heard music—the Andrews Sisters singing “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.” She followed the sound along the corridor to a half-open door. Inside, she could see a young girl in pigtails and trousers lying on a sofa reading a film magazine, one leg draped over the arm of the sofa. A girl who obviously doesn’t know about the V-1s yet, she thought. Good. She pushed the door open. “Hullo? I beg your pardon, I’m looking for the officer in charge.”
The girl shot to her feet, lunging for the phonograph and dropping the film magazine in a splaying of pages, then abandoned the effort and snapped to attention. Which meant she was older than she looked, even though she was standing there like a naughty child about to be sent to bed without supper. “Lieutenant Fairchild, ma’am,” the girl said, saluting. “Can I be of help, ma’am?”
“Lieutenant Kent reporting for duty.” She handed her her transfer papers. “I’ve just been assigned to this post.”
“Assigned? The Major didn’t say anything about…” The girl frowned at the papers, and then grinned. “Headquarters finally sent someone. I don’t believe it. We’d given up all hope. Welcome to the post, Lieutenant—sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Kent. Mary Kent.”
“Welcome, Lieutenant Kent,” Fairchild said, and extended her hand. “I’m so sorry I didn’t know who you were, but we’ve been shorthanded for months, and the Major’s been fighting to get HQ to send someone, but we’d given up hope of your ever arriving.”
So had I, Mary thought.
“I do wish you’d been here a month ago. We were absolutely swamped with officers who needed driving, what with the invasion and all. We weren’t supposed to know what was going on—it was all terribly hush-hush—but it was obvious the balloon was about to go up. I got to drive General Patton,” she said proudly. “But now they’re all in France, and we haven’t a thing to do. Not that we aren’t glad to have you. And we shan’t be idle long.”
No, Mary thought.
“The Major will see to that. There’s no slacking off allowed at this post.” She glanced guiltily at the film magazine on the sofa. “She insists we do our bit to win the war every moment of every day. And she’ll have my head if she comes back and finds I haven’t done my bit and shown you round the post. Hang on.” She laid the papers on the desk and went over to the door. “Talbot!” she called down the corridor.
There was no answer. “She must have changed her mind,” Fairchild said. “And gone with the others to the applecart upset.”
What was an applecart upset? Some sort of ambulance call? She was obviously expected to know, but in all her researching of World War II slang she’d never heard the term.
“I should have thought they’d be back by now,” Fairchild said. “Hang on.” She wedged the door open with her rolled-up magazine. “So I’ll be able to hear the telephone, though I doubt if it’s needed. No one’s rung up all day. This way, Kent.”
If no one had telephoned, then an applecart upset couldn’t be a type of ambulance call. Could it be slang for an incident?
“This is our mess,” Fairchild said, opening a door, and she knew that term at least. “And the kitchen’s through there. And out here”—she propped open a side door and led her through—“is our garage, though there’s not much to see at the moment, I’m afraid. We’ve two ambulances, a Bentley and a Daimler. Have you ever driven a Daimler, Kent?” she asked, and when Mary nodded, “What year was it?”
2060. “I think it was a thirty-eight,” she said.
“I’m afraid that won’t be much help, then. Our Daimler’s positively ancient. I’m convinced Florence Nightingale drove it in the Crimean War. It’s ghastly to start and worse to drive. And nearly impossible to turn in a tight space. The Major’s put in for a new one, but no luck yet. This is the log,” she said, walking over to a clipboard hanging on the wall. She showed her the spaces for time, destination, and distance driven. “And no detours for errand running allowed. The Major’s an absolute bear about wasting petrol. And about failing to sign the log before you take a vehicle out.”
“What if you’re going to an incident?”
“An incident? Oh, you mean if a Spitfire crashes or something? Well, then of course one would go to it straightaway and fill out the log when one came back,