“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—”

“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.”