Читать интересную книгу Blackout - Connie Willis

“Like the Warsaw ghetto?” Mr. Dunworthy said dryly. “Or the Crusades?”

“I haven’t wanted to go to the Crusades since I was twelve. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Both you and-” He caught himself. “You and everyone at school still think of me as a child,” he said instead, “but I’m not. I’m nearly eighteen. And there are all sorts of assignments I could be doing. Like al-Qaeda’s second attack on New York.”

“New-?”

“Yes, there was a high school near the World Trade Center. I could pose as a student and see the entire thing.”

“I am not sending you to the World Trade Center.”

“Not to it. The school was four blocks away, and none of the students got killed. No one was even injured, except for the toxins and asbestos they inhaled, and I could-”

“I am not sending you anywhere near the World Trade Center. It’s far too dangerous. You could be killed-”

“Well, then send me somewhere that isn’t dangerous. Send me to 1939, to the Phoney War. Or to the north of England to observe the evacuated children.”

“I am not sending you to World War II either.”

“You went to the Blitz, and you let Polly-”

“Polly?” Mr. Dunworthy said alertly. “Polly Churchill? What does she have to do with this?”

Bollocks. “Nothing. Just that you let your historians go all sorts of dangerous places, and you go all sorts of dangerous places, and you won’t even let me go to the north of England, which wouldn’t be dangerous at all. The government evacuated the children there to be out of danger. I could pretend to be taking my younger brothers and sisters-”

“I already have an historian in 1940 observing the evacuated children.”

“But not in 1942 through 1945. I looked it up, and some of the children stayed in the country for the entire war. I could observe the effect that being separated from their parents that long had on them. And my missing school needn’t be a problem. I could do it flash-time and-”

“Why are you so set on going to World War II? Is it because Polly Churchill’s there?”

“I’m not set on going to World War II. I only suggested it because you didn’t want me to go anywhere dangerous. And you’re a fine one to talk about danger when you’re going to St. Paul’s the night before the pinpoint bomb-”

Mr. Dunworthy looked astonished. “The night before the pinpoint bomb? What are you talking about?”

“Your rescuing the treasures.”

“Who told you I was rescuing St. Paul’s treasures?”

“No one, but it’s obvious that’s why you’re going to St. Paul’s.”

“I am not-”

“Well, then, you’re going to go see what’s there so you can rescue them later. I think you should take me with you. You need me. You’d have died if I hadn’t gone with you to 1349. I can pose as a university student studying Nelson’s tomb or something and make a list of all the treasures for you.”

“I don’t know where you got this ridiculous idea, Colin. No one is going to St. Paul’s to rescue anything.”

“Then why are you going to St. Paul’s?”

“That doesn’t concern you-what is that?” he said as the tech came in carrying a knee-length yellow satin coat embroidered with pink flowers.

“This?” she said. “Oh, it’s not for you. It’s for Kevin Boyle. He’s doing King Charles II’s court. There’s a telephone call from Research for you. Shall I tell them you’re busy?”

“No, I’ll take it.” He followed her into the workroom.

“Nothing on Paternoster Row? What about Ave Maria Lane? Or Amen Corner?” Colin heard him say, followed by a long pause, and then, “What about the casualties lists? Were you able to find one for the seventeenth? No, that’s what I was afraid of. Yes, well, let me know as soon as you do.” He came back out.

“Was that phone call about why you’re going to St. Paul’s?” Colin said. “Because if you need to find out something, I could go back to St. Paul’s and-”

“You are not going to St. Paul’s or World War II or the World Trade Center. You are going back to school. After you’ve passed your A-levels and been admitted to Oxford and the history program, then we’ll discuss your going to-”

“By then, it’ll be too late,” Colin muttered.

“Too late?” Mr. Dunworthy said sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I’m ready to go on assignment now, that’s all.”

“Then why did you say ‘By then, it will be too late’?”

“Just that three years is ages, and by the time you let me go on assignment, all the best events will have been taken, and there won’t be anything exciting left.”

“Like the evacuated children,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Or the Phoney War. And that’s why you cut class and came all the way up here to convince me to let you go on assignment now, because you were afraid someone else might take the Phoney-”

“What about this?” the tech said, coming in with a belted tweed shooting jacket and knee-length knickerbockers.

“What is that supposed to be?” Mr. Dunworthy roared.

“A tweed jacket,” she said innocently. “You said-”

“I said I wanted to blend in-”

“I must get back to school,” Colin said, and made his escape.

He shouldn’t have said that about it being too late. Once Mr. Dunworthy got hold of something, he was like a dog with a bone. He shouldn’t have mentioned Polly either. If he finds out why I want to go on assignment, he won’t even consider it, Colin thought, heading toward the Broad.

Not that he was considering it now. Colin would have to think of some other argument to convince him. Or, failing that, some other way to get to the past. Perhaps if he could find out why Mr. Dunworthy was going to St. Paul’s, he could convince him he needed to take him along. The tech had said something about the jacket’s being from 1950. Why would Mr. Dunworthy go to St. Paul’s in 1950?

Linna would know. He turned down Catte Street and ran down to the lab but it was locked.

They can’t have closed, he thought. They said they had two drops and three retrievals to do. He knocked.

Linna opened the door a crack, looking distressed. “I’m sorry. You can’t come in,” she said.

“Why? Has something gone wrong? Nothing’s happened to Polly, has it?”

“Polly?” she said, looking surprised. “No, of course not.”

“Has something gone wrong with one of your retrievals?”

“No… Colin, I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”

“I know you’re busy, but I only need to ask you a few questions. Let me in and-”

“I can’t,” she said and looked even more distressed. “You’re not allowed in the lab.”

“Not allowed? Did Badri-?”

“No. Mr. Dunworthy rang us. He said we aren’t to allow you anywhere near the net.”

I said to the man who stood at the Gate of the Year, “Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.” And he replied, “Go out into the darkness, and put your hand into the Hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.”

– KING GEORGE VI, CHRISTMAS SPEECH, 1939

Warwickshire-December 1939

WHEN EILEEN REACHED THE STATION IN BACKBURY, THE train wasn’t there. Oh, don’t let it have gone already, Eileen thought, leaning over the edge of the platform to look down the tracks, but there was no sign of it in either direction.

“Where is it?” Theodore asked. “I want to go home.”

I know you do, Eileen thought, turning to look at the little boy. You’ve told me so every fifteen seconds since I arrived at the manor. “The train’s not here yet.”

“When will it come?” Theodore asked.

“I don’t know. Let’s go ask the stationmaster. He’ll know.” She picked up Theodore’s small pasteboard suitcase and gas-mask box and took his hand, and they walked down the platform to the tiny office where freight and luggage were stowed. “Mr. Tooley!” Eileen called, and knocked on the door.

No answer. She knocked again. “Mr. Tooley!”

She heard a grunt and then a shuffle, and Mr. Tooley opened the door, blinking as though he’d been asleep, which was very likely the case. “What’s all this, then?” the old man growled.

“I want to go home,” Theodore said.

“The afternoon train to London hasn’t already gone, has it?” Eileen asked.

Mr. Tooley squinted at her. “You’re one of the maids up to the manor, an’t ye?” He looked down at Theodore. “This one of her ladyship’s evacuees?”

“Yes, his mother sent for him. He’s to take the train to London today. We haven’t missed it, have we?”

“Sent for him, has she? I’ll wager she said she missed her precious boy. Wants his ration book, more likely. Couldn’t even be bothered to come get him herself.”

“She works in an aircraft factory,” Eileen said defensively. “She couldn’t arrange time off from work.”

“Oh, they can manage it, all right, when they want to. Had two of ’em come in Wednesday on their way to Fitcham. ‘Taking our babies home so we can all be together for Christmas,’ they said. So they could sample the drink at Fitcham’s pub, is more like it. And done a bit of drinking on the way up-”

You’re a fine one to talk, Eileen thought. She could smell the alcohol on his breath from where she stood. “Mr. Tooley,” she said, trying to get him back to the matter at hand, “when is the afternoon train for London due?”

“There’s only the one at 11:19. They discontinued the other last week. The war, you know.”

Oh, no, that meant they’d missed it, and she’d have to take Theodore all the way back to the manor.

“But it hasn’t been through yet, and no tellin’ when it will be. It’s all these troop trains. They push the passenger trains onto a siding till they’ve gone past.”

“I want-” Theodore began.

“Bad as their mothers,” Mr. Tooley said, glaring at him. “No manners. And her ladyship working her fingers to the bone caring for the ungrateful tykes.”

Making her servants work their fingers to the bone, you mean. Eileen only knew of two times Lady Caroline had had anything at all to do with the twenty-two children at the manor: once when they’d arrived-according to Mrs. Bascombe, she’d wanted to ensure that she only got “nice” ones, and had done so by going to the vicarage and choosing them herself like melons-and once when a reporter for the Daily Herald had come to do a piece on the “wartime sacrifices of the nobility.” The rest of the time she confined her care to issuing orders to her servants and complaining about the children making too much noise, using too much hot water, and scuffing up her polished floors.

“It’s wonderful the way her ladyship pitches in and does her bit for the war effort,” Mr. Tooley said. “I know some in her place wouldn’t take in a stray kitten, let alone give a lot of slum brats a home.”

He shouldn’t have said the word “home.” Theodore immediately began tugging on Eileen’s coat. “How late do you think the train will be today, Mr. Tooley?” she asked.

“No telling. Might be hours.”

Hours, and the afternoon was already drawing in. This time of year it began to grow dark by three and was pitch black by five. With the blackout…

“I don’t want to wait hours,” Theodore said. “I want to go home now.”

Mr. Tooley snorted. “Don’t know when they’re well off. Now Christmas is coming, they’ll all want to go home.” Eileen hoped not. Evacuees had begun to trickle back to London as the months of the Phoney War went by, and by the time the Blitz began, 75 percent had been back in London, but she hadn’t thought it would happen so soon.

“You want to go home now, but when the bombing starts, you’ll wish you were back here.” Mr. Tooley shook his finger at Theodore. “But it’ll be too late then.” He stomped back to his office and slammed the door, but none of it had any effect on Theodore.

“I want to go home,” he repeated stolidly.

“The train will be here soon,” Eileen assured him.

“I’ll wager it won’t,” a little boy’s voice said. “It-” and was cut off by a fierce “Shh.”

Eileen turned, but there was no one on the platform. She walked quickly over to the edge and looked down at the tracks. There was no one there either. “Binnie! Alf!” she called. “Come out from under there immediately,” and Binnie crawled out from underneath the platform, followed by her little brother, Alf. “Come up off those tracks. It’s dangerous. The train might come.”

“No, it won’t,” Alf said, balancing on a rail.

“You don’t know that. Come up here immediately.”

The two children climbed up onto the platform. They were both filthy. Alf’s usual runny nose had produced a dirty smear, and his shirt was half out of his trousers. Eleven-year-old Binnie looked just as draggled, her stockings bunched, her hair ribbon untied and the ends hanging down. “Wipe your nose, Alf,” Eileen said. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you two in school?”

Alf wiped his nose on his sleeve and pointed at Theodore. “’E’s not in school.”

“That’s beside the point. What are you doing here?”

“We seen you goin’ by,” Binnie said.

Alf nodded. “We thought you was leavin’.”

“I didn’t,” Binnie said. “I thought she was going off to meet somebody. Like Una done.” She smiled slyly at Eileen.

“You ain’t leavin’, are you?” Alf asked, looking at Theodore’s suitcase. “We don’t want you to. You’re the only one wot’s nice to us, you are. Mrs. Bascombe and Una ain’t.”

“Una sneaks off to meet a soldier,” Binnie said. “In the woods.”

Alf nodded. “We followed ’er on ’er half-day out.”

Binnie shot him such a deadly look that Eileen wondered if they’d been following her on her half-day as well. She’d have to make certain they were in school next week. If that were possible. The vicar, Mr. Goode-a serious young man-had already been to the manor twice to discuss their repeated truancies. “They seem to be having difficulty adapting to life here,” he’d said.

Eileen thought they’d adapted all too well. Within two days of their having been chosen by Lady Caroline (she had clearly failed to recognize the “nice” ones in their case), they’d mastered apple stealing, bull teasing, vegetable garden trampling, and leaving open every gate in a ten-mile radius. “It’s too bad this evacuation scheme doesn’t work both ways,” Mrs. Bascombe had said. “I’d evacuate them back to London with a luggage label round their necks in a minute. Little hooligans.”

“Mrs. Bascombe says nice girls don’t meet men in the woods,” Binnie was saying.

“Yes, well, nice girls don’t spy on people either,” Eileen said. “And they don’t skip school.”

“Teacher sent us ’ome,” Binnie said. “Alf took ill. ’Is ’ead’s dreadful hot.”