but I can’t explain.’ She could have, Lucinda realized, but they would think her a little mad if she did. How did you say you felt free for the first time in your life? A strange freedom, though; one a barrage balloon would know if someone severed its cable and set it at liberty to wallow and wander at will. Or until some highflying fighter pilot fired a cannon shell into it and it fell, deflated, back to earth. ‘I suppose it’s because joining up was something I had to do. My family – my mother, especially – were totally against it. Oh, I’d registered when I was eighteen, like everyone else. But that was in Lincolnshire, where we were living at the time. Then suddenly we had to leave for London, so I suppose the call-up people didn’t know where I was. I waited and waited, and my mother told me to leave well alone, that the war would get on very nicely without my efforts. W-e-ell …’
She paused. No need to tell them about Charlie and getting married or the unholy row with Mama or the hell that was let loose when she told them she’d had her medical for the WRNS and if anyone tried to stop her going …
‘Well, I felt dreadful about it, and one morning I went to see my godfather at the Admiralty and begged him to get me into the Navy. And so far, I haven’t regretted a minute of it, not even today. I shouldn’t be grateful to the war,’ she said softly, cheeks flushing pink, ‘but I am. Do you think me quite mad?’
‘No, queen, I know just how you feel.’ Vi nodded. ‘I came out of the shelter one mornin’ and all I had was gone. At first I couldn’t believe it. It was never goin’ to happen to me. To her across the street, perhaps, but not to me. Then I got mad. I cursed and blinded and I swore to get even …’
No need to tell them about Gerry. Not yet. Not ever, maybe.
‘… get even with big fat Hermann. I went to the recruitin’ office in a right old temper and I joined up there and then. “I’ll do anything,” I told them, and it wasn’t till afterwards that I realized I’d done the right thing ’cos where else was I to go? Only to our Mary’s, and she didn’t really have the room. So I do know what you mean.’
Jane flicked cigarette ash into the upturned tin lid. ‘I – I suppose I’m glad to be here too. I’m an only child, you see, and it gets a bit stifling sometimes. I registered just after my eighteenth birthday and had my medical almost at once. Then nothing happened.’ Not Rob. Don’t tell them about Rob. They wouldn’t understand. They couldn’t.
‘I really thought they’d forgotten me, lost my records or something. But my call-up papers came eventually. Report to Mill Hill, London on the twenty-fifth of May, they said. It was a relief, I suppose. Fenton Bishop – that’s where I live – is a one-street village where nothing happens.’
Not until the machines moved in to throw a great concrete runway across the fields, and buildings grew like mushrooms overnight and were camouflaged brown and black and green, and the bombers roared in, and Rob came …
‘I suppose,’ Jane whispered, ‘that I was glad, too.’
‘There now.’ Vi beamed. ‘Takes all sorts to make a world, dunnit? Shall we have another cup of tea? There’s loads of time.’
‘I’ll get them.’ Lucinda jumped to her feet, collecting cups, plates and cutlery together and placing them on the tray. ‘Anyone want anything else?’
‘No, ta.’ Vi wiggled her toes, wondering if she dared take off her shoes just for five minutes, to ease the throbbing, shooting pain. But do that and she’d never get them on again, and she would arrive at Ardneavie not only late, but shoeless!
Jane ran her finger round her collar. It was far too tight and chafing her neck. How would she ever get used to wearing a tie? And oh, the panic this morning when she lost a collar stud. She must remember to buy a spare set. Searching on hands and knees at the crack of dawn was not the best start to a day, especially a day like this one!
‘Tea up!’ Lucinda set down the cups, then, unbuttoning her jacket, sat down at the table, chin on hands.
‘Do you suppose we’re ever going to feel comfortable in these uniforms? I mean, one feels so awkward.’
‘Don’t we all, queen? It isn’t as if they fit, either.’
‘And they’re so fluffy,’ Jane mourned. ‘I wonder how long it’s going to take us to wear them smooth.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have minded, but they just threw mine at me when we were kitted out. Look at this. Miles too big.’ Lucinda rose dramatically to her feet, holding out her arms. ‘The length of these sleeves! It looks as if I’ve got no hands.’
‘My skirt is miles too long. Fourteen inches from the floor it’s supposed to be, yet it’s nearly tripping me. What am I expected to do – grow into it?’
‘Oh, it’ll be all right. This get-up’ll be quite smart, once we’ve had a go at it.’ Vi looked at her double-breasted, six-buttoned jacket. Black buttons, anchor decorated. Clever, that: no polishing. A tuck here and there, perhaps, and a couple of inches off the length, and their skirts would be quite presentable. And white shirts were very smart, really, and would look quite good when they had learned to cope with the board-stiff collars and not to knot their ties so tightly. No, there was nothing wrong with their uniforms that couldn’t be put right, as far as Vi was concerned. The shoes, though, were altogether a different matter.
‘I think,’ she said sadly, ‘that I’m goin’ to have trouble with me feet, though. I should have been kitted out a week earlier but they’d got no shoes to fit me. It’s a terrible trial havin’ big feet.’
‘I suppose it must be.’ Lucinda frowned. ‘Does it – er – run in the family, Vi?’
‘Nah. It’s because I never had no shoes till I was three. Me feet just spread. Y’know, I can remember the first time I wore them. Mam got ’em from the nuns – you could get all sorts of things from the convent in them days. Free, they were, and I can remember one of the Sisters putting them socks and shoes on me, and me yellin’ and screamin’ like mad and tryin’ to take them off. Then the weather got cold and I must’ve realized it was nice havin’ warm feet ’cos Mam said she never had no trouble with me after that. But that’s why I’ve got big feet.’
‘I don’t like these woollen stockings,’ Jane pouted. ‘I’ve done nothing but itch since I got mine.’
‘And the underwear is a bit much,’ Lucinda added. ‘Pink cotton bras and suspender belts!’ She gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘And the knickers!’ Directoire knickers in navy-blue rayon with long, knee-reaching legs. ‘I thought they went out with Queen Victoria. No wonder they’re called blackouts.’
‘Or passion-killers.’ Jane giggled.
‘You’re right.’ Vi grinned. ‘Imagine gettin’ knocked down by a tram in the middle of Lime Street wearin’ them things. You’d never be able to look the ambulance men in the face, would you? We’re goin’ to have to cut about six inches off them knicker legs.’
‘I suppose we’ll get used to everything, in time,’ Lucinda shrugged. ‘We feel awkward in uniform at the moment and a bit self-conscious. And white shirts are hardly the thing for long train journeys. All those black smuts from the engine, and the door handles covered in grime, and the dusty seats …’
‘You’re right, queen. We’re fed-up and tired and we’ve missed our train, but it’ll all
