Kitabı oku: «All the Sweet Promises», sayfa 4

3

‘Flamin’ Norah! Don’t tell me it’s gone!’

‘Sorry, lassie.’ The ticket collector picked up his coat and bag. ‘You’ve missed it by ten minutes. The next train to Garvie leaves at midnight.’

‘That’s it, then. I’m adrift.’ ETA Ardneavie 2200/22/6, her travel instructions stated precisely – which really meant that Wren Violet T. McKeown was expected to arrive at her destination by 10 P.M. on the twenty-second day of June. ‘And that train left on time!’ she flung accusingly.

‘Aye. They sometimes do. Last week one arrived on time too. But you’d better away to the Naval RTO and get your warrant seen to. You’ll no’ get into trouble, then, if you’re late arriving.’

The railway transport officer. She would find one, they had told her at the training depot, at most main-line stations. Get into difficulties, travelwise, and the RTO would sort it out.

‘Over yonder, by the pile of mailbags.’ The ticket collector had seen it many times and would see it many times more before the railways returned to normal. If they ever did.

Vi picked up her cases. She had travelled from Rosyth to Glasgow, hardly any distance at all, yet still she had missed her connection. Slamming her feet down angrily, she made for the mailbags.

Mother of God, what a place to be stranded in. But didn’t all railway stations look the same, turned by the war into dismal places? Dimly lit, permanently blacked out, they had become dirty and dingy and smelled of neglect. When the war was over, in a million years, and little Marie asked, ‘What was your war like, Auntie Vi?’ she would tell her, ‘Drab, queen. Very drab.’

But it wasn’t only the stations, she frowned. Passenger trains never ran on time now. Indeed, men and women not in uniform were asked most pointedly not to use them. Is your journey really necessary? the posters demanded accusingly, making it downright unpatriotic for a civilian to even think of occupying a seat on a passenger train.

Vi nodded and smiled at the young soldier and the palefaced young girl who stood beside him. You smiled at everyone now. You cared about other people and tried to be kind to them, even though they were strangers you would probably never meet again. It had taken a war to do that, Vi realized; though she wouldn’t mind betting that on the day peace came, all the caring would end and people would go back to minding their own business again, just as they had before it started. And it would be the same with railway stations. Once the war was over, they would be clean and bright, with everything freshly painted and flowers planted in the tubs. And people going on seaside holidays would have forgotten how stations had once been larger than life, almost; places of meeting and parting, from which dusty, crowded trains had borne servicemen and women to who knew where.

The young soldier and his girl were soon to part. Now, they smiled, standing with fingers entwined, bodies touching, and even when he left her the smile would remain and she would save her tears until his train was out of sight, trying not to think of the brave goodbye that might be their last.

Vi jerked back her shoulders. She had whispered her own last goodbye at a Liverpool dockyard gate, though she had not known it. Two months ago on an innocent April afternoon, yet already she had lived through a lifetime of sorrow. Now another life was about to begin, one in which she was no more than a surname and number, a woman who had lifted her hand in salute and sworn allegiance to King and country. For as long as the war lasted, she would be a part of the Royal Navy and there could be no remembered yesterdays, no thoughts of tomorrow. One day at a time was how it now must be, and this one day she was adrift, tired and hungry, with new flat-heeled shoes that hurt like hell.

Briefly she closed her eyes, mentally peeling off the scratchy black stockings, lowering her feet inch by beautiful inch into a bowl of cool water. It made her think of bath night at Lyra Street; of the ritual carrying-in of the tub and filling it from pans and kettles set to boil on bright red coals. Then the joys of Vinolia soap and towels hung to warm on the fireguard and flames dancing on her nakedness. Seven Lyra Street. All she had loved, wiped out in a second. It was the reason she was here now, standing bemused in this ill-fitting uniform, black and white all over, like a penguin grown tall and lanky. It was as if she stood in a noisy limbo; all the yesterdays had gone as if they had never been and all the tomorrows were no more than a tantalizing promise. It was why she was adrift with a travel warrant the RTO must stamp. It was the cause of her sore toes and blistered heel and empty, aching stomach. One vicious second, that was all it had taken. Funny, really.

The RTO’s office was a small prefabricated hut with a sign on the door that instructed her to knock and walk in. Inside, it was lit by a single bulb wrapped round with a brown-paper shade and furnished with three wooden chairs and a counter on which stood two telephones and a litter of timetables and pads. Its walls were almost covered by official posters urging all who read them to Dig For Victory, Save For Victory, Resist The Squanderbug, Join The Wrens And Free A Man For The Fleet and remember that Careless Talk Costs Lives and Walls Have Ears. From every small uncovered space, Mr Chad poked down his long nose to demand, Wot, no leave? Wot, no fags? – or beer or trains or anything else in short supply which, Vi supposed, was just about everything.

‘Just what do you mean, the London to Glasgow train terminated at Crewe?’ asked the leading hand of the two Wrens who stood at the counter. ‘Trains don’t do that.’

‘This one did. They told me to get off and try to get on the next train going north,’ protested the younger of the two, flushing pink.

‘Which happened to be my train,’ the tall blonde offered uneasily, ‘already two hours late from Plymouth.’

‘Which doubtless made you miss the Garvie Ferry connection,’ their inquisitor barked. ‘You’re trying to pull a fast one, aren’t you? You’ve been skylarking somewhere!’

‘We haven’t! It was the train, truly it was!’

‘All right then, your train was delayed. So what do you expect me to do about it? Lay on a destroyer and escort?’

‘N-no. We just thought you might okay our travel warrants. We should have been at Ardneavie ages ago.’

‘So you should.’ He read the green documents with pleasure. ‘And you’ll both be in the rattle when you get there, won’t you?’

Vi studied the bright red anchor on the man’s left sleeve. A hook in naval slang, his badge of rank. A very new hook and most probably the reason for his arrogance. He had a mean little mouth, she thought dispassionately. If she wasn’t mistaken, someone above had just kicked his backside and, true to naval tradition, he was passing the reprimand down. But nobody had the right to be that nasty; not even if his backside was black and blue. He should pick on someone his own size, not two young kids who were near to tears.

‘But we couldn’t help our trains being late. I thought you’d be able to put it right for us.’

‘Did you now? And you know what thought did, don’t you? Mind, if you were to say please very nicely, I just might decide to stamp your warrants …’

‘Might you just! Then you’d better decide to stamp mine while you’re on with it!’ Vi had heard enough. Elbowing her way to the counter, she slammed down her own piece of paper. ‘And be sharp about it!’

‘Hey! Hold on there!’ The leading hand flushed dark red. ‘You wait your turn and speak when you’re spoken to. I’m dealing with these two at the moment.’

‘Well, from now on you’re dealin’ with me as well, so get stampin’ or we’ll miss the next train an’ all,’ Vi hissed, meeting his gaze, preparing to stare him out. ‘Come on, mate. Shift yourself. There’s a war on, or hasn’t anybody told you? And while you’re about it, where can I get something to eat?’

‘There’s a Church of Scotland canteen a couple of blocks down.’ Tight-lipped, the man stamped and initialled the three warrants, his eyes not leaving hers.

‘Thanks,’ she glared back. ‘Next train to Garvie leaves at midnight, doesn’t it?’

‘Correct. Get off at Garvie Quay. The ferry’ll be tied up alongside. Overnight sailings are suspended for the duration but they’ll let you go aboard. Depart Garvie tomorrow morning, 0600 hours. ETA Craigiebur Pier 0800 hours.’ He said it reluctantly, repeating it parrot-fashion. ‘All right? Understood?’

‘Fine. That’s all we wanted, thanks. Sorry to have put you out.’ Vi picked up the three warrants, her mouth pursing with disapproval.

‘No need to take it like that. I was only having a bit of fun.’

‘There now. Fun, was it? Well, you could have fooled me, mate!’

With a final warning glare, Vi wished him goodnight, then threw open the door and marched out, head high. Only then did she allow herself a smile.

‘Well, fancy ’im with the ’ook, pulling rank like that then? Nasty little twerp.’ Her smile widened into a grin. ‘But how about you two? All right, are you?’

‘Just about.’ The tall, fair girl smiled back. ‘He was giving us a bad time, though, till you came in. I get 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 of squad drill at Plymouth signal school. We met up at Crewe station. Funny world, isn’t it?’

‘Funny?’ Vi dropped a saccharin tablet into her tea, watching it rise, fizzing pale green, to the surface.

‘Y-yes, 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 come right, just see if it doesn’t. And at least we don’t have to worry any more about what to wear. What about the poor civilians, then? They get the sticky end of the golden sceptre every time, don’t they?’

‘Clothes rationing, you mean?’

‘Clothes rationin’,’ Vi affirmed solemnly. ‘Imagine the Government doin’ a thing like that, eh?’

It had happened suddenly, just three weeks ago. The British public had opened its morning papers to the stark announcement that clothing and footwear were rationed. Coupon values had been placed upon every conceivable article, and henceforth it would be illegal to buy anything without surrendering the appropriate number of clothing coupons. Briefly, it stated that sixty-six coupons had been considered adequate for normal use. The bomb-shell exploded when it added that those sixty-six coupons must last for a whole year.

‘It is outrageous,’ the Countess had written to her daughter. ‘How is one to be decently clothed when one must hand over sixteen coupons for a coat and five for a pair of shoes? We shall all be in rags …’

‘It’s fair, I suppose,’ Jane argued. ‘Clothes were getting very expensive and in short supply too. Now everyone will at least get a fair share.’

‘But three whole coupons for a pair of silk stockings,’ Lucinda wailed. ‘My mother was always catching hers on her rings. She went through any amount of stockings in a week. She won’t be able to do that now.’

‘She’ll have to go without, then – or paint her legs, as it suggested in the magazine. Gravy-browning is supposed to be good.’

‘Good grief!’ Mama bare-legged! Lucinda shook with silent joy. Gravy-browning? But it really wasn’t funny, come to think of it, since poor Pa would be the whipping boy for the silk stocking shortage. One thing was certain, though. Worrying about clothing coupons would at least make Mama forget the invasion for a while.

‘What’s so funny?’ Vi demanded.

‘My mother. Having to paint her legs.’ Lucinda’s smile gave way to a throaty laugh. ‘But she’ll find a way round it.’

She would, too. Lady Kitty’s wardrobes were crammed with clothes, and she would give those for which she had no further use to someone with little money – in exchange for some of their coupons, of course. That it was against the law would not worry milady in the least. The Countess of Donnington upheld only those laws with which she agreed, and the rationing of footwear and clothing and the issuing of clothing coupons were not among them.

‘It’ll be hard on my sister,’ Vi considered. ‘Got two kids, Mary has. Just imagine – eight coupons for a pair of pyjamas and five for a blouse and seven for a skirt. And you’ve even got to give up a coupon for two ounces of knitting wool as well. I don’t know how she’ll manage. Go without, herself, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘I suppose we’re lucky, missing all that.’ Jane remembered the three pairs of London-tan stockings she had left behind her. It was useless to try to hoard silk stockings, stated the women’s magazines. They deteriorated with time, and the only way to prolong their life was to store them carefully in airtight containers and only wear them on special occasions. It was patriotic to go bare-legged, insisted fashion editors, whereupon almost the entire female population of the United Kingdom had wrapped their precious stockings in cellophane and placed them, sighing, in screw-topped jars in dark cupboards.

Furtively Jane scratched an itching calf. Some women had all the luck. To be stockingless at this moment, she thought fervently, would be nothing short of bliss.

The canteen began to empty. The Gordon Highlanders had already left, the airmen from the corner table had hoisted kitbags to shoulders and gone their separate ways, and the soldier who had spent the entire evening writing letters called a goodnight and walked out into the darkness. At the counter the elderly lady took off her pinafore and put on her coat.

‘I’m away to catch the last tram,’ she smiled. ‘The front door is locked now but the caretaker will let you out at the back, so you’ll be welcome to stay for a wee while longer. Good night, girls. Take care of yourselves.’

‘I suppose we’d better all be making tracks,’ Vi murmured reluctantly. ‘All got our respirators?’

Lose a respirator and the cost was deductible from pay. Respirators were a nuisance; it was a punishable offence for any member of the armed forces to be caught without one. Respirators had to go everywhere with them, like the Ancient Mariner and his albatross.

‘Are you wanting away, ladies?’ A white-haired man limped ahead of them and opened a door at the rear of the room. ‘You’ll take care in the blackout, now.’

‘We will. We’ll be fine, ta.’ Vi looked at the medal ribbons, proudly worn on the shabby jacket. Earned in the last war, no doubt, and that stiff, awkward leg too.

They wished him good night, then stood a while, blinking in the darkness, listening to the slam of the door bolts. The dense blackness lifted a little and they were able to pick out the skyline and the dim glow of white-edged pavements and white-ringed lampposts. The blackout was complete. Even torches had to be covered with paper and car headlights painted over, except for a small cross of light at their centres. They would all be troglodytes before the war was over, thought Lucinda, with eyes that stood out on little stalks.

Ahead of them a match flared and a lighted cigarette glowed briefly like a small bright beacon, reminding them of streetlamps and bonfires and shop windows blazing with light. One day those lights would go on again, but not just yet, Lucinda thought sadly.

‘It’s very quiet, isn’t it?’ Jane felt with the toe of her shoe for the kerb edge. ‘Was it this quiet when we came, Vi?’

‘Well, no, but it’s late now, innit? Past eleven, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t worry. We’ll soon be at the station, and it’ll be noisy enough there.’

They walked carefully, staring ahead into the night.