“‘This story shall the good man teach his son, from this day to the ending of the world,”‘ he said, his voice ringing through the cellar, ‘“but we in it shall be remembered—we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.’” His voice died away on the last words, like a bell echoing into silence. “‘The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve,”‘ he whispered. “‘Sweet friends, to bed,”‘ and bowed his head, his hand on his heart.
There was a moment of entranced silence, followed by Miss Hibbard’s, “Oh, my!” and general applause. Trot clapped wildly, and even Mr. Dorming joined in. The gentleman bowed deeply, retrieved his coat from the floor and returned to his corner and his book. Mrs. Brightford gathered her girls to her, and Nelson and Lila and Viv composed themselves to sleep, one after the other, like children who’d been told a bedtime story. Polly went over to sit next to Miss Laburnum and the rector. “Who is he?” she whispered.
“You mean you don’t know?” Miss Laburnum said,
Polly hoped he wasn’t so famous that her failing to recognize him would be suspicious. “He’s Godfrey Kingsman,” the rector explained, “the Shakespearean actor.”
“England’s greatest actor,” Miss Laburnum said.
Mrs. Rickett sniffed. “If he’s such a great actor, what’s he doing sitting in this shelter? Why isn’t he on stage?”
“You know perfectly well the theatres are closed because of the raids,” Miss Laburnum said heatedly. “Until the government reopens them—”
“All I know is, I don’t let rooms to actors,” Mrs. Rickett said. “They can’t be relied on to pay their rent.”
Miss Laburnum went very red. “Sir Godfrey—”
“He’s been knighted then?” Polly asked hastily.
“By King Edward,” Miss Laburnum said. “I can’t imagine that you’ve never heard of him, Miss Sebastian. His Lear is renowned! I saw him in Hamlet when I was a girl, and he was simply marvelous!”
He’s rather marvelous now, Polly thought.
“He’s appeared before all the crowned heads of Europe,” Miss Laburnum said. “And to think he honored us with a performance tonight.”
Mrs. Rickett sniffed again, and Miss Laburnum was only stopped from saying something regrettable by the all clear. The sleepers sat up and yawned, and everyone began to gather their belongings. Sir Godfrey marked his place in his book, shut it, and stood up. Miss Laburnum and Miss Hibbard scurried over to him to tell him how wonderful he’d been. “It was so inspiring,” Miss Laburnum said, “especially the speech from Hamlet.”
Polly suppressed a smile. Sir Godfrey thanked the two ladies solemnly, his voice quiet and refined again. Watching him putting on his coat and picking up his umbrella, it was hard to believe he’d just given that mesmerizing performance.
Lila and Viv folded their blankets and gathered up their magazines, Mr. Dorming picked up his thermos, Mrs. Brightford picked up Trot, and they all converged on the door. The rector pulled the bolt back and opened it, and as he did, Polly caught an echo of the tense, frightened look they’d had before Sir Godfrey intervened, this time for what they might find when they went through that door and up those steps: their houses gone, London in ruins. Or German tanks driving down Lampden Road.
The rector stepped back from the opened door to let them through, but no one moved, not even Nelson, who’d been cooped up since before midnight.
‘“Hie you, make haste!”‘ Sir Godfrey’s clarion voice rang out, “‘See this dispatch’d with all the haste thou canst,”‘ and Nelson shot through the door.
Everyone laughed.
“Nelson, come back!” Mr. Simms shouted and ran after him. He called down from the top of the steps, “No damage I can see,” and the rest of them trooped up the steps and looked around at the street, peaceful in the dim, gray predawn light. The buildings were all intact, though there was a smoky pall in the air, and a sharp smell of cordite and burning wood.
“Lambeth got it last night,” Mr. Dorming said, pointing at plumes of black smoke off to the southeast.
“And Piccadilly Circus, looks like,” Mr. Simms said, coming back with Nelson and pointing at what was actually Oxford Street and the smoke from John Lewis. Mr. Dorming was wrong, too. Shoreditch and Whitechapel had taken the brunt of the first round of raids, not Lambeth, but from the look of the smoke, nowhere in the East End was safe.
“I don’t understand,” Lila said, looking around at the tranquil scene. “It sounded like it was bang on top of us.”
“What will it sound like if it is on top of us, I wonder?” Viv asked.
“I’ve heard one hears a very loud, very high-pitched scream,” Mr. Simms began, but Mr. Dorming was shaking his head.
“You won’t hear it,” he said, “You’ll never know what hit you,” and stomped away.
“Cheerful,” Viv said, looking after him.
Lila was still looking toward the smoke of Oxford Street. “I suppose the Underground won’t be running,” she said glumly, “and it’ll take us ages to get to work.”
“And when we get there,” Viv said, “the windows will have been blown out again. We’ll have to spend all day sweeping up.”
‘“What’s this, varlets?”‘ Sir Godfrey roared. “‘Do I hear talk of terror and defeat? Stiffen the sinews! Summon up the blood!”‘
Lila and Viv giggled.
Sir Godfrey drew his umbrella like a sword. “‘Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more!”‘ he shouted, raising it high, “We fight for England!”‘
“Oh, I do love Richard the Third!” Miss Laburnum said.
Sir Godfrey gripped the umbrella handle violently, and for a moment Polly thought he was going to run Miss Laburnum through, but instead he hooked it over his arm. ‘“And if we no more meet till we meet in heaven,”‘ he said, “‘then joyfully, my noble lords and my kind kinsmen, warriors all, adieu!”‘ and strode off, umbrella in hand, as if going into battle.
Which he is, Polly thought, watching him. Which they all are.
“How marvellous!” Miss Laburnum said. “Do you think if we asked him, he’d do another play tomorrow? The Tempest, perhaps, or Henry the Fifth?’
Connie Willis has won seven Nebulas, more than any other writer, and was the first author to win the Nebula in all four categories.
BUMBERSHDOT
Howard Hendrix
Here’s the winner of this year’s Dwarf Star Award, “Bumbershoot” by Howard Hendrix.
Night, a gun-blue umbrella tricked with distant suns and planets, is not to be opened indoors—more bad luck, or worse.
Hold it to the mind’s sky. Finger the trigger in its handle.
A meteor bullets the firmament. The universe falls shut with a whoosh.
Shake the drops of the stars from the loose skin of the darkness.
Think of nothing for which to wish. Step into a different house.
Howard V. Hendrix is the author of six novels, three short story collections, and a whole bunch of poems that he really should put forward as a collection one of these days. He teaches English literature and creative writing at the college level. He has recently served as guest editor for a Midsummer Night’s Dream-themed issue of the Pedestal Magazine, and is lead editor on Visions of Mars: Essays on the Fiction and Science of the Red Planet.