All Clear

“I don’t know,” Polly said. “I’m worried that she—”

“You want me to go look for ’er?” Alf volunteered.

“No,” Sir Godfrey said. “Mr. Dorming! I need you on promptbook.”

Mr. Dorming nodded, stuck his paintbrush into his bucket, set them down where Alf was almost certain to knock them over, and went in search of the promptbook.

“Stop that,” Sir Godfrey said to Trot, who was still whaling away at Alf. “By God, it was easier to get Birnam Wood to Dunsinane than to get you six to do a five-minute scene.

“Line up,” he ordered the children, and looked over at Binnie. “Lie down. Take it again, from ‘We’re Nazi brambles!’ ”

And Sir Godfrey must have put the fear of God into Trot because she got her line and the ensuing “Song of the Brambles”—including their line about Fortress Europe, and the ending, which involved their lunging forward and thrusting their branches at Polly—letter-perfect.

“ ‘You shan’t stop me from getting through!’ ” Polly said, drawing her sword. “ ‘I’ll cut you down with my trusty sword, Churchill. En garde!’ ”

“Oh, no!” the children cried, and collapsed in a heap.

“No, no, no!” Sir Godfrey said, striding out onstage. “Not all at once.”

The children scrambled to their feet.

“You go down one after the other, like dominoes.” He put his hand on Bess’s head. “You first, then you, and you, on down the line.”

“They didn’t stick their branches up like they were s’posed to, neither,” Binnie said, sitting up on the bed.

“I did so—” Alf began.

Sir Godfrey silenced him with a look.

“And hold your branches up.” He turned to Binnie and roared, “Go back to sleep. Don’t move until you’re kissed.” To Polly, he muttered as he passed, “There is a reason Shakespeare never put children in his plays.”

“You’re forgetting the little princess.”

“Whom he had the good sense to murder in the second act. Again!”

Polly nodded, drew her sword, and stepped forward. “ ‘And my trusty shield—’ ”

There was a horrific crash somewhere backstage. Polly looked instantly at Alf, who was wearing his innocent expression.

“Can anything else happen tonight?” Sir Godfrey said, and stormed backstage, shouting, “And don’t follow me! When I come back, I expect you to be all the way through this scene and the next! And tell me the instant that carpenter arrives.”

The children looked interestedly after Sir Godfrey.

“Get back in line,” Polly said. “Cross your branches.” She raised her sword. “ ‘And my trusty—’ ”

There was a sound at the rear of the theater, and a man appeared in the doorway at the back. Thank goodness, Polly thought, walking out to the edge of the stage, still holding her sword. It’s the carpenter.

But it wasn’t. It was Mr. Dunworthy. His coat was open, his scarf dangled unevenly to one side, and he was bareheaded.

“Mr. Dun—Mr. Hobbe,” Polly called to him, shading her eyes with her free hand, trying to see out into the darkened theater. “What are you doing here? What’s

“Mr. Dun—Mr. Hobbe,” Polly called to him, shading her eyes with her free hand, trying to see out into the darkened theater. “What are you doing here? What’s happened?”

He didn’t answer. He took a stumbling step down the aisle.

Oh, God, he’s been injured, Polly thought.

Alf appeared beside her. “Did somethin’ ’appen to Eileen?” he asked.

Mr. Dunworthy made an effort to speak, but nothing came out. He took another step forward, to where Polly could see his face. He looked stunned, his face ashen.

No, she thought, not Eileen. It can’t be. Mr. Dunworthy and I are the ones with the deadlines. Eileen survived the war. She—

Binnie, trailing bedclothes, pushed past Polly. “Where’s Eileen?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Did sumthin’ ’appen to ’er?”

Mr. Dunworthy shook his head.

Thank God.

“Are you all right?” Polly called to him.

“I was at St. Paul’s …” he said, looking up at her and then back toward the doorway he’d come through.

A young man was standing in it. He started down the aisle, and Polly saw he had an ARP warden’s armband and a helmet, which he’d taken off and was holding in both hands. Oh, God, she thought. It’s Stephen.

But it couldn’t be. Stephen hadn’t even met her yet. He wouldn’t meet her till 1944. And the warden’s hair was reddish blonde, not dark. “Polly,” he said.

“Sir Godfrey!” Trot shouted into the wings. “The carpenter’s here!”

“It ain’t the carpenter, you noddlehead!” Alf shouted at her. “It’s an air-raid warden.”

No, it isn’t, Polly thought.

It wasn’t Stephen either, and the sword that Polly had been holding all this time, that she hadn’t realized she was still holding, fell from her nerveless fingers.

It was Colin.

Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel,

And piece together the past and the future

—T.S. ELIOT, FOUR QUARTETS

Imperial War Museum, London—7 May 1995

COLIN SAT THERE IN THE SHELTER REPLICA WITH BINNIE, not hearing the siren sound effects, not seeing the red flashes, not doing anything but attempting to take in what Binnie had just told him. Eileen was dead. She’d died eight years ago. Which meant Polly had died in December 1943.