vanished, vaporized by two thousand pounds of explosives. And the things the FANYs saw at the sites became markedly more grisly and unspeakable.
But within the month they’d adjusted to the V-2s and invented a new—and totally spurious—mythology regarding them. “They never land where any other rocket’s hit,” Maitland pronounced, “because of the magnetism. So we’re perfectly safe while we’re at the incident. The trick is in getting there.”
But they had that covered as well. “They never come till an hour after the first V-1 volley of the day,” Sutcliffe- Hythe said, and Talbot reported that one of her beaus at the motor pool had told her the V-2 motor wouldn’t work when it got cold, so the number would be less as winter approached—neither of which was true.
But it made it possible for the FANYs to face sleeping and working and driving to incidents every day, knowing they might be blown to bits at any moment.
And by the time another fortnight had passed, they were back to discussing clothes—Mary’s blue organdy had got a tear in the skirt, and there was a debate over whether to mend the sheer cloth or take out an entire width— and men. Sutcliffe-Hythe had met an American sailor from Brooklyn named Jerry Wojeiuk, and Parrish had broken it off with Dickie.
Unfortunately, they also went back to discussing “poor Fairchild.” “Perhaps you could get engaged to someone else,” Reed suggested to Mary when Stephen began telephoning again.
“Or married,” Maitland put in—suggestions which were so ridiculous that it was a relief when Talbot came in and said the Major wanted her to drive to Streatham to pick up bandages.
“I suppose I’ve got to drive Bela Lugosi,” Mary said.
“No, it’s in the shop. And Reed’s not back yet. She had to drive the Octopus to Tangmere. Your luck is in. You get to drive the new ambulance. Camberley’s going with you. I’ll tell her to meet you in the garage.”
But when the passenger door opened, it was Fairchild who got in. “Camberley’s feeling under the weather. She asked me to fill in for her,” she told Mary, and sat silently as Mary pulled out of the garage and set off for Streatham. She wondered if she should try one more time to explain about Stephen, but she was afraid she’d only make things worse.
Streatham couldn’t give them any lint or bandages. “We’re nearly out ourselves. Those horrid V-2s,” the FANY at the post told them. “I’m going to have to send you to Croydon for them.”
Croydon? Croydon had been hit by more rockets than any other borough, and it was outside the area Mary’d memorized. “Couldn’t we get them from Norbury?”
she asked. “It would be a good deal closer.”
The officer shook her head. “They’re worse off than we are. I’ve telephoned, and Croydon said they’d have them ready for you so you won’t need to wait.”
Well, that was something, and no ambulance post had been hit in 1944. Which didn’t help as far as the way there and back were concerned. I’ll just have to drive very fast and hope the Germans aren’t paying attention to British Intelligence tonight.
At least she didn’t have to worry about Fairchild’s talking distracting her—she sat stonily silent. And Mary had no attention to spare for conversation. She had all she could do to find the post in the blanketing darkness. The FANYs would have a dreadful time dealing with their incidents tonight. There was no moon at all and a heavy October mist that seemed to swallow up the headlamps. She couldn’t see a thing.
It took her over an hour to find the post in Croydon, and then the FANY on duty couldn’t find the supplies. “I know they were set aside,” she said vaguely, and looked all over while the sirens went three separate times. She finally had to box up more lint and bandages and make Mary fill up a different requisition form.
By the time she’d finished, Fairchild was in the ambulance in the driver’s seat. Mary considered telling her she should drive because she knew the way, but the set look on Fairchild’s face made her decide not to. They’d only waste more time in arguing, and she wanted to get out of there before the sirens went again.
She climbed in the passenger side, and Fairchild drove along Croydon’s blacked-out high street and turned onto the road to Dulwich. Good, Mary thought. In another ten minutes we’ll be safely back inside the area I’ve memorized.
Fairchild pulled the ambulance over to the side of the road and stopped. “What are you doing?” Mary asked.
Fairchild switched off the ignition and pulled on the hand brake. “I lied about Camberley,” she said. “I was the one who asked to change shifts so I could come with you. I needed to talk to you, Mary.” Mary. Not Triumph or DeHavilland or even Kent. “That is, if you’re still speaking to me.” Fairchild’s voice faltered. “After the beastly way I’ve behaved to you. Are you?”
It was too dark to see her face, but Mary could hear the anxiety in her voice. “Of course I am,” she said. “You haven’t been beastly, and I wouldn’t blame you if you had been. But can’t we discuss this when we get home?” Or at least inside the area where she’d memorized the rockets?
“No,” Fairchild said. “This can’t wait. Yesterday Maitland and I pulled a thirteen-year-old boy out of the wreckage of his house in Ulvers-croft Road. It was a V-2.
His mother was killed. Direct hit, nothing left of her at all. The boy kept sobbing that he’d been angry with her for making him sleep in the Anderson, and he had to tell her he was sorry he’d called her an old cow. It was dreadful watching him, and I began thinking about how either of us might be killed at any moment, too, and how important it is to mend things before it’s too late.”
“There’s nothing to mend,” Mary said. “Let’s at least go somewhere warmer to talk. There’s a Lyons in Norbury. We’ll have a cup of tea—”
“Not till I’ve told you how sorry I am for the way I’ve been acting. It’s not your fault that Stephen fell in love with you and not me—”
“He’s not in love with me. He’s only interested because I represent a challenge by refusing to go out with him.”
“But that’s what I wanted to tell you. You should go out with him. I’d much rather he was in love with you than Talbot or someone else who might hurt him.”
“He’s not in love with me,” Mary insisted, “and I’m not in love with him.”
