Blackout - Connie Willis

Marjorie came to her rescue, discarding the tangled string and starting with a new length, which she deftly tied around the parcel, and after the customer had departed, she said kindly, “I’ll take over the wrapping till you’ve got the hang of it.” But it was clearly something she should already know how to do, so in between customers Polly practiced on an empty box, without much success.

At noon the “very particular” Miss Snelgrove arrived. Polly hastily jammed the string she’d been practicing with into her pocket and tucked in her blouse.

Marjorie hadn’t been exaggerating about her. “I expect the highest standards from those under me, a polite manner, and neatness of both work and appearance,” she told Polly, looking coldly at her navy blue skirt. “Regulation wear for our shop assistants is a white blouse, a plain black skirt-”

I told Wardrobe that, Polly thought disgustedly.

“-and black, low-heeled shoes. Have you a black skirt, Miss Sebastian?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said. Or I will as soon as I check in with Mr. Dunworthy tonight to tell him I have a position.

“How long have you been in London?”

“I arrived last week.”

“You’ve experienced air raids then?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I cannot afford to have girls working under me who are nervy or easily frightened,” she said sternly. “Townsend Brothers’ employees must project an air of calm and courage at all times.”

Wanted: shop assistant, Polly thought. Neat, polite, cool under fire.

“Show me your sales book,” Miss Snelgrove commanded, and proceeded to show Polly everything Marjorie had already shown her, including how to wrap a parcel. She was even more expert at it than Marjorie, and more exacting. “You must not waste string,” she said, tying the parcel tightly. “Now you do it.”

Marjorie, over at the lingerie counter, looked at Polly in horror. Wardrobe won’t need to find me a black skirt, Polly thought. After I show her, I won’t have a job, and the air-raid siren went.

Polly had never been so glad to hear anything in her life, even though Townsend Brothers’ shelter turned out to be an airless basement room with pipes running along the walls and nowhere to sit. “Chairs and cots are reserved for customers,” Marjorie told her, and Miss Snelgrove said sternly, “No leaning. Stand up straight.”

Polly hoped the raid would be a long one, but it was only half an hour before the all clear went. By then, though, it was Polly’s luncheon break, and then Miss Snelgrove’s, and shortly after that Mr. Witherill brought down “Miss Doreen Timmons, who will take over Scarves and Handkerchiefs,” and Miss Snelgrove had to show her the procedures. And all of Polly’s customers wanted their purchases delivered, so she was saved from any further wrapping. But obviously she couldn’t count on new employees or air raids tomorrow. She’d have to perfect her wrapping skills in Oxford.

That’s one advantage of time travel, she thought, starting home from work. If it takes a week to master it, I can do it and still be on time to work tomorrow.

She debated going straight to the drop, but she couldn’t risk being seen going into the alley and followed. She’d have to wait till after the sirens had gone, the ARP wardens had made their rounds, and the contemps were in their basements or the shelters. The raids tonight began at 8:45, which meant the sirens wouldn’t sound till a quarter past, and she couldn’t go to the drop till after supper.

Which was a pity. The moment she opened the front door at Mrs. Rickett’s her nostrils were assailed by an unpleasant odor. “It’s kidney stew tonight,” Miss Laburnum said and dropped her voice. “I never thought I’d be eager to hear the sound of approaching bombers.” She leaned past Polly to look out the door at the sky. “Do you think there’s a chance they’ll be early tonight?”

Unfortunately, no, Polly thought, but as she started up the stairs to take off her coat and hat, the sirens went. “Oh, good,” Miss Laburnum said. “Let me get my things and we’ll walk over together. I’ll tell you all about Sir Godfrey on the way.”

“No… I…” Polly stammered, bewildered that the sirens had gone so early. “I… There are some things I must do before I go. I need to wash out my stockings and-”

“Oh, no, I won’t hear of it,” Miss Laburnum said. “It’s far too dangerous. I read in the Standard about a woman who stayed behind to put out the cat and was killed.”

“But I’ll only be a few minutes. I’ll come as soon as-”

“Even a single minute can make all the difference, isn’t that right?” Miss Laburnum said to Miss Hibbard as she hurried down the stairs, stuffing her knitting into her bag.

“Oh, my, yes.”

“But Mr. Dorming isn’t here,” Polly said. “You two go on ahead, and I’ll fetch him-”

“He’s already gone,” Miss Hibbard said. “He left the moment he heard what supper was. Come along,” and there was nothing for it but to go with them. She would have to wait till they reached St. George’s and then say she’d forgot something and needed to go back. If the raids hadn’t begun by then.

How could she have got the time wrong? she wondered, half listening to Miss Laburnum prattle on about how wonderful Sir Godfrey was, “Though actually I prefer Barrie’s plays to Shakespeare’s, so much more refined.” The raids had begun at 8:45 on the eighteenth. But Hyde Park’s siren was going, too, and as they crossed the street, Kensington Gardens’ started up. Colin must have mixed the dates.

They were nearly to the church. “Oh, dear,” Polly said. “I forgot my cardigan. I must go back.”

“I have a shawl you can borrow,” Miss Hibbard said, and before Polly could think of a response, Lila and Viv had come running up to tell her about John Lewis having been hit.

“Thank goodness I only found out about that job yesterday,” Lila said breathlessly. “I’d never have forgiven myself if you’d got it and been working there when it was hit.”

“Oh, dear,” Miss Hibbard said, “I believe I hear planes,” and hustled them all down the steps and into the shelter.

Polly debated making a break for it, but she would never make it. Mrs. Brightford, the little girls, Mr. Simms, and his dog were all coming down the stairs, followed by the rector, who did a quick head count and bolted the door.

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.

She shook her head. “‘It was the nightingale. It is not yet near day.’”

He gave her a look of awe, and then smiled and shook his head. “‘It was the lark,’” he said regretfully. “Or worse, the chimes at midnight,” and let go of her hands.

“Oh, my, Sir Godfrey, you were so affecting,” Miss Laburnum said, crowding up to him with Miss Hibbard and Mrs. Wyvern.

“We are but poor players,” he said, gesturing to include Polly, but they ignored her.

“You were really good, Sir Godfrey,” Lila said.

“Even better than Leslie Howard,” Viv put in.

“Simply mesmerizing,” Mrs. Wyvern said.

Mesmerizing is right, Polly thought, putting on her coat and gathering up her bag and the newspaper-covered hymnal. He made me forget all about practicing my wrapping. She glanced at her watch, hoping the all clear had gone early, but it was half past six. It is the lark, she thought, feeling like Cinderella, and I’ve got to go home and wash out my blouse.