‘It’s like the early days at Maypole Cottage,’ Aileen commented after some time at the machine. ‘Far too much traffic for us two to deal with.’
‘I agree—it’s ridiculous. We need at least half a dozen operators on at any single time.’
‘Oh my goodness!’ Aileen spluttered, ‘Guess who I’ve just heard?’
‘Hitler chatting to Mussolini?’ Elsie ventured.
‘Amsel Eins! Our old friend—his unit must have been moved to Sicily. Oh, I’m so pleased he’s survived.’
Elsie laughed. ‘I know what you mean, but don’t let anyone hear you say that. He’ll be over here soon trying to blow us up—then you won’t be so happy.’
Aileen giggled. ‘Oh, but I am pleased he’s still alive. He seems less chatty now, though.’
‘He must have been told off by his superiors.’
‘Which we will, too, if we’re caught chatting,’ Aileen said.
Their short interlude was over and they returned the headsets to their ears.
The airwaves were unremittingly hectic and Elsie and Aileen had little time to translate the intercepts before needing to transcribe the next.
Later, a cold darkness seemed to creep up suddenly on the two women. Elsie realised, when she looked at her watch, that they had been listening, without pause, for nine hours solid. It was enough.
Elsie removed her headset. ‘I’m hungry, tired but most of all in desperate need of a stiff drink. Shall we call it a day?’
Aileen switched off her machine and picked up her logs. ‘Yes, let’s head back. I think between us we can prove the value of the intercepts that we’ve recorded today—try and persuade Shorter to get this place permanently staffed.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Elsie collected her logs and made for the door. ‘I don’t care what you say, we’re going out tonight and that’s that.’
‘No argument from me, Assistant Section Officer Finch.’
‘Another Sherlock Holmes?’ Aileen groaned, upon returning from the ablutions room. She pushed the door shut on their shared accommodation—a small room at the end of the Lascaris War Rooms. It was stark, painted yellow with a stone floor and contained nothing but two camp beds.
‘The Adventure of the Three Garridebs,’ Elsie answered from her bed. ‘Sherlock has to find somebody with the same surname as Mr Garrideb so that he can inherit a small fortune.’
‘Fascinating,’ Aileen said, walking over and snatching the book from Elsie’s hands. ‘Now let’s go out.’
‘Okay,’ Elsie answered with a laugh.
They left the room and made their way up the winding staircase and out into the dark streets. Dense clouds sat heavily in the sky, threatening the beleaguered island with an imminent deluge. Elsie glanced up at the leaden skies, hoping that the weather would be inclement enough to hold the Luftwaffe and the Règio Aeronautica at bay for the night. Mercifully, the air raid siren had stopped a few hours ago and the only sounds to be heard were the cries of soaring seabirds. Just one evening with no air raids would be bliss.
Aileen opened her mouth wide. ‘Oh, I can breathe at last.’
‘Where are we actually going?’ Elsie asked, noticing that they were wandering aimlessly in the direction of the Westminster Hotel.
Aileen shrugged. ‘Haven’t the foggiest. Great, isn’t it?’
The two women laughed and ambled leisurely down the street.
From out of the shadows on the opposite side of the road appeared a group of five sailors, who all raised their hats and called out affectionate greetings.
‘Where does a good gin and lemon?’ Elsie called.
‘My bedroom!’ one of them replied, receiving a rapturous laugh from his comrades.
‘Captain Caruana’s, bottom of this road in the centre,’ another of them shouted. ‘But I’m afraid it’s heaving with letchy pilots. Do you need an escort?’
‘I think we’ll be okay, thank you,’ Elsie answered.
‘Don’t say we didn’t warn you.’
‘Cheerio,’ Elsie said, reaching for Aileen’s arm. ‘Captain Caruana’s it is, then.’
They walked on until they were greeted by the tell-tale concoction of smoke-infused music spilling from the arched windows of a lemon-coloured building. They could just about make out the words of a hand-painted sign above the doorway that confirmed that they had found the right place.
Elsie opened the door with a wide grin. The place was bustling, alive. Exactly what she needed. She led the way through the smoky room to the bar.
‘Two gin and lemons, please,’ Aileen ordered. ‘And do you have any food?’
The barman laughed. ‘You’ll be lucky, love.’
Elsie stood with her back to the bar and had a good look around. In one corner was an RAF band playing a moody jazz number that she didn’t recognise. The few tables that there were in the room were humming with young men in uniform, smoking, chatting and drinking. Elsie counted just eight women in total—all of them encircled by a gaggle of desperate young men.
‘I’ll get these,’ a soldier said, handing a note to the barman. ‘My name’s Ted.’
Elsie smiled. ‘This is Aileen,’ she said, pushing her towards him. ‘Be careful, she bites.’
‘Nice,’ Ted laughed.
Aileen pulled a thank you very much face but began chatting to the soldier regardless.
Elsie turned back to face the bar and sipped her drink. Her mind began to shift onto work and the huge amount that needed to be done to get the island’s Y-Service up to scratch. She just hoped that during a time of acute food shortages and devastating bombing raids, the authorities would see the wisdom in drafting in a flock of new linguists. Shorter was going to be a problem, of that much she was certain. She imagined the look on his toady face when she and Aileen handed in the full report that they were intending to write…
Her thoughts suddenly became overwhelmed as she became distracted by the band. She turned around and listened. Yes, they were
