reporter.”
“A reporter?” she said, just as eagerly, and he realized she was much younger than he’d thought—seventeen or eighteen at the most. The pompadour and the lipstick had fooled him into thinking she was older.
“Yes, for the
Omaha Observer,”
he said. “I’m a war correspondent. I need to get to Dover. Can you tell me what time the bus comes?” and when she hesitated, “There
is
a bus to Dover from here, isn’t there?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid you’ve only just missed it. It came yesterday, and it won’t come again till Friday.”
“It only comes on Sundays and Fridays?”
“No. I told you, it came yesterday. On Tuesday.”
An’ if thou seest my boy, bid him make haste and meet me
.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
Oxford—April 2060
POLLY HURRIED OUT BALLIOL’S GATE, UP THE BROAD, AND down Catte Street, hoping Mr. Dunworthy hadn’t glanced out his windows and seen her standing in the quad talking to Michael and Merope.
I should have told them not to say anything about my being back
, she thought, but she’d have had to explain why, and she’d been afraid he might emerge from his office at any moment.
Thank goodness she hadn’t gone blithely in and made her report. He already thought her project was too dangerous. He’d been protective of his historians since she was a first-year student, but he’d been absolutely hysterical about this project. He’d insisted on her drop site for the Blitz being within walking distance of Oxford Street, even though it would have been much easier to find a site in Wormwood Scrubs or on Hampstead Heath and take the tube in. It also had to be within a half-mile of both a tube station and whatever room she let. “I want you to be able to reach your drop site quickly if you’re injured,” he’d said.
“They
did
have hospitals in the 1940s, you know,” she’d said. “And if I’m injured, how exactly will I walk half a mile?”
“Don’t make jokes,” he’d snapped. “It’s possible to die on assignment, and the Blitz is an exceptionally dangerous place,” and launched into a twenty-minute lecture on the perils of blast from high-explosive bombs, shrapnel, and sparks from incendiaries. “A woman in Canning Town got her foot entangled in the cord of a barrage balloon and was dragged into the Thames.”
“I am not going to be dragged into the Thames by a barrage balloon.”
“You could be struck by a bus which couldn’t see you in the blackout, or murdered by a mugger.”
“I scarcely think—”
“Criminals thrived in the Blitz. The blackout provided them with cover of darkness, and the police were too busy digging bodies out of the rubble to investigate. The death of a victim found dead in an alley was simply put down to blast. I don’t want to read your name in the death notices in the
Times
. A half-mile radius. That’s final.”
And that hadn’t been the only restriction. She was forbidden to let a room in any house hit by a bomb before the end of the year, even though she’d only be there through October, and the drop site had to be one that hadn’t been hit at all, which eliminated three sites that would have worked nicely, but that had been destroyed in the last big raid of the Blitz in May 1941.
It was no wonder the lab still hadn’t found a site.
I hope they locate one before Mr. Dunworthy finds out I’m back
, she thought.
Or someone tells him
. She doubted if Mr. Purdy would—he didn’t even seem to realize she’d been gone—and hopefully Michael Davies would be too busy attempting to get his date changed and Merope’d be in too much of a hurry to get her driving permission for them to mention that they’d seen her.
She felt bad about ducking out on her promise to speak to Mr. Dunworthy about Merope going to VE-Day, but it couldn’t be helped. And it wasn’t as if time was an issue. Merope’d said she still had several months left to go on her evacuee assignment.
And I’ll only be
“A reporter?” she said, just as eagerly, and he realized she was much younger than he’d thought—seventeen or eighteen at the most. The pompadour and the lipstick had fooled him into thinking she was older.
“Yes, for the
Omaha Observer,”
he said. “I’m a war correspondent. I need to get to Dover. Can you tell me what time the bus comes?” and when she hesitated, “There
is
a bus to Dover from here, isn’t there?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid you’ve only just missed it. It came yesterday, and it won’t come again till Friday.”
“It only comes on Sundays and Fridays?”
“No. I told you, it came yesterday. On Tuesday.”
An’ if thou seest my boy, bid him make haste and meet me
.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
Oxford—April 2060
POLLY HURRIED OUT BALLIOL’S GATE, UP THE BROAD, AND down Catte Street, hoping Mr. Dunworthy hadn’t glanced out his windows and seen her standing in the quad talking to Michael and Merope.
I should have told them not to say anything about my being back
, she thought, but she’d have had to explain why, and she’d been afraid he might emerge from his office at any moment.
Thank goodness she hadn’t gone blithely in and made her report. He already thought her project was too dangerous. He’d been protective of his historians since she was a first-year student, but he’d been absolutely hysterical about this project. He’d insisted on her drop site for the Blitz being within walking distance of Oxford Street, even though it would have been much easier to find a site in Wormwood Scrubs or on Hampstead Heath and take the tube in. It also had to be within a half-mile of both a tube station and whatever room she let. “I want you to be able to reach your drop site quickly if you’re injured,” he’d said.
“They
did
have hospitals in the 1940s, you know,” she’d said. “And if I’m injured, how exactly will I walk half a mile?”
“Don’t make jokes,” he’d snapped. “It’s possible to die on assignment, and the Blitz is an exceptionally dangerous place,” and launched into a twenty-minute lecture on the perils of blast from high-explosive bombs, shrapnel, and sparks from incendiaries. “A woman in Canning Town got her foot entangled in the cord of a barrage balloon and was dragged into the Thames.”
“I am not going to be dragged into the Thames by a barrage balloon.”
“You could be struck by a bus which couldn’t see you in the blackout, or murdered by a mugger.”
“I scarcely think—”
“Criminals thrived in the Blitz. The blackout provided them with cover of darkness, and the police were too busy digging bodies out of the rubble to investigate. The death of a victim found dead in an alley was simply put down to blast. I don’t want to read your name in the death notices in the
Times
. A half-mile radius. That’s final.”
And that hadn’t been the only restriction. She was forbidden to let a room in any house hit by a bomb before the end of the year, even though she’d only be there through October, and the drop site had to be one that hadn’t been hit at all, which eliminated three sites that would have worked nicely, but that had been destroyed in the last big raid of the Blitz in May 1941.
It was no wonder the lab still hadn’t found a site.
I hope they locate one before Mr. Dunworthy finds out I’m back
, she thought.
Or someone tells him
. She doubted if Mr. Purdy would—he didn’t even seem to realize she’d been gone—and hopefully Michael Davies would be too busy attempting to get his date changed and Merope’d be in too much of a hurry to get her driving permission for them to mention that they’d seen her.
She felt bad about ducking out on her promise to speak to Mr. Dunworthy about Merope going to VE-Day, but it couldn’t be helped. And it wasn’t as if time was an issue. Merope’d said she still had several months left to go on her evacuee assignment.
And I’ll only be
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