It was instantly different with him; his touch was warm and he danced gallantly like a gentleman. As they moved around, she listened to the lyrics of the song. Someday my happy arms will hold you, and someday I’ll know that moment divine when all the things you are, are mine. In this stranger’s arms, she thought of Laurie, her husband—missing in action, presumed killed. She felt selfish, horrid when she realised that the sentiment of the song matched her feelings for him neither in life nor in death.
The song seemed to go on longer than she knew it to be—perhaps the band had extended it or perhaps she was just willing it not to come to an end just yet. But, finally, of course it did. He kissed her hand and allowed her to leave.
‘Goodbye,’ Elsie muttered, collecting her coat.
‘Goodbye,’ he answered, watching her go.
She successfully navigated her way across the room to the doors at the front of the building, without being noticed. She was still inexplicably preoccupied by the dance with the pilot as she stepped outside into near-total darkness. A thin slice of moon defied the blackout and illuminated the white stripes at the edge of the pavement.
‘You’re not walking home alone, are you?’
The pilot—whose name, she realised then, she didn’t know—was standing behind her. She couldn’t make out any of the features of his face, but she recognised his voice and the outline of his body.
‘Yes, and I’ll be fine, thank you,’ Elsie answered.
The pilot laughed. ‘You really are a stubborn thing, aren’t you?’
Elsie smiled. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Woody,’ he answered.
‘Well, Woody, yes I am stubborn, I suppose. And I’ll be fine. Goodnight.’ She crossed the road and began her walk home. A part of her was exasperated and a part of her was flattered when she heard his footsteps catching up with her.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, matching her fast gait.
‘Elsie,’ she replied, keeping her focus on the path ahead.
‘Well, Elsie, you might be stubborn, but so am I, and I definitely don’t want to see a young lady walking home alone in the blackout.’
Elsie stopped and faced him. She leant closer to him, straining her eyes to find the detail on his face, but the night denied her it. Instead, she spoke to the darkness. ‘Listen, Woody, I’m billeted with my mother-in-law and I’ll have all hell to pay if I turn up late in the evening with a pilot on my arm, so, please just leave me to walk home by myself. I’ll be absolutely fine. Don’t worry.’ She strode on, faster this time, listening for his reaction.
Footsteps, but restrained. ‘I’ll just walk behind you, then,’ he called.
Elsie shook her head and marched on.
Eventually Cliff House, bathed in a shaded off-blue, came into view. Elsie flipped around. ‘Okay—I’m home. You can go now.’
Woody laughed. ‘Okay. Goodnight, Elsie.’
‘Good night.’ She walked the long drive, glancing over her shoulder from time to time to see if he had followed. But he hadn’t, she could just see a faint outline of his motionless figure among the shadows, watching her all the way to the house.
Elsie quietly unlocked the front door and, as she expected, she found the place deserted and dark. Only a small table lamp at the bottom of the stairs provided any light. As she closed the door and stepped out of her heels, she was thankful that everyone had gone to bed. She padded across the floor to the stairs. Her odd shift patterns at Maypole Cottage had quickly taught Elsie to navigate the house quietly; she knew which of the stairs creaked and which doors she needed to close quickly and which slowly.
She managed to reach her bedroom without making a single sound. The corridor was dark and silent as she pulled open her door. A sudden noise—muted laughter, possibly—made her stop at the threshold and listen.
Silence.
She took a step backwards and noticed then that the room at the far end of the corridor—some kind of a study, if she remembered rightly from last summer—had a band of light showing under the door.
Elsie knew that she should step inside her own room, close the door and clamber into bed, but the devil in her thought otherwise. It was that voice, loud and impulsive, that frequently got her into hot water.
She took one step closer, reasoning with herself that she was still within reach of her room.
Shadows passed across the bar of light—there was movement inside.
Elsie took another step. Then another.
She could now hear the low murmur of talking. One voice, she thought, belonged to Agnes but the other—female—she couldn’t identify. It was deeper than Kath’s or Gwen’s voices. She thought she detected a London accent.
She slid forward another few paces and listened. Her heart rate increased and her breathing became faster, to the point that she was certain that, if she got any closer to the door, they would be able to hear it from the other side.
Even though Elsie couldn’t make out what was being said, she felt the conversation to be flat, almost business-like. In spite of herself, she moved closer to the door. It was now just two steps in front of her. She looked back; her own bedroom was now inexcusably far away.
She strained her ears, imagining that she was up at Maypole Cottage, inching the dial round on the Hallicrafter receiver, searching for clarity.
More movement inside the room, bringing one of the women alarmingly close to the door as she spoke.
Elsie flipped around and dashed back to her bedroom, closing the door quickly behind her. She dropped to her knees and pressed her ear to the base of the door, feeling a cold draught blowing against the side of her face. She waited
