And now what was she supposed to do about a black skirt? And learning to wrap? She might be able to tell Miss Snelgrove she’d been caught by the sirens and hadn’t been able to go home-which is true, she thought wryly-but what excuse could she give for producing such mangled packages? I’ll simply have to practice here, she thought, checking her pocket to make certain she still had the length of string. She did. When Sir Godfrey offered her his Times (with no trace of the magnificence of the night before-he’d reverted completely to his role of elderly gentleman) she took it, and after everyone had gone to sleep-the bombing hadn’t started till 8:47 after all, in spite of the sirens-she tiptoed over to the bookcase for a hymnal and attempted to wrap it in a sheet of the newspaper.
It was much easier to fold than the store’s heavy brown paper, and she didn’t have the pressure of a customer-or Miss Snelgrove-watching her, but she still made a botch of it. She tried again, holding the folded end against her middle to keep it from lapping open as she wrapped the string. That worked better, but the newsprint left a long black streak on her blouse.
“I expect neatness in your appearance,” Miss Snelgrove had said, which meant she’d have to wash out her blouse and iron it dry after the all clear. The raids were supposed to be over by four, but as she’d learned tonight, that didn’t mean the all clear would sound then.
She took a new sheet of the Times and tried again. And again, cursing the uncooperative string and wondering why Townsend Brothers couldn’t use cellophane tape instead. She knew it had been invented. She’d used it when-
A bomb exploded nearby with a sudden cellar-shaking crash, and Nelson leaped up, barking wildly. Polly jumped, and the newsprint tore across.
“What was that?” Miss Laburnum demanded sleepily.
“Stray five-hundred-pounder,” Mr. Simms said, stroking his dog’s head.
Mr. Dorming listened and then nodded. “They’re on their way home,” he said and lay back down, but after a few minutes of silence, the raids abruptly started up again, the anti-aircraft guns beginning to pound, the planes roaring overhead.
Mr. Dorming sat up again, and then the rector and Lila, who said disgustedly, “Oh, not again!” The others, one by one, were waking up and staring nervously at the ceiling. Polly kept wrapping, determined to nail the skill down before morning. There was a clatter, like hail hitting the street above them.
“Incendiaries,” Mr. Simms said.
A crump, and then a long, screaming whoosh, and a pair of explosions. It wasn’t as deafening as it had been the night before, but the rector walked over to Sir Godfrey, who was reading a letter, and said quietly, “The raids seem to be bad again tonight. Would you mind terribly, Sir Godfrey, gracing us with another performance?”
“I should be honored,” Sir Godfrey said, folding up his letter, putting it in his coat pocket, and standing up. “What will you have? Much Ado? Or one of the tragedies?”
“Sleeping Beauty,” Trot, on her mother’s lap, said.
“Sleeping Beauty?” he roared. “Out of the question. I am Sir Godfrey Kingsman. I do not do pantomime,” which should have reduced Trot to tears, but didn’t.
“Do the one about the thunder again,” she said.
“The Tempest,” he said. “A far better choice,” and Trot beamed.
He truly is wonderful, Polly thought, wishing she had time to watch him instead of having to practice wrapping.
“Oh, no, do Macbeth, Sir Godfrey,” Miss Laburnum said. “I’ve always longed to see you in-”
Sir Godfrey had drawn himself up to his full height. “Do you not know calling the Scottish play by its name brings bad luck?” he boomed at her, then looked up at the ceiling and listened for a moment to the crashing and thud of bombs as if he expected one to come down on them in retribution. “No, dear lady,” he said more calmly. “We have had enough this fortnight of overreaching ambition and violence. There are fog and filthy air enough abroad tonight.”
He bowed sweepingly to Trot. “‘The thunder one’ it shall be, ‘full of sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.’ But if I am to be Prospero, I must have a Miranda.” He strode over to Polly and extended his hand to her. “As forfeit for having mutilated my Times,” he said, looking down at the torn newspaper, “Miss…?”
“Sebastian,” she said, “and I’m sorry I-”
“No matter,” he said absently. He was looking at her thoughtfully. “Not Sebastian, but his twin Viola.”
“I thought you said her name was Miranda,” Trot said.
“It is,” he said, and under his breath, “We shall do Twelfth Night another time.”
He pulled her to standing. “‘Come, daughter, attend, and I shall relate how we came unto this island beset by strange winds.’” He produced his book from his breast pocket and handed it to her. “Page eight,” he whispered. “Scene two. ‘If by your art, dearest father-’”
She knew the speech, but a shopgirl in 1940 wouldn’t, so she took the book and pretended to read her line. “‘If by your art, dearest father, you have put the wild waters in this roar,’” she read, “‘allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch-’”
“‘Can’st thou remember a time before we came unto this cell?’” he asked.
“‘’Tis far off,’” she said, thinking of Oxford, “‘and rather like a dream than an assurance that my remembrance warrants-’”
“‘What seest thou else,’” he said, looking into her eyes, “‘in the dark backward and abysm of time?’”
Why, he knows I’m from the future, she thought, and then, He’s only speaking his lines, he can’t possibly know, and completely missed her cue. “‘What foul play… ’” he prompted.
She had no idea what part of the page they were on. “‘What foul play had we that we came from thence?’” she said. “‘Or blessed was’t we did?’”
“‘Both, both, my girl! By foul play, as thou sayst, were we heav’d thence, but blessedly holp hither,’” he said, taking hold of her hands, which still held the book, and launched into Prospero’s explanation of how they’d come to the island and then, without even a pause, into his charge to Ariel.
She forgot the book, forgot the role of 1940s shopgirl she was supposed to be playing, forgot the people watching them and the planes droning overhead-forgot everything except for his hands holding hers captive. And his voice. She stood there facing him enrapt-“spell-stopp’d,” as if he truly were a sorcerer-and wished he would go on forever.
When he came to “‘I’ll break my staff,’” he let go of her hands, raised his own above his head, and brought them down sharply, pantomiming the snapping of an imaginary staff, and the audience, who faced attack and annihilation nightly with equanimity, flinched at the action. The three little girls shrank against their mother, mouths open, eyes wide.
“‘I’ll drown my book,’” he said, his voice rich with power and love and regret, “‘These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into thin air.’”
Oh, don’t, Polly thought, though what came next was Prospero’s most beautiful speech. But it was about palaces and towers and “the great globe itself” being destroyed, and he must have sensed her silent plea because he said instead, “‘We, like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind,’” and Polly felt her eyes fill with tears.
“‘You do look as if you were dismayed,’” Sir Godfrey said gently, taking her hands again. “‘Be cheerful, child. Our revels now are ended,’” and the all clear sounded.
Everyone immediately looked up at the ceiling, and Mrs. Rickett stood up and began putting on her coat. “The curtain has rung down,” Sir Godfrey muttered to Polly with a grimace and moved to release her hands.