It had been given over to offices she saw, poking her head around the door to where a handful of WRNS were busy at their desks or industriously engaged in filing. ‘Hello,’ Constance called tentatively, ‘er, excuse me.’
One of the girls with glasses perched on the end of her nose, making her look older than she probably was, had a manila file in her hand. She was standing in front of an open filing cabinet and stopping what she was doing turned her attention to Constance. ‘Yes?’ Her tone was impatient.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you’d know where I might find Wing Commander Henry Johnson.’
‘Henry?’ Her face smiled at his name which was said with such familiarity that Constance felt her stomach twist. She was aware she must seem like a silly little girl next to this glamorous lot. This was his world, and it was one she knew nothing of. ‘He’s probably heading over to the dining hall about now I should think.’ She turned away, silently dismissing her as she retrieved a sheaf of papers from the file she held. Constance thanked her before taking her hint and leaving her to get on with her task.
She had no idea where the dining hall was, she realized looking around the busy camp and receiving a curious gaze from a passing officer. She felt foolish standing there, conspicuous and out of place in her factory overalls with her hair hidden away beneath its turban. She shouldn’t have come. Constance made her mind up to go home; Henry would call when his duties allowed him the time to do so. She was about to turn and head back toward the gate when she saw him, and her heart plummeted.
His tall, rangy figure was unmistakable as he appeared from between a cluster of cottage buildings. At his side and with her arm linked firmly through his was a pretty WRN, her blonde curls escaping from her peaked navy hat. The girl was looking up at him in a way that made Constance feel very strange; her face grew hot as she watched the young woman’s face light up with laughter at whatever he was saying. She’d seen enough and turning she walked from the camp as swiftly as she could manage without drawing attention to herself. Her eyes burned with threatened tears and she thought she heard him call out to her, but she might just as easily have imagined it.
Evelyn’s words ran through her mind. She was too trusting, and she was stupid, but most of all she was heartbroken.
͠
‘I always said she should be on the stage, that one,’ Eleanor muttered to Ginny as though Constance weren’t sitting at the table and perfectly able to hear her mother. It had been nearly a week since her fateful visit to Puckpool Camp. Henry had called twice at Pier View House, but she’d refused to come downstairs to see him much to her parent’s bewilderment. A girl had to have some pride she’d told herself, biting her nails in her bedroom as she fought the temptation to hear what he had to say. Their puzzling over what had transpired between the pair of them filled many an evening, but bafflement soon turned to chagrin when Constance refused to tell them what the matter was. She hadn’t told anybody about seeing Henry with the pretty WRN who was hanging off his every word and his arm. It was mortifying enough without her parents and Ginny feeling sorry for her as well. They’d be sure to tell Evelyn too, and Constance couldn’t bear the thought of hearing her say, ‘I told you so.’
As the days wound on, they grew tired of their daughter’s endless sighing and hangdog expression. Now, Constance scowled at her mother’s back as she carried on unpicking the hem of the dress Mrs Drury had brought in for altering. Ginny was sitting opposite her shelling peas. They were early peas, and a bag of the sweet pods had been dropped in by Arthur Downer’s old mate, Terry who was a keen gardener and often shared his excess with the Downers in exchange for the odd bit of mending. Constance was pretending not to notice how many peas Ginny was popping in her mouth and not the bowl—she was eating for two after all.
Eleanor glanced over at her daughter from where she was scraping potatoes and waved the knife at her. ‘You need to get down off that high horse, young lady, and patch it up with your Henry. I’m fed up with looking at the face on you.’
Ginny took a more gentle tact. ‘It’s a lover’s tiff, Connie. It’s a rite of passage in a romance, but you do need to make it up with him. Look at you old thing—you’re miserable!’
It was true, Constance thought, finishing the last of the unpicking, she was miserable. She got up from the table and carried the dress downstairs. Her mother would re-hem it to a shorter more fashionable length by machine later. She whiled away half an hour in the shop, glad of the peace away from her mother and Ginny as she tidied the shelves. Her father, knowing better than to chat with her given her current mood, carried on with his mending work and they toiled in an easy silence. She glanced out across the road to the sea. The activity on the Solent seemed to have intensified, and the sense
