the feeling he doesn’t like Wrens.’
‘You could be right, queen. Some sailors don’t. They think that women in the Navy are Jonahs – bad luck. Or maybe he doesn’t want freeing for the Fleet, eh? But forget about little Hitler in there. We’ve seen the last of him.’ Vi studied the warrants closely. ‘Now then, which one of you is Bainbridge, L. V.?’
‘That’s me – Lucinda.’
‘And I’m Jane Kendal.’
‘Well, now.’ Vi handed back the warrants. ‘And I’m Vi’let, well, Vi. And since it looks as if we’re all goin’ to the same place, why don’t we take our kit to the left luggage then see if we can’t find that canteen?’
‘Could we? I’m starving,’ Lucinda gasped. ‘They gave me sandwiches for the journey, but I left them on my bunk.’
‘And I shared mine with an ATS girl,’ Jane sighed. ‘I’m so hungry I feel dizzy.’
‘Right, then!’ Vi swung her respirator on to her left shoulder and pulled on her navy-blue woollen gloves. ‘There’s nothin’ wrong with any of us that a cup of hot tea and a ciggie won’t put right.’ She smiled happily, her delight genuine. Life had taken a turn for the better. She had found friends, and food and drink were only a couple of blocks away. All in all, it wasn’t such a bad old war.
The canteen was like a thousand others, run by unpaid volunteers and makeshift and bare, but the smile of the elderly helper was as bright as her flowered pinafore.
‘Three teas, please.’ Cautiously Vi eyed a plate of paste sandwiches. ‘And have you any – er, food?’
‘It’s getting a bit late, but I think I can find you something a wee bit more filling. How does hot pie and beans sound?’
It sounded nothing short of miraculous, and Vi ordered three.
‘That’ll be one and sixpence, and sorry there’s no sugar. Our ration is used up and there’s no more till Tuesday. There’s saccharin on the tables, though.’
Vi dug deep into the pocket of her broad canvas belt and placed three sixpenny pieces on the counter. That was something else she would have to get used to, she supposed. No purse. No handbag either.
She smiled her thanks, and placing cups and plates on a large tin tray, bore them triumphantly to the table.
‘Aaah,’ breathed Lucinda.
‘Food,’ Jane murmured.
Vi sniffed appreciatively, her neglected stomach churning noisily. The pies were round and flat, the pastry pale, their concave lids filled with beans in bright red sauce.
‘Aaah,’ Lucinda said again, impatiently sinking her knife into the pie crust, watching fascinated as hot brown gravy oozed out. Blissfully she closed her eyes. Nothing had ever tasted so good. Not even after-theatre suppers at the Ritz with Charlie. Eyes downcast, she ate without speaking, pausing only to smile at Vi. How lucky she had been to meet Violet, but wasn’t that the story of her life? Hadn’t there always been someone to make decisions for her, smooth her path? But she was on her own now. Henceforth she must carry on from where she had started that momentous morning in Goddy’s office. Heady stuff, it had been. That act of defiance warmed her even now, just thinking of it. Triumphantly, she forked a straying bean.
Jane ate without pausing. Hunger was an unknown experience; she had never imagined it could actually hurt. And wasn’t it wonderful to be here, actually here, in Rob’s city. Out there in the gathering darkness was the tenement where Rob had once lived with his mother and brothers. How strange that from all the many places to which she might have been drafted, chance had come up with Ardneavie. Two days ago she had stood in line in the drafting office at the training depot, wondering where she would be sent. The Wren immediately before her was assigned to Appledore, in Devon; the one behind her to Aultbea, in the far north-west; but for Wren Kendal it had been HMS Omega and the Wrens’ quarters at Ardneavie. In Argyll, they told her. Across the Firth of Clyde from Glasgow. It was Fate. It had to be.
Vi ate steadily, rhythmically, savouring every bite, looking around her at yet another facet of this, her strange new life.
Take this place, now – this green-walled, text-hung church hall where servicemen and women could sit out their loneliness for the price of a cup of tea. A place where men snatched from those they cared for could write cheerful, loving letters with no word of their secret worries. How would the rent be paid? How would the children be fed and clothed, on Army pay? Yet she, thought Vi, was as free as the air, with no home to worry about, no children to rear on a pittance as Mam had done. From now on the windows she polished, the floors she swept, the cups and saucers and plates she washed would not be her own. It would have been too sad to think about had she not met two apprehensive Wrens: Lucinda and Jane, kids hardly out of their gymslips who would need a bit of looking after. Count your blessings, Mam had always said, and she must never, ever forget it.
‘Hey, but that wasn’t half good.’ She rubbed the last of her bread around her plate. ‘Better than a Sunday dinner, that was.’
‘Mm. I feel almost human again.’ Lucinda took cigarettes and a lighter from the depths of her khaki drill respirator bag, and flicking open the expensive-looking case, handed them round. ‘I say, do you suppose they charged us enough? Sixpence seems so little …’
‘I don’t think they want to make a profit.’ Vi shrugged. ‘They open these canteens to help the war along.’
They were run by the women of a bombed city, most of whom had already lived through one war. Women who had been forced, in the name of Victory, to return to work in shops and factories, yet still found time at the end of the day to brew tea and serve hot meat pies, and smile. It made you proud, really, to belong to this daft, defiant little island.
‘Hullo there, girls!’ A soldier with the badge of the Gordon Highlanders shining on his cap leaned over, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. ‘Got a light, blondie?’ He winked broadly at Lucinda, who flicked her lighter and winked back.
‘Thanks, hen.’
‘My pleasure.’ The corners of Lucinda’s mouth quirked up into a beaming smile as Vi watched, fascinated. It was amazing, that quick, dancing smile of hers. A sudden dart of sunlight ending in deep dimples, one on either cheek. Lucinda was pretty, Vi acknowledged – chocolate-box pretty. Not at all like sad-eyed Jane, whose hair glinted auburn and who, one day, would be nothing less than beautiful.
‘Now then, tell me about yourselves.’ Vi wasn’t nosey, she just liked people. ‘We’re all goin’ to Ardneavie, aren’t we? HMS Omega? I wonder what it’s like.’
‘A shore station, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Lucinda hazarded. ‘Well, I’m a sparker – a wireless telegraphist – and Jane’s a coder, so it’s got to be something to do with signals. What’s your category, Vi?’
‘General duties.’ Vi smiled. ‘I’m a steward. Not a mess steward, though; more on the cleanin’ side, I think it’s goin’ to be. Where did you two meet up? Trainin’ depot, was it?’
‘No. I did my training in London.’
‘And I,’ Lucinda offered, ‘learned the mysteries of the Morse code and the iniquities
