‘Why don’t you go and get her?’ Violet suggested, as if it were as simple as just waltzing up to Cliff House and politely asking for the two-year-old girl back that she had given up to her sister-in-law.
Cold reality kicked back in. She was married to Laurie. She had signed legal paperwork absolving her of all parental responsibilities. Anything else—a life with Woody and their baby—was simply an absurd fantasy.
‘No,’ Elsie said flatly. She forced herself to smile, to change her track of thought. ‘Right, what first?’
Violet twirled around dramatically. ‘This is London—you can do anything.’
‘Let’s eat, then. I feel like I haven’t had a good meal for months.’
‘And drink,’ Violet added. ‘I know just the place.’ She laced her arm through Elsie’s and marched them off down the street.
‘So, how’s life at RAF Bentley Priory?’ Violet quizzed.
‘Hectic,’ Elsie replied. ‘But I love it.’
Violet squeezed her arm and led them down a quiet side street. ‘I’m sure you do.’
‘I saw Churchill the other day.’
‘Did you really?’
Elsie nodded. ‘He’s a frequent visitor.’
‘And did you speak to him or get a puff on his cigar?’ Violet laughed.
‘Sadly not, we passed in the corridor. I saluted him and he mumbled something in reply. And that was that.’
‘Haven’t you come a long way since the day we queued up outside the Air Ministry together!’ Violet quipped. ‘And here’s me still twisting bloody dials and knobs and listening to Taube Zwei speaking in a code that we cracked in 1940. Honestly.’
Elsie smirked. ‘How is life at West Kingsdown?’
Violet rolled her eyes. ‘Same as ever. Nothing changes. Some new girls have been drafted in, but their German is appalling. They’ve even asked me to train them—that’s how desperate the situation has become.’ She laughed and pulled Elsie to a stop outside a dirty-looking building. ‘Here. It does the best pork and apple sauce in the whole of London.’
Elsie followed Violet inside. It was a small place displaying considerable ill-effects from the Luftwaffe: the ceilings were cracked like a muddy harbour, the windows were patched with wood and the few tables dotted about the place had clearly borne the brunt of falling masonry. Still, the place held an oddly defiant charm.
‘Take your pick,’ a waiter said, gesturing to the entire room.
Elsie’s pre-war instinct would have led her to the table beside the window. Her intuition now, however, took her to the furthest table away from the potential of flying glass.
‘Two gin and lemons, please,’ Violet called to the waiter. ‘Very, very large.’
They sat opposite one another and Elsie removed her hat. ‘It’s so lovely to see you, Violet. I’ve missed you, you know.’
Violet’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve missed you too, Elsie Finch. Let’s not leave it so long next time.’ She picked up the scant menu, skim-read it and said, ‘Oh, thank God for that—the pork is still on here.’ She passed the menu over to Elsie.
The waiter returned, placing two large glasses on the table. ‘Will you be eating?’
‘Pork please—for both of us,’ Violet said.
‘Very good,’ he replied.
Elsie frowned. ‘How did you know what I wanted?’
Violet shrugged. ‘When life is on the ration, you need to snatch the opportunity for some good food. Cheers.’ She raised her glass.
‘To Sicily,’ Elsie toasted.
Another shrug from Violet. ‘I’ve no idea why we’re toasting a tiny, Nazi-occupied Mediterranean island, but it will do for me. To Sicily.’
Elsie’s glass met Violet’s above the table and she took a large lug of the drink.
Violet pulled a packet of Wild Woodbine cigarettes from her handbag. She handed one to Elsie, then lit them both. ‘So, anything more from your husband? I see you’re not wearing your wedding ring any longer. Very brave. What’s the news?’
‘I gave it to a Maltese pauper.’ Elsie laughed and examined her left hand. The sensation—so strange at first—at having a naked ring finger no longer bothered her. ‘Nothing more from Laurie. He could be dead or alive—I’ve no idea.’
Violet took a sip of drink. ‘And how do you feel about that? I assume there’s a reason that a Maltese pauper is now legally bound to your husband?’
‘Woody.’
Violet shifted in her chair and drank some more. ‘Woody?’
‘The baby’s father. He turned up when I was in Malta—he came looking for me.’
‘Really?’ Violet blurted. ‘Christ. Tell me everything.’
‘It’s a terribly long story,’ Elsie warned.
Violet smiled, took another glug of drink and finished the glass. ‘I’ve got the time.’ She turned to the waiter, leaning on the bar at the far end of the restaurant. ‘Two more, please.’
It took the entire duration of their meal and three further glasses of gin and lemon for Elsie to bring Violet up to date with her complicated life. ‘Golly,’ was all that Violet had to say at the end of it all.
‘And what about you?’ Elsie finally quizzed. ‘Have you found anyone yet?’
Violet shook her head. ‘Nobody to speak of. Maybe tonight’s going to be my lucky night, but not,’ she said, casting her eye around the empty restaurant, ‘if we remain here. Come on, let’s go. I’ve got a much dingier rotten pub in mind.’
‘But I thought we might go to the ballet. Robert Helpmann is performing at Sadler’s Wells.’
‘Don’t be so dreary, Elsie Finch. Come on, let’s settle up and get famously drunk.’
Elsie knew better than to argue with her friend.
‘Oh, well that’s just great,’ Elsie complained. It was later than they had realised. Much later. The last tube to Stanmore was long gone and the driver likely tucked up in
