rest of the bramblebushes to thrust and parry with their branches.
“Onstage. Now,” Polly ordered, and they jumped off the bed, scrambled under the scrim, and formed a more or less straight line, their branches crossed in front of their chests.
“Where’s Nelson?” Alf said, and started off to find him.
“Stop!” Sir Godfrey roared. “Do it without Nelson.”
“But—”
“Now!” he ordered.
Polly hastily said, “ ‘Long years have I searched for this fair princess of whom I have heard,’ ” and thought of Colin. “ ‘Long weary miles have I ridden—’ ”
“Prince Dauntless,” Sir Godfrey interrupted. “This is a comedy, not a tragedy.”
“Sorry,” Polly said, putting what she hoped was a hopeful and undaunted look on her face. “ ‘Long years have I searched for this fair princess—’ ”
“Wait,” Alf said. “That’s s’posed to be Sleeping Beauty, ain’t it? And we’re s’posed to be guardin’ ’er, ain’t we?”
“Yes,” Sir Godfrey said, glaring.
“Well, where is she?”
“She will be here at ten o’clock,” Sir Godfrey said. “If I live that long.”
“I’ll play Sleeping Beauty,” Binnie said. “I know all the lines.”
‘She ain’t got no lines,” Alf said. “She’s asleep.”
But Binnie was already dragging the prop bed out from under the scrim. She flung herself onto it and lay down, crossed her arms decorously over her chest, and closed her eyes.
Polly was afraid Sir Godfrey would explode, but he only nodded wearily at her to begin.
“ ‘Long, weary miles have I ridden,’ ” she said, and put her hand to her scabbard. “ ‘What evil, dark forest is this? And what trees are these?’ ”
“ ‘Bramblebushes!’ ” Alf said. “ ‘We let no man pass!’ ”
Trot stepped forward. “ ‘Our thorns will tear you limb from limb!’ ”
“ ‘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 Goring!’ ” 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.
