LITMIR.BIZ

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eighteen till November.’

      ‘If you’re old enough to join up, you’re old enough for a SOP – if the sergeant allows them, that is.’

      ‘Seems Sergeant James has the last word, here. Why haven’t we got an officer of our own?’ Carrie frowned.

      ‘Because in my opinion a few females don’t warrant an officer. And maybe the sergeant won’t be so bad, once we’re in some kind of a routine. And talking of angels…’ Evie nodded towards the doorway where Sergeant James looked pointedly at her wrist watch.

      They worked hard all morning, Carrie driving the pick-up truck piled with supplies from the quartermaster’s stores to the estate office which now bore a notice on the door. SIGNALS OFFICE: NO ENTRY.

      They cleaned out cupboards then stacked them with teleprinter rolls, stationery, pencils, pens and signal pads. They positioned In-trays and Out-trays, dusted everything that didn’t move, polished the sergeant’s desk, then swept and mopped the black and red floor tiles.

      ‘Just the windows to clean – inside and out,’ the sergeant stressed, ‘then you can call it a day, girls.’

      * * *

      They ate corned-beef hash and pickled red cabbage at midday, which made Carrie very happy, with rice pudding and a dollop of bright red jam in the middle of it for pudding.

      ‘I’m goin’ to have a lazy afternoon. Got a magazine to read,’ Nan took the billet key from its hiding place above the front door jamb. ‘What are youse two goin’ to do?’

      ‘Write to Bob,’ Evie smiled, ‘then do some ironing. And my buttons and cap badge need a polish. What about you, Carrie?’

      ‘Probably sweep the workshop floor or clean the officers’ car and see to the tea, of course. Corporal Finnigan won’t be giving me the rest of the afternoon off.’

      Which was a pity, really, because she had to -wanted to – write to Jeffrey. Letters, redirected from their old addresses, had arrived this morning; one for Nan, four for Evie and two for herself; from her mother and from Jeffrey, still in barracks with never a draft chit in sight.

      I am stuck here like a lemon, polishing and cleaning and hardly getting any morse in at all. Which gives me a lot of time to think about how much I love you and miss you and wish you had been there when I had my leave.

      Have a photo taken of yourself in uniform – not that I need to be reminded how lovely you are…

      Jeffrey, she thought, could be quite sweet when he put himself out – or had his loving, longing letter been the result of a run ashore and a few pints of beer?

      Then she chided herself for such thoughts, knowing that things between them would be all right, once she caught her fiancé in another loving and longing mood and they were able to talk sensibly and calmly about – things.

      She had reason, too, to warm towards Corporal Finnigan that afternoon when he said, ‘I was having a word with Sergeant James about your duties, Carrie – the last run, I mean. Seems you won’t have as much free time as the rest of the girls, so Norman here has volunteered to do the evening pick-up, at ten.’

      ‘Norm! How good of you.’ Carrie blushed with pleasure. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

      Private Fowler did not mind at all. He was courting very seriously and wrote home to his girl every evening. He was also saving up for an engagement ring, and the extra duty meant less time and money spent in the NAAFI. He also liked Carrie. She was pleasant and willing and – what was by far the most agreeable thing about her – she now did the tea run which been the bane of his life until she arrived.

      ‘Think nothing of it,’ he had said, grinning awkwardly, because it was nice to be appreciated, sometimes.

      That was when Carrie looked at her watch and, without being asked, picked up the small enamel teapot and walked cheerfully to the cookhouse.

      Nan addressed the letter to her aunt, wrote On Active Service in the top, left-hand corner, then propped the envelope on the mantelpiece, wishing there was someone other than Auntie Mim to send her letters. She wondered what it would be like to have a boyfriend to write to, but in Liverpool boyfriends had been thin on the ground when you had to depend on Georgie’s sleeping habits for your free time.

      It might be nice to be cuddled and kissed – even once. But she was sweet seventeen, wasn’t she, and ran true to form because she had never, to her shame, been kissed. But she would be eighteen in November, and a lot could happen between now and then. Oh, please it would!

      Dearest Jeffrey, Carrie wrote,

      At last I have time to write to you properly. Things have been hectic these last few days but we seem, now, to have settled into a routine and tomorrow shift work starts for real.

      There are very few of us, here. I can’t tell you what we do exactly, but I am attached to No.4. Signals as a driver, and though we mark our letters On Active Service, and they are censored, it means nothing more than that I am billeted Somewhere in England at the back of beyond in a a tiny gate lodge with Nan and Evie.

      Carrie read what she had written, looking for anything that might not be allowed but decided that so far, there was nothing to invite the censor’s blue pencil or scissors. Somewhere in England was a term always used now, and could mean anywhere at all between the south coast and Hadrian’s Wall. She wondered who censored their letters. Sergeant James? She hoped not.

      I am alone, here, tonight. Nan and Evie have gone for a long walk, in the direction of the village which is about a mile away.

      Nan is very young – not yet eighteen – and delighted to be away from her ‘wicked stepmother’. Her eyes are enormous and brown, and her eyelashes are the longest I have ever seen. Nan and I room together; Evie, having a stripe up, has the small single bedroom. Evie is married to Bob, who is overseas and she writes to him every day.

      Married. So what did she write to Jeffrey about their own wedding? She should tell him, she knew, that she could not wait for the day when they would be able to arrange it but instead she wrote,

      I have been thinking about you and me, and if we will have a very quiet, village wedding. Long white dresses and veils are out, now, so if it looks like being a winter wedding, how about us being married in uniform? It would save a lot of fuss and bother and might be rather nice, don’t you think? As soon as we can get together, we must have a long talk about it…

      Talk! Dear sweet heaven, it wasn’t the wedding she wanted to talk about! It was after the wedding that sometimes had her sick with worry, even to think about it. Oh, they had kissed and cuddled a lot and at times got quite passionate, which had been rather nice, but actually doing it…

      And why did people refer to it as It? Wouldn’t lovemaking be a better word, though hers and Jeffrey’s coupling had been entirely without love. Just a taking, really, and she stupid enough to let it happen!

      I think that in about another month, I might be able to put in a request for leave, but will have to talk to Sgt James (our boss lady!) about it.

      When you get drafted to a seagoing ship, will you automatically get leave? If you do, perhaps I can try to get a 72-hour pass, so that at least we can talk together about things…

      It all came down to talking, didn’t it? And how would she, when they did eventually arrange leaves together, be able to tell him about her doubts?

      ‘I didn’t enjoy what we did, Jeffrey.’ Would she, dare she, say that? Would her criticism annoy him or would he understand how she had felt and tell her, promise her, it would be all right between them, once they were married?

      ‘Oh, damn, damn, damn!’ Irritated, she walked to the window to stand arms folded staring up the lane, seeing nothing. What a mess it all was! And why hadn’t she told her mother about it?

      Because she couldn’t talk to her mother about

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