Nebula Awards Showcase 2012

But she’d also have to compete with all those suddenly unemployed John Lewis shopgirls, and they’d be more likely to be taken on than she would, out of sympathy. Perhaps I should tell them I worked there, she thought.

She folded her coat into a pillow and lay down, but she couldn’t sleep. The droning planes were too loud. They sounded like monstrous, buzzing wasps, and they were growing louder—and nearer—by the moment. Polly sat up. The noise had wakened the rector, too. He’d sat up and was looking nervously at the ceiling. There was a whoosh, and then a huge explosion. Mr. Dorming jerked upright. “What the bloody hell—?” he said, and then, “Sorry, rector.”

“Quite understandable given the circumstances,” the rector said. “They seem to have begun again.” Which was an understatement even for a con-temp. The gun in Battersea Park was going full blast, and he had to shout to make himself heard. “I do hope those girls are all right. The ones who were trying to find Gloucester Terrace.”

The gun in Kensington Gardens started in again, and Irene sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Shh, go back to sleep,” Mrs. Brightford murmured, looking over at Mr. Dorming, who was staring at the door. The raid seemed to be just outside it, whumps and bangs and long, shuddering booms, that woke up Nelson and Mr. Simms and the rest of the women. Mrs. Rickett looked annoyed, but everyone else looked wary and then worried.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t have allowed the girls go,” Miss Laburnum said.

Trot crawled into her mother’s lap. “Shh,” Mrs. Brightford said, patting her. “It’s all right.” No, it’s not, Polly thought, watching their faces. They had the same look they’d had when the knocking began. If the raid didn’t let up soon . . .

Every anti-aircraft gun in London was firing—a chorus of deafening thump-thump-thumps, punctuated by the thud and crash of bombs. The din grew louder and louder. Everyone’s eyes strayed to the ceiling, as if expecting it to crash in at any moment. There was a screech, like tearing metal, and then an ear-splitting boom. Miss Hibbard jumped and dropped her knitting, and Bess began to cry.

“The bombardment does seem rather more severe this evening,” the rector said.

Rather more severe. It sounded like the planes—and the anti-aircraft guns—were fighting it out in the sanctuary upstairs. Kensington wasn’t hit, she told herself.

“Perhaps we should sing,” the rector shouted over the cacophony.

“That’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Wyvern said, and launched into, “God save our noble king.” Miss Laburnum and then Mr. Simms joined in, but they could scarcely be heard above the roar and scream outside, and the rector made no attempt to go on to the second verse. One by one, everyone stopped singing and stared anxiously up at the ceiling.

An HE exploded so close the beams of the shelter shook, followed immediately by another even closer, drowning out the sound of the guns, but not the planes droning endlessly, maddeningly overhead. “Why isn’t it letting up?” Viv asked, and Polly could hear the panic in her voice.

“I don’t like it!” Trot wailed, clapping her small hands over her ears. “It’s loud!”

“Indeed,” the elderly gentleman said from his corner. “‘The isle is full of noises,”‘ and Polly looked over at him in surprise. His voice had changed completely from the quiet, well-bred voice of a gentleman to a deep, commanding tone which made even the little girls stop crying and look at him.

He shut his book and laid it on the floor beside him. ‘“With strange and several noises,”‘ he said, getting to his feet, ‘“of roaring . . .’” He shrugged his coat from his shoulders, as if throwing off a cloak to reveal himself as a magician, a king. “‘With shrieking, howling, and more diversity of sounds, all horrible, we were awaked.’”

He strode suddenly to the center of the cellar. “‘To the dread rattling thunder have I given fire,”‘ he shouted, seeming to Polly to have grown to twice his size. “‘The strong-bas’d promontory have I made shake!”‘ His resonant voice reached every corner of the cellar. “‘Sometime I’d divide and burn in many places,”‘ he said, pointing dramatically at the ceiling, the floor, the door in turn as he spoke, “‘on the topmast, the yards, and bowsprit would I flame—‘” He flung both arms out, “‘Then meet and join.’”

Above, a bomb crashed, close enough to rattle the tea urn and the teacups, but no one glanced over at them. They were all watching him, their fear gone, and even though the terrifying racket hadn’t diminished, and his words, rather than attempting to distract them from the noise, were drawing attention to it, describing it, the din was no longer frightening. It had become mere stage effects, clashing cymbals and sheets of rattled tin, providing a dramatic background to his voice. “‘A plague upon this howling!”‘ he cried, “They are louder than the weather or our office,’” and went straight into Prospero’s epilogue and from there into Lear’s mad scene, and finally Henry V, while his audience listened, entranced.

At some point the cacophony outside had diminished, fading till there was nothing but the muffled poom-poom-poom of an anti-aircraft gun off to the northeast, but no one in the room had noticed. Which was, of course, the point. Polly gazed at him in admiration.

“‘This story shall the good man teach his son, from this day to the ending of the world,”‘ he said, his voice ringing through the cellar, ‘“but we in it shall be remembered—we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.’” His voice died away on the last words, like a bell echoing into silence. “‘The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve,”‘ he whispered. “‘Sweet friends, to bed,”‘ and bowed his head, his hand on his heart.

There was a moment of entranced silence, followed by Miss Hibbard’s, “Oh, my!” and general applause. Trot clapped wildly, and even Mr. Dorming joined in. The gentleman bowed deeply, retrieved his coat from the floor and returned to his corner and his book. Mrs. Brightford gathered her girls to her, and Nelson and Lila and Viv composed themselves to sleep, one after the other, like children who’d been told a bedtime story. Polly went over to sit next to Miss Laburnum and the rector. “Who is he?” she whispered.

“You mean you don’t know?” Miss Laburnum said,

Polly hoped he wasn’t so famous that her failing to recognize him would be suspicious. “He’s Godfrey Kingsman,” the rector explained, “the Shakespearean actor.”

“England’s greatest actor,” Miss Laburnum said.

Mrs. Rickett sniffed. “If he’s such a great actor, what’s he doing sitting in this shelter? Why isn’t he on stage?”

“You know perfectly well the theatres are closed because of the raids,” Miss Laburnum said heatedly. “Until the government reopens them—”

“All I know is, I don’t let rooms to actors,” Mrs. Rickett said. “They can’t be relied on to pay their rent.”

Miss Laburnum went very red. “Sir Godfrey —”

“He’s been knighted then?” Polly asked hastily.

“By King Edward,” Miss Laburnum said. “I can’t imagine that you’ve never heard of him, Miss Sebastian. His Lear is renowned ! I saw him in Hamlet when I was a girl, and he was simply marvelous!”

He’s rather marvelous now, Polly thought.

“He’s appeared before all the crowned heads of Europe,” Miss Laburnum said. “And to think he honored us with a performance tonight.”

Mrs. Rickett sniffed again, and Miss Laburnum was only stopped from saying something regrettable by the all clear. The sleepers sat up and yawned, and everyone began to gather their belongings. Sir Godfrey marked his place in his book, shut it, and stood up. Miss Laburnum and Miss Hibbard scurried over to him to tell him how wonderful he’d been. “It was so inspiring,” Miss Laburnum said, “especially the speech from Hamlet.”