Connie Willis - Blackout

Alf reluctantly squatted and opened his hand. The snake slithered enthusiastically off into the grass and out of sight. Eileen picked up Theodore’s duffel and her own suitcase, and they set off again. The other passengers had disappeared. She hoped they’d tell the bus to wait for them, though that was probably a fond hope, considering the headmistress’s attitude.

“Look!” Alf shouted, stopping so short Eileen nearly ran into him. He pointed up at the sky. “It’s a plane!”

“Where?” Binnie said. “I don’t see nuthin’.” For a second Eileen couldn’t either, then saw a tiny black dot. “Wait, now I see it!” Binnie cried. “Is it comin’ back to bomb us?”

Eileen had a sudden image of a vid in one of her history lectures, of refugees scattering wildly as a plane dove toward them, strafing them. “Is it a dive-bomber?” she asked Alf, dropping her suitcase and clutching Theodore’s hand, ready to reach for Binnie and Alf with the other and run.

“You mean a Stuka? I can’t tell,” Alf said, squinting at the plane. “No, it’s one of ours. It’s a ’Urricane.”

But they were still out in the middle of a meadow, with a stopped train-a perfect bombing target-only a few hundred yards off. “We need to catch up to the others,” she said. “Come along. Hurry.”

No one moved. “There’s another one!” Alf said deliriously. “It’s a Messerschmitt. See the iron crosses on its wings? They’re gonna fight!”

Eileen craned her neck to look up at the tiny planes. She could see them both clearly now, the sharp-nosed Hurricane and the snub-nosed Messerschmitt, though they looked like toy planes. They circled each other, swooping and turning silently as if they were dancing instead of fighting. Theodore let go of her hand and went over to stand by Alf, looking up at the graceful duet, his mouth open, transfixed. And rightly so. They were beautiful. “Get ’im!” Alf shouted. “Shoot ’im down!”

“Shoot ’im down!” Theodore echoed.

The toy planes banked and dipped and soared silently, trailing narrow veils of white behind them. Those weren’t clouds I saw from the train. They were vapor trails from dogfights just like these. I’m watching the Battle of Britain, she thought wonderingly.

The Messerschmitt climbed and then dove straight at the other plane. “Look out!” Binnie shouted.

There was still no sound, no roar as the plane dove, no machine-gun rattle. “Missed!” Alf shouted, and Eileen saw a minuscule spurt of orange halfway along the Hurricane’s wing.

“’E’s hit!” Binnie shouted.

White smoke began to stream from the wing. The Hurricane’s nose dipped. “Pull up!” Alf shouted, and the tiny plane seemed to straighten out.

That means the pilot’s still alive, Eileen thought.

“Get out of there!” Binnie yelled, and it seemed to obey that, too, fleeing north, white smoke trailing from its wing. But not fast enough. The Messerschmitt banked sharply and came around again.

“Behind you!” Alf and then Theodore shouted. “Watch out!”

“Look!” Binnie’s arm shot up. “There’s another one!”

“Where?” Alf demanded, “I don’t see it,” and Eileen suddenly did. It was above the other two planes and coming in fast.

Oh, God, don’t let it be German, Eileen thought.

“It’s a Spitfire!” Alf yelled, and the Messerschmitt cockpit exploded into flame and black smoke. “’E got ’im!” he said deliriously. The Messerschmitt keeled over and went into a spiraling dive, smoke billowing from it, still graceful, still noiseless in its deadly descent.

It won’t even make a sound when it hits, Eileen thought, but it did-a quiet, sickening thud. The children cheered. “I knew the Spitfire’d save ’im!” Alf exulted, looking back up at the two planes.

The Spitfire was circling above the Hurricane, which still streamed white smoke. As they watched, the Hurricane went into a long, shallow dive across the endless expanse of blue sky, and vanished beyond the trees. Eileen closed her eyes and waited for the impact. It came, faint as a footstep.

I want to go home, she thought.

“’E bailed out,” Alf said. “There’s ’is parachute.” He pointed confidently at the empty blue and white sky.

“Where?” Theodore asked.

“I don’t see no parachute,” Binnie said.

“We must go,” Eileen said, picking up her suitcase and taking Theodore’s hand.

“But what if ’e crash-landed and needs first aid?” Alf asked. “Or a ambulance? The RAF are wizard pilots. They can land anywhere.”

“Even with their wing on fire?” Binnie said. “I’ll wager ’e’s dead.”

Theodore clutched Eileen’s hand and looked imploringly up at Eileen. “You don’t know that, Binnie,” Eileen said.

“My name ain’t Binnie.”

Eileen ignored that. “I’m certain the pilot’s fine, Theodore,” she said. “Now come along. We’ll miss the bus. Alf, Binnie-”

“I told you, I ain’t Binnie no more,” Binnie said. “I decided on my new name.”

“What is it?” Alf asked disdainfully. “Dandelion?”

“No. Spitfire.”

“Spitfire?” Alf hooted. “’Urricane, more like. ’Urricane ’Odbin.”

“No,” Binnie said. “Spitfire, ’cause they’re what’s gonna beat old ’Itler. Spitfire ’Odbin,” she said, trying it out. “Ain’t that a good name for me, Eileen?”

All lost!

MISS SNELGROVE TOLD POLLY SHE WAS IN NO CONDITION to work and insisted on her lying down. “Miss Hayes can take charge of your counter,” she said.

“Shouldn’t she go home?” Doreen asked, coming over.

“She can’t,” Marjorie said, and whispered something to her. How does she know about the drop being damaged? Polly wondered.

“Come along,” Miss Snelgrove said and took her down in the lift to Townsend Brothers’ basement shelter. “You need to rest,” she said, pointing to one of the cots normally reserved for customers, and when Polly still stood there, “Here, take off your coat.” Miss Snelgrove unbuttoned it for her and laid it over a chair.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get a black skirt,” Polly said. She hadn’t projected an air of calm and courage either. All employees were supposed to be cool under fire. “And I’m sorry I-”

“You mustn’t worry about that now,” Miss Snelgrove said. “You mustn’t worry about anything except having a good sleep. You’ve had a bad shock.”

A bad shock, Polly thought, sitting down obediently on the cot. Sir Godfrey and Miss Laburnum and all the others dead and the drop not working. And the retrieval team not here. They were supposed to be here yesterday. Yesterday.

“Take off your shoes, there’s a good girl. Now, lie down.” She patted the cot’s pillow.

I shouldn’t have left the old man’s fringed pink pillow there on the pavement, Polly thought. It’ll be stolen. I should have put it inside the incident perimeter.

“Lie down, that’s a good girl,” Miss Snelgrove said. She covered Polly with a blanket and switched off the lights. “Try to rest.”

Polly nodded, her eyes filling with tears at Miss Snelgrove’s surprising kindness. She closed her eyes, but the moment she did, she saw the wrecked church, and it seemed to her that she was not looking at the church but at the people in it, mangled and smashed and splintered-the rector and Mrs. Wyvern and the little girls. Bess Brightford, aged six, died suddenly, from enemy action. Irene Brightford, aged five. Trot-

“You won’t hear it,” Mr. Dorming had said. “You’ll never know what hit you.” Was that true? She hoped fervently that it was, that they hadn’t had time to realize they were trapped, to feel the church crashing down, to know what was going to happen to them.

Like I do, Polly thought sickly. She pushed the panic forcibly back down. You’re not trapped. Just because the drop is damaged doesn’t mean they can’t pull you out. There’s plenty of time.

But that was just it. Oxford didn’t need any time. They had all the time in the world. Even if they had to repair the drop, and it took weeks-or months-they could still have been here as soon as it happened. So where are they?

Perhaps they couldn’t find me, she thought, the panic pushing up into her throat again. She hadn’t checked in, hadn’t told them her address. And there was no one at Mrs. Rickett’s to tell them she lived there.

But Mr. Dunworthy would have made the retrieval team check every room and flat listed under “To Let” in the newspapers. And they knew she was working on Oxford Street. Mr. Dunworthy would have made them check every department of every store.

But I’m not in my department, she thought, and flung the blanket off. She sat up and reached for her shoes, but before she could put them on, Marjorie came in carrying a cup of tea and a parcel. “Did you manage to sleep for a bit?” she asked.

“Yes,” Polly lied. “I feel a good deal better. I’m ready to come back up to the floor now.”

Marjorie looked at her measuringly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re still looking very peaky.” She handed Polly the tea. “You need to rest, and besides, there’s no need to. We’re not at all busy.”

“Has anyone been in asking for me?” Polly interrupted.

“You mean from the ARP or Civil Defence? No, no one’s been here. Did they have to dig you out?” Marjorie asked curiously, and Polly realized they thought her boardinghouse had been bombed.

“No, it wasn’t where I lived,” Polly tried to explain. “It was the shelter. At St. George’s. They had a shelter in the basement where I spent the raids. I wasn’t there-”

But if she hadn’t tried to go to the drop, if she hadn’t been caught in the tube station-or if she’d gone through to Oxford earlier in the week to check in-she would have been there with them when the parachute mine exploded, when the church came crashing down, crushing-

“How lucky you weren’t there,” Marjorie was saying.

Lucky, Polly thought. “You don’t understand, they…” she said and had a sudden stabbing image of them sitting there in the cellar in the moment before they died: Miss Hibbard knitting, Mr. Simms petting Nelson, Lila and Viv gossiping, Bess and Irene-with her thumb in her mouth-and Trot huddled against their mother, listening to a fairy tale. “They… there were three little girls…”

“How dreadful,” Marjorie said, setting the parcel down on the floor and sitting on the cot next to Polly. “No wonder you… you really shouldn’t be here. Where do you live? I’ll ring up your landlady and tell her to come take you home.”

Home. “You can’t,” Polly said.

“But I thought you said-”

“She’s dead. Mrs. Rickett was at St. George’s. And all her boarders-Miss Hibbard and Mr. Dorming and Miss Laburnum…” Her voice faltered. “… there’s no one there to tell-”

“And that’s why you said you can’t go home. I suppose you can’t. I don’t know what happens to the roomers when a boardinghouse’s owner is killed,” Marjorie said, as if to herself. “I suppose someone else takes over… do you know if Mrs. Rickett had any family?”

“No.”

“But if they would decide to sell… And, at any rate, you can’t stay there all alone, after… Is there anyone you can go stay with? Have you any family or friends here in London?”

No, Polly thought, feeling the panic rise again. I’m all alone here, in the middle of a war, and if the retrieval team doesn’t come for me-