Work Text:
Bletchley Park, 1942
“Good evening, Miss McBrian,” Millie said brightly, stepping into the room following the response to her knock.
“Good evening, Millie,” Jean said, setting her knitting down on the settee next to her. Looking up and seeing the other woman’s soft smile, she added: “The answer is absolutely not.”
Millie feigned confusion. “With respect, Jean, you don’t even know what I’m going to ask yet,” she said.
Jean raised her eyebrows. “I have idea enough,” she replied.
“And that would be?” Millie asked.
“Your Lady Olivia has got swollen glands,” Jean said, thinking that Millie must surely have known she would be aware of the fact. The truth was, for a top-secret military base, days at Bletchley were largely lacking in entertainment, so the news that one of the leads in the newly-formed Bletchley Park Drama Group had come down with a mystery illness the day before the opening of their production of Twelfth Night had been a source of great interest to virtually everyone. Jean had told a number of girls to please try and fit in some work between your gossiping, if you could during her last shift, as they theorised about the various scenarios in which the play could go ahead. “And you need someone to stand in for her.”
Millie’s smile turned a little sheepish – not apologetic exactly, but it showed her awareness that the game was, to some extent, up. “Well not stand in exactly,” she replied. “We just need someone to read the lines.”
It made sense that Millie was eager to resolve the issue. The younger woman was playing Viola, a role Jean had secretly believed she was perfect for since Millie had given her the news during one of her evening visits a few weeks ago, and she had given a lot of her free time to rehearsal. What was not clear to Jean, however, was what led Millie to think she was a suitable choice. They had a talked about Shakespeare a little during their long conversations about literature, but she was hardly an expert, there must have been dozens of girls with knowledge to rival hers.
“Surely you can’t have exhausted all your possibilities,” Jean said.
“If you must know, I haven’t asked anyone else,” Millie said, with what was clearly intended to look like a nonchalant shrug.
“Why ever not?” Jean asked, glancing up at the other woman’s face.
“I won’t work with amateurs,” Millie replied.
Jean laughed. “That’s unfortunate, given that you are literally in an amateur dramatics production, dear,” she said.
“Well, I would still like it to be good,” Millie said, a flicker of a frown passing over her features.
“What about Lucy? She could do it without the script, she'd have the whole thing memorised in next to no time,” Jean said. It was a ridiculous suggestion and she knew it, but Millie’s obvious worry made her want to solve the problem and she was running out of ways to avoid actually answering the question.
Jean wasn’t a shy woman. She wasn’t Millie, and she wasn’t an actress, but the idea of reading the lines aloud didn’t faze her in and of itself. What did make her somewhat uneasy was the particular role, the prospect of standing on the stage in front of half the personnel of Bletchley, engaging in, as Olivia, witty flirtation with Millie’s Viola, disguised as Cesario. It was part of the play – the process of Olivia accidentally falling in love with a woman was a source of comedy. The audience would see nothing of the truth behind it, but much like she had felt during the dance she had shared with Millie a few months before, she would know, and that discomfort was a feeling she was inclined to avoid.
Millie raised her eyebrows. “I asked Lucy to borrow a pencil the other day and she jumped out of her skin, so I don’t think she's quite ready for her stage debut,” she said. “Please, Jean?”
The older woman shook her head and let of out a breath. “Fine,” Jean relented, trying not to dwell on how easily influenced she could be Millie Harcourt, and how dangerous that was. “But I shan’t be dressing up. You’ll have me in whatever I turn up wearing or not at all.”
Millie let out a relieved breath. “As you are will be just fine, Miss McBrian,” she said.
Jean fought to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.
“I’ll drop a copy of the script down to you later on,” Millie said. “It's curtain up at 7pm tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there,” Jean said. “The show must go on, after all.” She made an effort to sound put upon, but she knew Millie could see her smiling.