“The girls are back,” Fairchild said, hurrying into the corridor.
A trio of young women in FANY uniform were coming in from the garage, their arms full of clothing. “I still say we should have got that ecru lace,” the first one, a chunky blonde, was saying to a tall redhead.
“It was too small,” the redhead said. “Even Camberley couldn’t get the slide fastener up.”
“Grenville might have been able to let it out for her,” the blonde said.
“Were you successful, Reed?” Fairchild asked.
“Only partly,” the redhead said, coming into the despatch room and dumping the clothes she held onto the sofa. “We were only able to snag one evening frock.”
“And Camberley was nearly killed getting that,” the blonde said. “She had to fight two girls from Croydon’s St. John’s Ambulance for it.”
“But I won,” the third one, a tiny elfin-looking girl, said. She pulled a floor-length pink net frock out of the pile and held it up triumphantly. “Champion of the St. Ethelred Applecart Upset.”
Which solved one mystery. An applecart upset was slang for a clothing exchange. Exchanges had been common during the war, a result of rationing and the shortage of fabric, which was all being used for uniforms and parachutes.
“It’s a bit short,” the redhead Reed said, “but there’s a good deal of fullness in the skirt we can use to add a ruffle, and—” She stopped. “Who’s this?”
“Lieutenant Mary Kent,” Fairchild said. “Kent, this is Captain Maitland,” she pointed at the chunky blonde and then at the redhead and the elfin one, “Lieutenant Reed, and Lieutenant Camberley. Kent’s our new driver. Headquarters sent her from Oxford.”
“You’re joking!” Maitland said.
“I told you the Major’d pull it off,” Camberley said, “even if it is a bit late. I’m afraid you’ve missed all the fun, Kent.”
“If you were stationed in Oxford,” Reed said, “then you must know—”
“Never mind that,” Talbot said, coming in in a bathrobe with her hair wrapped in a towel. “I want to see what you got. Pink? Oh, no, I look dreadful in pink. It washes me out so. Still,” she said, snatching it up, “it’ll be better than the Yellow Peril for Saturday.”
“You’re not wearing it Saturday,” Camberley said. “I risked life and limb going up against those St. John’s girls. I get to wear it first.”
“Evening frocks are in short supply,” Fairchild explained, “so we all share. We’ve been making do with the Yellow Peril and the dress Sutcliffe-Hythe wore for her presentation at court. We dyed it lavender, but it came out rather streaky.”
“It can only be worn to very dark nightclubs,” Reed said.
“But I must wear the pink,” Talbot said. “It’s the Ritz. I’ve already worn the Yellow Peril there twice.”
“Who’s taking you to the Ritz?” Reed demanded.
“I’m not certain yet. Possibly Captain Johnson.”
“Johnson?” Reed asked. “Is he the handsome one with the dashing mustache?”
“No,” Talbot said, holding the pink frock up against her and looking at it in the mirror. “He’s the American one with access to the PX,” and Mary should have been delighted with the conversation. It was a perfect example of pre-rocket ambulance-post life. But why hadn’t they heard about the V-1? Surely one of the Bethnal Green ambulance crew would have mentioned it.
Don’t be silly, they weren’t there, she told herself. They’d have been up since half past four, administering first aid and transporting victims—there’d been six casualties—to hospital. They wouldn’t have then gone blithely off to a clothing exchange.
But even if they hadn’t been there, surely someone would have mentioned hearing an explosion. Or the siren, if, as Fairchild said, they hadn’t heard one for months. Unless, she thought, watching the FANYs pass around the pink frock and a pair of worn dancing slippers they’d obtained, they’d been so intent on finding clothes that they hadn’t spoken to anyone else?
“Haviland was there, and you’ll never guess what she told me,” Maitland said. “Do you remember Captain Ward? We met him at that canteen dance—dark wavy hair? Well, Haviland said he’s mad about me, but he’s been afraid to ask me out.”
“I was able to find you a lipstick,” Reed was saying to Talbot. “Crimson Caress.” She handed her a gold tube.
“Thank goodness,” Talbot said, taking off the cap and twisting it up to reveal a startling shade of dark red. “Mine was down to nothing. Did you get the black gloves?”
“No, but Healey and Baker were there, and they said their post is putting on a ragbag in July and that they’re certain they saw