Elsie calmly stood, pulled the sign from its nail, carried it into the hallway and smashed it into the circular glass face of the grandfather clock. Shards of glass and pottery crashed noisily to her feet. She drew a quick breath and smiled.
The ticking had stopped and finally, the clamp on Elsie’s heart loosened.
She knew what she had to do next.
Passers-by—predominantly men in dark suits and bowler hats, carrying briefcases—slowed their pace to an admiring gait, taking in the long rainbow-like line of colour that snaked its way below the tall grey building on the corner of Kingsway and Aldwych in central London.
Elsie, sighing noisily, side-stepped from her position in the queue and collided directly with a plump man, whose bulbous eyes had been riveted to a group of giggling girls just up in front of her.
‘Pardon me, Miss,’ he apologised, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing his forehead as he stumbled on his way.
‘Men,’ the woman directly in front of Elsie said, turning with a smile. ‘So incredibly primitive.’ She pursed her lips and exaggeratedly placed a hand on her tilted hip. ‘Of course, that’s why I dressed to impress.’ She tossed her head back and her perfect red lips parted to release a gravelly burst of laughter.
‘Me too,’ Elsie admitted with a smile. She had worn her best outfit: a simple mustard skirt, worn just below the knee with matching boxy jacket with padded shoulders. It was complemented by black leather gloves and a veiled hat, which was set at a fashionable slant. ‘Though I rather think we weren’t the only ones,’ Elsie added, casting her eyes back and forth over the line of women.
‘What are you here for?’ the woman asked, in her plummy voice.
‘Women’s Auxiliary Air Force,’ Elsie stated, a sheen of pride coating her answer.
‘Oh, me too.’
Elsie suddenly saw herself in a detached view, as if from the ogling stare of one of the men across the street. She was so terribly ordinary. And, in comparison with the others around her, so terribly young. The woman in front of her, dressed in a similar outfit but in a powder blue, must have been in her early thirties. And that group of women in front her—how old were they? Certainly older than she was.
‘Violet,’ the woman introduced, extending her black-gloved hand to meet Elsie’s. ‘Violet Christmas. Absurd name—you don’t need to say.’
‘I think it’s a lovely name,’ Elsie said with a grin. ‘I’m Elsie—Elsie Danby…’ She faltered at her error. ‘Elsie Finch,’ she corrected, her face hot with a wash of embarrassment and shame at forgetting.
Violet nodded her head in understanding. ‘Like that, is it?’
‘My husband—Laurie—he’s missing in action. Lost at Dunkirk.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Violet said. ‘And now you want to do your bit for your country?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Elsie mumbled. She looked up and met Violet’s dark, almond eyes. ‘Actually, no. I’m doing it entirely for selfish reasons: I’m dying a terrible death of boredom at home and I can’t stand it for a moment longer.’
Violet laughed another of her throaty laughs. ‘Well, good for you, Elsie Finch. Perhaps it’s wise, though, to keep that little admission quiet when you get inside.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry, it’ll be King, country and Empire when I get in there. Plus a heavy dose of this’ – she fluttered her eyelashes—‘and maybe even a bit of this’ – she puffed her chest into the air like a boastful pigeon.
‘Elsie Finch, I rather like you,’ Violet declared. ‘Smoke?’
‘Absolutely,’ Elsie said, taking the proffered cigarette.
At last, the queue began to move and, embracing the comfort of the cigarette between her lips, Elsie began to relax again. ‘What about you?’ she enquired. ‘Are you married?’
‘God, no,’ Violet answered flatly. ‘Never. The very idea of one man for all of eternity doesn’t bear thinking about.’
A slight movement in the queue and the horn beep from an appreciative man in an Austin Seven placed a chasm in the conversation until Violet asked, ‘Are you local?’
‘Sussex, middle of nowhere. You?’
‘Surrey, middle of nowhere.’
The pair laughed as the line began to shift again, more women passing through the glass double-doors of the Air Ministry. Violet was next. She took Elsie’s gloved hand in hers. ‘Well, good luck with your war, Elsie Finch. I do hope that our paths will cross again.’
Elsie watched as Violet disappeared inside the building, ever so slightly mesmerised by her.
‘WAAF interview?’ a short, stout man in a tight-fitting suit barked, as he pulled open one of the doors.
Elsie nodded and was directed across a large open lobby where she witnessed men and women in a greater array of smart military uniforms than she even knew existed. A sudden flush of something that she couldn’t place—was it adrenalin or excitement?—made her stride boldly through the humming swarms of blue-grey officers, as if she had as much of a right to be there as did they.
As she had been told, Elsie made her way to the bottom of a wide mahogany staircase. She placed a hand on the newel post and gazed upwards, longingly. Up there, the next few weeks, months or, God forbid, years, would be decided. Taking a deep breath, she continued with her brisk, confident march up to the first floor, where she found herself standing in a wide corridor that seemed endless in either direction. Smart men and women, filled with purpose, crossed the corridor between heavy-set doors, carrying with them an assortment of paperwork. Elsie watched in awe, wondering at the nature and content of what they clutched so guardedly to their chests. Her envious trance, straying into the dangerous territory of her imagination, snapped when she heard her own name being called.
‘Mrs Finch?’ the woman repeated in a well-spoken voice. She was standing with her
