Connie Willis - The Best of Connie Willis

I’d no sooner said it than it hit, whipping my hair and my coat lapels back, rattling the unglued edges of a poster for Showboat . There was no blast, no heat, even though Embankment was right on the river, where the fires had been the worst. It was cold, cold, but there was no smell of formaldehyde with it, no stench of decay. Only the icy chill and a smothering smell of dryness and of dust.

It should have been better than the other ones, but it wasn’t. It was worse. I had to lean against the back wall of the platform for support, my eyes closed, before I could get on the train.

What are they? I thought, even though this proved they were the residue of the Blitz. Because Embankment had been hit.

And people must have died, I thought. Because it was death I’d smelled. Death and terror and despair.

I stumbled onto the train. It was jammed tight, and the closeness, the knowledge that any wind, any air, couldn’t reach me through this mass of people, revived me, calmed me, and by the time I pulled in to Leicester Square, I had recovered and was thinking only of how late I was.

Seven-ten. I could still make it, but just barely. At least Cath had the tickets, and with luck Elliott and Sara would get there in the meantime and they’d all be busy saying hello.

Maybe the Old Man changed his mind, I thought, and decided to come. Maybe yesterday he’d been under the weather, and tonight he’d be his old self.

The train pulled in. I raced down the passage, up the escalator, and out onto Shaftesbury. It was raining, but I didn’t have time to worry about it.

“Tom! Tom!” a breathless voice shouted behind me.

I turned. Sara was frantically waving at me from half a block away.

“Didn’t you hear me?” she said breathlessly, catching up to me. “I’ve been calling you ever since the Tube.”

She’d obviously been running. Her hair was mussed, and one end of her scarf dangled nearly to the ground.

“I know we’re late,” she said, pulling at my arm, “but I must catch my breath. You’re not one of those dreadful men who’ve taken up marathon running in old age, are you?”

“No,” I said, moving over in front of a shop and out of the path of traffic.

“Elliott’s always talking about getting a Stairmaster.” She pulled her dangling scarf off and wrapped it carelessly around her neck. “I have no desire to get in shape.”

Cath was wrong. That was all there was to it. Her radar had failed her and she was misinterpreting the whole situation.

I must have been staring. Sara put a defensive hand up to her hair. “I know I look a mess,” she said, putting up her umbrella. “Oh, well. How late are we?”

“We’ll make it,” I said, taking her arm, and setting off toward the Lyric. “Where’s Elliott?”

“He’s meeting us at the theater. Did Cath get her china?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since this morning,” I said.

“Oh, look, there she is,” Sara said, and began waving.

Cath was standing in front of the Lyric, next to the water-spotted sign that said TONIGHT’S PERFORMANCE SOLD OUT, looking numb and cold.

“Why didn’t you wait inside out of the rain?” I said, leading them both into the lobby.

“We ran into each other coming out of the Tube,” Sara said, pulling off her scarf. “Or, rather, I saw Tom. I had to scream to get his attention. Isn’t Elliott here yet?”

“No,” Cath said.

“He and Mr. Evers came back after lunch. The day was not a success, so don’t bring up the subject. Mrs. Evers insisted on buying everything in the entire gift shop, and then we couldn’t find a taxi. Apparently there are no taxis down in Kew. I had to take the Tube, and it was blocks to the station.” She put her hand up to her hair. “I got blown to pieces.”

“Did you change trains at Embankment?” I asked, trying to remember which line went out to Kew Gardens. Maybe she’d felt the wind, too. “Were you on the Bakerloo Line platform?”

“I don’t remember,” Sara said impatiently. “Is that the line for Kew? You’re the tube expert.”

“Do you want me to check your coats?” I said hastily.

Sara handed me hers, jamming her long scarf into one sleeve, but Cath shook her head. “I’m cold.”

“You should have waited in the lobby,” I said.

“Should I?” she said, and I looked at her, surprised. Was she mad I was late? Why? We still had fifteen minutes, and Elliott wasn’t even here yet.

“What’s the matter?” I started to say, but Sara was asking, “Did you get your china?”

“No,” Cath said, still with that edge of anger in her voice. “Nobody has it.”

“Did you try Selfridge’s?” Sara asked, and I went off to check Sara’s coat. When I came back, Elliott was there.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. He turned to me. “What happened to you this—?”

“We were all late,” I said, “except Cath, who, luckily, was the one with the tickets. You do have the tickets?”

Cath nodded and pulled them out of her evening bag. She handed them to me, and we went in. “Right-hand aisle and down to your right,” the usher said. “Row three.”

“No stairs to climb?” Elliott said. “No ladders?”

“No rock axes and pitons,” I said. “No binoculars.”

“You’re kidding,” Elliott said. “I won’t know how to act.”

I stopped to buy programs from the usher. By the time we got to Row 3, Cath and Sara were already in their seats. “Good God,” Elliott said as we sidled past the people on the aisle. “I’ll bet you can actually see from here.”

“Do you want to sit next to Sara?” I said.

“Good God, no,” Elliott joked. “I want to be able to ogle the chorus girls without her smacking me with her program.”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of play,” I said.

“Cath, what’s this play about?” Elliott said.

She leaned across Sara. “Hayley Mills is in it,” she told him.

“Hayley Mills,” he said reminiscently, leaning back, his hands behind his head. “I thought she was truly sexy when I was ten years old. Especially that dance number in Bye Bye Birdie .”

“You’re thinking of Ann-Margret, you fool,” Sara said, reaching across me to smack him with her program. “Hayley Mills was in that one where she’s the little girl who always saw the positive side of things—what was it called?”

I looked across at Cath, surprised she hadn’t chimed in with the answer—she was the Hayley Mills fan. She was sitting with her coat pulled around her shoulders. Her face looked pinched with cold.

“ You know Hayley Mills,” Sara said to Elliott. “We watched her in The Flame Trees of Thika .”

Elliott nodded. “I always admired her chest. Or am I thinking of Annette?”

“I don’t think this is that kind of play,” Sara said.

It wasn’t that kind of play. Everyone wore high-necked costumes, including Hayley Mills, who swept in swathed in a bulky coat. “I’m so sorry I’m late, dear,” she said, taking off her coat to reveal a turtleneck sweater and going over to stand in front of a stage fire. “It’s so cold out. And the air’s so strange.”

Whoever was playing her husband said, “‘Into my heart an air that kills from yon far country blows,’” and Elliott leaned over and whispered, “Oh, God, a literary play.”

I’d missed the rest of the husband’s line, but he must have asked Hayley why she was late, because she said, “My assistant cut her hand, and I had to take her to hospital. It took forever for her to get stitched up.”

A hospital. I hadn’t considered that. Their morgues would have been full during the Blitz. Was there a hospital close to Holborn? I would have to ask Elliott at intermission.