Vi twisted her head then stared, eyes wide, at the newsboy’s billboard.
‘Mother of God!’ Sleepers forgotten, she jumped to her feet and read the word again. It was written large and thick in bright red ink and it sent a shock of fear slicing through her. ‘Will you look at that!’
‘Sorry.’ Jane rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘Been asleep. Didn’t mean to …’
‘Never mind about sorry.’ Impatiently Vi shook Lucinda’s arm. ‘Look at that, for Pete’s sake!’
There was no mistaking the word. Even in their befuddled state its meaning was frighteningly explicit.
‘Invasion.’ Jane’s lips formed the word but no sound came.
‘Dear God, no.’ This was it, then. Just when everyone was beginning to believe it would never come.
‘I’m goin’ for a paper.’ Vi ran to the paper-seller, digging into her pocket for a penny, shaking open the newspaper with agitated hands.
‘RUSSIA ATTACKED ON 1,800 MILE FRONT’, screamed the headlines. ‘SOVIET TOWNS AND PORTS BOMBED’.
‘Listen, you two.’ Vi began to read, her voice strained with disbelief. ‘“At dawn on Sunday, 22 June, between 3 and 3.30 in the morning, three million German troops marched into Russia …”’
‘Russia?’ Jane gasped. ‘They’ve invaded Russia?’
‘That’s what it says, queen.’
‘But didn’t they sign a pact, or something?’
‘Since when have pacts meant anything to Hitler?’
Instantly they were wide awake. Suddenly, discomfort forgotten, relief sang through them. Hitler had taken on the mysterious Soviets, but why had he chosen to invade Russia and not the British Isles?
‘I suppose that lets us off the hook,’ Lucinda offered. ‘Well, for the time being.’
‘And maybe just this once Hitler won’t get it all his own way. Remember what happened to Napoleon.’
‘Those Russians probably don’t know yet what’s hit them. But how much do we know about them, anyway?’ Lucinda frowned. ‘How many troops do they have and how many tanks and guns? I mean, it’s not all that long since they threw out the Tsar, is it. It’s dreadful for them, and it might just as easily have been us. I suppose they’ll be on our side now.’
‘Suppose they will,’ Vi agreed. Then her lips broke into a beaming smile. ‘Just take a look at that.’
The 6 A.M. Glasgow to Garvie train approached platform 8 gently, apologetically almost, then came to a stop with a squealing of brakes and a hiss of escaping steam, and they looked at it with wide-eyed wonder.
‘It’s come,’ breathed Vi and so disbelieving was she that she checked its very existence with the engine driver and his black-faced fireman.
‘This is the Craigiebur Ferry train?’
It was indeed, said the driver, and it would arrive at Garvie at 7.40 for the eight o’clock ferry.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Jane gasped as they piled cases, coats and respirators on to the luggage rack. ‘I do not believe it.’
‘You know what’s going to happen?’ The corners of Lucinda’s mouth tilted mischievously. ‘This train won’t leave on time as the last two did, and we’ll miss the ferry.’
‘Ar, hey, Lucinda. You’ve got a funny sense of humour,’ Vi wailed. ‘If we miss that ferry again I’ll shoot myself, honest to God I will!’
‘Me too. I feel awful,’ Jane sniffed. ‘I’m hungry and tired and my collar’s choking me. And my shirt is filthy and I’m filthy, and if I don’t get a bath soon I’ll start to smell!’
‘Then we’d all better close our eyes and think not of Victory but of hot water and soap and bathsalts and soft warm towels.’
‘And mugs of tea,’ Vi croaked, ‘and a plate of bacon butties.’
A woman guard slammed the door of their compartment, blew hard on her whistle and waved her green flag. Slowly the train began to move and bumper met bumper, clink-clanking the length of the train. Then the 6 A.M. Garvie connection drew slowly away, carrying with it Wrens Bainbridge, Kendal and McKeown.
It seemed like a small, sweet miracle. Leaning back, they closed their eyes and thought of hot water and soap and bacon sandwiches and mugs of tea. What might happen when eventually they arrived at Wrens’ Quarters, Ardneavie, mattered little. They had caught the train at last, and beyond that not one of them was able to think.
‘You’re adrift! You should’ve been here yesterday forenoon,’ rapped an irate Chief Wren. ‘And you’re dirty and sloppy and you look as if you’ve been dragged backwards through a hedge, the lot of you! Where in heaven’s name have you been until now?’
‘We’ve been comin’, Chief. As fast as we could.’ Vi took a step forward, assuming command. ‘I met up with these two on Glasgow station. They’d missed the connection, too. Sorry, Chief. The trains were shockin’.’
As if she had no part in the conversation, Jane gazed around her. This regulating office was small, and unlike its bare, efficient counterpart at the training depot, was homely and almost feminine. On either side of the Victorian fireplace with its flower-filled hearth stood an easy chair. There were even pictures of ships and groups of Wrens on the walls.
‘How shocking?’
‘Well, take Kendal ’ere.’ Vi jabbed a thumb. ‘Now her train just stopped at Crewe. Goin’ no further, they said.’
Lucinda glanced from Vi to Chief Wren Pillmoor, wondering who would be the victor. Vi had the situation under control but the chief could, and probably would, pull rank. She looked like a lady who was used to getting her own way, Lucinda considered. And those eyelashes! They were longer than Mama’s and Mama’s were false. Chief Pillmoor’s eyelashes were nothing short of magnificent, and thick and spiky as a stableyard brush.
‘I see. And Bainbridge?’
‘Bainbridge’s train was late, an’ all. Four hours late into Glasgow. It’s the bombin’, see?’
‘And you missed not only the 8 P.M. train but the next one, too?’ Chief Pillmoor’s eyebrows winged upwards questioningly.
‘Ah, well. Yes. We were all starvin’, Chief, so we went to this canteen. That’s when the sirens went and we had to go to the shelter. And by the time we got the all clear, the midnight train had gone, too. We waited on the station all night and it was perishin’. But it’s the war,’ she added without guile, and because the chief had taken a liking to the woman with the thick Liverpool accent who met her gaze without flinching, she told them to cut along to the galley; if they were lucky they might just make standeasy.
Never had three Wren ratings moved with such
