London.”

“Won’t be here f’r ’ours,” he said, slurring his words. “Bloody troop trains. Always late.”

Good. She could go back to the church, wait for the end of the service, and ask the vicar after all. And if the 11:19 was as late as every other train she’d been on, she could also ask everyone else in the village. She hurried back to the church through the rain and slipped into the back of the sanctuary.

Only the first few rows of pews had people in them-several white-haired ladies in black hats, a handful of balding men, and young mothers with children. They were just finishing singing “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.” Polly tiptoed in and sat down in the last pew.

The vicar looked up from his hymnal and smiled welcomingly at her, and one of the white-haired ladies, who looked like a cross between Miss Hibbard and Mrs. Wyvern, turned around and glared. Miss Fuller, no doubt.

She’s the person I should speak with, Polly thought. The captain had suggested the vicar, but she doubted if he were on intimate terms with the hired help at the manor. But this was a tiny village. Miss Fuller and the other elderly women would know all the comings and goings of everyone. If Polly could get past that disapproving glare.

But even if she couldn’t, the boy Peter was likely to know about the evacuees, or could at least point out the schoolmistress to her. She’d be certain to know. And in the meantime, if it wasn’t exactly warm in the sanctuary, it was at least dry, and hopefully the vicar’s sermon wouldn’t be too long, though she doubted it from the thickness of his sheaf of papers, which he was now arranging on the top of the pulpit.

He finished arranging them and gazed out over the congregation. “The Scriptures say that our true home is not in this world, but the next, and that we are only passing through…”

Truer words, Polly thought.

“Thus it is with this war,” he said. “We find ourselves stranded in an alien land of bombs and battles and blackouts, of Anderson shelters and gas masks and rationing. And that other world we once knew-of peace and lights and church bells chiming out over the land, of loved ones reunited and no tears, no partings-seems not only impossibly distant, but unreal, and we cannot quite imagine ourselves ever getting back there. We mark time here, waiting…”