“No!”
“Yes. We have a copy of the TV commercial. He’s sitting with some other old guy, in an army uniform, hollerin’ at him that he needs a hearing aid.”
The elevator opened onto a short hallway and another set of glass doors with the words
MILLENNIUM ENCYCLOPEDIA
stenciled on them. Margaret slid her card again, and we entered a row of cubicles and offices. A guy in a plaid shirt with unruly hair was working on a computer in the first cubicle. He stopped and looked up as we passed him.
Margaret led me into a cubicle that had her nameplate attached to the wall. As she powered up her computer, I asked in a hushed voice, “So, does everybody think Lowery was a hero?”
Margaret answered at a normal volume. “That is not a unanimous opinion.”
“But some people do?”
Margaret smiled. “People in his family do. And his family lawyer does.”
I added, “And Father Thomas? And Father Leonard? And the board of directors at All Souls?”
Margaret stopped smiling. “The people at All Souls Preparatory School can believe what they want to about General Hank Lowery. But I can tell you, the Millennium Encyclopedia is not going to print a fictional version of his wartime deeds. We’re not for sale. We’re going to print the truth, whatever that may turn out to be.”
“Really? Your boss would let you print bad things about Lowery?”
“If I have the proof, yes. Mr. Wissler has his own family money. He doesn’t need the Lowerys’.”
Margaret clicked an icon on her computer screen. I watched as it filled up with blue hypertext links. She indicated that I should sit in her seat. “You can poke around in these while I’m gone.”
The guy in the plaid shirt appeared in the entrance. He glanced at me and said, “Hi, Margaret. Is this your brother?”
Margaret smiled. “Yes, this is Martin, the one you’ve heard me talk so much about.” I had a flash of fear. What did she tell him? That I hide in the basement? She added, “Martin, this is Steve. He’s our IT guy. And a very good one.”
Steve waved hello. I responded awkwardly, something between grunting and waving.
Margaret spoke to both of us. “I have to leave in a few minutes for a meeting. Steve can help you with any technical difficulties.”
Steve pointed toward that first cubicle. “I’ll be right over here, for another hour at least.”
Margaret asked me, “Did you bring your research questions?”
I patted my shirt pocket. “Yeah. Can I get into these sites and search for names and stuff?”
“Sure. Most of them have search capabilities. But why don’t you ask me a couple of them first? Maybe I can point you in the right direction.”
Steve spoke up. “Your sister’s like a walking database.”
Margaret fluttered her eyelids. I took out my list and pointed to the first line. “Okay. Here’s my first item. Was there ever a guy named something like Lord Haw-Haw?”
“Yes,” Margaret assured me.
“Was he, like, a TV clown?”
“They didn’t have TV during World War Two.”
“Oh yeah. Right.”
“Lord Haw-Haw, a fictional name of course, was a British traitor. He made radio broadcasts full of Nazi propaganda. Actually, he was half British and half American. After the war, they hanged the British half.” She looked at the IT guy. “Although all of him died.”
Steve laughed. Then he waved at me again and stepped away.
“Incidentally,” Margaret continued, “Churchill was half American, too, on his mother’s side. He was determined to show the U.S. that the British could take it. That they could stand up to Hitler and, with our help, rid the world of him and his Nazis.”
“So . . . this Lord Haw-Haw told the British to give up or the Nazis would bomb them?”
Margaret’s eyes bulged. “Martin, the Nazis did bomb them! For years. Thousands of innocent people were killed; thousands more were made homeless; millions were terrorized. But the British did what Churchill said—they showed the world that they could take it. And they did change the course of history, didn’t they?”
I laughed. “ ‘Didn’t they?’ That’s how they talked.”
“Who?”
“The people in London. They put ‘didn’t they?’ and ‘didn’t I?’ at the end of everything.”
Margaret smiled quizzically. “They did?”
I told her, “They did, didn’t they?” I pointed to the list. “Okay. Here’s another name. How could I find out if someone named Daisy Traynor worked for our grandfather?”
Margaret looked at the name. “We can probably access payroll records.” She quickly showed me how to look for information about the U.S. Foreign Service and the U.S. Embassy staff, but neither site contained the name Daisy Traynor or any spelling variation of it. Margaret checked her watch. “Sorry. We’re meeting right now. See what you can find while I’m gone.”
For the next forty-five minutes, I clicked through a mass of information about World War II, and London, and the Auxiliary Fire Service. I searched for names from my list, and I learned the following: There was a James Harker in the Auxiliary Fire Service. He was from Yorkshire. There were two Bill Lanes in the Auxiliary Fire Service. One died in action in January 1941. The other one emigrated to Australia and died there in 1971. There was no record of an Alice Lane.
I used a red pen to categorize the items from my dream. I wrote
Wrong
next to Daisy Traynor and White Hart Lane; I wrote
Right
next to Gallipoli and Lord Haw-Haw; I wrote
Maybe
next to James Harker, Bill Lane, and Alice Lane. It was inconclusive. So far it was basically a tie, a tie between me being crazy or not. I hated to admit it to myself, but there wasn’t enough information. Not yet. And there was only one way to get what I wanted.
I would have to have another dream.
LONDON: SEPTEMBER 15, 1940
Exactly one week later, I had a second dream.
I worked on the radio that Sunday afternoon, testing a new theory—that the numbers 291240 actually described another sequence for the glass tubes in the back. At present, the tubes in the back were numbered 24, 27, 71A, and 80. I tried to determine where other tubes might go, what they might replace, and so on. It passed some time and gave me material for another independent study paper. Then I lay down for my nap.
Again I turned my face toward the radio and listened to the static hissing through the damp basement air. The dream followed the same pattern as before, too, except this one took place in daytime.
I became aware of the musty sweet scents, and of the wallpaper. I could see it clearly now—the paper was light brown, with a vertical pattern of yellow flowers. Then I saw Jimmy. He was once again sitting in the leather chair, listening to the Philco 20. An announcer, not Lord Haw-Haw, was reading the news about a disaster at sea, a disaster involving children. Jimmy turned and spoke to me. “Ships with evacuees get sunk, don’t they?”
I took a seat on the covered sofa, feeling strangely at home. “What are evacuees?”
“They’re kids that get evacuated, aren’t they?”
“Why did they get evacuated?”
“Are you daft? So they wouldn’t get killed by the bombs.”
“Uh-huh. So most of the kids left?”
“Yeah. Most of ’em. So many that they had to close my school.”
I thought about my list of facts. I asked him, “Tell me more about your school.”
Jimmy’s lip twisted up, and his blue eyes narrowed. “My school was horrible. I hated it. And I hated my schoolmaster, Master Portefoy. We called him Master Putrefy because he smelled so bad. He cuffed me once, on the ear.” Jimmy’s eyes widened. “Then my dad went in to see him. He sorted him out right quick! He dared Master Portefoy to cuff
him
on the ear; told him he’d bust him in the nose if he did. Old Putrefy got the message, and he never touched me after that.”
I made a mental note of the name. Jimmy continued, “Anyway, most of the kids got shipped out of London, but now some are coming back.”
“Why?”
“It ain’t no holiday out there, Johnny. Just listen to the news. That boat that went down was full of London kids. Their parents thought they were sending them to safety, but they were sending them to their deaths.”
The news was soon replaced by music, big band music. I asked him, “Why didn’t you get evacuated?”
“Me? I did! Mum and me both. But then Mum died, and I came back home. Dad said he wasn’t sending me away again. Not after losing Mum and all.”
Suddenly a horrible whirring, whining sound began outside. It went right through my bones like a jolt of electricity. I shrieked, “What’s that?”
Jimmy laughed. “It’s an air-raid siren, Johnny. A false alarm, most likely. We get a lot of those.”
“We’re in an air raid? What do we do?”
“Nothin’. We just wait for the all clear.”
“What’s that? Another siren?”
“Yeah. If we don’t hear it, then we head for a shelter.”
“Okay. We head where?”
Jimmy leaned forward and explained, “Well, most people’ve got an Anderson shelter. It’s dug into the dirt in the backyard.”
“Do you have one of those?”
“Not exactly. Landlord mucked up on ours, I’m afraid. Nobody uses it. Dad always tells me to run to Mrs. Lane’s house and use hers.”
“So is that what you do?”
“Hardly, mate. That thing’s all muddy, and full of bugs. No, if I ever need a shelter, I pop into the nearest Underground station.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t you know nothing? It’s like, a train underground that takes people places.”
“A subway?”
“Yeah. There ya go.” Jimmy’s eyes opened wide. “Or”—he raised a skinny arm and pointed toward the street out front—“you could take your chances in the surface shelter.”
“The one that Canby built?”
“Right.”
“Without the cement?”
Jimmy laughed. “You remember that, eh? Well done. No, this time it has cement.”
Jimmy turned toward the radio. I hadn’t realized it, but the music had drifted away and only static was coming out of it. He suddenly got very quiet and whispered, “You know, sometimes when I’m tuning the radio, and listening . . . I think I hear Mum talking to me.”
“Really? What does she say?”
“She says, ‘Do your bit, Jimmy.’ I think it’s
really
her voice saying that. Daft, isn’t it?”
“Hey, I’m the last person to call somebody daft.”
Jimmy fixed me with a look. “What? Do you think you’re daft, Johnny?”
I held out my arms to encompass the room. “This is all pretty crazy, you must admit.”
Jimmy shook his head. “No. It’s not craziness, I can tell you that much.”
“Then what is it?”
His voice dropped down. “Answer me this: Do you believe in ghosts, Johnny?”
I thought,
Not until I met you,
but I shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I have no idea.”
“What about haunted houses, then? Do you believe a house could be haunted?”
“I guess it’s possible. I don’t know.”
“My mum and dad believe in haunted houses and ghosts because they’re from York. York’s a haunted city because it’s had so many wars, and plagues, and executions and all. It’s full of ghosts.”
Jimmy turned back to the radio and fiddled with it until he found a pop song. “Do you like this one, Johnny—‘We’ll Meet Again’?”
“I don’t know it.”
“Don’t know nothing, do you?” Jimmy pulled a small black-and-red tube and a comb out of his pocket. “Time to use my Brylcreem. It’s what the RAF pilots use, you know. That’s what they call them on the BBC, the Brylcreem boys.” Jimmy squeezed out a dab and combed it into his hair. When he was finished, he scooped up his gas mask and attached it to his belt. Then he gestured toward the door.
“Come on. I want to tell Dad what I heard today. Arsenal’s playing Spurs on twelve October. I got to know if he’s on or off.”
“What does that mean?”
“If he’s on duty or off. The Auxiliaries go forty-eight hours on and twenty-four hours off. If he can get off, we can go. Maybe Bill, too.”
“With his darts?”
“Oh yeah. I expect so.”
I thought of my list. I asked him, “Is Arsenal playing at Highbury?”
He looked at me curiously. “No, mate. White Hart Lane.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, Johnny.”
I thought,
Then I’m sure I’m dreaming.
I walked over to the sideboard and picked up the medals. “Wait a minute. I want to hear more about these.”
“What? My granddad’s medals?”
“Yeah.”
“His Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred, he called them.” He stepped closer, took the medals from me, and held them up one by one. “If you’re going to join the Dukes, it helps if you’re Yorkshire born, like Dad and me. My dad said he’d have joined if it weren’t for Mum. My dad wanted to fight the Germans, but my mum made him join the Auxiliaries.” Jimmy laid the medals down. “All right, then? Let’s be off.”
I stayed on the sofa. “No. I’m not going out there.”
“Just to have a look, Johnny. Come on, now. We have to.” He smiled and gestured toward the wall behind me. I turned and saw what he was pointing at, the
VERY WELL THEN, ALONE!
poster.
I told him, “Very well, then. You can go alone.”
“No. You’ve got to come with me, Johnny. It’s your bit. You’ve got to help.”
“Says who?”
“I told you before. I don’t know.”
“You know more than you’re saying, though. And I’m not going anywhere until you tell me.”
Before my eyes, Jimmy turned from fearless into frightened, like a lost little boy. I smiled as reassuringly as I could, and I told him, “Just talk about it, Jimmy. Just say anything and everything that you remember.”
Jimmy closed his eyes. He whispered, “I remember being asked the question.”
“The question?”
“Yeah.
What did you do to help?
”
“That’s the question?”
“Yeah.”
“
What did you do to help?
Help who?”
“I dunno for sure.” Jimmy looked at the floor. “But . . . I felt like they meant everybody. Like, the human race.”
“Did someone ask you this question? Was it a person?”
Jimmy struggled to remember. “Maybe. It could’ve been.”
“Was it Jesus?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
I tried to make him focus on that moment. “So . . . was someone’s mouth moving? Did words come out?”
He looked like he was going to burst into tears. “I dunno, I told you!” Jimmy walked over to the door and then back. He held out his hands and asked me plaintively, “Now you need to answer something for me, Johnny. One question: Will you do your bit when the time comes? Yes or no?”
“I don’t know. When will the time come? When is that?”
He answered with certainty. “On the day of reckoning, whenever that may be. But for now, let’s just say that your bit is to follow me out that door—to look, and to listen, and to learn.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, and then I agreed. Without saying a word, or signing anything, or shaking hands, I agreed to follow this strange boy into those bombed-out streets, for a purpose even he did not understand.
Jimmy led me outside to the front stoop. In the harsh light of day, things seemed much worse than they had a week before. People were struggling with cardboard suitcases and paper bags full of possessions. The street next to us was roped off; its houses and shops had been thoroughly smashed by bombs. Several men were shoveling broken glass into trucks.
Alice Lane soon emerged and stood on the stoop to our left, dressed very nicely in a small fur and a large hat. She said, “You stay close to the house, now, Jimmy.”
He answered, “Yes, Mrs. Lane.” Right after she walked around the corner, though, he whispered, “All right, Johnny. We’re just about free to leave. She’ll be off with Canby, I expect.”
Sure enough, within a minute a small car turned onto the street. Canby was driving; seated to his left was Alice Lane.
As soon as the car pulled out of sight, Jimmy took off at a slow run. In spite of all my fears, I started running with him.
“Don’t worry, Johnny,” he called. “We’re safe. The Gerries done us once today already, didn’t they?”
“Did they?”
“Yeah. They hit the East End again. The East End catches most of it because it’s along the river. But you never know.
Buckingham Palace caught it on Friday. Bounced the King right out of bed, it did.”
We ran for a long way; then we turned onto a rubble-strewn road full of firefighters and firefighting equipment. Jimmy said, “Look up there, mate.”
I looked up at an enormous domed church.
“That’s St. Paul’s. Hitler tried to destroy it. Dropped an eight-hundred-pound bomb on her, but it didn’t go off. The hand of God saved it.”
We stared at the cathedral for a while longer. Then we continued on our way through the streets of the battered city. It was bizarre; people still went about their business amid the ruins. I said, “Aren’t they afraid of getting killed?”
“No. We’re not afraid. We’ve got God on our side.”
“How do you know that?”
“I feel that. Every day. Don’t you?”
“No.”
After another long run, we reached a place that I recognized, Grosvenor Square. When we got close to the American Embassy, Jimmy grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me down.
“Uh-oh. There’s another row going on with the warden.”
I peeked out. Bill Lane was standing toe-to-toe with a heavyset man wearing a warden’s patch on his sleeve. Jimmy whispered, “That warden’s assigned to the Embassy. Him, Bill, and my dad don’t get along. They’re always arguing. Bad luck that they’re at it now. My dad’ll be mad at him afterward, but he’ll take it out on me.” He looked around, as if for an escape route. “Maybe we should bugger off.”
“Are you afraid of your father?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes he gives me a licking.”
“He hits you?”
“Yeah. If I deserve it.” Jimmy explained, “He has to. He has to be my dad and mum. Doesn’t yours hit you?”
“My father?” I thought about Jack Conway and his sad face. “No. Never.”
I looked back at the confrontation. Bill Lane was squared off, facing the warden, with James Harker right behind him. The showdown had obviously been going on for a while, as a small crowd had formed.
The warden spat out, “You Auxiliaries, you’re just afraid to fight. You’re all bloody conchies, aren’t you?”
I whispered to Jimmy, “What’s that mean?”
“A conchie is a conscientious objector, someone who won’t fight.”
Bill Lane growled, “Bill Lane’s not afraid to fight. Not anybody.”
“Yeah. Yeah. You been saying that for ten minutes, but you ain’t done nothing.”
James stepped forward, elbowing Bill out of the way. “That’s enough.” To everyone’s surprise, especially the warden’s, he pulled back his fist and delivered a short, sharp jab right to the center of the warden’s nose.
The big man stepped backward, with his right hand covering his face. In seconds, a red trickle of blood showed through his fingers.
James turned around. “You talk things to death, Bill.”
“I was getting to it right then.”
“Yeah, well, enough is enough. Now it’s done with.”
The warden scurried away toward the Embassy. Bill went back to his post by the telephone box, but James suddenly paused and looked right at us.
I hissed, “I think he spotted me!”
James strode over toward the bushes. “Oh? What’s this, now? A lost boy?” He stood right over us and shouted, “Jimmy Harker! You get out here!”
Jimmy stood up slowly. I stood up with him. Both of us bowed our heads.
James demanded to know, “What are you doing outside during a bloody air raid?”
Jimmy answered timidly. “I heard about a match, Dad. Spurs and Gunners. I wanted to see if you was off duty for it.”
“It’s bloody dangerous out here. Do you know what happened last night?”
“Yes, Dad. But I figured it’d be safer during the day.”
James’s face remained hard as granite. “You figured wrong.”