And it kept her mind off Mr. Dunworthy, who was not improving, in spite of eggs and Eileen’s aspirin and a large soup bone that Alf and Binnie had got somewhere and about which both Eileen and Polly thought it best not to ask questions.

“I’m worried about him,” Eileen said. “The doctor says it’s not the head injury, that that’s nearly healed, and that it’s not pneumonia. He doesn’t know what it is.”

It’s thinking about what’s going to happen to us and to Charles Bowden, who will still be in Singapore when the Japanese arrive, and to whoever Mr. Dunworthy sent off to the storming of the Bastille. And to who knows how many other historians who were in equally dangerous times and places when their drops slammed shut. It’s the weight of the world.

“I’m afraid he’s not going to recover,” Eileen, who never gave up on anything or anybody, said, so Polly wasn’t surprised when she found Alf and Binnie waiting for her one night outside the stage door.

“Eileen sent us to fetch you,” Binnie said.

“Is it Mr. Hobbe?” she asked.

“Mr. Hobbe?” Alf said. “Nothin’ like. It’s Mrs. Rickett’s boardinghouse. It got bombed last night.”

“Direct hit,” Binnie said.

“Kabloom!” Alf shouted. “Ain’t it a good thing we was thrown out?”

“The flowers are turning very red. Repeat. The flowers are turning very red.”

—CODED BBC MESSAGE BROADCAST BY THE
FRENCH RESISTANCE BEFORE D-DAY

Kent—April 1944

“WORTHING!” CESS CALLED, AND OPENED THE DOOR.

“What is it now?” Ernest asked, typing, “To the Editor of the Clarion Call: I have the misfortune—”

Cess looked offended. “You asked me to tell you when Lady Bracknell got here,” he said. “He’s here.”

Ernest nodded, typing, “—to reside in—”

He broke off. “Where’s the dummy camp Prism and Gwendolyn are building?” he asked.

“Just north of Coggeshall,” Cess said.

“—in Coggeshall, near the American paratroop base, and I am appalled by the number of beer bottles and—” He paused, fingers poised above the keyboard. “Will they print the word ‘condoms’ in the newspaper?”

“No,” Cess said. “He wants to see us.”

Ernest typed, “—and contraceptive appliances in my lane on Sunday mornings. I have spoken to the camp commander, but to no avail.”

“He wants us in the common room now.”

“This is the last one. Listen to this. I need your advice.” He read it aloud to Cess.

“Oh, it’ll definitely fool the Germans,” Cess said. “There’s no clearer proof that there’s an army in the area than beer bottles and used condoms.”

“No, I need advice on who wrote the letter. Do you think it should be from an irate country squire or a spinster?”

“A vicar,” Cess said promptly. “Now come along.”

“I’ll be right there,” Ernest promised, waving Cess out of the room. He typed two more lines, signed the letter “The Reverend T. W. Ringolsby,” put it and the carbon into the envelope with his articles, hid the envelope in the “Forms 14C” file, and went down to the common room.