Free All Clear by Connie Willis Page A

Moncrieff said. “And at any rate, this will only take a couple of hours. We’ll be back in plenty of time for you to deliver your stories.”
    “That’s what Cess said about the tanks last night.”
    “Yes, but this is quite nearby. At Mofford House, only a few miles beyond Lymbridge.”
    “Can’t Chasuble go instead? Or Gwendolyn?”
    “He’s already there setting up. And Chasuble’s over at Camp Omaha, rigging up a chimney for the mess tent.”
    “What does the mess tent need a chimney for? There’s no one there to cook for.”
    “But they must
look
as if they are,” Prism said. “And you must go. You’re the one who’s going to write this all up for the London papers.”
    The London papers meant the story would get a good deal more notice than an article in the
Call
, particularly if there was an accompanying photograph, and it was a chance to meet Queen Elizabeth, which any Fortitude South agent—or any historian—would give his eyeteeth for. Plus, it looked as if he was going to go whether he wanted to or not. “Do I need to bring my camera?” Ernest asked.
    “No. The London papers will have their photographers there. All you need is your pajamas,” Prism said. “Now come along, we’re late.”
    “If it’s not too much to ask,” Ernest said once they were in the staff car, with Moncrieff driving, “why am I meeting the Queen in my pajamas?”
    “Because you’ve been wounded,” Moncrieff said. “A broken foot would be appropriate, I think.” He looked back at Ernest in the backseat. “We’ll put you in a plaster and on crutches. Unless you’d rather have a broken neck.”
    “Have you any idea what he’s babbling on about?” Ernest leaned forward to ask Prism.
    “We’re attending the ribbon cutting for a hospital,” he explained. “They’ve turned Mofford House into a military hospital to deal with the soldiers who’ll be coming back wounded from the invasion.”
    “Which hasn’t happened yet. So how can we be invasion casualties?”
    “We’re not. We were wounded at Tripoli. Or Monte Cassino, whichever you prefer.”
    “But—”
    “We’re window dressing,” Prism said impatiently. “The newspaper stories you’ll write will say that the hospital has only a few patients at present, but that its capacity is six hundred, and that it’s one of five new hospitals which will open in the area over the next four months.”
    “Which plays nicely into the scenario that the invasion’s scheduled for mid-July,” Ernest said. “So the Queen will be seen visiting the wards?”
    “Ward,” Prism said. “They were only able to mock up one for the ribbon cutting. The hospital in Dover couldn’t spare the beds for more than that, and Lady Mofford wasn’t keen on having her entire house turned into a hospital just for one afternoon’s photographs.”
    “Afternoon?” Ernest said. “I thought you said this would only take a couple of hours.”
    “It will. There’ll be a speech welcoming the Queen, a visit to the ward, and then tea. The Queen’s to arrive at one.”
    “One o’clock this afternoon?” Cess cried. “That’s
hours
from now. And Worthing and I haven’t even had breakfast. Why did we need to leave now?”
    “I told you,” Prism said imperturbably. “The Queen will be there. One can’t keep royalty waiting. And we need to help set up.”
    “But I’m starving!” Cess said.
    “And I must be in Croydon by four o’clock, or my articles won’t make this week’s edition.”
    “Then they’ll have to go in next week’s.”
    “That’s what you said last week,” Ernest said. “At this rate, they won’t go in till
after
the invasion, and a bloody lot of good they’ll do then.”
    “Very well,” Prism said. “When we get there I’ll ring up Lady Bracknell and have Algernon take them to Croydon for you.”
    Which would completely defeat the purpose. “They’re not done yet,” he said. “I’d intended to finish writing them up last night, and