How old do they have to be to keep me from going to Bletchley Park? Polly thought, wondering if she dared lie about their ages, but Mrs. Sentry looked the type who’d check. “Alf’s seven and Binnie’s twelve,” she said. “Their mother was killed in a raid.”
And it was a good thing she’d told the truth because Mrs. Sentry was looking suspiciously at her. “What did you say your name was?”
Oh, no, she knows Alf and Binnie. They’ve tried to steal her handbag in the tube station.
“Polly Sebastian,” she said.
“Sebastian,” Mrs. Sentry said thoughtfully. “You look extremely familiar. Have we met before?”
It was Stephen Lang all over again. What if she knew me as a FANY? Polly thought. She didn’t look familiar, but …
But this wasn’t 1944. Even if I did meet her then, it hasn’t happened yet.
“I’m almost certain we’ve met before,” Mrs. Sentry was saying, “but I can’t think where … It was at Christmas …”
I hope she wasn’t at the pantomime, Polly thought, recalling that episode with Theodore.
I hope she wasn’t at the pantomime, Polly thought, recalling that episode with Theodore.
“Could it have been when you were at Townsend Brothers Christmas shopping?” she asked to throw her off the scent.
“No, I shop at Harrods. It was something to do with a theater …” She frowned, trying to remember.
Polly had to get her to assign her to a job before she did. If she remembered Theodore’s screaming, “I don’t want to go home!” she was likely to decide Polly was an unfit mother and ship her off to Bletchley Park after all. “If I could be assigned to an ARP post or an anti-aircraft gun crew—”
“I know where I saw you. In a play in the tube station at Piccadilly Circus. A Christmas Carol. When you said ‘anti-aircraft gun,’ I remembered you having to shout over them. You played Belle, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Polly said, relieved that at least it hadn’t been the pantomime.
“You were simply wonderful,” Mrs. Sentry said, beaming at Polly through her pince-nez, no longer stern. “I can’t tell you how much the play meant to me. I’d been feeling rather glum about the war and everything, but seeing it brought back the Christmases of my girlhood—the family all together, reading Dickens round the fire. It gave me hope that we’ll see Christmases like that again when this war is over. And it made me determined to do my bit to see that we do. Why didn’t you say on your application that you were an actress?”
“I’m not,” Polly said. “That was only an amateur troupe. We put on plays in the shelters, but they weren’t —”
But Mrs. Sentry wasn’t listening. “I have just the job for you. Wait here.” She stood up, hurried over to a file cabinet, extracted a sheet of paper, and hurried back.
“It’s perfect. And you’ll be able to stay here in London with your family. Let me just write down the address for you,” she said, and printed “ENSA” on a card.
ENSA was the Entertainments National Service Association. It put on shows and musical revues for the soldiers.
Mrs. Sentry handed the address to her. “You’re to go to the Alhambra and report to Mr. Tabbitt. It’s just off Shaftesbury Avenue, near the Phoenix.”
Which was the theater where the pantomime had been.
“I’m so glad I remembered where I’d seen you,” Mrs. Sentry said. “If you hadn’t given that performance in Piccadilly …”
I’d have the address of an ARP post to report to instead of a theater, Polly thought disgustedly.
But there was no point in trying to talk Mrs. Sentry out of this. She was looking far too pleased with herself. She’d have to come back and speak to someone else and, in the meantime, hope Mr. Tabbitt wouldn’t want her.
Which I doubt he will, she thought. ENSA does musical revues, not plays, and I can’t sing or dance. But when she told that to Mr. Tabbitt, who turned out to be a large, beefy man who looked like he belonged on a rescue squad, he said, “Neither can anyone else in this cast.”
She’d interrupted a rehearsal, and the chorus girls standing hands on hips on the stage above them hooted derisively when Mr. Tabbit said that, and one of them—
with a mop of black curls—retorted, “We’re only trying to live up to our name, ducks. ENSA: Every Night Something Awful.”
Mr. Tabbitt ignored her. “What professional stage experience have you had?” he asked Polly.
“None. I told you, there’s been an error. I was supposed to be assigned to an ARP post.”
“This is far more dangerous than the ARP,” the curly-haired chorus girl said. “The audience were throwing turnips at the Amazing Antioch the other night.”
“Turnips?” one of the other chorines said.
“No one’s willing to waste a tomato, you see,” the first chorus girl explained, and one of the other chorines said, “I keep hoping they’ll throw something good, like oranges.”
“Or ration stamps,” a redhead put in.
“Five-minute break,” Mr. Tabbitt snapped, and the girls sauntered off the stage.
“Sorry,” he said, turning back to Polly. “You were saying something about a mistake?”
“Yes. I was supposed to be assigned to the ARP. If you ring up the Board and tell Mrs. Sentry that you don’t
