‘Very admirable,’ the woman in the centre said, without a drop of sincerity. ‘Your husband, Lawrence—he’s missing in action.’
Another non-question, Elsie thought. ‘Yes, that’s correct. Presumed dead.’
‘And it’s only been a few short weeks. Do you think it wise for a woman in your position…’ A knock at the door stopped her in mid-flow. ‘Come in,’ she barked impatiently.
The door opened and a petite young lady with round glasses in neat civilian clothing poked her head inside. ‘So sorry to interrupt,’ she grimaced. ‘Group Captain Wainwright sent me down. Could Miss Conan Doyle take a quick look at something?’ she asked, stepping fully into the room and holding aloft a sheet of paper.
‘Make it quick,’ the lady in the centre answered.
Elsie watched with interest as the young thing darted in like a frightened kitten and thrust the paper at Miss Conan Doyle. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Elsie heard her whisper.
Miss Conan Doyle raised a pair of glasses, which had been dangling at her chest, and squinted at what she was reading. ‘Ich verstehe nur Bahnhof,’ she read. ‘Well, my German isn’t great, but I think it means ‘I understand only train station’,’ she suggested.
The young girl took the paper and grimaced again. ‘Yes, that was what we worked out upstairs. But…but what does it mean?’
Miss Conan Doyle lowered her glasses. ‘Damned if I know. Code, maybe?’
The gruff lady in the centre had heard enough. ‘Thank you,’ she dismissed.
The young girl scuttled away from the desk.
‘It means that what you’re saying is unclear and hasn’t been understood,’ Elsie said, turning to the girl just as she reached the door.
‘Pardon?’
‘Ich verstehe nur Bahnhof means that something is clear as mud. Double-Dutch. However you like to say it,’ Elsie said. ‘It’s an idiom.’
‘Thank you,’ the young girl said, glancing uncertainly between Elsie and the three WAAF women. ‘Thank you.’ She left the room and closed the door.
Elsie turned back to face the three indomitable women and wondered what she had missed, for there had been a sudden shift in each of their demeanours—something she struggled to put her finger on, as she looked at each of their faces in turn. There was a lightening to their eyes—possibly even a flicker of a smile on the face of Miss Conan Doyle. ‘What’s happened?’ Elsie asked.
‘You speak German!’ Miss Conan Doyle exclaimed, with an overly dramatic laugh.
‘And how did you come by this skill, Mrs Finch?’ enquired the whiskery one on the left, sitting forward in her seat, as if engulfed in sheer desperation to hear the answer.
‘My grandfather. My mother’s father was from Hamburg. I spent almost every summer out there with his sisters,’ Elsie answered. ‘Is this something that might help me as a cook or an MT driver, then?’ Her barbed question, with an accompanying syrupy smile, was received by the three women in all innocence. But Elsie had known about the WAAFs being recruited for Special Duties before she had come to the interview; it was her secret weapon.
‘Oh, Mrs Finch,’ began the lady in the centre, suddenly speaking as though they were old friends. ‘I’ve got something much more suited to your talents. Billy, pass her the papers.’
With a smile, Miss Conan Doyle slid a bunch of clipped papers across the desk towards Elsie. ‘It’s the Official Secrets Act. Please sign it before we proceed.’
Elsie took the silver fountain pen being eagerly thrust towards her by the whiskery spinster. She looked up, held the pen to her mouth and proceeded to pretend to read the wording on the sheets.
Minutes passed.
Finally, Elsie squiggled her name at the bottom of the paper, having not read a word of it. She carefully placed the pen down on the paperwork.
‘Welcome to the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force,’ Miss Conan Doyle chanted.
Chapter Three
26th June 1940, Bramley Cottage, Nutley, East Sussex
The silence of Bramley Cottage was no longer a trouble to Elsie. In fact, she had come to embrace it—enjoy it, even. For her, it was now like the quiet preparatory pause before some great celebration; it was something that could now be savoured because of its brevity. Soon—very soon—she would be leaving here, a prospect that set her stomach fluttering with excitement. A spear point of white sunlight pierced through the kitchen door and, Elsie noted wryly, illuminated her small suitcase, as though it were an important prop in a London stage play.
She sipped her tea and smiled.
She was ready to go. Almost. There was just the small matter of letting people know that tomorrow she would be leaving, with no idea of when she might return. She had told Mrs McKay when she had come yesterday to enquire as to why Elsie had not been at church for the last two weeks, and whether she had given further consideration to opening her gardens to help the war effort. ‘We must all play our part, dear Elsie,’ she had added emphatically.
‘Indeed I shall be playing my part, Mrs McKay,’ Elsie had responded. ‘I shall be leaving on important war work, the nature of which I cannot divulge owing to the fact that I have signed the Official Secrets Act.’
Mrs McKay, displaying all the appearances of someone freshly kicked in the stomach, had finished her tea and had quietly left Bramley Cottage. Word of Elsie’s departure would, of course by now, have spread insidiously through the small village.
Elsie stood from the kitchen table, drank the last mouthful of tea, then checked herself in the hallway mirror. She was dressed plainly in a white cotton dress with small red roses and a minimal amount of make-up. Her father disapproved of such ‘face paint’ and she was already going to have
