All Clear

In war, time is all important.

—SIR WALTER THOMAS LAYTON,

MINISTRY OF SUPPLY,

1940

London—29 December 1940

“I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME!” THEODORE SHRIEKED. “I WANT to see the pantomime!”

“We can’t,” Eileen said, trying to put his wildly flailing arms into the sleeves of his coat. “We must go.”

“Why?” Theodore wailed.

“Here, let me take him,” Mike said, edging past the nanny and the three little girls to pick him up.

“Oh, don’t—” Eileen said, but Theodore had already kicked him.

Mike let go of him with a grunt.

“Sorry. I should have warned you.” She turned sternly to Theodore. “No kicking. Now put your coat on, there’s a good boy—”

“No! I don’t want to go!” he shrieked, and every child and adult in the audience turned to look disapprovingly at him.

“Here, what’s all this then?” the balcony usher said, coming up followed by—oh, no—the one who’d refused to allow them in without tickets. “We can’t have this sort of disruption. The performance is about to begin.”

“Are these two bothering you, miss?” the usher who’d refused to let them in asked Eileen.

“No. Hush, Theodore,” Eileen said. “They—”

“They attempted before to enter the theater without paying,” the usher who’d refused to let them in told the balcony usher.

“The hell we did,” Mike said.

“We have tickets,” Polly said quickly, handing the usher hers. “Show him your ticket, Mike. We only wanted to speak with our friend for a moment. Something’s happened at home—”

“I don’t want to go home!” Theodore wailed and burst into noisy tears.

The governess tugged on Polly’s sleeve. “You said something had happened at home? Has there been a raid? Has someone in his family been—”

“No,” Polly said, and was instantly sorry. It was the perfect excuse for getting him out of there. But their usher had already pounced. “Then it’s scarcely an emergency,” he said, snatching the tickets from the balcony usher. He looked at them. “These tickets are for row eight in the orchestra. You don’t even belong in this section.”

“I know,” Mike said angrily. “We were only trying to speak to this young lady—”

The lights blinked off and then on again.

“The curtain’s about to rise,” the balcony usher said. “I’m afraid I must ask you to return to your seats. You can speak to your friend during the interval.”

“But—”

“I want to see the pantomime!” Theodore wailed.

“And so you shall, young man,” the usher said, glaring at Mike and Polly. “Sir, madam, either take your seats, or I’ll be forced to escort you from the theater.”

“Go sit down,” Eileen said, leaning across the little girls to put her hand on Mike’s. “It’ll be all right.”

“But we don’t have time—”

“I know. It’ll be all right. I promise.”

How? Polly wondered as they were led ignominiously back down to their seats.

“What does she mean, it’ll be all right?” Mike asked her.

“I don’t know. Perhaps she can persuade Theodore to leave—”

“Persuade him? Fat chance.” He rubbed his leg where Theodore had kicked him. “And what if she can’t?”

“Then I’m afraid we must wait for the interval,” Polly said, looking back up the center aisle where their usher stood guard, his arms militantly folded. “Perhaps you’d better go on to St. Paul’s, and I’ll bring Eileen when I can.”

He shook his head. “We’re all going together or we’re not going at all.” They sat down. “How many acts till the interval?”

Polly opened her program to see. The pantomime, which was titled Rapunzel: A Wartime Christmas Pantomime, consisted of only two acts, but under Act One were listed at least a dozen songs, as well as dance numbers, magic acts, juggling acts, and performing dogs.

Oh, no, we’ll be here forever, she thought. And no wonder Sir Godfrey hated pantomime so. It looked more like a vaudeville show than a play.

“I want it to begin,” the little boy next to Polly said.

“So do I,” she told him.

The asbestos fire-safety curtain went up, revealing red velvet curtains, and the audience applauded wildly. Good, she thought, but nothing else happened.

“Maybe Theodore’ll have to go to the bathroom,” Mike said, looking up at the balcony where Eileen was talking earnestly to him, “and we can throw a coat over him and carry him out or something.”

“Shh,” the little boy leaned across Polly to say sternly. “It’s beginning.”

At last, Polly thought.

The orchestra played a fanfare, and a pretty girl in tights and doublet came onstage with a large white card and said, “In case of an air raid, this notice will be displayed.” She flipped the card over to reveal Air Raid in Progress, then flipped it back to its blank side and set it on an easel at the side of the stage. “Thank you.”

More raucous applause, and the curtains parted to reveal a forest of pasteboard trees and a tall pasteboard tower. Near the top was a small window with a blonde sitting in it, combing her long hair. “Oh, woe is me,” she said. “Here I sit, trapped in this tower! Who will come and rescue me?” She leaned out the window. “Oh, no!