It was nearly six. The other two Wrens who shared the office had already packed up and set off on their bicycles, back to Quarters. But Lieutenant Commander Crombie, later in the afternoon, had come up with this lengthy missive, not only Top Secret but Urgent as well, and Judith, with slight resentment, had been left to deal with it.
She was tired. Out of doors, the weather had been lovely, a sweet spring day, with warmth on the breeze, and all the daffodils in the Captain's garden nodding their heads in a most unsettling way. At midday, heading for O Block, mutton stew and plum duff, she had seen the green slopes of Portsdown Hill leaning up to the sky, and she had stood for a moment and stared with longing at the rolling crest of the hill, smelt the scent of new-cut grass, and felt her whole body respond to this young season of rising sap and renewal. She had thought, I am twenty, and will never be twenty again. She yearned for escape and freedom, to be out and about, climbing the hill, breathing the clear air, lying back on spongy turf, and listening to the wind in the grass, and bird-song. Instead, half an hour for the mutton stew, and then back to the stuffy hut that was the temporary headquarters of the Training Development Office.
Now, she sorted out the pages of the document, separating top copy from the three carbons. She set the last aside for its relevant file, and then squared off the others, slipped them into a card folder, and took them to be signed.
This entailed going out of the typists' office, through the main office, where Lieutenant Armstrong and Captain Burton of the Royal Marines were still at their desks. As she crossed the floor, they neither turned nor raised their heads. Familiarity had bred, if not contempt, then a professional lack of interest. At the far end stood a door, with a name plate. T.D.O.
The passion for initials was one of the most confusing hazards of war. Lieutenant Commander Crombie spent much of his working hours trying to drum up the interest of his superiors in the development of a device known as the AVTI, which stood for Artificial Visual Trainer, Mark I. Judith, having been typing letters about this wretched contrivance for the past six months, had privately dubbed it the NBGI, NBG being service parlance for No Bloody Good. Just after New Year, Lieutenant Commander Crombie had celebrated a birthday, and deciding that he could do with a little humour in his life, she had drawn and coloured a card for him, and written a poem.
The NBG I is your latest device
At special request and at terrible price
With modifications
and slight alterations
The Galley can use it for cooking the rice.
The joke fell flat. Lieutenant Commander Crombie was in no mood for laughs, being worried about advancing years, his possibilities of promotion, and his son's school fees. Because of this, the birthday card was something of a failure, and two days later, Judith had found it in his waste-paper basket.
‘Come in.’
He was sitting behind his desk, gaitered and unsmiling. At times he wore the expression of a man suffering from a painful stomach ulcer.
‘Here's your letter, sir. I've typed the envelopes. If you want to read it through and then give me a buzz, I'll get them off this evening.’
He looked at his watch. ‘Good God, is it as late as that? Isn't it time you were off?’
‘Well, if I don't get back to Quarters by seven, I won't get anything to eat.’
‘We can't have that. If you fetch me the envelopes, I'll see to their dispatch. Then you won't have to starve.’
He was a man whose bark was worse than his bite. Early on, Judith had discovered this, and since then had never been in the least in awe of him. Since the fall of Singapore and the eclipse of news of her family, he had become enormously concerned as to her well-being, in an offhand, avuncular sort of fashion; always asking for news, then, as the weeks passed and none came, tactfully not asking.
He had a house in Fareham, where he lived with his wife and son, and shortly after the tidings of the capitulation of Singapore broke upon a horrified world, he invited Judith for Sunday lunch with his family. Not wanting in the very least to go, but much touched, Judith instantly accepted, beaming with grateful smiles, as though the prospect filled her with nothing but pleasure.
On Sundays there were no buses to Fareham, and so she had to bicycle for five miles in order to get herself to his undistinguished house. The visit had been even less successful than the birthday card, because Mrs Crombie was clearly deeply suspicious of sexual entanglements, and Lieutenant Commander Crombie not a man adroit with the light touch of casual conversation. To allay doubts, Judith called him ‘Sir’ every other word, and spent most of the afternoon on the sitting-room floor, helping the small Crombie son construct a windmill with his Meccano set. It was quite a relief when the time came to mount her bicycle and pedal the long miles back to Quarters.
But it had been kindly meant.
Leaving him to read through his letter, she returned to her office, put the cover on her typewriter, gathered up the envelopes and her coat and cap. Lieutenant Armstrong and Captain Burton had also decided to clear their desks and call it a day. Lieutenant Armstrong had lit a cigarette, and as she passed them by, ‘We're going for a drink at the Crown and Anchor,’ he told her. ‘Do you want to come?’
She smiled. They had evidently decided that the time had come to switch off, relax and start enjoying themselves.
‘Thank you, but I don't think I've time.’
‘Pity. Take a rain-check.’ This was a new phrase that Lieutenant Armstrong had picked up from the lately arrived American forces.
‘Thanks,’ said Judith, who had not yet discovered what it meant. ‘I will.’
Back with her boss, she folded the letters with immaculate precision, put them into their envelopes, stuck them down, and dropped them into his ‘Out’ tray.
‘If that's everything, I'll be going.’
‘Thank you, Judith.’ He looked up and gave her one of his rare smiles. She wished he would smile more often. Calling her by her Christian name was a one-off as well. She wondered how many of his hang-ups were caused by his cold and clearly jealous wife, and felt sad for him.
‘No trouble.’ She put on her coat and fastened the buttons, and he leaned back in his chair and watched her. ‘How long,’ he asked abruptly, ‘since you had leave?’
She could hardly remember. ‘Christmas?’
‘You're overdue.’
‘Do you want to get rid of me?’
‘The very opposite. But you're looking a bit washed out.’
‘It's been a long winter.’
‘Think about it. You could go home, to Cornwall. Back to that house of yours. A spring-time break.’
‘I'll see.’
‘If you want, I'll have a word with your First Officer.’
In some alarm, Judith shook her head. ‘No. You don't need to do that. I'm due a long weekend, I know. I'll maybe put in for one.’
‘I think you should.’ He sat up, and once more became as brusque as ever. ‘Off with you then.’
She smiled at him, with much affection. ‘Good night, sir.’
‘Good night, Dunbar.’
In the golden spring evening, she cycled back to Quarters; across the foot-bridge, up Stanley Road, and so out onto the main road that ran north out of the city. Pedalling along, she thought about going on leave, going back to Cornwall…just for a few days. Being with Phyllis and Biddy and Anna, and pottering around the house, and kneeling, with the sun on her shoulders, to pull weeds out of the rose borders. It was time the garden hut was creosoted for the new season, and perhaps as well time to start looking for a new gardener. Just a few days, that was all she needed, and a long weekend would do the trick.
It was ridiculous, but almost the worst void that had been left by her loss of contact with her family had been the knowledge that there would be no more letters. For so long — nearly seven years — she had lived with the small and pleasurable anticipation of a regular envelope filled with trivial, precious news from Singapore, that she had becom
e conditioned, and each time she returned to Quarters, had to remind herself that there would be nothing to look for in the pigeon-hole labelled ‘D’.
Not even the promised letter from Jeremy Wells. Over two months had passed since they had said goodbye in London, and he had left her sleeping in Diana's bed. I'll write, he had promised. So much to say. Sooner or later. And she had believed him, and then nothing had come. Nothing had happened. Which was dreadfully dispiriting, and as the weeks slipped by and still no letter came, she became consumed with doubts, not only for him, but also for herself. Inevitably, there dawned the uncomfortable suspicion that Jeremy had made love to her for very much the same reason that Edward had. After all, it had been she, unwell and deeply upset, who had begged him to stay with her, sleep with her, not leave her. Darling Judith, he had called her, but how much of his loving had sprung from compassion? I will write, he had promised, but he had not written, and by now she had stopped looking for his letter.
From time to time, she had thought of writing to him. Saying, in a jokey sort of way, You brute; here I am languishing for news, and you said you'd send me a letter. I shall never trust you again. Or something. But she was nervous of being too precipitant, of saying too much. Frightening him off with her enthusiasm, just as she had frightened Edward away with her untimely declaration of eternal devotion.
There was, after all, a war on, raging, now, all over the world. No time for commitment. (Edward's words.) No time for keeping promises.
But, on the other hand, this wasn't Edward. This was Jeremy Wells, the epitome of trustworthiness and honesty. All that she could imagine was that he had had second thoughts. Distanced from Judith, good sense had prevailed. Their love in London had simply been an interlude, charming but too lightweight and ephemeral to pursue, at the possible expense of an easygoing friendship.
Deliberately clear-headed, she told herself that she understood. But this wasn't true. Because she didn't understand. The truth was that she felt not only disappointed in him, but dreadfully hurt.
These not-very cheerful reflections lasted her all the way back to Quarters. She cycled around to the back of the ugly building, slung her bicycle in its rack, and went in through the Regulating Office. The Quarters Officer was on duty, a well-upholstered lady in her mid-thirties, who had, in peacetime, been the matron of a small boys' preparatory school.
‘Hello there, Dunbar. Working late?’
‘Last-minute letters, ma'am.’
‘Poor girl. It's not fair. There was a telephone call for you. I put a note in your pigeon-hole.’
‘Oh, thank you…’
‘Better get a move on, or you'll miss grub.’
‘I know.’
She signed in, and then went to the rack of mailboxes, and found a letter for herself (from Biddy), and the scrap of signal pad on which the Quarters Officer had written, ‘Wren Dunbar. 1630 hours. Call from Loveday Carey-Lewis. Please ring back.’
Loveday. What was Loveday wanting?
But there wasn't time to ring before supper, so Judith went straight into the mess, and ate a slice of corned beef, a fried potato, and a helping of overcooked cabbage. Pudding was a square of sponge cake with a dollop of plum jam on top. It looked so unpalatable that she didn't take it, but went upstairs to her cabin where she kept a cache of apples, to be consumed whenever hungry. Chewing the apple, she went downstairs again, in search of a free telephone. There were three, in strategic spots, dotted about the flats, and in the evenings usually a queue of girls, sitting on the stairs, listening to every word the telephoner was saying, and awaiting their turn. But this evening, Judith was lucky. Perhaps because of the warm weather, most of the Wrens had gone out, and there was a phone free.
She dialled the number of Nancherrow, dropped the coins in, and waited.
‘Nancherrow.’
She pressed the button and the coins clanked down into the box.
‘Who's that?’
‘Athena.’
‘Athena, it's Judith. I got a message to ring Loveday.’
‘Hang on, I'll get her.’ Which Athena did by yelling out Loveday's name, and nearly deafening Judith. ‘She's just coming.’
‘How's Clementina?’
‘Heaven. Are you calling from a pay phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Won't talk then, darling, or you'll run out of shillings. See you sometime. Here's Loveday.’
‘Judith. Sweet of you to ring back. Sorry about that. I tried to get you, but they said you were working. Look, I'll be terribly quick. Mummy and I are coming to London this weekend, staying at the Mews. Please come up and be with us. Can you? Do try.’
‘London? What are you coming to London for? You hate London.’
‘I'll explain. We're coming together. And I really want to see you.’ She sounded a bit frantic. ‘I've got so much to tell you. Can you come? Can you get time off?’
‘Well, I could try for a short weekend…’
‘Oh, do. Do. Say it's dreadfully important. Life and Death. Mummy and I are going up tomorrow in the train. No petrol for the poor old Bentley. Tomorrow's Thursday. How soon can you be with us?’
‘I don't know. I'll have to see. Saturday, at the earliest.’
‘Perfect. I'll be there, even if Mummy isn't. I'll expect you unless I hear from you…’
‘I may not be able to—’
‘Oh, of course you can. Make any old excuse. Compassionate grounds. Anything. It's terribly important.’
‘I'll try…’
‘Goodie. Longing to see you.’ Pip-pip-pip went the telephone. ‘Byeee.’ Click. The call was finished.
Judith, in some puzzlement, replaced the receiver. What on earth was Loveday up to now? And why was she coming to London, which she had always sworn she loathed? There was, however, no answer to these questions. The only thing that was perfectly clear was that, tomorrow morning, first thing, she must present herself at the First Officer's lair, and somehow persuade that frightening female into signing a weekend pass for the very next day. If refused, Judith would blatantly cut corners and appeal for the co-operation of Lieutenant Commander Crombie. The image of him, entering battle on her side, was very reassuring.
The First Officer WRNS was just as uncooperative as Judith had feared, and it took a certain amount of distasteful pleading before she finally, reluctantly, and with little grace, signed the weekend pass. Abasement had worked. Judith thanked her profusely, and then escaped as quickly as she could before the embittered old hag of a spinster could change her mind.
In the outer office, the Wren on duty looked up from her typewriter and raised her eyes in silent question. Judith made a face, and gave her a thumbs-up.
‘Good for you,’ the other girl muttered, ‘she's in a foul mood this morning. I thought you were doomed from the start.’ And Judith, leaving her to her typing, walked back to the Training Development Office in high heart, and, unasked, made a cup of coffee for dear Lieutenant Commander Crombie, just because she was so grateful to be working for him, and not some prune-faced woman with a power complex.
Saturday was a beautiful April morning, without a cloud in the sky. Emerging from the cavernous gloom of Waterloo Station, she decided to indulge in the extravagance of a taxi, and rode in state to Cadogan Mews. In the warm spring sunshine, London looked surprisingly lovely. Trees were in fresh green leaf; bomb sites countrified by new growths of willow-herb; a mallard duck swam on the still surface of emergency water tanks. In the park, purple crocus spread carpets on the grass, and daffodils nodded yellow heads in the sweet breeze. High above, barrage balloons gleamed silver in the sunlight, flags snapped over important buildings, and the faces of passers-by, jostling the busy pavements, were rendered hopeful and smiling by the clement weather.
The taxi stopped in the road, by the stone arch which led into the Mews.
‘This do you, luv?’
‘Perfect.’
Carrying her overnight bag, she walked the cobbled length of the Mews, where the small
houses faced each other, with tubs and window-boxes burgeoning flowers. A cat sat in the sunshine and washed himself, and someone had fixed up a rope and pegged out a line of washing, which made it all feel a bit like Porthkerris. She looked up. The windows of Diana's house had been flung wide open, a curtain blew, and the wooden tub at the yellow front door brimmed with velvety polyanthus.
‘Loveday!’ she called.
‘Hello!’ Loveday's head appeared at the open window. ‘You're here. You are marvellous. I'll come down and let you in.’
‘Don't bother. I've got my key.’
She opened the door, and Loveday was standing at the head of the stairs. ‘I was terrified you wouldn't make it. Did you have to tell frightful lies to get permission?’
‘No. Just bow and scrape a bit.’ She climbed the staircase. ‘And listen to a lot of codswallop about giving First Officer so little notice, making extra work for her staff, being so inconsiderate, travel vouchers et cetera, blah, blah, blah. All too boring.’ She dumped her bag, pulled off her hat, and they hugged. ‘Where's Diana?’
‘Shopping, needless to say. We're meeting her at a quarter to one, at the Ritz. Tommy Mortimer's giving us all lunch.’
‘Heavens, how smart. I've nothing to wear.’
‘You look stunning just as you are, in uniform.’
‘I don't know that I do. Never mind, with a bit of luck they won't drum me out of the restaurant for not being an officer.’ She looked about her. Last time she had come, it had been midwinter and dark and cold. Now, everything was quite different, the pretty room bright with sunshine, cool with fresh air, and filled with flowers. Nancherrow flowers, brought from Cornwall, and Diana's trademark.
She flopped down on one of the huge, ample sofas and sighed with pleasure. ‘Heaven. It's like being home again.’