Elsie Finch squeezed the brake as tightly as she could and her bicycle juddered to a halt. She was here. The house was in sight. She stared at it, breathless. The confidence from her uniform and rank suddenly dissolved and the wisdom of her earlier decision to come here began to dissipate. Hesitancy crept in. What if her letter hadn’t arrived in time? What if she weren’t welcome? Small pimples of perspiration began to erupt under her arms, and her legs felt like they were going to burst into flames at any moment. She longed to take off the heavy lisle stockings and climb into a cool bath. Was she really doing the right thing, in coming here?
She closed her eyes. Should she turn away? Find a more suitable billet? Was that even possible, now?
Hot and exhausted, Elsie pulled off her peaked hat with the RAF badge emblazoned on the front and fumbled in her greatcoat. She couldn’t bear the stifling heat of the afternoon any longer and removed it. She’d only worn it so that it was one less thing to have to pack. Where the hell had she put her cigarettes? She found them and lit one, inhaling deeply, trying to plug the breaches of doubt in her mind. She had to make this work.
Opening her eyes, she finished the cigarette. Then, she placed her hat back on and pushed on up the hill towards the house. The chill that she had felt about the place on her one and only prior visit slinked in on the underbelly of her indecision and she shuddered, in spite the high heat of the day.
Elsie reached the open white gate and stopped again, like some quivering girl on her first day at school. Cliff House, the sign on the gate announced.
‘Pull yourself together, for God’s sake,’ she chastised herself, glancing down at the three stripes on her blue jacket. Sergeant Elsie Finch. With renewed confidence, she marched the long drive until she reached the house.
She kicked down the bicycle stand and looked up. There was certainly something about the place, she decided. Something that she couldn’t pin-point; a revulsion of sorts. As if the house, perched so high on the cliff edge and painted in so stark a white, was poised for something to happen.
She untied the two suitcases, which were strapped to the rear wheel arch, and began towards the house. Her step faltered when she caught sight of someone waiting at the front door, although she tried not to let her hesitation show. It was Agnes. Dressed in black, her hair corralled into a bun on the back of her head, her face unsmiling. ‘Elsie,’ she said dourly.
Elsie mustered a smile. ‘How lovely to see you, again. Did you get my letter?’ she asked, ascending the short flight of stone steps.
‘It came this morning and it was a bit of a shock, to be honest,’ Agnes said grimly. ‘I certainly hadn’t prepared for having an extra guest with so little warning.’
It had been a bad idea to come. ‘Sorry,’ Elsie apologised, setting down her suitcases. ‘It’ll just be for a very short time, until I can find something else.’
‘You’re here now,’ she said, meeting Elsie with her mistrusting, humourless eyes. With a raised eyebrow, she took a delicate step backwards and ushered Elsie into the square hallway. A single oil lamp in one dim corner struggled to counter the gloom created by the green wallpaper and myriad of closed doors. Its fine features—the ornate fireplace, the cornicing, the ceiling rose and the chandelier—were all lost in shadow. Elsie followed Agnes up the staircase to a dark corridor.
‘Here we are,’ Agnes announced, pushing open the door to a north-facing bedroom. ‘Dinner will be served at six sharp. Bring me your ration book when you come down.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Your ration book—if I’m to be cooking for you, then I shall need your coupons.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Agnes turned and left.
Elsie closed the door and put down her suitcases. The room was simple and bare and smelt sour, like old books. Just a single bed, bedside cabinet, dressing table, thin wardrobe and a chest of drawers. On the walls hung several Van Gogh reproductions in cheap frames. In the centre of the wooden floor was a plain green rug that matched the equally plain curtains. She strode to the window, threw it open and looked out; fields, paddocks and woodland rose up towards the village of Hawkinge three miles away. She smiled and breathed deeply. Somewhere at the top of that hill was the aerodrome and close to that was the building requisitioned by the RAF in which she would be spending her war. A million miles from Bramley Cottage.
She spent the time before dinner sedately unpacking. The larger of her two suitcases contained a condensed microcosm of her old life: clothing now termed as civilian, an ablutions bag, a vanity case, a stationery set, a Sherlock Holmes book and two photographs—an obligatory one of her and Laurie on their wedding day and another of Elsie and her parents taken on a windswept Norfolk beach in the early 1930s. Beyond her physical appearance, there was little recognition of herself in either photo. Placing the pictures on the dresser, she began to unpack the smaller case, the one containing her new life: the letter confirming her appointment; a gas mask, untouched since fitting; and a spare uniform, identical to that which she was now wearing. She carefully transferred it into the chest of drawers and wardrobe, taking stock of each item. A straight, knee-length skirt. A blue cotton shirt with a detachable collar. Several pairs of thick grey stockings. A black tie. Two pairs of suspender belts. Two bras. Then there was the jacket—hastily produced and modelled exactly on the men’s equivalent—even buttoning from left to right; the design did have its advantages: the breast pockets were
