She copied it out in case the original was destroyed when she got killed and hid the copy in Eileen’s Murder in the Calais Coach. The original she sealed in an envelope addressed to Eileen, then sealed the envelope and the half-charred lithograph of The Light of the World in a second envelope, which she put in her coat pocket.
Nothing happened on the eighteenth either. On the nineteenth, Eileen said, “Tomorrow I want you to show me the drop in Hampstead Heath. If the sixteenth was a divergence point, it might be far enough outside London to not be affected.” She pulled on her coat. “I’ll meet you at the theater. I need to walk Mr. Dunworthy to St. Paul’s—he’s on duty tonight. Tell Mrs. Wyvern I hid the magic wands and the bramblebush branches on top of the costume cupboard so the children can’t get at them.”
“Are Alf and Binnie going with you?”
“No,” Eileen said, but they set up such a clamor that she gave in and took them along.
Polly was relieved, even though it would make them late for rehearsal and bring Sir Godfrey’s wrath down on her. But so long as they were with Eileen, they’d be safe—or at any rate, safer than with her. And Mr. Dunworthy would be safe in St. Paul’s. The cathedral hadn’t been hit again after the sixteenth.
Which meant he would be killed on the way back from there, or at home. It seemed possible that she would be killed at the same time, but she hoped not. She would like to be able to do the pantomime for Sir Godfrey.
She loved doing it in spite of Sir Godfrey’s loathing of pantomime, perhaps because it was the last thing she would ever do. And inside the theater she forgot the days remorselessly ticking down, forgot the war and parting and death, and thought only of lines and costumes and attempting to keep Alf and Binnie from destroying everything they touched.
The two of them had managed not only to wreak havoc backstage every night since they joined the cast but to corrupt every other child in the pantomime. Especially Trot. After a week of being with the Hodbins, her hair ribbons were untied, her rosy cheeks were streaked and dirty, and when Polly arrived at the Regent, she was shouting, “I ain’t a dunderhead!” and whaling away at her sisters with her magic wand while Nelson barked wildly.
“I gave the wand to her,” an unhappy Miss Laburnum admitted, “so she could become used to using it, but perhaps that wasn’t a good idea.”
She had also given Mrs. Brightford (the Queen) her royal robes for the same reason and had forced Sir Godfrey (the Bad Fairy) to put on his Hitler-style mustache “in case it shows a tendency to fall off.”
“Madam, I have had over fifty years of experience putting on false mustaches with spirit gum! I have never had one fall off!” he was shouting, and didn’t even note Alf and Binnie’s absence.
Half an hour later, Polly saw them come in through the doorway at the back of the house. They were alone. “Where’s Eileen?” Polly called to them, squinting out across the footlights. “Didn’t she come back with you?”
“Hunh-unh,” Alf said, slouching down the center aisle.
“Why not?”
“She said she had to do something,” Binnie said, “and for us to come ’ere so we wouldn’t be late.”
“And not to follow ’er,” Alf put in.
“And did you?”
“No,” Alf said with his best outraged-innocence air.
“We tried,” Binnie said, “but she was too quick for us, so we come ’ere.”
She’s gone to my drop again, Polly thought, wishing Eileen hadn’t. The sirens had gone while Polly was on her way here, and she could hear the drone of planes and the thud of distant bombs. Logic told her nothing could happen to Eileen, that she’d survived all the way to VE-Day, but she couldn’t help listening anxiously to the buzzing planes, trying to gauge whether they were over Kensington.
They seemed to be over the East End thus far. Polly went backstage, where Miss Laburnum gave her her principal-boy costume, belt, and scabbard, “so you can become used to wearing your sword.”
And when Polly protested that she needed to get onstage, she said, “There’s more than enough time. The fire-safety curtain’s stuck. They’ve been attempting to get it up for half an hour. Sir Godfrey’s absolutely livid.”
He was. When Polly came onstage in her doublet and hose, he was yelling at the rector—a scene made worse by the fact that Miss Laburnum had insisted Sir Godfrey try on his costume. In his Führer’s uniform and Hitler mustache, he looked positively dangerous.
“Vivien Leigh will be here at ten o’clock tonight to rehearse her scenes, and not only will they not be ready, but she will not even be able to get onstage!” he shouted. “Alf and Binnie had better not be behind this.”
“They only just got here,” Polly said, though that was hardly proof of their innocence. They could easily have booby-trapped the fire-safety curtain last night.
They’re a force for good, she told herself. They saved Captain Westbrook’s life. And Eileen’s. They won the war. But she had difficulty persuading herself of it, particularly when she found them dueling backstage with her sword and one of Mr. Dorming’s wet paintbrushes.
The rector and Mr. Dorming finally got the fire-safety curtain to work, but when they tried to raise the painted scrim with the forest and the castle on it for the transformation scene, it stuck. “Perhaps we should send for a carpenter,” Miss Laburnum suggested timidly.
“And where exactly will we find one this time of night, and in the middle of a raid?” Sir Godfrey said, gesturing with his riding crop at the ceiling. “We might just as well send for the walrus!” His mustache quivered. “Or the March Hare, who would be entirely appropriate in this madhouse.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he said to the cowering Miss Laburnum. “ ‘Go and catch a falling star! Get with child a mandrake root!’ ”
Miss Laburnum scurried off to find a carpenter, and Sir Godfrey turned to Polly. “I knew I should never have agreed to do pantomime, Viola.”
“I think we should’ve done Rapunzel,” Trot piped up. “It’s got a tower.”
Sir Godfrey, his Hitler mustache quivering, raised his riding crop threateningly.
“And a witch,” Trot said.
“Trot, go fetch the other children, there’s a good girl,” Polly said, shooing her out of Sir Godfrey’s reach. And to him, “We can do the prologue and most of the first act in front of the scrim, and then, when the carpenter comes, we can do the transformation scene.”
“Very well. Prologue!” he called. “Places, every—”
There was a terrific clatter of metal from the wings. “Alf!” Sir Godfrey roared.
Alf came onstage, holding one of the prop swords, slightly bent. “I didn’t touch nothin’. They just fell over. I swear.”
They won the war, Polly repeated silently. They won the war.
“If any of you foul fiends touch anything else, anything,” Sir Godfrey said, looking apoplectic, “I will cut off your head and nail it to the theater door as a warning to all other children!” and even Alf looked impressed. “Give me that sword and go sit down out front. Close the curtain! Places!”
Polly stepped out in front of the curtain and delivered her prologue to the audience, which consisted of Alf, Binnie, a skeptical Trot with her arms folded belligerently across her little chest, and Nelson in the front row. Polly welcomed them to the pantomime, telling them they were about to see miraculous things, and assuring them that, in spite of appearances, it would have a happy ending. “ ‘His evil will not triumph. In the end,’ ” she said, “ ‘it is the Führer who’ll be round the bend.’ ”
The audience clapped and cheered, except for Trot, who apparently was still annoyed they weren’t doing Rapunzel.
“ ‘And now, to our tale,’ ” Polly said, sweeping her arm out toward the curtain. “ ‘Its beginning lies in a royal castle, with a King, a Queen, and their infant daughter.’ ”
The curtain, thankfully, opened, revealing Mrs. Brightford wearing a crown and holding a doll in her arms.
&
nbsp; “Where is the King?” Sir Godfrey demanded, roaring out onstage.
“You mean the rector?” Binnie said. “He went with Miss Laburnum to fetch the carpenter.”
“ ‘My kingdom for a horse,’ ” Sir Godfrey muttered. “Mr. Dorming!”
Mr. Dorming appeared in the wings, paintbrush and bucket in hand.
“You’ll play the King.”
“I don’t know his lines,” Mr. Dorming said.
“Prompter!” Sir Godfrey roared.
“Eileen’s not here yet,” Polly said.
“I’ll play the King,” Binnie said, racing onstage. “I know all the lines.”
She went over to Mrs. Brightford. “ ‘My Queen, we must have a great christening and invite all the fairies in the land.’ ” She turned to Sir Godfrey. “See?”
Sir Godfrey rolled his eyes and waved at her to proceed, and they made it safely through that scene and the next, which involved, for some reason, a song and dance by the Three Bears, but they needed Miss Laburnum and the rector, neither of whom had come back yet, for the christening scene.
Eileen hadn’t arrived either, and Polly listened nervously to the bombs. It sounded like they were over Chelsea and moving northwest. Toward Kensington and Polly’s drop.
“I said, we’ll rehearse the Prince’s scene,” Sir Godfrey was saying. “If the bramblebushes haven’t deserted us as well.”
“Sorry,” Polly said, and went to find the children.
They were backstage, standing on Sleeping Beauty’s bed. Alf and Binnie were teaching Trot and the rest of the bramblebushes to thrust and parry with their branches.
“Onstage. Now,” Polly ordered, and they jumped off the bed, scrambled under the scrim, and formed a more or less straight line, their branches crossed in front of their chests.
“Where’s Nelson?” Alf said, and started off to find him.
“Stop!” Sir Godfrey roared. “Do it without Nelson.”
“But—”
“Now!” he ordered.
Polly hastily said, “ ‘Long years have I searched for this fair princess of whom I have heard,’ ” and thought of Colin. “ ‘Long weary miles have I ridden—’ ”
“Prince Dauntless,” Sir Godfrey interrupted. “This is a comedy, not a tragedy.”
“Sorry,” Polly said, putting what she hoped was a hopeful and undaunted look on her face. “ ‘Long years have I searched for this fair princess—’ ”
“Wait,” Alf said. “That’s s’posed to be Sleeping Beauty, ain’t it? And we’re s’posed to be guardin’ ’er, ain’t we?”
“Yes,” Sir Godfrey said, glaring.
“Well, where is she?”
“She will be here at ten o’clock,” Sir Godfrey said. “If I live that long.”
“I’ll play Sleeping Beauty,” Binnie said. “I know all the lines.”
‘She ain’t got no lines,” Alf said. “She’s asleep.”
But Binnie was already dragging the prop bed out from under the scrim. She flung herself onto it and lay down, crossed her arms decorously over her chest, and closed her eyes.
Polly was afraid Sir Godfrey would explode, but he only nodded wearily at her to begin.
“ ‘Long, weary miles have I ridden,’ ” she said, and put her hand to her scabbard. “ ‘What evil, dark forest is this? And what trees are these?’ ”
“ ‘Bramblebushes!’ ” Alf said. “ ‘We let no man pass!’ ”
Trot stepped forward. “ ‘Our thorns will tear you limb from limb!’ ”
“ ‘I do not fear a few brambles,’ ” Polly said.
“ ‘We are no ordinary brambles!’ ” Bess shouted.
“ ‘We’re Nazi brambles!’ ” Alf proclaimed. “ ‘I’m Goebbels!’ ” and opened his branchy arms to reveal a picture on his chest of the Nazi propaganda minister.
“ ‘I’m Göring!’ ” Bess said.
“ ‘I’m …’ ” Trot shifted from one foot to the other, frowning, and then looked at Polly. “ ‘I’m …’ ”
“Himmler,” Polly whispered, but it didn’t help.
“Who am I?” Trot asked plaintively.
“You’re Himmler, you noddlehead,” Binnie said, sitting up on the bed.
“I’m not a noddlehead!” Trot cried, and hit Alf, who was nearer, with her branch.
“Why isn’t that prompter here yet?” Sir Godfrey said, stomping onstage.
“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 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.
There was a poster on the wall behind Binnie with a picture of a housewife, a nurse, and an ARP warden on it. You Can Win the Battle, it read.
I didn’t win it, he thought numbly. I was too late. Eileen’s been dead nearly a decade. I wasn’t able to rescue her. Or Polly.