Читать интересную книгу Blackout - Connie Willis

But St. Paul’s was ready for them. Tubs of water stood next to every pillar, and pickaxes and pails of sand were propped against the walls at intervals, next to coils of rope. On the night of the twenty-ninth, when dozens of incendiaries would fall on the roofs and the water mains would fail, they-and the volunteers wielding them-would be all that stood between the cathedral and destruction.

Polly heard a door shut somewhere far away and ducked into the south aisle behind one of the rectangular pillars, but no other sound followed, and after a cautious minute she emerged. If she wanted to see all the things Mr. Dunworthy had spoken of, she’d best hurry. She might get tossed out at any moment.

She wasn’t certain where the Whispering Gallery or Lord Nelson’s tomb were. The tomb was presumably down in the Crypt, but she didn’t know how to get to it. He’d said The Light of the World was the first thing he’d seen the first time he’d been in St. Paul’s, which meant it should be here in one of the side aisles. If it was still here. There were pale squares on the walls where paintings had obviously hung.

No, here it was, in a bay midway up the south aisle, looking just as Mr. Dunworthy had described it. Christ, wearing a white robe and a crown of thorns, stood in the middle of a forest in a deep blue twilight, holding a lantern and waiting impatiently outside a wooden door, his hand raised to knock on it.

It’s Mr. Dunworthy, Polly thought, wanting to know why I haven’t checked in yet. No wonder he likes it so much.

She wasn’t particularly impressed. The painting was smaller than she’d expected and stiffly old-fashioned, and now that she looked at it again, Christ looked less impatient than unconvinced anyone was going to answer his knock. Which was probably the case, considering the door obviously hadn’t been opened in years. Ivy had twined up over it, and weeds choked the threshold.

“I’d give it up if I were you,” Polly murmured.

“I beg your pardon, miss?” a voice said at her elbow, and she jumped a foot. It was an elderly man in a black suit with a waistcoat. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, “but I saw you looking at the painting, and-I hadn’t realized they’d opened the church again.”

She was tempted to say yes, that the bomb squad or the man in the cassock had given her permission to come in, but if he decided to check… “Oh, was it closed before?” she said instead.

“Oh, my, yes. Since Thursday. We’ve had an unexploded bomb under the west end. They only just now got it out. It was a near thing there for a bit. The gas main caught fire and was burning straight for the bomb. If it had reached it, it would have blown up the lot of us, and St. Paul’s. I’ve never been happier in my life than to see that monstrous thing driven away. I’m surprised Dean Matthews decided to reopen the church, though. It was my understanding it was to have remained closed till they’d rechecked the gas main. Who-?”

“I’m so glad they did decide to open it, then,” Polly said hastily. “A friend of mine told me I must see St. Paul’s when I came to London, particularly The Light of the World. It’s beautiful.”

“It’s only a copy, I’m afraid. The original was sent to Wales with the cathedral’s other treasures, but we decided it simply wasn’t St. Paul’s without it. It had hung here all through the last war, and we felt it was vital it be here through this one, particularly with the blackout and the lights gone out in Europe and Hitler spreading his nasty brand of darkness over the world. This reminds us that one light, at the least, will never go out.”

He looked at it critically. “I fear it’s not a very good copy. It’s smaller than the original, and the colors aren’t as vivid. Still, it’s better than nothing. See how the light seems to be fading, and how the artist has made Christ’s face exhibit so many emotions at the same time: patience and sorrow and hope.”

And resignation, Polly thought. “What is it a door to?” she asked. “One can’t tell from the painting.”

He beamed at her as if she were a bright pupil. “Exactly. And you’ll note the door has no latch. It can only be opened from the inside. Like the door of the heart. That’s what is so wonderful about the painting. One sees something different in it each time one looks at it. We like to call it our ‘sermon in a frame,’ although the frame’s been taken to Wales as well. A lovely gilded wooden thing, with the Scripture which the painting depicts on it.”

“‘Behold I stand at the door and knock,’” Polly quoted.

He nodded, beaming even more. “‘If any man hear my voice and open the door I will come in to him.’ The artist’s tomb is in the Crypt.”

With Lord Nelson’s. “I’d love to see it,” Polly said.

“I’m afraid the Crypt is closed to visitors, but I can show you round the rest of the church, if you’ve the time.”

And if Dean Matthews doesn’t come in and announce the church is still closed and demand to know what I’m doing here, she thought. “I’d love to see it, if it’s no trouble, Mr.-?”

“Humphreys. It would be no trouble at all. As verger, I often conduct tours.” He led her back down the aisle and over to the central doors where, presumably, he began those tours. “This is the Great West Door. It’s opened only on ceremonial occasions. On other days we use the smaller doors on either side,” he said, and she saw there was another door in the south aisle, the twin of the one she’d come through. “The pilasters are of Portland stone,” he continued, patting one of the rectangular pillars. “The floor where we are standing-”

Is where the Fire Watch stone will be, Polly thought, the memorial dedicated to the memory of St. Paul’s fire watch, the volunteers “who by the grace of God saved this church.” And the only thing left after the pinpoint bomb.

“-is made of Carrara marble in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern,” Mr. Humphreys said. “From here one can see the full length of the cathedral. It’s built in the shape of the cross. To your right-” He walked over to the south aisle to a makeshift wooden partition just this side of the vestibule, “is the Geometrical Staircase, designed by Christopher Wren. As you can see, it’s currently boarded up, though a final decision on what to do hasn’t been made.”

“What to do?”

“Yes, you see, the staircase offers the best access to the roofs on this end of the church, but at the same time it’s extremely fragile. And irreplaceable. But if an incendiary were to fall on the library roof or the towers… It’s difficult to know what to do. Over here-” he walked up the south aisle to an iron grille, “is the Chapel of the Order of St. Michael and St. George with its wooden prayer stalls. The banners which ordinarily hang above them have unfortunately been removed for safekeeping.”

The seventeenth-century cherubs had been, too, and the nave’s chandeliers and most of the monuments in the south aisle. “Some of them were too heavy to move, so we’ve put sandbags round them,” Mr. Humphreys said, leading her past a stairway with a chain across it and a notice: To the Whispering Gallery. Closed to Visitors.

And so much for the Whispering Gallery, Polly thought as the verger led her into the wide central crossing beneath the dome, where there was another chained staircase.

“This is the transept,” he said. “It forms the crosspiece of the cathedral.” He led her into it to show her the monument to Lord Nelson, or rather, the stack of sandbags hiding it, and several other piles of sandbags concealing statues of Captain Robert Scott, Admiral Howe, and the artist J. M. W. Turner. “The south transept is chiefly interesting for the carved oak doorcase by Grinling Gibbons, which unfortunately-”

“Has been removed for safekeeping,” Polly murmured, following him from the transept into the choir and the apse, where he pointed out the organ (removed for safekeeping), the shrouded statue of John Donne (in a shroud of sandbags in the Crypt), the High Altar, and the stained-glass windows.

“We’ve been very lucky so far,” Mr. Humphreys said, pointing up at them. “They’re too large to board up, but we haven’t lost a single window.”

You will, Polly thought. By the end of the war they’d all have been smashed. The last one had been taken out by a V-2 that had crashed nearby.

Mr. Humphreys led her back down the other side of the choir, pointing out the buckets of water and stirrup pumps lined against the wall. “Our greatest worry is fire. The underlying structure’s of wood, and if one of the roofs were to catch fire, the lead would run down into the cracks between the stones, and they’d burst as they did when the first St. Paul’s burned. It was utterly destroyed during the Great Fire of London, when this entire part of the city burned.”

And will again three months from now, Polly thought. She wondered if Mr. Humphreys was part of the fire watch. He looked too old, but then again, the Blitz had been a war of old men and shopgirls and middle-aged women.

“But we shan’t let that happen again,” he said, answering her question. “We’ve formed a band of volunteers to keep watch for incendiaries on the roofs. I’m on duty tonight.”

“Then I shouldn’t keep you,” Polly said. “I should go.”

“No, no, not till I’ve shown you my favorite monument,” Mr. Humphreys said, dragging her into the north transept. He made her look at the Corinthian columns and the oak doors of the north porch. “And this is the monument to Captain Robert Faulknor,” he said, pointing proudly at another pile of sandbags. “His ship was badly damaged. She’d lost most of her rigging and couldn’t fire, and the La Pique was coming athwart her. Captain Faulknor courageously grabbed her bowsprit and lashed the two ships together and used the La Pique’s guns to fire on the other French ships. His brave action won the battle. Unfortunately he never knew what he’d accomplished. He was shot through the heart the moment after he’d bound the two together.” He shook his head sadly. “A true hero.”

I’ll need to tell Michael Davies about him, Polly thought, and wondered where he was now. He was to have left just after she did, which meant he was in Dover, observing the evacuation efforts. But here in this time, that had happened three months ago, and his next assignment, Pearl Harbor, which he’d leave for as soon as he returned from Dover, wouldn’t happen here for more than a year.

“It’s such a pity you can’t see the monument,” Mr. Humphreys said. “Wait, I’ve just thought of something,” he said, and led her back down the nave. The cathedral had lost its golden glow and looked gray and chilly, and the side aisles were already in shadow. Polly stole a glance at her watch. It was after four. She hadn’t realized how late it was.

Mr. Humphreys was taking her to the admissions desk. It had a number of pamphlets on it, colored prints of the The Light of the World for sale for sixpence apiece, a box marked Donations to the Minesweepers Fund, and a wooden rack filled with picture postcards. “I think we may have a photograph of Captain Faulknor’s monument,” he said, searching through postcards of the Whispering Gallery, the organ, and a three-tiered Victorian monstrosity that had to be the Wellington Monument. “Oh, dear, we don’t seem to have one of it. What a pity! You must come back and see it when the war’s over.”

The side door clanged, and a sharp-faced young man came in, wearing a dark blue coverall and carrying a tin helmet and a gas mask. “So they got the bomb out all right, did they, Mr. Humphreys?” he asked the verger.

He nodded. “You’re a bit early, Langby. You don’t come on duty till half past six.”

“I want to take a look at the chancel roof pump. It’s been giving a bit of trouble. Have you the key to the vestry?”

“Yes,” Mr. Humphreys said. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

“I’m keeping you from your duties,” Polly said. “Thank you for showing me the cathedral.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t go yet. There’s one last thing you must see,” he said, leading her over to the south aisle.

No doubt another pile of sandbags, Polly thought, following him, but it wasn’t. He’d led her back to The Light of the World, the painting now only dimly visible in the gloom.

Mr. Humphreys said reverently, “Do you see how, now that the light’s fading, the lantern seems to glow?”

It did. A warm orange-gold light spread from it, lighting Christ’s robe, the door, the weeds that had grown up around it.

“Do you know what Dean Matthews said when he saw that glow? He said, ‘He’d better not let the ARP warden catch him with that lantern.’” Mr. Humphreys chuckled. “A fine sense of humor, the dean has. It’s a great help in times like these.”

The door clanged open again and another member of the fire watch came in and walked swiftly up the nave. “Humphreys!” Langby called from the transept.

“I’m afraid I must be going,” Mr. Humphreys said. “If you’d care to stay and look round a bit more…”

“No, I should be getting home.”

He nodded. “Best not to be out after dark if one can help it,” he said and hurried toward Langby.

He was right. It was a long way to Kensington, and she had to find somewhere open where she could get supper before she went back. There was no way she could make it through another night without having eaten. And the raids tonight began at 6:54. She needed to go.

But she stayed a few minutes longer, looking at the painting. Christ’s face, in the dimming light, no longer looked bored, but afraid, and the woods surrounding him not only dark but threatening.

Best not to be out after dark if one can help it, Polly thought, and then, looking at the locked door, I wonder if that’s the door to an air-raid shelter.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if it was true? 

– LONDONER, 7 MAY 1945

London-7 May 1945

WHEN THE THREE GIRLS TURNED ONTO THE ROAD THAT led to the Underground station, it was deserted. “What if it was a false alarm and the war’s not really over?” Paige asked.

“Don’t be silly,” Reardon said. “It was on the wireless.”

“Then where is everyone?”

“Inside,” Reardon said. “Come along.” She started down the street.

“Do you think it could be another false alarm, Douglas?” Paige asked, turning to her.

“No,” she said.

“Do come on,” Reardon said, motioning them to hurry. “We’ll miss all the fun.”

But when they got inside the station, there was no one there either. “They’re down on the platform,” Reardon said, pushing through the wooden turnstile, and when there was no one on the platform either, “They’re all in London already, just like we’d be, if it weren’t for Colonel Wainwright’s gout. Why couldn’t his big toe have waited till next week to get inflamed? Only just think,” Reardon smiled beatifically, “we’ll never have to put up with Colonel Wainwright again.”