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 back pressed to an open doorway, her stance impatient.
Elsie smiled and headed over to her, offering her hand. ‘Elsie Finch.’
‘Assistant Section Officer Conan Doyle,’ the woman responded, fleetingly shaking Elsie’s hand.
Elsie took a step back and stared at the woman. She must have been in her late twenties and was dressed impeccably in full Air Force blue uniform. She wore a tight black tie and a peaked cap with a shiny badge that Elsie recognised as being the emblem of the Royal Air Force. ‘Conan Doyle? Any relation to Arthur? He’s my favourite author…’
‘He’s my father,’ she cut in abruptly. Her hand gesture that Elsie should enter the room promptly dissolved the conversation.
It took a moment for Elsie’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. A thin veil of cigarette smoke lingered around the two green desk lamps that failed to light much of the large room. The combination of the lighting, the oak panelled walls and the dark block-wood floor made for an oppressive, heavy feeling, which Elsie thought might have been part and parcel of the interview process. Overlooking all the proceedings was a stern portrait of the King.
‘Sit,’ a hoarse voice instructed from behind the light.
Elsie crept into the room towards the desk. She tentatively sat in the chair and strained her eyes to see who was seated in front of her. It was two women in WAAF uniform, both in their late fifties with sharp, harsh features. Neither woman reciprocated Elsie’s smile. Now Miss Conan Doyle joined them.
‘Mrs Finch,’ the woman in the centre said, to which Elsie nodded in response. ‘You’re twenty years old.’
Elsie paused, waiting for a question to follow but when none came, she mumbled, ‘Yes, that’s right.’
The three women stared at her.
‘Is that a problem?’ Elsie asked, as politely as she could manage.
‘Do you think your age and inexperience is a problem?’ This time it was the lady on the left who spoke. A whiskery spinster, short and plump with a mass of dark curls licking out from underneath her cap.
Elsie gritted her teeth, trying not to react to whatever point this woman thought that she was making. Elsie smiled, taking a meaningful glance at Miss Conan Doyle, who could only have been a handful of years older than she was. ‘No, I rather think my age gives me the tenacity and stamina required in the Forces.’
None of the three women responded.
A short pause and then the lady in the middle spoke again: ‘Do you want to be a cook or an MT driver? I doubt those qualities you mention will help in either case.’
‘I… I don’t know. Anything will do.’
The lady on the left couldn’t hide her incredulity. ‘Anything, you say?’
Elsie felt a skin of crimson rising from her chest to her cheeks. This wasn’t going at all well. She shifted her
