seemed quite alien to her. She had decided long ago that her lack of bosom might be just the thing to help her gain traction in the world of diplomacy, which was very much the domain of men.
‘I don’t think so, Geer. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in an age.’
‘Yes, dear, we’re all exhausted – that’s wartime for you! Herr Hitler and his chums can rob us of street lighting, stockings and all the lovely men who are withering on the vine in some godforsaken bunker, but we absolutely cannot let him stop us having fun. Please come with me – it’s nearly Christmas! Plus I’ve told my brother all about you. He does like a clever girl.’ Geer grinned to reveal her enviable dimples.
‘Oh God, no!’ Molly felt her spirits sink even further. The very worst aspect of being set up with some ‘terrific guy’ was when he saw her for the first time and all of his hopes and all of his fantasies of meeting a Jayne Mansfield type trickled from him so obviously that she could almost see them pool on the floor. It certainly carved away at a girl’s self-esteem. ‘I’m in a crumpled blouse and my hair is a bird’s nest. I have ink-stained fingertips and creases in my skirt.’ She pulled the olive and mustard tweed material of her tapered skirt, trying and failing to smooth the material.
‘Darling, he’s been living with a gang of chaps in a bunkroom who no doubt have smelly feet and snore like billy-o! Trust me, the sight of a gorgeous girl while he’s home on leave for a day, and one who can hold her beer to boot – I can guarantee the last thing he’ll be thinking about is your inky fingers or your lack of pressed clothing.’
‘Night, Molly. Night, Geertruida!’ Marjorie brushed past them on her way out. She liked to use Geer’s full name – a nod to her father’s Dutch heritage. It put a level of formality into their interactions, highlighting their different status as colleagues in the translation department of the Ministry of Information. Their work here was classified, and both Marjorie and Molly were senior translators, with a bigger wage and a higher level of security clearance, although it would have been unthinkable to Molly herself that she might pull rank on any of her work chums.
‘Night, Marjorie!’ Geer called out as the other girl dashed along the parquet flooring of the corridor on the fifth floor of the building in which they all worked, translating and typing missives, notes and pamphlets, often in triplicate with the fiddly carbon paper pressed between the standard-issue watermarked sheets.
This was a job for smart girls – ones like Molly who had excelled academically and fallen through the net of domestic bliss that had failed to catch them as they fell from education. Not that Molly was fussed. Unlike her sister, Joyce, or her mother, for that matter, she didn’t want to be caught – not while she was still trying to figure out the kind of marriage she wanted or indeed if she wanted one at all. There were two things of which she was certain: first, she wanted a career of her own, and second, she knew that to be stuck at home darning and cooking for a man, or worse, beholden to the needs of some wailing child, was not for her. It wasn’t that she didn’t respect the lives of her sister, mother and most other women with whom she came into contact – indeed she sometimes envied them, doubting that they had the same mental itch that made it hard to think about settling down, and then having to justify her nonconformist views on the topic. But the thought of being tied to the house and enslaved to domesticity was horrific.
When she originally applied to work for the Foreign Office, she’d been informed that this role was a stepping stone into other governmental departments – most definitely where her sights were set. The plan was to make her mark while translating and after the war, having earned her stripes, figuratively speaking, she would apply for a role in diplomacy. This request had been stamped all over her application form, with emphasis on her outstanding language ability, something she had excelled at in school.
It was only after having been in the role for the last year or so that eighteen-year-old Mary Collway (Molly to everyone who knew her) understood why