no one inside. ‘You will not be allowed in here unless you’re invited. But I wanted to let you know what it was.’
Julia peeked inside; mahogany desks sat in a large square formation, all facing one another, pads of papers and ink pens lying ready for people to take notes. Her supervisor pulled the door shut as Julia caught a glimpse of an enormous map on one wall outlined in red and green.
‘Also out of bounds without permission is the map room,’ she whispered, nudging open another door as a wave of blue smoke drifted out. Inside, it was teeming with life. Military personnel of all branches of the fighting services were moving around the room, conferring with one another and staring at graphs and maps that covered every inch of the wall space. Numerous desks were piled with papers and a bank of telephones dominated the centre of the room.
As they turned the next corner, Mrs Scriber slowed her pace and whispered to Julia, ‘Here are Mr Churchill’s own quarters. He has a bedroom and an office here. As one of the typists, we may call upon you to type for the prime minister. Just be aware, sometimes he likes you to type while he’s in bed. I realize this is unusual, but you can’t be squeamish down here. He’s an interesting character, but he’s getting the job done.’ She broke out into a smile.
Julia acknowledged what she was saying, absorbing all she was seeing.
‘I know it can smell musty down here,’ Mrs Scriber continued, ‘and I wish people wouldn’t smoke, but you can’t tell people what to do. There is a lot of pressure, so you’ll get used to that. We all have.’
Julia nodded, still struggling to get her bearings. The oddest thing about being below ground like this was that there were no windows. Once again it felt as if she was below the deck of a huge ship.
Finally, they arrived at the typing pool, where four girls were already seated at desks, illuminated by long black metal pendulum-style lights. On each desk along with their typewriters were wire in-and-out trays filled with typed papers, a notebook, a stack of carbons, and a tin with sharpened pencils.
Her guide introduced her to the other women. They all stopped typing and looked up.
‘This is our new girl, Julia Sullivan. She’ll be replacing Emily, who as you know struggled with the pressure of this kind of work. Make her feel at home, won’t you?’
They all acknowledged her as Julia contemplated her supervisor’s last comment and wondered what she had let herself in for as she moved towards the empty desk and sat awkwardly down in front of the typewriter.
‘I’ll leave you to get settled in, Julia.’ As she marched off, Mrs Scriber’s departing words were, ‘She’s very fast; she’ll keep you all on your toes.’
There was a general hum of laughter around the room as Julia’s face reddened. After she had gone, one girl with platinum blonde curls and cornflower blue eyes at the desk in front of Julia’s leaned over her typewriter and spoke to her.
‘Hi, my name is Carol, and don’t take too much notice of Scribie. She can come across quite stern, but it’s all an act. Her bark is much worse than her bite.’
‘She’s actually quite friendly, brings us chocolate sometimes,’ added another willowy girl with short brown hair and a swan neck who was whisking through her notebook, a pencil clenched between her teeth. She removed it and smiled, ‘I’m Stephanie, by the way, and we are a friendly bunch down here. I organize all our social activities.’ All the girls laughed. ‘Which, of course, to most of us are non-existent,’ she continued, ‘so it’s my way of saying I do nothing. If you want someone to check your work for spelling mistakes, ask Linda, she’s a whizz, and smart as a whip.’ She pointed her pencil towards a girl with catlike eyes and heavy lids, her hair pinned up in a victory roll.
‘The product of a very boring youth, I’m afraid,’ purred the girl in question, her voice slow and thick, reminding Julia of Greta Garbo.
‘Linda also keeps us all up to date on what the movie stars are wearing and doing,’ added Stephanie.
Linda leaned back on her seat and lit a cigarette, blowing out a long slow curl of blue smoke into the air before announcing in a droll tone, ‘Welcome to the dungeon. Is it ten in the morning or at night?’