Jean stood and opened the top drawer of a metal filing cabinet and withdrew a single sheet of paper. She set it down on the desk and began to write on it. It was bound to be something to do with Clause 22. It was all over.
Elsie tried and failed to read the upside down text. Tears began to prickle in her eyes, blurring her vision as she gave way to due process.
Jean looked up sternly. ‘So. Am I correct in assuming that when the time comes to deliver your husband’s baby, you will want some time off, then somebody else in the family will be taking care of it, allowing you to return to the Y-Service? Or is there an alternative plan in place?’
Elsie was stunned. She looked at Jean, who was sitting emotionlessly, just as she had done at Elsie’s interview at the Air Ministry. Jean cocked her head to one side. ‘Well?’
‘Yes…yes, that’s right,’ Elsie stammered.
Jean smiled. ‘Very good. The other girls will be amazed to hear that you managed to keep your husband’s brief return in August so quiet. Right, back to work. Göring’s men may well have finished their Christmas dinners and be back in the air by now, for all we know.’
Elsie stood. ‘Thank you, Jean. Thank you.’
‘Off you go,’ Jean said, flicking her hand dismissively at Elsie.
Elsie entered the operations room and took a deep breath. Jean had not only offered her a life-line to be able to stay in the service, but she had also shown her what she had to do: give the baby up—but to whom? It wasn’t what she wanted, not really, but what alternative did she have? This way, her friends and family would be oblivious. Mrs McKay and the other neighbours in Nutley would be oblivious. After the war, her life could continue and pick up from where she had left off. It was her one and only choice.
Elsie sighed deeply and a heavy weight, that she had been unaware that she had been carrying, was suddenly lifted. She stood at the back of the operations room, seeing her life with detached clarity.
Elsie walked back to the billet slowly and meaningfully. It was a chilly day and the sun had failed to remove the frost from the extremities of the passing hedgerow. The calmness that had earlier filtered through her body had remained. Jean, saying nothing more of the pregnancy, had dismissed Elsie and two other girls early because of the silent airwaves. It was one of the quirks of war, that Christmas Day had granted everyone a reprieve from fighting.
Elsie stopped short of the billet to listen to a blackbird singing gaily among the hawthorn branches beside her. She pulled her coat tight around her tummy and closed her eyes. It was the sound and feeling of normality.
‘Are you lost, Elsie Finch? Or have you gone stark raving mad?’
Elsie opened her eyes and glanced over to the cottage. Violet was standing at the front door wearing a posh outfit and a crown of silver tinsel. Elsie grinned, waved, and continued the short distance to the house.
Despite the wartime deprivations, she found the cottage surprisingly festive. All the girls were wearing their best frocks and sported tinsel adornments; the gramophone was quietly playing a medley of carols; a small Christmas tree, sparsely decorated with hand-made woollen baubles stood proudly in the sitting-room and the wondrous smell of the Christmas dinner cooking pervaded throughout the house.
‘Go and get changed and I’ll get you a drink,’ Violet ordered. Then she lowered her voice. ‘How did it go—with Billy, I mean?’
Elsie smiled and briefly summarised their conversation.
‘I told you it would all work out, didn’t I, Elsie Finch?’
Elsie grimaced. ‘No, you said I would be thrown out of the service.’
Violet twirled around and shrugged. ‘I would have jumped at the chance of enacting Clause 22.’
Upstairs, Elsie squeezed into a red velvet dress that fully revealed her bump, and headed down to the sitting-room.
‘Happy Violet Christmas,’ Violet said, offering her a glass of rum.
Elsie chinked her glass with Violet’s and sank into the armchair beside the fire. She sipped her drink and, under the dulcet tones of O Come all Ye Faithful, she listened to the simple sound of the burning logs shifting and adjusting in the fireplace.
‘Would that we could listen to something decent,’ Violet complained. ‘I really need to get away from here. Have a debauched, drunken night with some Polish pilot or other.’
Elsie laughed. ‘Polish?’
Violet shrugged and swigged more drink. ‘So as I don’t have to converse with him.’
‘You are dreadful, you know.’
Violet raised her eyebrows. ‘I do know that, yes.’
‘Dinner!’ Betty called.
Violet stood, linked her arm through Elsie’s and led the way into the dining room.
Betty and Rosemary stood proudly behind the table that they had decorated with sprigs of holly and ivy.
‘Ox heart with stuffing and vegetables!’ Rosemary declared. ‘Sit down and tuck in.’
The dinner was surprisingly tasty. They ate, chatted and sang along with the carols quietly warbling away in the sitting room. Despite all that had occurred, Elsie felt contented, grateful even. After the dinner, Betty presented her wartime Christmas pudding, made with potato, apple and grated carrot. As they ate, Elsie made her announcement.
‘Girls, I’ve something to tell you,’ she said, glancing between Rosemary and Betty.
‘You’re pregnant?’ Betty guessed.
‘We know,’ Rosemary confirmed.
Elsie turned to Violet with a frown.
‘It wasn’t me!’ Violet protested.
Betty looked across to
