Freda held herself in such a way that she appeared taller than Ena. She wasn’t, but Ena was in the habit of slouching. She had spent so long hunched over machines, concentrating on drilling minute holes, soldering fine wires, and scripting tiny letters and numbers, that she was in danger of becoming round shouldered.
Ena took off her coat and gave it to the young woman who, after hanging it up, knocked on the commander’s door. At the word ‘Enter’ she opened it and ushered Freda and Ena inside.
Pulling herself up to her full height, Ena followed Freda across the room to meet the man who commissioned the work she did, Commander Dalton.
The commander, a tall lean man with sandy-coloured hair, stood up as Freda reached his desk. She shook his hand and introduced Ena, explaining that it was Ena who did much of the intricate work for Bletchley Park.
The commander looked at her and smiled. Ena saw a flicker of surprise cross his face. He probably thought she was too young to have such responsibility. She had always looked young for her age, a disadvantage at times like this.
His focus returned to Freda. ‘And Herbert? Not with you today?’ He looked at the ledger that Ena recognised as the one she had signed.
‘Mr Silcott sends his apologies. He was summoned to an emergency meeting at our parent company, Williams Engineering, in Coventry.’ A slight variation on the truth, Ena thought, but it sounded better than He’s taken his wife to see her mum and dad. But then Mrs Silcott’s parents did own Williams Engineering.
Fully aware that the Luftwaffe had blitzed Coventry the night before, the commander sent his condolences, saying he hoped no one was hurt in the bombing. ‘The work Williams Engineering has been doing will now be shared between the other Midlands factories. That will mean more work for Silcott’s. Can you handle more work?’
‘Yes sir,’ Freda said, confidently. ‘Mr Silcott will confirm as soon as he returns from Coventry.’
Before leaving, the commander gave Freda an envelope, which Ena could see was addressed to their boss.
After shaking Freda’s hand, Commander Dalton turned to Ena. ‘Goodbye, Miss Dudley.’
Ena took his outstretched hand and shook it nervously. ‘Goodbye, sir.’
Leaving the mansion, Ena said, ‘I didn’t think we’d ever find our way out of the place.’ She stopped and looked back. ‘I wouldn’t want to be stuck in there overnight.’
‘It can be a bit scary after dark,’ Freda agreed.
‘Like the houses in horror films, all winding passageways and shadows in corners. I bet there’s a ghost… Commander Dalton’s a bit scary too, don’t you think?’
‘Not when you get to know him.’
Ena quickened her step and caught Freda up. ‘Aren’t we being driven back to the station?’
Freda laughed. ‘We were only collected because we were carrying their precious work. Now they have it, we can whistle… Anyway, it isn’t worth it.’
No sooner had they gone through the security gate than they were crossing the road to the station.
On the platform, Freda looked up at the clock. ‘We’ve got twenty minutes to wait until the next train. Come on. Herbert gave me a ten-shilling note in case of an emergency. We’ll have a sherry in the Station Hotel while we wait. The rest we’ll spend on a taxi to Lowarth when we get to Rugby.’
Hooking her arm through Ena’s, Freda steered her back through the portico columns at the station’s entrance and along the pavement. The Station Hotel was dark red brick, with blue bricks arranged to make diamond shapes. The ledges of the sash windows were soot stained and a grimy film of coal dust coated the windows. It wasn’t surprising. Bletchley station was a major railway junction and had been since Victorian times. Today, with hundreds of troop trains, goods trains carrying military equipment, as well as passenger trains, all pushing out clouds of smoke, it was no wonder the surrounding buildings were dirty and dull.
Freda pushed open the hotel door and strolled in as if she knew the place. Perhaps she did. Wondering if Freda had been to the Station Hotel with Mr Silcott, Ena stifled a giggle.
Freda sashayed into the lounge bar and dropped into an armchair to the left of the fireplace. Ena sat in the chair opposite. It was olive green with a high back and winged sides. Leaning against a gold and green tapestry cushion, Ena ran her hands over the plush fabric on the chair’s arms.
‘Can I get you anything?’
Ena looked up to see a swarthy looking waiter in black trousers, white shirt and black tie standing next to her. He had directed the question at Freda.
‘Two sweet sherries please,’ Freda said, in a haughty clipped voice.
‘Madam…’ The waiter sounded bored, as if he knew Freda was putting on airs, which she was. With a tired nod to no one in particular, he turned and sauntered over to the bar.
Freda picked up one of several magazines from an oblong coffee table that stood between their chairs. ‘This is better than waiting in that awful little buffet on the platform.’ Clearly not expecting Ena to reply, she opened the magazine and began to read.
From the outside, Ena didn’t think The Buffet looked awful at all. She would have been quite happy to have spent the time waiting for the train in there with a cup of tea. She had noticed a couple of cafés as they walked from the station to the hotel. One was called The Coffee Tavern which Ena presumed sold coffee and wondered how they managed to stay in business with coffee being in short supply.
She was miles away, pondering the difference between the coffee they would have sold before the war and the sweet sickly muck called Camp, when the waiter arrived
