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.