Connie Willis - All Clear

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” Eileen said. “You saw me on VE-Day, remember?”

I saw you, not Binnie and not Alf, Polly thought, and, as if she’d said his name aloud, Alf came pelting up the aisle toward them, pulling on his coat and cap as he ran.

“Why aren’t you helping Sir Godfrey?” Eileen said sternly.

“ ’E sent me to look for the carpenter,” he said, starting past them.

“You can’t go outside in this,” Eileen said, blocking his way. “There’s a raid on.”

“I won’t get killed,” Alf said, trying to get past Eileen. “I been out in lots of raids.”

“Not this one,” Eileen said, putting her hands on his shoulders and turning him firmly around. “Go tell Sir Godfrey I’ll let him know as soon as the carpenter arrives.”

She gave him a push to start him down the aisle, but instead he went over to Colin and said, “Are you sure you ain’t ’im?”

“Perfectly sure,” Eileen said. “I told you, he’s Polly’s fiancé. He’s home on leave.”

“On leave from where?” Alf said suspiciously.

“He’s a pilot,” Polly said hastily because Colin clearly wouldn’t have had time to research troop movements and raids. “In the RAF.”

“What sort of plane did you fly?” Alf asked.

Out of the frying pan into the fire, Polly thought, but she had underestimated Colin.

“A Spitfire now,” he said. “A Blenheim before I was shot down.”

“You were shot down?” Alf said, awed.

“Twice. I had to ditch in the Channel the second time.”

“Are you a hero, then?”

Yes, Polly thought.

“Course ’e’s a hero, you dunderhead,” Binnie said, coming up the aisle in her spangled fairy gown and wings, one of which dangled brokenly behind her. She was carrying Polly’s costume, green hose trailing, the scabbard dragging behind on the aisle carpet. “All RAF pilots are heroes. Mr. Churchill said so.”

“You’re the dunderhead!” Alf shouted, and charged head down at her midsection like a bull. Binnie began flailing at him with the scabbard.

“You’re certain you don’t want to change your mind and come with us?” Polly whispered.

Eileen grinned. “It’s a tempting offer,” she whispered back, and grabbed Alf by the scruff of the neck. “Alf, Binnie, stop that.” She snatched the scabbard from Binnie.

“She started it,” Alf said.

“I don’t care who started it. Look what you’ve done to Binnie’s wings. Binnie, go to the dressing room and take them off before you do any more damage. Alf, fetch the glue.”

Binnie shook her head vehemently. “Miss Laburnum said I was to make you come try on your doublet for ’er so’s she can shorten it.”

“Tell her I will as soon as I’ve said goodbye to Polly. Now go along,” she said, and gave them a push to get them moving, but Binnie resisted.

“I want to say goodbye to them, too,” Binnie said.

And make absolutely certain we don’t take Eileen with us, Polly thought, looking at her standing there like a determined angel, broken wings dangling, arms folded belligerently across her chest, as if she would prevent them with brute force if necessary.

“ ’At’s right,” Alf said, planting himself firmly beside his sister. “We got a right to say goodbye to ’em same as you.”

He was right. They had definitely earned that right, driving ambulances and providing maps and a place to meet in secret, preventing Eileen from reaching her drop, from catching John Bartholomew, from giving way to despair. Delaying Mr. Dunworthy so he could collide with a Wren, delaying the nurses so she could speak to Sir Godfrey, obstructing, interfering, stopping things. As they were stopping Eileen from going now.

She wondered if her rescue and Mr. Dunworthy’s were part of the continuum’s plan, or if there was some other reason Eileen had to stay here, some other part she had to play in winning the war or the larger war that was history. Or if they did.

Even if it was critical to the continuum, it didn’t make parting any easier, and Sir Godfrey’s beloved Bard didn’t know what he was talking about. There was nothing sweet about it.

“Oh, Eileen,” Polly said, embracing her, “I don’t want to leave.”

“And I don’t want you to,” Eileen said.

“This is just like that day at the station,” Alf said contemptuously. “When we put Theodore on the train. ’E didn’t want to go neither. This ’ere’s just like that, ain’t it, Binnie?”

“Except Theodore kicked ’er,” Binnie said. “And the vicar ain’t ’ere.”

No, Polly thought, seeing the pain that flickered across Eileen’s face, the vicar’s not here, and Mike’s dead.

And there were still four years of war and deprivation and loss to be gotten through. “You two take care of Eileen,” she said fiercely.

“We will,” Binnie said.

“We won’t let nothin’ ’appen to ’er,” Alf promised.

“And both of you be good.”

“Him good?” Binnie hooted, looking at Alf, and he promptly proved her point by kicking her in the shins. Binnie began whaling away at him.

“Alf, Binnie,” Eileen said, and moved to intervene, but before she could there was an outraged shout from the stage.

“Alf Hodbin!” Sir Godfrey bellowed. “Binnie!”

“We didn’t do nothin’!” Alf said. “We was—”

“Bramblebushes, onstage!” Sir Godfrey shouted, and Alf and Binnie said, “G’bye!” and tore off down the aisle.

Thank goodness, Polly thought. Now we can—

A deafening thud shook the theater. The chandeliers rattled. “We really do need to go, Polly,” Colin said, looking up at the ceiling.

“I know,” Polly said, pressing the list of raids into Eileen’s hand.

“I told you,” Eileen said, “we’ll be fine—”

“How do you know the reason you were fine wasn’t that you’d memorized the list?” Polly folded Eileen’s fingers over it. “You’ve got to make certain you’re all down in the tube both the nights of the ninth and the tenth. Fifteen hundred people were killed and eighteen hundred were injured. Those will be the last big raids till the V-1s, but you’ll still need to heed the air-raid alerts—”

“Prince Dauntless!” Sir Godfrey shouted from the stage, and Polly looked up automatically, but he wasn’t calling her. He was calling Eileen. “Miss O’Reilly!

Onstage! Now!”

“Coming!” Eileen said.

“Keep away from Croydon,” Polly said, still not letting go of her hand, “and Bethnal Green and—”

“I must go,” Eileen said gently.

“I know,” Polly said, her voice breaking. “I’ll miss you terribly.”

“I’ll miss you, too.” She leaned forward and kissed Polly on the cheek. “Don’t cry. We’ll see each other again. In Trafalgar Square, remember?” she said.

“Prince Dauntless!” Sir Godfrey roared.

“Here!” she called and ran lightly down the aisle. “Goodbye, Mr. Dunworthy!” she called back over her shoulder. “Colin, take care of Polly! I’ll see you at the end of the war.” She pattered up the steps and onto the stage and vanished behind the safety curtain.

“Finally,” Polly heard Sir Godfrey thunder from behind it. “Miss O’Reilly, you seem to be laboring under the notion that we are putting on a Christmas pantomime.

It is not. It is only two weeks till opening night. Time is of the essence!”

And that’s my cue, Polly thought. Half of acting is knowing when to make one’s exit.

But she still stood there, looking at the curtained stage.

Behind her, Colin said, “Polly, we need—”

“I know,” Polly said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that there’s not much time. Mr. Dunworthy?”

Mr. Dunworthy nodded and started up the aisle toward the exit.