keep you safe. You know that, don’t you, darling?”
Trot nodded. “Unless you’re killed.”
Meanwhile, it is important not to give the enemy any information which would help him in directing his shooting by telling him where his missiles have landed.
—HERBERT MORRISON, HOME SECRETARY, 16 JUNE 1944
Dulwich, Surrey—14 June 1944
BY WEDNESDAY MORNING, MARY WAS BEGINNING TO WORRY. There’d still been no mention of Bethnal Green railroad bridge or the other V-1s that had fallen the night of the twelfth. If the first four V-1s had hit when her implant said they had, they should have heard something by now.
But even though the last two FANYs—Parrish and Sutcliffe-Hythe—had returned with a box of sticking plaster from Platt, which was only four miles from where the first V-1 had fallen, and Talbot had rung up Bethnal Green to ask them to save back any dancing pumps that came in for her, there’d still been no mention of explosions or of odd-looking planes with yellow flames coming out of their tails.
There was nothing in the newspapers either, but Mary’d expected that. The government had kept the V-1s secret till after the fifteenth, when more than a hundred rockets had come over and made their existence impossible to keep quiet. But she’d thought there might be something about a gas explosion, which was the story they’d put out.
But there were no stories at all in the London papers, and the big news in the South London Gazette was the engagement of Miss Betty Buntin to Joseph Morelli, PFC, of Brooklyn, New York. And the FANYs’ only topic of conversation was who got to wear the pink net frock first. If she’d been dropped into the post without any historical prep, she wouldn’t even have been able to deduce there was a war on, let alone that they were under attack. And the next rockets wouldn’t be launched till tomorrow night, so there was no way to introduce the subject.
She attempted it anyway. “I was actually supposed to be here on Monday,” she said. “Did I miss anything?”
“The invasion of Normandy,” Reed said, polishing her nails.
“And the applecart upset,” said Camberley, who was trying on the pink frock. “We’d have got you that ecru lace if we’d known you were coming.” She turned to Grenville. “I’ll never be able to eat and breathe in this. It will have to be let out again.” She turned back to Mary. “I say, Kent, you wouldn’t happen to have any evening frocks, would you?”
“Don’t tell them yes unless you’re prepared to share them,” Fairchild said.
“But if you share yours with us, we’ll share ours with you,” Camberley said.
Parrish rolled her eyes. “I’m certain she’s simply panting for a chance to wear the Yellow Peril.”
“It might actually look nice on her, with her fair hair,” Camberley said.
“The Yellow Peril doesn’t look nice on anyone,” Maitland said, but Camberley ignored her.
“Have you a frock, Kent?”
“Yes,” Mary said, opening the duffel she still hadn’t had a chance to unpack. “Actually, I have two, and I’d be glad to share.” She lifted them out.
And knew instantly that she’d made a mistake. The FANYs were gaping at the frocks openmouthed. When she’d got them from Wardrobe, she’d purposely chosen ones that looked worn so she wouldn’t stand out here, but next to the pink net, with its torn hem and obviously let-out seams, the light-green silk and the blue organdy looked brand-new.
“Where on earth did you get such heavenly things?” Fairchild asked, fingering the green silk.
“You’re not having an affair with some rich American general, are you?” Reed said.
“No. My cousin gave them to me when she went out to Egypt. She’s in the medical corps,” she said, hoping no one would say they knew a nurse in Egypt who constantly went to dances. “I haven’t had any occasion to wear them,” she added honestly.
“Obviously,” Parrish said, and Camberley looked as if she was going to cry.
“You’re certain you’re willing to share these with us?” she asked reverently. Which showed how much the war had changed these young women’s lives. They came from wealthy families, they’d been debutantes, they’d been presented at court, and now they were overjoyed at the prospect of wearing out-of-style secondhand frocks. “I haven’t seen silk like this since before the war!” Sutcliffe-Hythe said, fingering the fabric. “I do hope it doesn’t end before I have a chance to wear this.”
It won’t, Mary thought.
And much of the worst of it was still to come, but all the FANYs were convinced the