She stepped out of her cottage and closed the front door. Outside, the sunshine was glorious, with barely a cloud in the sky and Elsie’s spirits, tinged with mild trepidation, were lifted. She mounted her black, former postman’s bicycle and wound her way down School Lane—a thin single track bounded on either side by high hedges of honeysuckle-laced beech trees. The descent of the lane required little effort to pedal. As usual, she passed nobody on her journey. When she reached the village school, of which she had been an important part until forced to leave upon her marriage to Laurie, she kept her eyes facing the front, briefly holding the tiny Victorian building in her peripheral vision. She had been good at her job and she had missed it terribly. But now she had another job. A bigger job.
School Lane gave on to the High Street, a road unusually busy for a village the size of Nutley, owing to its being on the direct route from London to Eastbourne on the south coast—Elsie’s destination. She dismounted at the bus stop, which was directly opposite St James the Less church, the place where she and Laurie had married. She saw herself leaving the church, clinging onto his arm, the smiling bride and the dashing groom, her parents delighted at the union. Laurie’s mother had made Elsie’s dress from a blue satin nightdress with puffed sleeves, which she had covered with dyed butter muslin and satin ribbon. It had been commented on and admired by all the guests. But it wasn’t what Elsie had wanted. None of it had been, not really.
The arrival of the Leyland Titan double-decker bus shook Elsie back to the present and her lamentations over her wedding were quickly forgotten as she stepped into the bus with her bicycle. The bus was already full, petrol rationing having slashed the number of services down to two per day, so Elsie had to make do with standing close to the driver’s cab.
The journey to Eastbourne took a little over an hour and then it was a further five-minute bicycle ride until Elsie reached her parents’ Edwardian semi-detached house. Pushing open the black iron gate, Elsie stood up her bicycle, removed her gloves and headed to the front door.
‘Oh, Elsie, you came!’ It was her mother’s shrill voice. She was standing at the door in a hairnet, wearing a floral apron over her knitted dress, her fingers fiddling with her necklace. For as long as Elsie could remember, her mother had suffered with her nerves. The war had only made things worse.
‘Did you get my letter?’ she asked.
Elsie shook her head.
‘Wretched post. Come in, come in,’ her mother directed with a sigh, slamming the door behind them.
‘Whatever’s the matter, Mum?’
‘The bombing—it’s going to start!’ she cried. ‘Any minute!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Elsie scoffed. ‘What bombing?’
‘The Germans—it’s going to be any day.’
‘How do you know that?’ Elsie asked, concealing a mocking laugh.
‘Everyone says so,’ her mother answered, her eyes widening. ‘All the London children who were evacuated here last September—they were all packed away on Sunday—every last one of them. Sent off to somewhere safe. That’s what they were told. Eastbourne—the south coast—it isn’t safe anymore.’
‘But that doesn’t mean they’re about to start bombing,’ Elsie refuted.
‘Doesn’t it?’ her father said, suddenly appearing at the door. He was in his habitual outfit of a shirt, tie, trousers and pullover. Come high days and holidays, her father would always be found in a tie. He took a seat beside Elsie’s mother, pulled her fingers from her necklace and turned to speak to her. ‘Have you told her yet?’
Elsie’s mother shook her head.
‘We’re leaving—going to Coventry to look after your grandmother,’ Elsie’s father said. ‘She’s not coping since Klaus was taken and we, well, we think it best if you come, too. You’ve got time to pack—we’re taking a coach the day after tomorrow.’
‘We’ve bought your ticket,’ her mother added with a glimmer of a smile. ‘With all that’s gone on it’ll be a nice fresh start for you. Doesn’t have to be forever, just until this bombing-talk calms down…or until Papa’s released…or until you hear from Laurie…’ her voice, like a floating feather, gradually came to a whispery halt.
Her parents were looking at her, expressionless. Waiting for her to smile and accept their offer. To tell them that she would hurry home on the next bus and begin packing at once. To say that, despite all that had happened, there was a sense of adventure and mild excitement to the plans. To agree that it was the new beginning that they all needed. They would be delighted. Her grandmother would be delighted—she’d watched her beloved husband being rounded up with all the other German nationals as an enemy alien and carted off to an internment camp on the Isle of Man. For a moment, Elsie considered the weight of her decision. Could she go with them to Coventry? To live that life? The firm shape of her determination to join the WAAF suddenly softened. But then she thought of the boredom and dullness that would follow her, find her and eventually consume her.
‘No,’ she blurted.
‘No?’ her father parroted, unsure that he had heard correctly.
‘No, I can’t come with you,’ Elsie asserted, surprised at her composure. ‘I’ve joined up. I’m a sergeant in the WAAF.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ her father muttered. ‘A sergeant!’ He laughed and sharply thrust his elbow into his wife’s side. ‘Did you hear that, love: Elsie’s a sergeant!’
Elsie had anticipated her father’s incredulity. Here was a man who had endured four horrendous years of suffering in European trenches, crawling to the finish line of war as a corporal in the British army; his daughter, with no previous military experience, now outranked him.
‘Are
