Someone tapped her on the shoulder then placed a mug as big as a chamber pot beside her. The tea was strong and sweet and laced with tinned milk, and she drank it gratefully. She was calmer now; confident, almost. For the first time in her life she was doing something for herself; doing it without help from anyone, and what was more, she was getting it right. It was heady stuff. Raising her mug, she turned again to the telegraphist at her side, giving him her most brilliant smile.
‘Bainbridge,’ she said. ‘Lucinda.’
‘Lofty.’ He raised his mug in turn. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ she breathed. Absolutely fine. Wonderful, in fact.
Sorry, Charlie, she exulted. Afraid I’ve changed my mind. No wedding, old thing. Well, not just yet, anyway …
Vi stared into the mirror, tweaking her tie straight.
‘Mother of God, worra face.’ Funny eyes, funny nose, mouth too big and teeth too crooked. A face, she sighed, that only a mother could have loved.
‘Happy birthday, face.’
Twenty-six today. She had almost forgotten. Twenty flaming six. She could be thirty before this war was over. It was frightening, if she let herself think about it, how much could happen in a year. Last birthday there had been a card from Gerry, written on shore leave and left with Mary for posting, yet now she was a woman alone. Now, just one year later, she was 44455 Wren McKeown, V. T., a steward who would spend the remainder of the war cleaning and polishing whatever the Navy told her to clean and polish.
But at least she was alive, which was something to be glad about, so she winked at Vi-in-the-mirror then turned to the window and the almost unbelievable beauty outside. She would never tire of that view, never get used to hills that changed colour at the whim of the sun, or the trees and flowers and a sky free of rooftops and chimney stacks. And out there in the loch lay the depot ship, with only five submarines tied up alongside now because one had left. She had seen it that morning, black and sleek, leaving hardly a ripple behind it, slipping silently away on the morning tide. And farther down the loch had waited the frigate that would escort it out to sea and stay with it, someone had told her, until it reached the safety of deep water.
Vi had never imagined she could think kindly of any submarine again, but if it was one of your own then surely it was right and proper to wish it well, and raising her hand she had traced a blessing on the early morning air.
She wondered where that submarine was now and what it was called. Perhaps Jane or Lucinda would know. They were there now, on that depot ship. She had watched from the window as they walked down the jetty, anxious as a mother sending her children off on their first day at school. She thought about them a lot, wondering how it was going for them on their first real day on active service; the first day, she supposed, of the rest of their lives – of the duration, at least.
The duration. For as long as the war lasted. And how many days and weeks and years made up a duration was anybody’s guess. It had all happened one Sunday morning when an old man in London decided that that was how it would be. She remembered it clearly. Gerry’s ship had been in the Albert Dock and they had just finished papering the front bedroom. At eleven o’clock she had turned on the wireless to hear the old man tell them they were at war with Germany. Again.
But today she wouldn’t think about it. Today was her birthday and Jane and Lucinda would soon be coming ashore, bursting with news. The thought pleased her, and she smiled.
Jane Kendal’s introduction to the war at sea was far less traumatic than that of her cabinmate. She had, in fact, enjoyed her day.
‘Lucky for me,’ she said that night at supper, ‘that coders often work in pairs so there was someone to help me along. My oppo was very patient – oppo means opposite number, by the way – and he’s very nice.’
‘Young, was he?’ It was important that Vi should know.
‘Oh, no. About forty, I’d say. He’s got a daughter almost my age, but I shall like working with him.’ She could not help but like him. From their first hullo the rapport was there, for Jock Menzies spoke with Rob’s accent.
‘There, now.’ Vi was well pleased. She need not, she conceded, have worried about either of them. The young ones had done very well. ‘Anyone want more pudding? There’s plenty left over.’
‘Please.’ The baptism of fire behind her, Lucinda had found her lost appetite, and bread-and-butter pudding was one of her favourites. ‘Just a little.’ She held out her dish and Vi spooned it full.
‘Remember I was telling you how nervous I was?’ Lucinda confided, spoon poised. ‘Well, I didn’t know it at the time, but the telegraphist on the next set to mine – Lofty, he’s called – was on my wavelength too. I was really afraid I’d not get it all down, and all the time he was listening out for me. He’ll be doing that for a day or two, till I can take over my own wavelength completely. But I wish I’d known. It would’ve saved a lot of agonizing.’ She smiled suddenly, and the smile set her eyes dancing and brought the dimples back to her cheeks. ‘Look – why don’t we celebrate? Let’s go out tonight.’
‘Well, I was wonderin’ – I’ve been thinkin’…’ Vi was remembering that today was her birthday and there was the ten-shilling note in her money belt and wondering if she should ask them if they would like to see the film in Craigiebur. Love on the Dole. One of the stewards had cried all the way through it, she said, so it must be good. But Vi did not ask them because someone said, ‘Hullo. You’ll be the new lot in cabin 9.’ Someone who was tall and black-haired, with milkmaid cheeks and deep, dark eyes; eyes so deep and dark it was impossible not to notice them.
‘Who’s askin’?’ Vi demanded with Liverpool directness.
‘Lilith. From cabin 10. Lilith Penrose.’
‘Vi McKeown.’ Vi took the extended hand. ‘And these two’s Lucinda and Jane.’
‘Yes.’ Lilith nodded briefly. ‘I noticed them on the launch this morning.’
‘Well then, that’s fine, innit? Anythin’ else?’
‘No. Just wanted to say hi, and tell you about the message.’
‘Message? Who for?’
‘That’s just it. I’m not quite sure. It’s all a bit vague, you see. Look, when you’ve finished eating I think you’d better come up to cabin 10 and get it sorted out. In about five minutes – all right?’
It was not all right. Vi did not like mysteries. Nor did she like being summoned to the cabin next door, but Penrose was a leading Wren. ‘What about it?’ she asked.
‘Okay by me.’ Jane nodded.
‘Me too,’ said Lucinda.
‘Right, then. We’ll see you in five minutes.’
‘And what did you make of that?’ Lucinda demanded when they were alone. ‘A message for one of us but she’s not sure which. Peculiar, wouldn’t you say?’
Peculiar, they all agreed, but they knew they would go to cabin 10 none the less, for the deep, dark eyes held a mystery. And secrets.
The door of cabin 10 was stuck and Vi thumped it hard.
‘Hang on.’ Lilith Penrose removed the wedge that held it. ‘Glad you’ve come. Soon have it sorted out.’
Vi looked around her. The room was spacious, with two large windows and a cast-iron fireplace which was obviously used, for log baskets stood either side of it and an airer hung with bell-bottomed trousers and thick navy-blue sweaters swung above it. But it was the table in the centre of the room that aroused Vi’s curiosity because it belonged, she’d have