Lucinda thought feverishly, eyes on the clock. GXU3. The fingers of her right hand clutched tightly at her pencil; those of her left hand were crossed, firmly, desperately.
Oh, Goddy! She sent a silent message winging to the small room at the Admiralty. Why didn’t you tell me it would be like this? Why didn’t you warn me?
She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, adjusting her headphones, moving the dials a fraction with fingers that were stiff and cold. She would die. She really would. Before this watch was over she would be a nervous, screaming wreck.
It came up out of nowhere, GXU3 demanding her attention. This was it! Oh, my God!
Panic slapped her hard and for the splitting of a second she hesitated. Then, collecting her thoughts, shutting out all sound save that in her headset, she began to take down the message. The persistent pinging assaulted her ears and she forced it into her head. On and on. One page of the signal pad already filled; got to turn over. Careful. Don’t lose any. For God’s sake, don’t!
Dit-da, dit-da-dit. A. R. They came at last. The letters that signified the end of the message. It was over and she had done it. She had got it all! Ripping the sheets from her pad, she held them triumphantly high.
‘Ta, love,’ said the messenger, taking them from her as if they were any old signal, carrying them to the coders who would make the groups of figures into words.
Only then did Lucinda glance to her right. Only then was she aware of the telegraphist who sat beside her, who smiled and gave her the thumbs-up sign.
Elated, she grinned back. Bainbridge L. V., had done it, and nothing that happened now – absolutely nothing – would be half as bad as that first terrifying signal.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder then placed a mug as big as a chamber pot beside her. The tea was strong and sweet and laced with tinned milk, and she drank it gratefully. She was calmer now; confident, almost. For the first time in her life she was doing something for herself; doing it without help from anyone, and what was more, she was getting it right. It was heady stuff. Raising her mug, she turned again to the telegraphist at her side, giving him her most brilliant smile.
‘Bainbridge,’ she said. ‘Lucinda.’
‘Lofty.’ He raised his mug in turn. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ she breathed. Absolutely fine. Wonderful, in fact.
Sorry, Charlie, she exulted. Afraid I’ve changed my mind. No wedding, old thing. Well, not just yet, anyway …
Vi stared into the mirror, tweaking her tie straight.
‘Mother of God, worra face.’ Funny eyes, funny nose, mouth too big and teeth too crooked. A face, she sighed, that only a mother could have loved.
‘Happy birthday, face.’
Twenty-six today. She had almost forgotten. Twenty flaming six. She could be thirty before this war was over. It was frightening, if she let herself think about it, how much could happen in a year. Last birthday there had been a card from Gerry, written on shore leave and left with Mary for posting, yet now she was a woman alone. Now, just one year later, she was 44455 Wren McKeown, V. T., a steward who would spend the remainder of the war cleaning and polishing whatever the Navy told her to clean and polish.
But at least she was alive, which was something to be glad about, so she winked at Vi-in-the-mirror then turned to the window and the almost unbelievable beauty outside. She would never tire of that view, never get used to hills that changed colour at the whim of the sun, or the trees and flowers and a sky free of rooftops and chimney stacks. And out there in the loch lay the depot ship, with only five submarines tied up alongside now because one had left. She had seen it that morning, black and sleek, leaving hardly a ripple behind it, slipping silently away on the morning tide. And farther down the loch had waited the frigate that would escort it out to sea and stay with it, someone had told her, until it reached the safety of deep water.
Vi had never imagined she could think kindly of any submarine again, but if it was one of your own then surely it was right and proper to wish it well, and raising her hand she had traced a blessing on the early morning air.
She wondered where that submarine was now and what it was called. Perhaps Jane or Lucinda would know. They were there now, on that depot ship. She had watched from the window as they walked down the jetty, anxious as a mother sending her children off on their first day at school. She thought about them a lot, wondering how it was going for them on their first real day on active service; the first day, she supposed, of the rest of their lives – of the duration, at least.
The duration. For as long as the war lasted. And how many days and weeks and years made up a duration was anybody’s guess. It had all happened one Sunday morning when an old man in London decided that that was how it would be. She remembered it clearly. Gerry’s ship had been in the Albert Dock and they had just finished papering the front bedroom. At eleven o’clock she had turned on the wireless to hear the old man tell them they were at war with Germany. Again.
But today she wouldn’t think about it. Today was her birthday and Jane and Lucinda would soon be coming ashore, bursting with news. The thought pleased her, and she smiled.
Jane Kendal’s introduction to the war at sea was far less traumatic than that of her cabinmate. She had, in fact, enjoyed her day.
‘Lucky for me,’ she said that night at supper, ‘that coders often work in pairs so there was someone to help me along. My oppo was very patient – oppo means opposite number, by the way – and he’s very nice.’
‘Young, was he?’ It was important that Vi should know.
‘Oh, no. About forty, I’d say. He’s got a daughter almost my age, but I shall like working with him.’ She could not help but like him. From their first hullo the rapport was there, for Jock Menzies spoke with Rob’s accent.
‘There, now.’ Vi was well pleased. She need not, she conceded, have worried about either of them. The young ones had done very well. ‘Anyone want more pudding? There’s plenty left over.’
‘Please.’ The baptism of fire behind her, Lucinda had found her lost appetite, and bread-and-butter pudding was one of her favourites. ‘Just a little.’ She held out her dish and Vi spooned it full.
‘Remember I was telling you how nervous I was?’ Lucinda confided, spoon poised. ‘Well, I didn’t know it at the time, but the telegraphist on the next set to mine – Lofty, he’s called – was on my wavelength too. I was really afraid I’d not get it all down, and all the time he was listening out for me. He’ll be doing that for a day or two, till I can take over my own wavelength completely. But I wish I’d known. It would’ve saved a lot of agonizing.’ She smiled suddenly, and the smile set her eyes dancing and brought the dimples back to her cheeks. ‘Look – why don’t we celebrate? Let’s go out tonight.’
‘Well, I was wonderin’ – I’ve been thinkin’…’ Vi was remembering that today was her birthday and there was the ten-shilling note in her money belt and wondering if she should ask them if they would like to see the film in Craigiebur. Love on the Dole. One of the stewards had cried all the way through it, she said, so it must be good. But Vi did not ask them because someone said, ‘Hullo. You’ll be the new lot in cabin 9.’ Someone who
