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.
“I do hope you’ll grace us with another performance tomorrow night, Sir Godfrey,” Miss Laburnum was saying.
“Miss Sebastian!” Sir Godfrey extricated himself from his admiring crowd and hurried over to her. “I wished to thank you for knowing your lines—something my leading ladies scarcely ever do. Tell me, have you ever considered a career in the theater?”
“Oh, no, sir. I’m only a shopgirl.”
“Hardly,” he said. “‘Thou art the goddess on whom these airs attend, a paragon, a wonder.’”
“‘No wonder, sir, but certainly a maid,’” she quoted, and he shook his head ruefully.
“A maid, indeed, and were I forty years younger, I would be your leading man,” he said, leaning toward her, “and you would not be safe.”
I don’t doubt that for a moment, she thought. He must have been truly dangerous when he was thirty, and thought suddenly of Colin, saying, “I can shoot for any age you like. I mean, not seventy, but I’m willing to do thirty.”
“Oh, Sir Godfrey,” Miss Laburnum said, coming up. “Next time could you do something from one of Sir James Barrie’s plays?”
“Barrie?” he said in a tone of loathing. “Peter Pan?”
Polly suppressed a smile. She opened the door and started up the steps.
“Viola, wait!” Sir Godfrey called. He caught up to her halfway up the steps. She thought he was going to take her hands again, but he didn’t. He simply looked at her for a long, breath-catching moment.
Thirty, nothing, she thought. He’s dangerous now.
“Sir Godfrey!” Miss Laburnum called from inside the door.
He glanced behind him, and then back at Polly. “‘We are too late met,’” he said. “‘The time is out of joint,’” and went back down the stairs.
Real planes, real bombs. This is no fucking drill.
—VOICE ON THE PA OF THE OKLAHOMA, PEARL HARBOR, 7 DECEMBER 1941