Chris Cleave - Everyone Brave is Forgiven

“And how do you help out with the show?” Hilda was saying.

Zachary shrugged. “This and that.”

“He’s here to remind himself what not to do,’ said his father. “Boy’s going to be a lawyer or a physician.”

Mary smiled at Zachary. “That’s what you want, is it?”

“Sure.”

His father said, “That’s why it lifts me when he tells me how well he’s doing in class.”

Zachary looked to Mary, widening his eyes in appeal. She hesitated, then smiled. “He tries splendidly hard. And anyway, I don’t see what’s so wrong with what you do. You’re marvelously good.”

Zachary’s father wrung out the facecloth and the milky water ran into the bowl. “It’s a living, I suppose. And we don’t bother anyone.”

“I have to ask,” said Mary. “How do you find it? The show, I mean?”

He gave her a steady look. “How do I find it, Miss North? I walk up the Strand and make a left onto Wellington Street.”

“But since you say that you want more for Zachary, I’m wondering if you mean… in some aspects… oh, it goes without saying that the performance is fabulous… but don’t you sometimes find it just a tiny bit…”

“Sure,” said Zachary’s father. “You’d want more for your child.”

“But since you are — oh, you know, in it, aren’t you ever tempted — forgive me — to challenge the attitudes?”

Zachary’s father grinned. “You’re the ones fighting evil. We’re just the help.”

“Oh stop it!” said Mary.

“It’s you I feel for. We only do the act twice a day, but you people are on the whole time.”

Mary laughed. Hilda sniffed, doing her lips in a tortoiseshell compact. “Shouldn’t we have the all-clear by now? How long will they keep us down here?”

“Just till they’ve rattled their clipboards,” said Alistair. “These drills don’t mark themselves, you know.”

Hilda smiled. Alistair smiled back. It was nice that everyone smiled. Although something in her face was awry. Probably this, too, was just the wine wearing off. It was the least pleasant accident of consciousness, and poor Hilda could hardly be blamed for it. Ten minutes ago he’d been perfectly content with the press of her body. Whenever one thought about happiness, it was because it was wearing off.

Tom said, “I hate to be a bore, but I’m not wonderful with underground spaces. I’m starting to feel queer, truth be told.”

“Hear, hear,” said Hilda. “I don’t see why we should stay put, just for the form. Why don’t we go to Brown’s and have a cocktail? We could all—”

The first bomb hit London with unimagined force. The concussion was unambiguous. First it came to them through the ground. The benches jumped beneath them and everyone yelped. Then the sound came, a deep bass shock, the echoes rolling in the basement’s stone vaults.

“Oh Christ,” said Tom. “This is it.”

Zachary buried his head in his father’s chest. His father held him close, resting his chin on the top of the boy’s head, his eyes wide. Three more detonations came, even louder.

Hilda grabbed at Alistair. “Oh god…” Her breath came in quick gasps.

Alistair patted her hand. “Try to breathe. We’re safe down here.”

Zachary’s father had his mouth close to the boy’s ear. “ ‘The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night…’ ”

Mary stood abruptly and smoothed her dress. “I must go to the school.”

“What?” said Tom.

Mary picked up her handbag. “Will you come?”

“But why…?”

“I have to make sure it’s safe. I didn’t bar the shutters, or anything.”

Tom was pale. “But we can’t go out there. It’s…”

Mary hesitated. Alistair stood and guided her back to the bench.

“It’s just a building,” he said. “The doctors can save them every time.”

Hilda gasped. “My parents!”

“They’ll be fine too,” said Alistair. “They’ll have taken shelter as we have.”

A string of sharper impacts came, much louder and nearer. Hilda shrieked, and shouts came from the players.

“It’s all right!” Alistair called back. “That’s ours. It’s anti-aircraft.”

The detonations sent dust pouring from the ceiling. Alistair went around to settle people. He got the players to have cigarettes, and one by one they lit up with shaking hands. This was what he always had his men do when they were rattled — or brew tea, or write letters, or polish boots — anything to get back in character. But smoking was best.

Alistair sat back down beside Hilda. Now the rumbling of the bombs was farther off. It boomed through the cellar and set up a discordant vibration in the untuned strings of an old piano.

“Which of you requested this?” said Alistair. “Worst tune I ever heard.”

Mary frowned. “Philistine. You soldiers want everything in a major key.”

“Quite right too. And in four/four time so we can march to it.”

Tom said, “I wish you two would stop pretending this is funny.”

Alistair nodded his apology. “I know this isn’t much fun.”

Tom pursed his lips. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t… it’s just that…”

“It’s all right,” said Alistair. “I was exactly the same, my first time. Here, I know what’ll cheer us up. Remember that jam you made?”

He was rummaging for it in his duffel bag when the array of electric bulbs flickered and went out. The players murmured in alarm. Beside Alistair, Hilda was tight as a board, the hysteria hardening beneath her skin. He was sobering up with every bang, and with each nervous twitch of Hilda’s body he felt less inclined to soothe and more disposed to snap at her.

He sparked his lighter so at least they could all see. “Does anyone have a piece of string I could hang this with?”

“I have some sewing cotton,” said Mary.

“Fine.”

“Does it matter what color? I have pink, red and white.”

Alistair understood that she was being less than serious. His irritation vanished. With her cotton he fixed the lighter to a bulb flex. His fingers did the work with their old skill. The shifting flame tossed their shadows back and forth, as if they were not fixtures in society but only tricks of the light.

“It was good of you to invite us down here,” said Mary.

Zachary’s father smiled. “It was nice of you to come and see our show.”

“You must come and see ours. We’ll have a nativity near Christmas.”

“Do you have enough children for all the parts?”

“I think so. One really only needs a holy couple, an angel and a narrator. Some wise men would be nice, but then isn’t that just like life?”

Alistair winked at Tom. “You’re not going to let that stand?”

But Tom only gripped the bench and flinched at the bangs. In the guttering light Alistair saw the slow look Mary gave him.

“You’re good with this,” said Hilda, her head back on Alistair’s shoulder.

“Well I grew up in a mine, you see.”

She snuggled closer. “I don’t suppose you’d mind putting your arm around me?”

Soon the lighter flame burned out and all of them waited in the dark. More bombs fell, and with each one Hilda pressed closer. Once or twice at a particularly loud explosion she gave a shriek. When she was halfway into his lap, Alistair eased her off and stood up.

“Would you all excuse me? I ought to contact my regiment.”

“Will you come back?” said Hilda.

“Don’t worry,” said Alistair.

“Oh, I wish you wouldn’t go.”

Her voice was such a porridge of fright that it made him glad to leave.

Here and there the basement was lit by the glow of cigarettes, and a little farther along someone had set up a candle. Alistair made his way to the staircase and up to the theater. Upstairs, the sound of the anti-aircraft guns was loud and close. The backstage area was lit up by flashes entering through an open stage door. Alistair made for that, tripping over props and drapes, and then he was outside in the narrow alley beside the theater.