but we get scarcely any of those. Most of our ambulance calls are for soldiers who’ve got in a fight or fallen down a flight of stairs when they were sloshed. The remainder of the time we drive officers. After you sign in, you take the keys to the despatch room,” she led her back inside to the room with the sofa and the phonograph, “and hang them up here.” She showed her three hooks labeled, “Ronald Colman,” “Clark Gable,” and “Bela Lugosi.” “We thought since the RAF crews name their aeroplanes, we’d name our ambulances.”
“I thought you said you had two ambulances.”
“We do. Ronald Colman is the Major’s personal Bentley. She lets us use it when both ambulances are out or when we’re to drive someone important.”
“Oh. I assume Bela Lugosi is the Daimler?”
“Yes, though the name doesn’t begin to describe its evil nature. I wanted to name it Heinrich Himmler.” She led Mary down another corridor and opened the door on a long room with six neatly made cots. “You’ll bunk in here,” she said, walking over to the second cot to the right. “This one’s yours.” She patted it, then walked over to a wardrobe and opened its door. “You can stow your things in here. You’re allowed half, so don’t let Sutcliffe-Hythe take more than her share. And don’t pick up after her. She tends to strew her things about and expect other people to put them away. She only joined up four months ago, and before that, of course, she had servants to do for her.”
The casual way in which Fairchild said it confirmed what Mary’d already deduced—that in spite of the pigtails and film magazine, Fairchild was from an upper-class family, as was Sutcliffe-Hythe, and most of the young women in the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. They’d qualified for the FANYs because, unlike lower-class girls, they’d known how to drive. They’d also possessed the social skills to mingle with officers, which was why they’d ended up chauffeuring generals as well as driving ambulances.
“Let’s see, what else do you need to know?” Fairchild said. “Breakfast’s at six, lights out at eleven. No borrowing someone else’s towel or beau, and no discussing Italy. Grenville’s fiancé’s there, and she hasn’t heard from him in three weeks. Oh, and don’t mention anything to do with getting engaged to Maitland—you’re not engaged, are you?”
“No,” she said, setting her duffel bag down on the bed.
“Good. Engaged girls are rather a sore point with Maitland just now. She’s been trying to persuade the pilot she’s seeing to propose, but so far she’s not having any luck. I told her she should take lessons from Talbot. She’s been engaged four times since I’ve been here. Were you seeing anyone in—where were you stationed before this?”
“Oxford.”
“Oxford? Oh, then you must know—” She stopped and cocked her head alertly as a door slammed somewhere.
“Fairchild!” a voice called, and a vividly pretty brunette in a FANY uniform and cap burst in. “You will not believe what I just heard.”
And so much for my observing pre-rocket behavior, Mary thought.
“What are you doing here, Talbot?” Fairchild said. “I thought you’d gone with Maitland and the others to the applecart upset.”
“No, but I should have done. I’m so sick of the Yellow Peril, I could scream.”
The Yellow Peril? What did Japan have to do with an ambulance post? I should definitely have done more research on World War II slang.
“I was at the motor pool,” Talbot said. “The Major insisted I go pick up Bela Lugosi,” and thank goodness Fairchild had explained about the ambulance names, or she’d be completely lost. Could the Yellow Peril be some sort of vehicle as well?
“I told the Major it wouldn’t be ready,” Talbot went on, “but she—who’s this?”
“Mary Kent,” Fairchild said. “She’s our new driver.”
“But you can’t be!” Talbot cried, and Mary looked up sharply. “Sorry. It’s only that I had a wager with Camberley that even the Major couldn’t get a new driver out of HQ. For a pair of stockings. Now what am I going to do? I lent my only good pair to Jitters, and she simply shredded them.”
“She means Lieutenant Parrish,” Fairchild explained. “She’s keen on jitterbugging.”
“I simply must have stockings. Philip’s taking me to the Ritz on Saturday.”
No, he’s not, Mary thought. There’ll be more than a hundred V-1s coming over on Saturday. You’ll be transporting the wounded.
“I don’t suppose you’ve an extra pair you’d be willing to lend me, have you, Kent?” Talbot asked.