He wasn’t wearing the fire-watch uniform—he had on an overcoat and a dangling wool scarf—but it was him. Eileen was certain of it, in spite of his looking younger, in spite of the fact that he was supposed to be at St. Paul’s, not here at Blackfriars. He must have been somewhere else and had returned as soon as the raid began. That was why he was pushing his way desperately through the crowd, to get to St. Paul’s.

“Mr. Bartholomew!” Eileen shouted, and ran after him down the platform.

He didn’t turn his head, he just kept plunging through the crowd, over to the exit and into the tunnel.

Oh, no, he’s here under another name, Eileen thought. And what were the fire watch called? “Officer!” she called as she ran along the tunnel to the stairs. “Firewatcher! Wait!”

He was halfway up the stairs. “Officer Bartholomew!” she shouted, and stepped squarely onto the Parchesi board. It flipped up, and dice and wooden pieces flew everywhere.

“What the—?” the boys who’d been playing the game said.

“Sorry!” she called without stopping, and ran on up the stairs, sidestepping teapots and shoes.

“Watch where you’re going!” someone shouted as she raced along the tunnel and over to the escalators. “This isn’t a racecourse, you know.”

John Bartholomew was already at the top of the nearly empty escalator and stepping off. “Mr. Bartholomew!” she shouted desperately, vaulting up the moving escalator two steps at a time.

At the top, the station was full of people swarming in carrying children and bedrolls and, improbably, a tall stack of books. For a moment she couldn’t see him, and then she spotted his dark head. He was going toward the turnstiles.

She started after him, swimming upstream through the crowd, calling, “Mr. Bartholomew! Wait!” But there was no way he could hear her in this din.

She pushed past a cluster of women, all in robes and nightgowns, and ran toward him. “Mr. Barthol—” she shouted, and two urchins jumped out in front of her.

“I told you it was ’er,” Binnie said.

“Alf, Binnie!” Eileen said, looking desperately past them at John Bartholomew, who was through the turnstile and heading toward the exit. “I haven’t time—” She tried to elbow past.

But they planted themselves firmly in front of her, blocking her way, and Binnie grabbed her arm. “We been lookin’ for you everywhere,” she said.

“Yeah.” Alf folded his arms belligerently. “Where’s my map?”

It’s going to be a warm night.

FIREMAN,
29 December 1940

Ludgate Hill—29 December 1940

MIKE ROUNDED THE CORNER AND FLATTENED HIMSELF into the first doorway he came to and waited, hoping the ARP warden wasn’t right on his heels. When the fireman had begun shouting at the warden, Mike had started backing away from the group, keeping close to the buildings, and as soon as he was even with the corner, had darted up the lane they’d just come down and into the next side street. It was narrow and pitch-black after the light of the fires, which was why he’d ducked into the doorway—so his eyes could adjust and he could see if he was being followed.