an incident?
“This is our mess,” Fairchild said, opening a door, and she knew that term at least. “And the kitchen’s through there. And out here”-she propped open a side door and led her through-“is our garage, though there’s not much to see at the moment, I’m afraid. We’ve two ambulances, a Bentley and a Daimler. Have you ever driven a Daimler, Kent?” she asked, and when Mary nodded, “What year was it?”
2060. “I think it was a thirty-eight,” she said.
“I’m afraid that won’t be much help, then. Our Daimler’s positively ancient. I’m convinced Florence Nightingale drove it in the Crimean War. It’s ghastly to start and worse to drive. And nearly impossible to turn in a tight space. The Major’s put in for a new one, but no luck yet. This is the log,” she said, walking over to a clipboard hanging on the wall. She showed her the spaces for time, destination, and distance driven. “And no detours for errand running allowed. The Major’s an absolute bear about wasting petrol. And about failing to sign the log before you take a vehicle out.”
“What if you’re going to an incident?”
“An incident? Oh, you mean if a Spitfire crashes or something? Well, then of course one would go to it straightaway and fill out the log when one came back, but we get scarcely any of those. Most of our ambulance calls are for soldiers who’ve got in a fight or fallen down a flight of stairs when they were sloshed. The remainder of the time we drive officers. After you sign in, you take the keys to the despatch room,” she led her back inside to the room with the sofa and the phonograph, “and hang them up here.” She showed her three hooks labeled, “Ronald Colman,” “Clark Gable,” and “Bela Lugosi.” “We thought since the RAF crews name their aeroplanes, we’d name our ambulances.”
“I thought you said you had two ambulances.”
“We do. Ronald Colman is the Major’s personal Bentley. She lets us use it when both ambulances are out or when we’re to drive someone important.”
“Oh. I assume Bela Lugosi is the Daimler?”
“Yes, though the name doesn’t begin to describe its evil nature. I wanted to name it Heinrich Himmler.” She led Mary down another corridor and opened the door on a long room with six neatly made cots. “You’ll bunk in here,” she said, walking over to the second cot to the right. “This one’s yours.” She patted it, then walked over to a wardrobe and opened its door. “You can stow your things in here. You’re allowed half, so don’t let Sutcliffe-Hythe take more than her share. And don’t pick up after her. She tends to strew her things about and expect other people to put them away. She only joined up four months ago, and before that, of course, she had servants to do for her.”
The casual way in which Fairchild said it confirmed what Mary’d already deduced-that in spite of the pigtails and film magazine, Fairchild was from an upper-class family, as was Sutcliffe-Hythe, and most of the young women in the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. They’d qualified for the FANYs because, unlike lower-class girls, they’d known how to drive. They’d also possessed the social skills to mingle with officers, which was why they’d ended up chauffeuring generals as well as driving ambulances.
“Let’s see, what else do you need to know?” Fairchild said. “Breakfast’s at six, lights out at eleven. No borrowing someone else’s towel or beau, and no discussing Italy. Grenville’s fiancй’s there, and she hasn’t heard from him in three weeks. Oh, and don’t mention anything to do with getting engaged to Maitland-you’re not engaged, are you?”
“No,” she said, setting her duffel bag down on the bed.
“Good. Engaged girls are rather a sore point with Maitland just now. She’s been trying to persuade the pilot she’s seeing to propose, but so far she’s not having any luck. I told her she should take lessons from Talbot. She’s been engaged four times since I’ve been here. Were you seeing anyone in-where were you stationed before this?”
“Oxford.”
“Oxford? Oh, then you must know-” She stopped and cocked her head alertly as a door slammed somewhere.
“Fairchild!” a voice called, and a vividly pretty brunette in a FANY uniform and cap burst in. “You will not believe what I just heard.”
And so much for my observing pre-rocket behavior, Mary thought.
“What are you doing here, Talbot?” Fairchild said. “I thought you’d gone with Maitland and the others to the applecart upset.”
“No, but I should have done. I’m so sick of the Yellow Peril, I could scream.”
The Yellow Peril? What did Japan have to do with an ambulance post? I should definitely have done more research on World War II slang.
“I was at the motor pool,” Talbot said. “The Major insisted I go pick up Bela Lugosi,” and thank goodness Fairchild had explained about the ambulance names, or she’d be completely lost. Could the Yellow Peril be some sort of vehicle as well?
“I told the Major it wouldn’t be ready,” Talbot went on, “but she-who’s this?”
“Mary Kent,” Fairchild said. “She’s our new driver.”
“But you can’t be!” Talbot cried, and Mary looked up sharply. “Sorry. It’s only that I had a wager with Camberley that even the Major couldn’t get a new driver out of HQ. For a pair of stockings. Now what am I going to do? I lent my only good pair to Jitters, and she simply shredded them.”
“She means Lieutenant Parrish,” Fairchild explained. “She’s keen on jitterbugging.”
“I simply must have stockings. Philip’s taking me to the Ritz on Saturday.”
No, he’s not, Mary thought. There’ll be more than a hundred V-1s coming over on Saturday. You’ll be transporting the wounded.
“I don’t suppose you’ve an extra pair you’d be willing to lend me, have you, Kent?” Talbot asked.
No, and even if I had, I wouldn’t admit it. It would instantly expose her as the impostor she was. No woman in England had had presentable stockings by this point in the war. “Sorry,” she said, pointing down at her much- mended cotton stockings. “I’m sorry if I caused you to lose your wager.”
“Oh, well, it’s my own fault for betting against the Major. I should know better. Have you met the Major yet, Kent?”
“No, she hasn’t,” Fairchild said. “The Major’s in London. She was called to a meeting at HQ.”
“Well, when you do, you’ll find she’s extremely determined, particularly when it comes to obtaining equipment and supplies-and personnel-for our post.”
Fairchild nodded. “She’s convinced that the winning of the war rests entirely on our shoulders.”
“Though I’d scarcely call driving officers with roving hands vital to the war’s outcome,” Talbot said. “I hope you’re skilled at fending off amorous advances, Kent.” She turned to Fairchild. “When do you expect Maitland and the others back?”
“I rather expected they’d be back by now,” Fairchild said.
“Where was this applecart upset?”
“Bethnal Green.”
“Oh. I’m going to go bathe before they get back.” She took off her jacket and started for the door.
“Wait,” Fairchild said. “You can’t go yet. You still haven’t told us what you heard.”
“Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. I went to the motor pool, and they told me Bela would be ready tomorrow, which is what they always say.” She undid her skirt, stepped out of it, and began unbuttoning her blouse. “And I said we must have it today, and that I’d be willing to wait.” She shrugged out of her blouse and stood there in her slip, her arms akimbo. “But that was a mistake. All they wanted to do then was stand about and chat me up.”
I can imagine, Mary thought. Talbot was not only pretty, she had a stunning figure. It was easy to see why she’d been engaged four times. “So I finally went across to the canteen to have a cup of tea, and Lyttelton was there waiting to drive a captain assigned to Coastal Defences back to Dover-”
She definitely knew about the V-1s. Coastal Defences had known that the Germans were planning to send over unmanned rockets for weeks. They’d been sworn to secrecy, but obviously the captain had told his driver, and she’d told Talbot.
“And you won’t believe what she told me,” Talbot went on. “She said that Captain Eden’s married. To a WAAF.”
“Captain Eden who took you to Quaglino’s last week?”
