Emmy turned to a man who said it was most severe by Tower Bridge. “Which neighborhoods? Which streets?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “I don’t know, love. All over. Look at the sky.” He nodded toward the direction they were headed. The rosy orange hue seemed to suggest the earth had swung off its orbit and now the sun was preparing to set in the east.
The long walk to the Moreton train station that morning seemed like a lifetime ago as Emmy dodged her way closer and closer to home in the sickly hued twilight. She knew from Mum that it was three miles from the flat to Mrs. Billingsley’s in Mayfair. She tried to hail a taxi but none of them stopped for her. Everyone and everything moved at a frenzied pace as emergency vehicles raced to the East End and survivors made their way west. When Emmy could see the dome of Saint Paul’s, she knew she was two-thirds of the way home. Just a mile to go.
And then the sirens came again.
Louder this time.
Or maybe it was just that she so desperately did not want to hear them.
Antiaircraft guns began peppering the sky over the river. She felt the drone of the approaching planes in her chest.
The scattering of people searching for cover erupted all around her but she did not join them. Emmy doubled her pace for home, despite her weariness.
“Run, run!” someone shouted. Emmy heard a whistle, almost like a flute, and then the sound became an orchestra of angry flutes. Then there was a shatteringwhack. Her feet were off the ground and Emmy marveled for a split second at the weightless sensation of flying. And then her head slammed against bricks and the world went silent and dark.
Nineteen
I’Mso thirsty.
This was Emmy’s first thought when the darkness lifted.
She heard a woman singing softly, a lullaby. Emmy was not alone.
A trio of booms echoed from somewhere far above her. She smelled ash and dirt and sulfur.
Something cool and wet touched her forehead and she opened her eyes.
“There, now,” a woman said as she held the compress to Emmy’s head. “You’re all right. You’re safe.”
Emmy looked about her and saw nothing but shadows and the dim outlines of men and women crouched like stowaways in the hold of a ship. She was lying on a cot. Her head pounded and her ankle throbbed.
A whistling sound, faint but recognizable from thelast moment she remembered, split the quiet, and Emmy half rose with a start before the woman gently pressed her back down on the cot. “Not to worry. You’re safe here.”
“Where am I?” Emmy croaked. “What happened?”
“You’re in a shelter, love. You’re safe. You were knocked out cold but a fireman brought you here. You’re safe now.”
For several seconds Emmy could not make sense of this information. All she could remember was that she had been on the street. And then there were sirens. And the angry flutes.
“What—what day is it?”
“It’s still Saturday, love. What’s your name?”
“Emmeline. Where am I?”
“You’re in the basement at Saint Paul’s. What’s your last name, Emmeline?”
Emmy ignored her question. She had to think for a moment. She had been on her way home. Home. She was walking home. She had the satchel in her hand. She was walking home. Home.
Julia. And Mum.
Emmy bolted upright and her head spun.
“Hold on there, Emmeline. You’ve a nasty bump on your head. Let’s take it easy, now.”
“I have to go.” A wave of dizziness swept over Emmy and her upper body fell against the woman. She lowered Emmy back down.
