Connie Willis - All Clear

“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 want me, I’m certain she’ll send over—”

“Who says I don’t want you?” he said. “I assume you can memorize lines. Lift your skirt.”

“What?”

“Lift your skirt. I want to see your legs.”

“But—”

“And don’t go all maiden aunt on me. This isn’t the Windmill. I’m not asking you to take off your clothes. Come on, then.” He motioned her to raise her skirt.

“Let’s see them.”

She lifted her skirt to her knees and then her hips. He nodded briefly and then bellowed, “Hattie!” and the curly-haired chorine came back onstage, eating a sandwich. “Take her backstage and see if she’ll fit into the ARP warden costume. If she does, bring her back, and we’ll run through the skit.”

Hattie nodded.

“Go along now,” he said to Polly. “You said you were supposed to be assigned to the ARP, and now you are.”

He turned back to Hattie and snatched the sandwich out of her hand. “And have her try on your costumes as well, since you won’t be able to fit into them if you keep eating like that.”

“Oh, that’s such a clever line. You should put it in the show,” Hattie said, and led Polly backstage.

“And tell her the rules!” Mr. Tabbitt shouted after them.

“No smoking backstage—fire regulations,” Hattie said, leading Polly through an obstacle course of ropes and flats. “No drinking. No pets.”

This is just like Mrs. Rickett’s, Polly thought, following her down a rickety-looking iron spiral staircase.

“No male admirers allowed in your dressing room, if you had a dressing room of your own, which you won’t. You’ll be in here with Lizzie, Cora, and me.”

She opened a door on a tiny, untidy room with a single makeup mirror and then shut it again and led Polly down the corridor to an even tinier room crammed with costumes.

Hattie rummaged through them and came up with a tin helmet, an ARP armband, and a dark blue sequined bathing suit. “Here, try this on.”

“This is the ARP warden’s costume?” Polly said.

“Yes, and be careful getting into it. I sewed on all those sequins myself. You don’t happen to know how to sew, do you?”

“No. I can’t act either. As I told Mr. Tabbitt, there’s been a mistake. I was supposed to be assigned to—”

“No. I can’t act either. As I told Mr. Tabbitt, there’s been a mistake. I was supposed to be assigned to—”

“The ARP, I know.” Hattie thrust the bathing suit at her. “Go on, try it on.”

Polly stepped out of her skirt and wriggled into the bathing suit.

“A perfect fit,” Hattie pronounced. “And you needn’t worry about people throwing turnips at you with those legs. Tabbitt will definitely keep you.”

Polly’s dismay must have shown in her face because Hattie said, “If you truly want to be a real air-raid warden instead of a stage one, though personally I can’t imagine why anyone would, you’d best go back to the Works Board before Tabbitt sees you in that costume. Once he does, he’ll have your name put on the bill, and once that’s printed, you’ll never get away, what with the paper shortage. You’ll be stuck at ENSA for the duration.”

Just like Bletchley Park, Polly thought. “I’ll tell him I sent you home to let out the seams and learn your lines,” Hattie said, handing her a script, “and that you’ll be at rehearsal at three tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Polly said, stepping out of the costume and scrambling into her own clothes. “You don’t know what this means to me.” She hurried out the stage door and back to the Board, hoping Mrs. Sentry had gone off duty, but she was still there. She’d have to come back early the next morning.

“Well?” Eileen asked when she arrived home. “Were you assigned to a rescue squad?”

“No. To ENSA, putting on shows for the troops.”

“Singin’ and dancin’, you mean?” Alf asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you even know how?” Binnie asked.

“No, but that doesn’t appear to be an impediment.”

“You won’t have to go to Egypt to entertain the troops, will you?” Eileen asked worriedly.

“No, I’ll be performing at the Alhambra here in London.”

“Oh, good,” Eileen said, looking relieved, and as soon as she and Polly were alone, she said. “The Alhambra wasn’t hit, was it?”

“No,” Polly said, though she didn’t know that for certain. She knew that no theater had been bombed during a performance, but that still left before and after performances and during rehearsals, and the Alhambra looked like an absolute firetrap.