Connie Willis - All Clear

The curtain, thankfully, opened, revealing Mrs. Brightford wearing a crown and holding a doll in her arms.

“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

“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.