Beside him, poring over some document or other was the station’s new Administrative Officer, Jean Conan Doyle. She picked her glasses from the bridge of her nose and stared incredulously at the pair, then glanced up at the clock on the wall, then back to Elsie and Violet.
‘Daimler,’ Elsie explained.
‘You do realise it’s two o’clock in the morning and your shift ended twelve hours ago?’ Jean Conan Doyle stammered.
Elsie nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Okay. What have you got?’ RKB asked.
‘Does anything of significance happen in Derby, sir?’ Violet asked.
‘Derby?’ RKB echoed in his strong Devonshire accent. He was a thin man in his mid-thirties with dark hair greased over from a side-parting. His forehead furrowed briefly, then he said, ‘There’s a Rolls Royce factory there, I believe.’
Elsie glanced sideways at Violet. That was it. Daimler was code for Rolls Royce. Simple.
‘Do they make military vehicles there, sir?’ Violet asked.
‘No—they make engines,’ he said. ‘Merlin engines for Spitfires and Hurricanes.’
Elsie grinned, satisfied. It was only a tiny, fairly insignificant puzzle but they had just completed it. She explained in full detail all of their findings, which she knew, the moment that they were out of the door, would be whipped away by a dispatch rider to the mysterious intelligence analysts.
Once finished, RKB smiled. ‘Well, you’ve certainly earned your forty-eight-hour passes, ladies. Well done—really, well done.’
‘Now—I must insist that you both go home and get some rest,’ Jean instructed.
Elsie and Violet took their passes, said goodnight and left the building.
Outside, the night-time was noisier and brighter than it should ever have been. The skies above the sleepy Kent village were alive, being under the main bombing corridor to London; a great pantomime was taking place above them. They walked home, almost entirely oblivious to the droning of the air raid siren, to the plethora of search lights, reaching like probing fingers into the night sky, to the barking of distant anti-aircraft guns, to the low drone of aircraft making their way back from dropping their bombs on the capital. And poor London! It had been pounded every night for the past two weeks.
Violet slipped her arm through Elsie’s and they walked gingerly through the dark lanes towards their billet on the other side of the village.
‘You did well in there, Elsie Finch,’ Violet commended, squeezing her arm.
‘Team work,’ Elsie corrected.
They walked without talking for some distance; the only sounds of the night were the sounds of war. Even the insects and animals didn’t bother to compete. Then Violet squeezed her arm again. ‘Forty-eight hours off!’ she said.
‘I could quite happily sleep for the entirety of it,’ Elsie said.
Violet turned to her, just about able to make out her shadowed features. ‘Oh God, don’t be so frightfully boring. Please don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about London, Elsie Finch?’
Elsie laughed. ‘No, not at all, but I do worry about what you’re going to get me into.’
‘Well thank goodness for that; it’s all I live for. All this’—she waved her arms at the madness in the skies above them—‘Daimler—all that, it’s all nonsense. Lunacy. Not real life. One day, it’ll all be over—then what?’ She took a breath, then continued, ‘Life for me is what was there before and what will be there afterwards—simple pleasures: a few gin and tonics in some squalid London pub; a handful of cigarettes and some intimacy with a nice chap—or girl—I’m not bothered which—that’s life!’
Elsie laughed again—slightly nervous about their planned trip. They were going to hitch-hike into London, find a hotel and Violet was going to take Elsie to some of the dreadfully sordid places that she knew. ‘Is it really wise, though, given the nightly bombings?’
‘Oh, we’ll be fine, Elsie Finch. The Luftwaffe won’t see any merit in hitting the places we’ll be going, don’t you worry.’
Elsie told Violet to lower her voice—-they had reached their billet—a slightly run-down, but comfortable cottage. As she had expected, the lights were all off and the other girls had gone to bed. They crept quietly up the stairs, Elsie heading into the bathroom and Violet into their bedroom.
Elsie sighed contentedly. It was a good day’s work, but by God was she exhausted. She really didn’t know if she had the energy to hitch-hike to the end of the road, never mind into London. She brushed her teeth and used the lavatory. Still no period.
She pushed open the door, passing an entirely naked Violet on her way to the bathroom.
In their small shared bedroom, lit only by a muted bedside lamp, Elsie glanced down at the discarded uniform on the floor and rolled her eyes in pseudo-displeasure, in the same way that she would have reacted to a mischievous child at school. It was Violet’s habit to live a slovenly and blithe existence in the house—something that riled the other girls, but which quite enamoured Elsie. She smiled as she folded the clothes neatly back onto Violet’s bed. It was all part of Violet’s nonchalant, blasé behaviour that Elsie was certain would one day see her kicked out of the Forces.
Elsie turned to her bed—her precious, wonderful bed—and spotted something on the pillow. Her heart faltered, then sped up dramatically as she leant over and picked it up—a telegram. Thoughts of the previous one flooded her senses. Her hands quivered as she read it. It was typed, the strips of words—all in capital letters—stuck neatly to the paper. URGENT NEWS PLEASE COME BACK FROM AGNES.
Violet returned from the bathroom. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ she asked.
Elsie handed her the telegram, saying nothing.
‘Urgent news about what?’ Violet asked, turning it over, as if there might have been a further clue on the back.
Elsie shrugged. She had no idea. Various scenarios began to play out through her mind, each of them as plausible and as implausible as the
