“ ‘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 happened?”
He didn’t answer. He took a stumbling step down the aisle.
Oh, God, he’s been injured, Polly thought.
Alf appeared beside her. “Did somethin’ ’appen to Eileen?” he asked.
Mr. Dunworthy made an effort to speak, but nothing came out. He took another step forward, to where Polly could see his face. He looked stunned, his face ashen.
No, she thought, not Eileen. It can’t be. Mr. Dunworthy and I are the ones with the deadlines. Eileen survived the war. She—
Binnie, trailing bedclothes, pushed past Polly. “Where’s Eileen?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Did sumthin’ ’appen to ’er?”
Mr. Dunworthy shook his head.
Thank God.
“Are you all right?” Polly called to him.
“I was at St. Paul’s …” he said, looking up at her and then back toward the doorway he’d come through.
A young man was standing in it. He started down the aisle, and Polly saw he had an ARP warden’s armband and a helmet, which he’d taken off and was holding in both hands. Oh, God, she thought. It’s Stephen.
But it couldn’t be. Stephen hadn’t even met her yet. He wouldn’t meet her till 1944. And the warden’s hair was reddish blonde, not dark. “Polly,” he said.
“Sir Godfrey!” Trot shouted into the wings. “The carpenter’s here!”
“It ain’t the carpenter, you noddlehead!” Alf shouted at her. “It’s an air-raid warden.”
No, it isn’t, Polly thought.
It wasn’t Stephen either, and the sword that Polly had been holding all this time, that she hadn’t realized she was still holding, fell from her nerveless fingers.
It was Colin.
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel,
And piece together the past and the future
—T.S. ELIOT, FOUR QUARTETS
Imperial War Museum, London—7 May 1995
COLIN SAT THERE IN THE SHELTER REPLICA WITH BINNIE, not hearing the siren sound effects, not seeing the red flashes, not doing anything but attempting to take in what Binnie had just told him. Eileen was dead. She’d died eight years ago. Which meant Polly had died in December 1943.
There was a poster on the wall behind Binnie with a picture of a housewife, a nurse, and an ARP warden on it. You Can Win the Battle, it read.
I didn’t win it, he thought numbly. I was too late. Eileen’s been dead nearly a decade. I wasn’t able to rescue her. Or Polly.
“I’m so sorry,” Binnie said. “I should have told you that first thing. It was a cancer.”
A cancer which could have been cured easily if Eileen had been home in Oxford where she belonged. Which they still might be able to cure if he could go back and get her out in time. If she had been alone when she died, he might still be able to …
“Did she die in hospital?” he asked urgently. “Was anyone with her?”
Binnie looked at him, frowning. “Of course. All of us were.”
Which meant there was no way to rescue her at the last moment, no way to whisk her off in a stolen ambulance and send her back through. He sank back down on the bench beside Binnie and put his head in his hands.
“We all got to tell her goodbye,” Binnie said. “The end was very peaceful.”
Peaceful, he thought bitterly. Dying stranded in the past like Polly before her, waiting in vain for rescue. Only Eileen must surely have given up waiting, given up hoping, years before. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s a pity,” she said, nodding. “She would have loved to see you again. But at least we found you.” She beamed at him. “When you didn’t find Mum, we were afraid something had gone wrong. Or at least I was. But Alf said we had to have found you, because if we hadn’t, you couldn’t have come to fetch Polly and—”
“Fetch—?” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “What are you talking about?”
“Your coming to take them back through the drop.”
“But you just said I wasn’t able to find Eileen.”
“I didn’t say that,” she replied, surprised. “I meant you didn’t find her now, not then.”
“I found Eileen and Polly?”
She nodded. “And Mr. Dunworthy.”
“Mr. Dunworthy? He’s alive?”
Binnie nodded. “Polly found him at St. Paul’s.”
“He’s alive,” Colin murmured, unable to take it all in. “I thought he was dead. His death notice was in the newspapers.”
“No, he was only injured.”
“And I was able to come through to get them out?” he asked.
She nodded.
But if he had succeeded, Eileen wouldn’t still have been here. She wouldn’t have died still trying to find him. “What happened?” he asked, but he already knew the answer. “I came too late to be able to get them out, didn’t I?”