London—Spring 1941
TWO OF MRS. RICKETT’S OTHER BOARDERS WHO’D DECIDED to stay at home that night had been killed along with her. The bomb, a five-hundred-pound HE, had hit several minutes before three. The raids had been fairly heavy early in the evening (as Polly knew—she’d had to shout over the bombs during ENSA’s evening performance) and then tapered off. By midnight, it had looked like the Germans were done for the night, and at half past two, Mrs. Rickett had announced she was going home to sleep in her own bed, but she hadn’t made it. She’d been killed on her doorstep, by flying glass.
Luckily Miss Laburnum and Miss Hibbard hadn’t gone with her—they were arguing with Mr. Dorming and the rest of the troupe over whether to do a dramatic reading from A Kiss for Cinderella or from Dear Brutus.
Polly had spent far more time with them than with Mrs. Rickett, and yet the wounded, flailing continuum had still killed her. So what chance did the troupe or Marjorie or Mr. Humphreys have? Or Hattie and the rest of the ENSA cast, with whom she had to be in contact every day and who were all friendly and eager to show her the ropes?
You don’t want to have anything to do with me, Polly wanted to scream at them. The continuum’s going to vainly keep on trying to correct itself, and next time it will get me and all of you.
But there was no avoiding them. The entire cast and crew were onstage together every afternoon rehearsing and in the crowded wings every night, and the girls shared a single dressing room.
Polly did the best she could. She came in early to do her makeup, turned down all offers to go out for a drink or supper afterward, and spent most of her time backstage “with her nose in a book,” which she’d borrowed from the shelter library at Leicester Square—not Holborn, where the ginger-haired librarian who’d been so kind to her worked.
The book was a mystery by Agatha Christie. “You’ll never guess the ending,” Hattie said, and she didn’t. She stared blindly at the pages and thought about losing the war and Mr. Dunworthy’s deadline and all the innocent people she might be responsible for killing—the ones Stephen Lang’s tipped V-1s had landed on, the customers who’d had to wait till she’d fumbled to wrap their purchases and consequently been late getting to the shelter, the soldiers, many of them no older than Colin, who hung about the stage door waiting for her to come out and were caught by their commanding officer sneaking in late and punished by being shipped off to North Africa or the North Atlantic.
But making the soldiers late back to camp was safer for them than going out with them, and she was far more worried about the cast, with whom she still had far too much contact. ENSA mounted a new production every fortnight, so they were perpetually in rehearsal.
When Polly arrived they’d been doing ENSA Stirs the Pudding. The following week, ENSA Pulls the Crackers opened, and a fortnight later, ENSA Springs Toward Victory, though Polly had difficulty telling them apart. They all consisted of patriotic songs, chorus lines, comedians, and assorted war-related skits.
Polly played, in rapid succession and very short skirts, an anti-aircraft gunner, a gum-chewing American WAC, a debutante in a munitions factory (complete with tiara, ball gown, and spanner), and a girl saying goodbye to a soldier in a railway station.
“But I’m being shipped out,” Reggie, in a BEF uniform, said, attempting to put his arm around her. “Can’t you give me just one tiny kiss?”
Polly shook her head coyly, and he stuck his hand out for her to shake. She looked at it, then at the audience (who were shouting, “Aw, come on, give him a kiss!” and making loud smooching noises), then grabbed his hand, swung him into a dip, and planted a torrid kiss on him.
“Zowee!” he said, doing a double take. “I thought you said you wouldn’t kiss me goodbye.”
“I did, but then I remembered Mr. Churchill said we must do everything we can for the war effort.”
“And that was what you were doing?”
“No,” she said and batted her eyes. “But it’s everything I can do in a railway station.”
It was also her job to come out on the stage in a very short skirt when the sirens sounded, turn her back to the audience, bend over, and flip up the back of her skirt to reveal satin bloomers on which were sewn red flannel letters spelling out, “Air Raid in Progress.”
The bit was wildly popular, and by the end of her fifth week with ENSA, Mr. Tabbitt had put her photograph (smiling, hands on hips, not bent over) with the caption “Air Raid Adelaide” up on the display board at the lobby entrance and told her glumly that ENSA’s head wanted her to go on tour to the RAF’s airfields starting the third week of April.
“It’s more money,” he said. “And you’ll have top billing.” And it would get her away from Eileen and Alf and Binnie, whom she still held out hope might survive.
But Hattie, who had never done her any harm, had already agreed to the tour, and they would have to share a room and spend hours on crowded buses together, so Polly turned it down.
“Oh, marvelous,” Mr. Tabbitt said, and the next night had her put on her Air Raid Adelaide costume and went out in front of the curtain. “I have an official announcement,” he said. “If the Luftwaffe attacks tonight, the ‘Air Raid in Progress’ notice will be displayed.”
Whistles, applause.
“I repeat, if the Luftwaffe attacks tonight, and only if the Luftwaffe attacks tonight—”
Cheers, applause, and a long, low “woo-oo-ooh” from the second row, rising to the up-and-down wail of the alert as several others and finally the entire audience joined in.
Mr. Tabbitt cupped his hand to his ear. “Hark, is that an air-raid alert I hear?” he said, and Polly walked out (cheers, whistles, hoots), turned to face the curtain, and bent over.
He was so pleased he decided to make the bit a regular feature of the show, and by the end of the week Polly was doing it up to six times a show and getting bouquets and boxes of candy addressed to “My Favorite Siren.”
Don’t notice me, Polly thought in despair, and asked Mr. Tabbitt to let Hattie do it instead, but he refused. “You’re bringing them in in droves,” he said.
I am so sorry, she thought, looking out at the soldiers’ eager faces. But at least here she wasn’t endangering Alf and Binnie or the girls at Townsend Brothers or Sir Godfrey and the troupe.
The next night at intermission, the stage manager, Mutchins, stuck his head into the dressing room.
“You were told to knock!” Cora said, outraged, and Hattie clutched a towel to her front.
He knocked on the open door. “Visitor to see you, Adelaide,” he said. “Gentleman.”
“What happened to no men allowed backstage?” Cora demanded.
Mutchins shrugged. “Talk to Tabbitt. He said to come ask was you decent and if you was, to send him up,” he said, addressing Polly. “Are you?”
“Yes.” She abandoned her effort to fasten the stiff strap on her gilt shoe and pulled on a wrapper. “Who is it?”
“Never saw him before. Some old gent.” He turned to the other girls. “Tabbitt said to tell the lot of you to clear out—”
“Clear out?” Cora said. “Well, I like that! And where are we supposed to go?”
“He didn’t say. Just that you was to leave and give Adelaide here some privacy.”
Oh, God, Polly thought. Something’s happened, and Mr. Dunworthy’s here to tell me—
But it was Sir Godfrey. “Ah, Viola,” he said, coming into the dressing room. “ ‘Thus she sleeping here is found, on the dank and dirty ground.’ ”
You weren’t supposed to find me, she thought frightenedly.
“Sir Godfrey, what are you doing here?” she said, and from down the corridor heard excited whispers:
“Sir Godfrey Kingsman?”
“Yes!”
“Not the Sir Godfrey! The actor?”
And the last thing she needed was for the cast to gather around him and insist he stay and see the show. She led him quickly into the dressing room, shut the door, and set a chair
against it.
“Let me take your hat and coat,” she said, hanging them on the screen. “Sit down. What are you doing here?”
“I came to find you,” he said, “a task that has proved somewhat daunting. Your previous employers at Townsend Brothers were under the impression you’d left London, and no one in the troupe has had any news of you for weeks. And to make it yet more difficult, you are performing under a stage name which is, alas, not Viola nor Lady Mary. Luckily, your photograph is displayed outside.”
I knew I should have made Mr. Tabbitt take my picture with my bloomers showing instead of my face.
“Miss Laburnum said she’d heard you had become an ARP warden,” Sir Godfrey was saying, “so I went to any number of ARP posts and St. John’s units and incidents—”
Incidents?
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Polly said, looking at him in dismay. Even her disappearing had put him in danger.
“But I had need of you, and it was a chance to play the Great Detective again—a role I had not acted in years. My search led me to the Works Board and a Mrs. Sentry, who, alas, had been killed by an oil bomb the week before I arrived, and your file there did not indicate the theater to which you were assigned. But as I said, I was able to track you here through your photograph and to confirm that it was you during the performance last night. An impressive theatrical endeavor.”
“I know it’s not Shakespeare.”
“But it’s not Barrie either, which is a point in its favor, and some parts were very amusing. I quite liked your air-raid alerts, and apparently I was not alone. I’d hoped to catch you afterward at the stage door, but there was such a throng I realized I could not possibly compete, and decided to wait and take a more direct approach.”
He smiled at her, and she realized how much she’d missed him, how much she’d longed to tell him about ENSA and the shows.
But she couldn’t. She shouldn’t even be sitting here chatting with him. “Did you have a reason for coming, Sir Godfrey?” she asked briskly. “I’m afraid I haven’t much time, I need to change—”
“Of course. I shall come directly to the point. I am here to ask your assistance with a theatrical endeavor Mrs. Wyvern and I are currently putting together.”
“Mrs. Wyvern?”
“Yes. You may remember her determination to rebuild St. George’s and to aid the children of the East End who’ve lost their parents in the Blitz, or as she refers to them, ‘our poor, sad, helpless war orphans.’ To that end, she has determined on a benefit to aid both her ends. A theatrical production—”
“Oh, dear,” Polly said. “Not Peter Pan, I hope?”
“Worse. A pantomime.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “But aren’t pantomimes usually acted at Christmastime?”
“They are—a point I made several times in attempting to dissuade her, but Mrs. Wyvern is an extremely formidable woman. An amalgam of Lady Macbeth and—”
“Julius Caesar?”
“A German panzer,” he said grimly. “She is impossible to stand against. It’s a pity she’s not in command of the Army. We’d have defeated Hitler already. In any case, I find myself forced to play the Bad Fairy in Sleeping Beauty. Which is why I’ve come. I wish to enlist you in our enterprise. The others of our little band have already agreed to participate. The rector and Mrs. Brightford are to be Sleeping Beauty’s parents, Miss Laburnum the Good Fairy, and Nelson the Good Fairy’s dog. I want you for the lead.”
“Sleeping Beauty?”
“Great God, no! All she does is lie there for three acts, waiting to be rescued. A bolster could play the role. Or a film actress. Mrs. Wyvern is attempting to recruit one as we speak.”
“A bolster?”
He smiled. “No. A film actress. Madeleine Carroll, perhaps, or Vivien Leigh. I want you to be the principal boy.”
“Principal boy?”
He nodded. “Sleeping Beauty’s prince. The male lead in pantomime is always played by a girl, and the prince is quite the best role in the play—except for mine, which is rife with Teutonic shouting and violet smoke. You will get to wave a sword about and wear a plumed hat and substantially more clothes than you do as Air-Raid Adelaide. Come, say you’ll do it.”
“But surely there are lots of other people you could get, like Lila—”
“She’s joined the WAAF.”
“Oh. Well, Mrs. Brightford, then. Or Vivien Leigh. I’m certain she’d rather play the prince than a bolster.”
“I do not want Vivien Leigh. My heart is set on you. You’re the only thing that can make dealing with Mrs. Wyvern for the next month at all bearable. And you were born to play the part. Viola, dressed as a boy. What could be more perfect?”
Nothing, Polly thought. Being with Sir Godfrey again and acting with the troupe would be heaven. But it was too dangerous. Even having him here …
“I can’t,” she said. “ENSA—”
“Can easily spare you for four weeks. I’ll gladly arrange for someone to take your place. I know a number of actresses who would jump at the chance to show their knickers to an enthusiastic audience,” he said. “Or to anyone, for that matter.”
And he would clearly be able to persuade Mr. Tabbitt to go along with the plan. The fact that he’d allowed Sir Godfrey backstage proved that.
“If you refuse, there will be no one there to avert the inevitable disaster I foresee,” he said. “Say yes. You would be saving my life.”
No, Polly thought bitterly. I would be sealing your doom. And I have no intention of letting you be part of the correction if I can help it.
“I’m sorry, Sir Godfrey. I can’t.”
“The head of ENSA’s an old friend of mine. We acted in Henry the Fifth together. I’m certain he’d be willing to release you from your National Service duty for the duration of the rehearsals and performances.”
Polly looked at him in despair. He did not intend to take no for an answer. He would come back tomorrow and the next night. He would send Mrs. Wyvern to convince her. Or worse, Miss Laburnum—or Trot—exposing them all to danger. And I can’t bear that, to see any of them made to pay the price for my sins. Especially not you. I couldn’t have survived without you.
And knew what she had to do. There was only one sure way to send him away for good, to make certain he wouldn’t come back. “It’s not my being in the show,” she said. “It’s … I didn’t want to tell you this, because I was afraid you might … but I’ve met a young man. We’ve been seeing a good deal of each other, and—”
“A young man,” he said slowly. “Exactly how young?”
“Much younger than—” She stopped and bit her lip as if she had only just realized how cruel that sounded, and then rushed on. “I only met him a few weeks ago, here, and his regiment’s due to be shipped out any week now, so we haven’t much time left.”
And that at least was true. There was almost no time left at all. “You do understand, don’t you? You’ve been in love, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I have.”
He sat there for a long minute, looking at her, his face unreadable. I did it, she thought. I’ve succeeded in sending him away for good.
And in hurting him cruelly. I am so sorry. Sir Godfrey, but it’s for your own good.
“I am sorry,” she said carelessly. “I’m afraid I’ve got to go on in a moment.” She bent down and began fastening the gilt strap on her shoe. “I’ve got a costume change.”
“Of course,” he said. “I understand. You mustn’t miss your entrance.” He watched her struggle with the stiff strap for a moment, then stood up and, with great care, took his coat down from the screen and turned to go.
I’ll never see you again, she thought, keeping her eyes firmly on her shoe.
“Goodbye,” she said without looking up.
He moved the chair aside, put his hand to the doorknob, stood there a moment, and then turned back to face her. “Have I ever told you what a wretched actress you are, Viola?”
Her heart began to pound. “I thought you said I was born to be on the stage,” she said, her chin in the air.
“And so I did,” he said, “but not because you could act. Your acting wouldn’t convince Trot. Or Nelson.”
“Well, then it’s a good thing I turned down your offer, isn’t it?” she said angrily. “Luckily, ENSA audiences aren’t quite so critical.” She reached past him for her railway-station costume. “Now, if you’ll forgive me—”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said, “except perhaps that unnecessarily unkind reference to my age. But then again, you were attempting to send me away—”
And I didn’t succeed, Polly thought despairingly.
“—so you may be excused for employing extreme measures. You are meant for the stage,” he said, “but not for your ability to dissemble. Quite the opposite. It is because everything you feel is there in your face—your thoughts, your hopes—” He looked hard at her. “Your fears. It’s a rare gift—Ellen Terry had it, and, on rare occasions, Sarah Bernhardt—though it is not an unmixed blessing. It makes it quite impossible to lie, as you have so obviously been attempting to do to me for the last quarter of an hour. It is equally obvious you are in some sort of trouble—”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “I told you, I’ve met a young man. We’re in love—”
He shook his head. “Whatever your reason for turning down my offer, it is not some green and callow youth you met outside a stage door. It is also clear this trouble is something you think you must face alone, else why would you hide yourself away from your friends?”
He cocked his head inquisitively at her. “Perhaps you are right to do so. Illyria is a dangerous place. But silence is not always the best defense.” He looked at her steadily. “Are you quite certain I can’t help?”
No one can help, Polly thought. And I’m putting you in danger just by standing here talking to you. Please go away. If you love me, please …
“Two minutes,” Reggie said, sticking his head in the door, and she had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.
“Coming,” she called. “It was ever so nice to have seen you, Sir Godfrey, but as you can see, I have a show to do—”
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