Connie Willis - All Clear

“And you, you noddlehead,” Polly said. “Just think, you’ll never have to eat Victory Stew again.”

But Eileen didn’t laugh. She was looking at Mr. Dunworthy, her eyes full of tears. “You mustn’t cry,” said Polly. “This is a happy occasion. The drops are working again, and Charles is all right. He wasn’t in Singapore when the Japanese arrived. They were able to rescue him.”

“But not Mike,” Eileen said, looking at Colin.

“No.”

Eileen nodded slowly. “When I saw you, I thought perhaps he was all right, that he’d somehow told you where—How did you know where we were? There was no one left in Backbury or at Townsend Brothers who knew, and Mrs. Rickett’s …”

She looked intently at him, as if the answer was of immense importance. “How did you find us?”

She looked intently at him, as if the answer was of immense importance. “How did you find us?”

“We can talk about that in Oxford,” Polly said. “We need to go before the raids get any worse.”

“You’re right,” Eileen said. “Of course,”

But neither Colin nor Mr. Dunworthy moved. All three of them stood there looking at one another, as if waiting for something.

“What—?” Polly asked, bewildered.

“You said you needed to tell them you’re leaving, Polly,” Colin said.

“Yes, and change out of my costume. Do the three of you want to go on ahead, and I’ll meet you at St. Paul’s?”

“No.” Colin was looking at Eileen. “We’ll wait for you.”

“I’ll be back straightaway,” Polly said, and ran down the aisle, up onto the stage, and into the wings.

Mrs. Brightford was there, attempting to repair the damage Alf and Binnie had inflicted on the bramble branches. “Have you seen Sir Godfrey?” Polly asked.

Mrs. Brightford shook her head. “I think he went to find a carpenter.”

Oh, no. She couldn’t leave without telling him goodbye. “You don’t know where, do you?”

Mrs. Brightford shook her head again.

“If he comes back, tell him I need to speak with him,” Polly said, and ran down to the dressing room. She’d change and then, if he still wasn’t back, see if anyone knew where he’d gone and go look for him.

And when and if she found him, what could she say? I’m a time traveler? I was trapped here, but now my retrieval team’s come, and I must go home? I don’t have a choice—I’ll die if I stay?

Perhaps it would be just as well if she couldn’t find him. She stepped out of her leggings and pulled on her stockings, but in her haste she snagged one of them and it ran.

It doesn’t matter, she thought, yanking her doublet off and putting on her frock. I never need to worry about runs again, or ration books, or bombs.

She buttoned her frock. “I won’t ever have to wrap another parcel,” she said, and found herself suddenly, inexplicably, in tears.

Which is ridiculous, she thought. You hate wrapping parcels. And this is a happy ending, exactly like in Trot’s fairy tales.

She pulled on her shoes, caught up her coat and hat, and went out, putting them on as she went, and then hesitated. In another six months, Mrs. Brightford or Viv would be desperate for those stockings, even with a ladder in them. She went back into the dressing room, took off her shoes, stripped off the stockings, and draped them over the makeup mirror. Then she grabbed up her bag and opened the door.

Sir Godfrey was standing there in his Hitler uniform and mustache. He took in Polly’s clothes, her coat. “There’s no need for that, the carpenter’s on his way,” he told her, and then stopped.

“You’re leaving us,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. “It’s your young man. He’s come.”

“Yes. I thought he couldn’t, that he—”

“—was dead,” Sir Godfrey said. “But he’s arrived, ‘despite all obstacles, true love triumphant.’ ”

“Yes,” she said, “but I—”

He shook his head to silence her. “The times were out of joint,” he said. “It would not have been suitable, Lady Mary.”

“No,” she said, wishing she could tell him why it wouldn’t have been, that she could tell him who she really was.

Like Viola, she thought. Sir Godfrey had named her well. She couldn’t tell him why she’d been here or why she had to leave, couldn’t tell him how he’d saved her life as much as she’d saved his, couldn’t tell him how much he meant to her.

She had to let him think she was abandoning him for a wartime romance. “I’d stay till after the pantomime if I could—” she began.

“And spoil the ending? Don’t be a fool. Half of acting is knowing when to make one’s exit. And no tears,” he said sternly. “This is a comedy, not a tragedy.”

She nodded, wiping at her cheeks.

“Good,” he said, and smiled at her. “Fair Viola—”

“Polly!” Binnie called from the top of the stairs. “Eileen says to hurry!”

“Coming!” she said. “Sir Godfrey, I—”

“Polly!” Binnie bellowed.

She darted forward, kissed Sir Godfrey on the cheek, and ran for the stairs, calling to Binnie, who was leaning over the railing, looking down at her, “Go tell Eileen I’m coming now!”

Binnie raced off, and Polly ran up the stairs. “Viola!” Sir Godfrey called to her as she reached the top. “Three questions more before we part.”

She turned to look back down over the railing at him. “ ‘What is your will, my lord?’ ”

“Did we win the war?”

She had thought she couldn’t be amazed by anything after Colin, but she had been wrong.

He knows, she thought wonderingly. He’s known since that first night in St. George’s. “Yes,” she said. “We won it.”

“And did I play a part?”

“Yes,” she said with absolute certainty.

“I didn’t have to do Barrie, did I? No, don’t tell me, or my courage will fail me altogether.”

Polly’s laugh caught. “Was that your third question?” she managed to ask.

“No, Polly,” he said. “Something of more import.” And she knew it must be. He had never, except for that one scene in The Admirable Crichton, called her by her real name.

“What is it?” she asked. Will I ever see you again?

No.

Do I love you?

Do I love you?

Yes, for all time.

He stepped forward and grasped the staircase’s railing, looked up at her earnestly. “Is it a comedy or a tragedy?”

He doesn’t mean the war, she thought. He’s talking about all of it—our lives and history and Shakespeare. And the continuum.

She smiled down at him. “A comedy, my lord.”

There was an ungodly crash from the stage. “Alf! I told you not to touch nothin’!” Binnie shouted.

“I never! The scrim just fell down.”

“The scrim!” Sir Godfrey bellowed. “Alf Hodbin, I told you not to mess about with those ropes!”

“Don’t try to pick it up,” Binnie’s voice warned. “You’ll tear it!”

“Touch nothing!” Sir Godfrey roared, galloping up the stairs past Polly and out onto the stage, where she could hear Alf and Binnie both insisting, “I didn’t do nothin’! I swear!”

“ ‘They have all rushed down to the beach,’ ” Polly murmured, looking after him, and then turned and ran down into the theater and up the aisle to where Eileen and Mr. Dunworthy and Colin stood.

The three of them were standing very near one another, their heads bent, talking, and Polly thought of that first night when she and Mike and Eileen had sat in the emergency stairwell, catching one another up, making plans. “I’m going to get you both out of this, I promise,” Mike had said, and he had.

He’d died, and because he had, she’d wanted to do something, anything, to make her life matter and had gone to St. Paul’s to ask Mr. Humphreys to help her get a job as an ambulance driver. And because she’d done that, she’d found Mr. Dunworthy and despaired. And if she hadn’t despaired, she would never have been at the Alhambra when the Phoenix was hit, would never have rescued Sir Godfrey, and the drop would never have opened.