“But since you say that you want more for Zachary, I’m wondering if you mean . . . in some aspects . . . oh, it goes without saying that the performance is fabulous . . . but don’t you sometimes find it just a tiny bit . . .”
“Sure,” said Zachary’s father. “You’d want more for your child.”
“But since you are—oh, you know, in it, aren’t you ever tempted—forgive me—to challenge the attitudes?”
Zachary’s father grinned. “You’re the ones fighting evil. We’re just the help.”
“Oh stop it!” said Mary.
“It’s you I feel for. We only do the act twice a day, but you people are on the whole time.”
Mary laughed. Hilda sniffed, doing her lips in a tortoiseshell compact. “Shouldn’t we have the all-clear by now? How long will they keep us down here?”
“Just till they’ve rattled their clipboards,” said Alistair. “These drills don’t mark themselves, you know.”
Hilda smiled. Alistair smiled back. It was nice that everyone smiled. Although something in her face was awry. Probably this, too, was just the wine wearing off. It was the least pleasant accident of consciousness, and poor Hilda could hardly be blamed for it. Ten minutes ago he’d been perfectly content with the press of her body. Whenever one thought about happiness, it was because it was wearing off.
Tom said, “I hate to be a bore, but I’m not wonderful with underground spaces. I’m starting to feel queer, truth be told.”
“Hear, hear,” said Hilda. “I don’t see why we should stay put, just for the form. Why don’t we go to Brown’s and have a cocktail? We could all—”
The first bomb hit London with unimagined force. The concussion was unambiguous. First it came to them through the ground. The benches jumped beneath them and everyone yelped. Then the sound came, a deep bass shock, the echoes rolling in the basement’s stone vaults.
“Oh Christ,” said Tom. “This is it.”
Zachary buried his head in his father’s chest. His father held him close, resting his chin on the top of the boy’s head, his eyes wide. Three more detonations came, even louder.
Hilda grabbed at Alistair. “Oh god . . .” Her breath came in quick gasps.
Alistair patted her hand. “Try to breathe. We’re safe down here.”
Zachary’s father had his mouth close to the boy’s ear. “ ‘The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night . . .’ ”
Mary stood abruptly and smoothed her dress. “I must go to the school.”
“What?” said Tom.
Mary picked up her handbag. “Will you come?”
“But why . . . ?”
“I have to make sure it’s safe. I didn’t bar the shutters, or anything.”
Tom was pale. “But we can’t go out there. It’s . . .”
Mary hesitated. Alistair stood and guided her back to the bench.
“It’s just a building,” he said. “The doctors can save them every time.”
Hilda gasped. “My parents!”
“They’ll be fine too,” said Alistair. “They’ll have taken shelter as we have.”
A string of sharper impacts came, much louder and nearer. Hilda shrieked, and shouts came from the players.
“It’s all right!” Alistair called back. “That’s ours. It’s anti-aircraft.”
The detonations sent dust pouring from the ceiling. Alistair went around to settle people. He got the players to have cigarettes, and one by one they lit up with shaking hands. This was what he always had his men do when they were rattled—or brew tea, or write letters, or polish boots—anything to get back in character. But smoking was best.
Alistair sat back down beside Hilda. Now the rumbling of the bombs was farther off. It boomed through the cellar and set up a discordant vibration in the untuned strings of an old piano.
“Which of you requested this?” said Alistair. “Worst tune I ever heard.”
Mary frowned. “Philistine. You soldiers want everything in a major key.”
“Quite right too. And in four/four time so we can march to it.”
Tom said, “I wish you two would stop pretending this is funny.”
Alistair nodded his apology. “I know this isn’t much fun.”
Tom pursed his lips. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t . . . it’s just that . . .”
“It’s all right,” said Alistair. “I was exactly the same, my first time. Here, I know what’ll cheer us up. Remember that jam you made?”
He was rummaging for it in his duffel bag when the array of electric bulbs flickered and went out. The players murmured in alarm. Beside Alistair, Hilda was tight as a board, the hysteria hardening beneath her skin. He was sobering up with every bang, and with each nervous twitch of Hilda’s body he felt less inclined to soothe and more disposed to snap at her.
He sparked his lighter so at least they could all see. “Does anyone have a piece of string I could hang this with?”
“I have some sewing cotton,” said Mary.
“Fine.”
“Does it matter what color? I have pink, red and white.”