Chapter Eight

Sleep came hard that night. An early air raid warning had sent Vi, Tilly and Mrs. Harris scurrying down to the shelter. Sandrine, as usual, was nowhere to be seen.

Neighbors from both sides of the street trooped in until every inch of seating was occupied.

Tilly nudged Vi. “Miss High and Mighty would have had to sit on the floor anyway. I’ll bet that would have got right up her snooty nose.”

Vi giggled, feeling relieved to have unburdened herself to Tilly earlier. “I think I’d have paid good money to see that,” she said.

Her laughter was short-lived as the familiar drone of Nazi planes drew closer and passed overhead. One or two of the neighbors crossed themselves, closed their eyes and their lips moved rapidly in prayer. Vi wished she hadn’t lost her faith somewhere along the way. Or maybe she had never really had it in the first place. Hers was not the most religious of families. Christmas, Easter, baptisms, weddings and funerals. That was about the sum total of her church attendance.

More planes were approaching. Ever closer. Their menacing droning incessant, like amplified bees. Nervous chatter died down until the shelter was silent. Each person wrapped up in their own fears, thoughts and supplications to the Almighty. Tilly slipped her hand into Vi’s and the two held on to each other. Next to her, Vi felt Mrs. Harris tense up.

The antiaircraft guns fired their barrages of artillery, desperately trying to bring the planes down. Some distance away, an explosion, then another. Then an earsplitting, thunderous crash that shook the shelter like an earthquake. Someone screamed. A man yelled.

“That was too bloody close,” Tilly said, as the two women clung to each other. Vi felt hot tears stream down her cheeks. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the next one.

Another explosion, then another and another. From somewhere the screaming whine of a descending airplane. The ack-ack guns had got one at last. But where would it fall? They all heard its final blast. Vi prayed that not more innocent lives had been lost in trying to defend their country. Chaos took over the shelter. Two children burst into hysterical sobs and screams, their frightened mothers seemingly powerless to control them. An old man told them to shut up. Another man threatened him with his fists and had to be hauled off. There was now more noise inside the shelter than outside.

Vi struggled to her feet. “Listen,” she said, then repeated herself. Louder. “Listen.”

The clamor died down as all eyes turned toward her.

“It’s gone quiet.”

The man with raised fists lowered them. He ran his hand through his hair and cast his eyes downward. The men who were holding him back let him go and he mumbled an apology. The old man acknowledged him.

“We made it,” Mrs. Harris said. “Let’s pray our homes did.”

“By the sound of it, some poor blighters have copped for it,” the old man said.

They waited, mostly in silence, for the all-clear to sound. When, at last, it did, they emerged into the black night, the only light coming from their flashlights.

Mrs. Harris’s house had escaped, as had the neighbors’. Silently, they all made their way to their homes.

Once inside, Vi made cocoa, glad when she could replace the tin on the shelf. Had she really hidden behind it last night?

Tilly had listened to Vi’s story open-mouthed. She seemed to believe her but, as she added hot water to the cocoa powder, Vi wasn’t convinced Tilly hadn’t been merely placating a friend. After all, if the positions had been reversed, wouldn’t she have done the same?

“Come on, Vi. Has the kettle gone on strike?” Tilly hated to wait for anything, especially her nightly hot drink.

Vi arranged the mugs on a tray. “Coming.”

In the dining room, she sat opposite Mrs. Harris. The three of them sipped their drinks for a few moments until they heard the sound of a key in the front door.

“She’s back,” Tilly said. “Come on, Vi.”

The two women left Mrs. Harris staring into her mug of cocoa and made straight for the hall. Sandrine was closing the door but, before it was entirely shut, Vi was sure she made out the silhouette of a man. The same one as last night?

“Where were you tonight, then?” Tilly asked. No, she demanded.

Sandrine ignored her and made for the stairs. Tilly sped forward and blocked her way.

“Oh no you don’t, missy. This happens every night. You go out before the air raid warning and don’t come back until the all-clear, so where do you go?”

“I refuse to be spoken to like this. Get out of my way.” Sandrine tried to push Tilly aside but the girl’s anger gave her added strength.

Vi thought back over Miss Brayshaw’s warning and, seeing the seething rage in Sandrine’s eyes, knew she had to try to stop this.

“Tilly, please,” she said. “We’re all a bit strung up over the raid. Coming on top of night after night of it, none of us have much energy left and our nerves are all on edge. Let’s all cool down a bit and get some sleep. Or at least try.”

Tilly glared at Vi, but she must have remembered what her friend had said about Sandrine and moved aside. Vi saw her clench her fists until the knuckles blanched.

Sandrine brushed past her, stomped up to her room and slammed her door.

Tilly turned on Vi. “That bloody woman.”

“I know, Tilly, I know, but we have to stay in control of our feelings when she’s around.”

“If only we could find out for sure about her.”

“I’ll talk to Miss Brayshaw again tomorrow. See if she’s found out anything. In the meantime, it’s probably best if you don’t go near her. I’ll certainly be keeping my distance. There are things in her room that….” Vi shivered at the memory of the atmosphere, the strange books. And that drum.

Maybe Tilly was remembering too. She had calmed down and now she nodded, returned to the dining room and finished her cocoa. “Right, I’m off to bed. That’s if Jerry will let me, of course.”

Vi took their mugs into the kitchen and they bid Mrs. Harris good night.

Now, as she lay in bed, all Vi wanted was to sleep without dreams and wake up refreshed in the morning, but she tossed and turned for what seemed like hours. Finally, right before she dropped off, she had the distinct impression she was no longer alone in her room, and the aroma of a burning cigarette wafted toward her.

* * *

The following Friday, as soon as she arrived home after work, Tilly grabbed Vi and ushered her into her room, closing the door firmly behind them. Her face was flushed. “I got summoned today.”

“What? Who by?”

“Some senior toff in the Civil Service. Didn’t give me his name. Spoke like Neville Chamberlain.”

That could have described any one of a dozen or more senior civil servants both Vi and Tilly rubbed shoulders with every day. “So? What did he want?” Vi prompted.

“He had read my MO report and was interested in anything else I had to tell him about a certain neighbor of ours.”

Vi sat closer to the edge of Tilly’s bed. “And?”

Tilly came to sit next to her. “You know what they’re like, they don’t give anything away, but he took notes, asked loads of questions about her movements and so on. He seemed particularly interested in her comings and goings whenever there’s a raid on. I got the distinct impression he knew more than what he’d read in my report, though. For one thing, he slipped up once.”

“How?”

“I told him Sandrine’s name, but not all of it. In my report I gave her a pseudonym. Well, only an initial actually. It’s something we were advised to do in our reports and diaries. It keeps us and them anonymous. When I write about her, she’s S. Today, when I met him I referred to her as Sandrine di Santiago but when he mentioned her he called her Miss Maupas di Santiago. He didn’t get the extra bit from me, I can assure you.”

“So she’s already known to the authorities, then.”

“It would seem so. I didn’t mention his little faux pas. I could kick myself now, of course, but at the time…those Whitehall types faze me. I always think they’re looking down their aristocratic noses at me.”

“Did he say what was going to happen next?”

Tilly shook her head. “He thanked me and told me he would be in touch again if they needed any more information. Then he extended his hand to shake mine and that’s when I saw something a bit odd. He had this tattoo on his inner wrist. It wasn’t visible normally, but his shirtsleeve slid up his arm a little and I saw it, clear as anything. I think he caught me looking because that was the briefest handshake I’ve ever experienced.”

“What was it?”

“It’s a weird…symbol, I suppose you’d call it. Probably something to do with some secret society he was in when he was at school or university. It’s a bit difficult to describe but I could draw it for you. Hang on, I have a bit of paper from my last packet of stockings.”

She jumped off the bed and opened her dressing table drawer. She grabbed a scrap of paper, spread it out and picked up a pencil. A minute later she returned and thrust the drawing at Vi.

Vi examined it. It looked familiar. “I’ve seen this somewhere before,” she said. “My brother, George, loves myths and legends and he bought a book once full of Nordic and Viking folklore. I used to love to borrow it and read all about the great goddess Freya. There was a page of runes and George and I used to send notes to each other written in the runic alphabet. If only I could remember…. There’s something wrong…something different….”

Vi racked her brains. “Got it. Lend me your pencil a moment.” Vi put the paper down on Tilly’s dressing table. She drew the symbol as she remembered it.

She showed Tilly. “You see. It doesn’t have the…feet, if you like…but, apart from that it’s the same. It’s an ancient Viking rune, part of their alphabet from hundreds of years ago. It’s called the Odal rune, and, among other things, it represents a vowel sound, a sort of mixture of o and e.”

Tilly stared at the two symbols. “It can’t be a coincidence, can it? So, what’s an ancient Viking symbol doing tattooed onto the arm of a senior British civil servant?”

Vi shrugged. “Haven’t a clue but you’re probably right. In America they have these fraternities, don’t they? They have pins and so on, with symbols. Greek ones mostly, I think. It’s probably something like that.”

Tilly laid the paper down. “That sounds likely. Ah well, curiouser and curiouser, eh?”

Vi recoiled. “Oh don’t. You’re reminding me of that awful experience I had. The more time goes by, the more I feel I actually know what it was like to be Alice.”

Tilly’s face clouded over. “You do know that was a children’s story.”

“Of course I do but…you had to be there, Tilly. It was so real. And if I could only draw better, I reckon I could sketch an accurate depiction of that man Sandrine was with. I’d certainly know him again if I saw him. In fact, I’ll never be able to look at Clark Gable again without seeing him in my mind. I’ll never go and see Gone with the Wind again, that’s for sure.”

* * *

Maybe a sound woke her. Vi sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding. From next door, shuffling sounds. Sandrine must be moving around. Vi switched on her bedside lamp and glanced at her clock. Three thirty in the morning.

The room was stifling. A warm night and thick blackout blinds hardly helped air circulation. Beads of sweat had formed on her forehead, and her whole body felt clammy.

She threw off the covers and swung her legs out of bed. The linoleum floor welcomed her feet with its coolness as Vi padded to the door. She leaned hard against it, straining for any sound. Nothing.

Vi stood close up to the dividing wall between her room and Sandrine’s.

The faintest knocking seeped through to her ears, as if Sandrine was tapping on that drum. A steady, rhythmic, almost soporific thrum. Vi felt her eyes closing. She swayed, nearly fell, and steadied herself by placing her right palm flat against the wall. It felt unpleasantly clammy and she withdrew her hand. She sniffed at her fingers and a fusty, damp odor penetrated her nostrils.

She made for the ewer and basin and washed her hands, scrubbing at them vigorously with the meager scrap of perfumed toilet soap she normally reserved for special occasions, keen to get rid of the vile smell as soon as possible. It reminded her of a time before the war, when she was a child, visiting an old aunt who lived in two shabby rooms in London’s notorious Hoxton. Now, as she scrubbed, she pictured the first cockroaches she had ever witnessed as they scurried out from behind the fireplace. Her mother had bashed them with a coal shovel while little Vi huddled in a corner, clinging on to a tattered, mildewed cushion and bawling her eyes out. Her aunt had railed at her mother, telling her not to make such a fuss; that she was upsetting Vi.

Her mother had shouted back, scooped up the crying child and left, never to return.

As she dried her hands, all these years later, Vi wondered what had happened to Auntie Nellie. Her name had never again been mentioned in her hearing. Why should she think of that now? That bloody smell, damp and…roaches.

Vi snapped on the main light and picked up a broom she used to sweep the floor. She had never seen a cockroach in this house, but that didn’t mean they weren’t here, lurking somewhere dark, damp and preferably warm. Heedless of Sandrine and whether she might hear her, Vi poked about in the corners, opened the wardrobe, swept under the bed.

Nothing. Thank God.

She returned the broom to its corner and made to switch off the light. At that moment, she caught sight of something in the corner of her eye. There. On the wall.

Right where she had touched it, a patch of brown damp had appeared. Maybe twelve inches in diameter. Like a puddle, it fanned out, its edges frayed. As if someone had thrown water on there over a long period of time. The closer she approached it, the more pronounced the smell of damp and decay.

Vi backed away. That stain had not been there when she went to bed. She glanced up at the ceiling. No sign of any leaks. Besides, that wouldn’t explain how it could appear in the middle of a wall. Were there any water pipes between them? Hardly likely. One thin wall separated the two rooms. There was no cavity in between.

She stared at it, aware that all was now quiet next door. No doubt Sandrine had heard her and stopped whatever clandestine activity she was indulging in.

The damp patch hadn’t spread. If anything, it seemed to be retreating a little.

Vi switched off the main light and settled herself back in bed. By now thoroughly awake, she picked up her book and tried to lose herself in it. Agatha Christie usually never failed to absorb her and this was her latest. One, Two, Buckle My Shoe had her Belgian sleuth, Hercule Poirot, once again in the thick of it. But however hard she concentrated, Vi’s gaze kept wandering to that single patch of wall. The damp was retreating, or drying out. The thought brought her a modicum of comfort and, eventually, she was able to set down her book and switch off her lamp.

* * *

“Miss!”

Vi was, by now, used to the summons from the Old Man, and usually welcomed it. She was accurate, produced her work in timely fashion and it was always neat and free of errors. Mr. Churchill didn’t ask for anything less than perfection, so they maintained a civil working relationship. She had grown accustomed to him snapping at her when something was going particularly wrong or he was especially preoccupied and, these days, she mostly ignored it and got on with her assigned tasks. Today though was a little different. Today, he used her name.

He looked up as she entered, sitting at his desk with the inevitable cigar in his mouth. He removed it and tapped it on his ashtray.

“Ah, Miss Harrington. I’m glad it’s you. I wanted a word with you. Sit down.” He indicated an office chair a few feet away and she perched on the edge of it.

She opened her shorthand notebook and waited for his instructions, pencil in hand.

He pointed at it. “Never mind that for now. As you’re here, I want to have a word with you about something else. Something of importance I believe you may be able to help us with.”

Vi’s heart beat a little louder.

The Prime Minister puffed once more on his cigar. “Miss Harrington, I understand you are acquainted with a woman who goes by the name of Sandrine Maupas di Santiago.” He dragged out the last part of her surname, making it sound like ‘Santiarrrgo’.

Vi swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “She has a room in the house where I live.”

Mr. Churchill glanced down at the foolscap sheets in front of him. “Yes, you and a Miss Matilda Layton, who works upstairs in the Treasury, I believe.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Miss Layton has expressed some concern about the activities of this woman.”

“Yes, sir. Tilly’s part of the Mass Observation project and she thought she should report her concerns.”

“Quite. She made a statement recently on the subject.”

“I believe she did, sir.” Was she supposed to know that? Should Tilly have told her? Vi hoped she hadn’t got her friend into trouble.

Churchill’s fingers tapped the arms of his chair. “Miss Harrington, I shall not insult you by saying, as everyone seems to these days, that there is a war on. You are quite well aware of that, but I will say that this woman, this….” He consulted his notes again. “Miss Santiago is someone in whom we are taking a degree of interest. As a result, if you see or hear anything suspicious, you should report it.”

“Yes, sir.” Should she tell him about her companion, Alex? Maybe he already knew. But if he didn’t…. “Sir?”

“You have something you wish to tell me?”

“Yes, sir.” The question was, how much? Certain things would stretch the imagination of any rational human being. “I believe Sandrine has an accomplice…or a friend. I’m not sure which but I’ve overheard them talking…not in English. I don’t know what language. Not French….” Stop gabbling and get on with it. The PM was tapping the fingers of his right hand on his desk. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m finding this a bit hard.”

“Evidently. Take a deep breath, Miss Harrington. Spit it out.”

“She calls him Alex. I’ve never heard a surname. But he’s easy to recognize. He looks almost identical to Clark Gable.”

“Clark Gable. The Hollywood actor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My wife very much enjoyed Gone with the Wind. Didn’t care for it, myself.”

Vi found she hadn’t a clue what to do with her hands. She fiddled with her shorthand pad and then stopped, realizing how irritating that must look.

Churchill had stopped tapping and was now fingering the signet ring he always wore. He stared straight ahead, seeming to have forgotten her existence, deep in his own thoughts.

Vi jumped when he broke the silence. “Thank you for your help. That will be all for now, Miss Harrington.”

So, that was to be it? Vi knew better than to question him.

“Very good, sir.”

* * *

The siren sounded in the early evening, as Vi and Tilly were playing rummy with an old pack of cards in the dining room.

Tilly slammed her cards facedown on the table. “Oh, give it a rest, Adolf.”

“Come on, let’s go.” Vi pushed her chair back. By now the relentless bombing night after night and the ensuing sleep-deprived nights were taking their toll. Tempers were frayed, patience short. Mrs. Harris met them in the hall, her small suitcase in hand. Her face was white and her eyes seemed to have shrunk into her face.

In the distance, the drone of airplanes rolled in like thunder.

“Theirs or ours?” Vi muttered.

“I’m guessing theirs,” Tilly said. “Come on, we haven’t got much time. They’ll be overhead any minute.”

“No point in asking where Sandrine is, I suppose,” Vi said.

“Oh, bugger her. She won’t be around. Come on.” Tilly grabbed Mrs. Harris’s hand and half dragged her out of the house.

Vi locked the door behind them and looked up. The noise of the engines was far too close for comfort. At this rate, they would be lucky to make it to the shelter. In the distance, she heard the ack-ack guns beating out their familiar tattoo. Flashes of orange, bright yellow and white light pierced the darkening sky. Vi raced down the street, catching up with Mrs. Harris and Tilly. They made it into the shelter as the first bomb went off. The noise was deafening. All around her, their neighbors huddled together, terrified. Some crying, one or two almost hysterical.

Another thunderous crash sent them all reeling as the ground shivered and trembled.

And another.

The shelter shook as if an earthquake had erupted beneath them.

Closer. Ever closer.

One of the men spoke. “They’re right overhead.”

The cacophony in the shelter silenced as everyone looked up. In the dim light, provided by a couple of kerosene lamps, Vi could see a few of the women mouthing prayers. One man crossed himself, as they all waited for whatever would come.

A screaming engine could only mean that its airplane had been hit. The machine was coming down. The only question was where?

They didn’t have to wait long.

The explosion shook the shelter so hard, Vi was sure it would collapse on top of them.

Somehow it stood.

But outside, something had fallen. Not only the airplane. It had taken something massive with it. Crammed in next to her, Mrs. Harris wept silently, her shoulders shaking. Vi put her arm around her and held her close.

A few murmurs, but other than that, no one spoke. They were all in shock; all fearing what they would find when they eventually emerged from the place that had somehow withstood the bombardment and saved all their lives.

The all-clear sounded. Instead of the usual rush to get out, everyone seemed reluctant to go first.

Vi got to the door. “Look, we’re all here and we’re in one piece. Everything else we can deal with. Let’s go.” She thought she had steeled herself for whatever might await them. She was wrong.

Fires raged – some small, like family bonfires. Down the street, the end house had fallen, and firemen were already aiming hoses at the conflagration. Plumes of water shot upward, waging a seemingly unwinnable war against the shooting flames. Everywhere, people shouted, screamed, called for each other. Whistles blown by ARP wardens and policemen chorused through the air – providing a surreal kind of accompaniment to the apocalypse around them.

The airplane they had heard go down seemed to have broken up. As Vi shone her flashlight around, its narrow, weak beam picked up bits of torn fuselage that had been ripped apart as easily as she might tear a sheet of paper. She could even make out a swastika on part of a wing.

“So that answers that,” she said to Tilly. As she spoke, she tasted plaster dust, ash – all mixed together in a foul, dry cocktail that stuck to the roof of her mouth and coated her teeth.

“Thought it was probably one of theirs,” Tilly said. “Well at least that’s one less to come back tomorrow.”

A few yards away, a woman wailed.

Tilly and Vi looked at each other. “Mrs. Harris,” Vi said.

They scrambled over bricks, plaster, twisted metal and piles of indeterminate debris. Broken glass cracked under their feet until they reached her.

And they saw what she saw.

Where her house should have been were only bricks and mortar, lying in a heap. Miraculously, there was no smell of gas so the main hadn’t been ruptured. And there was no fire.

“Oh, Mrs. Harris. I’m so sorry.” Vi once again put her arm around the sobbing landlady’s shoulders. Tilly followed suit and the three women, tears falling unheeded down their cheeks, stared at what had once been their home.

Vi felt someone close behind her, glanced over her shoulder and, at first, thought she had imagined it. Then she realized there was someone there. Two people in fact. They were standing in shadow, calmly watching. They didn’t even look solid enough for humans, but that was crazy.

“Sandrine.”

Tilly tapped her arm. “What was that?”

In the split second she took her eyes off the woman to look at Tilly, she was no longer there. Nor was her male companion. “I thought I saw Sandrine and her accomplice, but I must have been wrong. They’re not there now. Probably a trick of the light.”

Tilly looked back at the ruins. “We might be able to salvage something. In the morning, when it gets light.”

“We’ll have to be early though,” Vi said. “Before the looters get here.”

“You’d think people would show more respect, wouldn’t you?” Tilly said. “After all, we’re all in this together.”

Mrs. Harris made a noise somewhere between a sob and an expression of disgust. “Some people have no morals.” She gave a little cry and staggered forward, clutching her chest. Vi caught her just as she fell.

“Oh hell, I think she’s having a heart attack. Tilly, call an ambulance.”

“With all this going on? It’ll never get here on time. I’ll find a warden or a policeman.”

Vi knew it was already too late. It no longer mattered whether Tilly managed to call an ambulance or not.

Mrs. Harris was dead.

Out of the corner of her eye, Vi caught a movement a few feet away. Expecting it to be a neighbor, she raised herself up from where she had been laying Mrs. Harris gently down on the rubble-strewn road.

But this was no neighbor. Sandrine was suddenly inches from her. How she had made it there without disturbing any of the shattered debris, Vi had no idea. She cleared her throat, trying to swallow down the emotion which had formed itself into a large lump in her throat. “Mrs. Harris has passed away,” Vi said.

Sandrine’s expression never changed. Her eyes seemed like black holes in her alabaster skin that shone with a translucent glow. “It was her time,” she said.

A figure formed out of the shadows and dust. Alex joined Sandrine and smiled at Vi.

Eligos….

She didn’t hear it; she felt it. The word came to her and she knew, somehow, that they had put it there, planted it in her brain. She cringed away from them as they melted into the gloom.

For some time after they had gone, she stared after them, wishing she had imagined it but knowing she hadn’t.

* * *

“If I have to spend one more night in that hostel….” Tilly didn’t have to finish her sentence. The Salvation Army did their best with their limited and much-stretched resources, but it still felt like living in an unpleasant school dormitory, with the ever-present odor of carbolic soap and disinfectant, the worn and scratchy blanket, and rickety collapsible beds that threatened to trap the unwary sleeper by suddenly closing up, or by simply collapsing and depositing the occupant unceremoniously on the floor.

“One night is quite enough,” Vi said. “We need to find somewhere.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Come on, the paper will be out. Better get in quick.”

The paper boy on the corner of the street was calling out and the women bought the Evening Standard. They went into the nearest Lyons Corner House and perused the Rooms to Let section.

“Not much here,” Vi said. “Here’s one though. ‘Suitable for two professional women, sharing.’ The rent’s reasonable and it’s not far. Let’s hope by ‘professional’ they don’t mean….”

“What? Oh, Vi.” Tilly let out a guffaw that attracted disapproving looks from a couple of respectable-looking older ladies sipping tea at the next table.

Tilly covered her mouth, but the two of them were now trying unsuccessfully to stifle giggles. After the trauma of the previous evening, Vi felt guilty. Poor Mrs. Harris was lying in the hospital morgue while a search was made to trace her relatives. That morning’s visit to what was left of Boscawen Walk had been grim. Early daylight revealed that around half the houses had either suffered a direct hit and been demolished when the airplane came down or had suffered catastrophic damage and were unsafe to return to. Even though Vi and Tilly got there shortly after daybreak, the looters were already around. Fortunately, police and the army arrived, and the thieves soon legged it, taking whatever they could carry.

Seeing the state of the house seemed like déjà vu to Vi. “My home looked like this,” she said to Tilly. “I doubt we’ll find anything worth saving.”

Tilly squeezed her arm. “Oh, I don’t know. We might strike lucky and find Sandrine’s bloody drum. Maybe we can use it to summon up a friendly spirit who’ll rebuild the house.”

But there had been no drum, no friendly spirit and anything recognizable was either in tatters or smashed beyond repair. The furniture was firewood and even Mrs. Harris’s cooker was a mass of twisted metal.

After an hour, they gave up. At least they had their small suitcases with their essential documents – ration books, identity cards, money, and, as they only had the clothes they were wearing, they bought what they could afford from a nearby shop.

“It doesn’t go far, does it?” Vi said as she handed over the last few shillings she could reasonably afford. After all, they had rent to pay out on new lodgings yet.

The shop assistant smiled sympathetically. “If you’ve been bombed out, you can always go to the WVS. You know, the Women’s Voluntary Service. They can help you out with essential clothes and so on.”

“Thanks,” Tilly said and grimaced at Vi. “I don’t fancy wearing someone else’s knickers, do you?”

Vi screwed up her nose and shook her head. “If we only knew someone who could get hold of some parachute silk, we could make our own.”

That had been their first giggle and it felt good. Now, in the coffee house, their laughter was on the verge of hysteria and the more guilty she felt, the more Vi couldn’t help herself.

“Come on,” she managed at last. “Let’s go before someone else gets our room.”

* * *

At Nineteen Quaker Terrace, the door was answered within seconds. Evidently the owner, Mrs. Sinclair, believed in polishing her brass door knocker within an inch of its life as it nearly blinded Vi and she felt duty bound to give it a little wipe with her glove in case she had smeared it.

A pleasing, homely smell of lavender wax polish wafted through the partially open door.

“We’re here about the room,” Tilly said.

Mrs. Sinclair looked them up and down. She opened the door wider. “Come in, girls.”

“We passed the test,” Tilly whispered to Vi, who shushed her.

They followed Mrs. Sinclair down the hallway. Vi noted it appeared recently painted; a pleasant cream color adorned the walls. It struck her as unusual. She was used to wallpaper, usually with little sprigs of flowers on it – her mother’s choice, and Mrs. Harris’s, come to that.

At the top of a single flight of stairs, Mrs. Sinclair opened a door, revealing a large, airy and light room, this time with the expected wallpaper. On either side, a single bed, neatly made up with matching pink quilts, and small bedside tables with lamps next to each. Two single wardrobes stood side by side. An Art Deco dressing table with long mirrors was positioned in front of a large bay window, which was adorned with net curtains and the regulation blackout.

After determining that they were indeed ‘professional’ working girls, Mrs. Sinclair delivered her rules. “I won’t tolerate any nonsense or hanky-panky. No followers, of course.”

Vi couldn’t look at Tilly throughout the list of do’s and don’ts.

“Rent is payable one week in advance, with one week’s notice on either side should the arrangement not work out. Breakfast is at seven thirty a.m. Monday to Friday and at eight thirty on Saturdays and Sundays. Dinner is at seven p.m. If you should not require any, I should be obliged if you would give me at least twenty-four hours’ notice.”

“That may not always be possible,” Vi said, and noticed Mrs. Sinclair had the ability to raise one eyebrow independently of the other. “It’s just…the war work I’m engaged in. The hours aren’t always regular. They’ve warned me I may have to stay overnight at extremely short notice.”

The landlady nodded and appeared to consider this for a moment. “I’m not going to ask you what kind of work you’re engaged in. Careless talk and all that. I’m assuming, given our location, that you are probably based around the government offices, so I shall be flexible in the circumstances. For your part, please be prepared that your dinner may have been freshly cooked the day before and, by necessity, have been stored until you were in a position to eat it.”

“Of course. I quite understand. And I will try and give you as much notice as possible. Do you have a telephone?”

“No, I don’t hold with the things.”

“Well, I’ll do my best anyway.”

“So, you will be taking the room, then?”

Vi and Tilly exchanged looks. They nodded.

“Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair,” Vi said. “We’ll pay you the week’s rent now.”

They handed over the money and Mrs. Sinclair produced a small rent book from the folds of her pre-war skirt. She handed over a set of keys to each of them and left them to it.

Tilly sank on the bed by the wall. “Can you believe her? What century is she stuck in? The eighteenth?”

“Shhh. She’ll hear you.” Vi listened at the closed door. From downstairs she heard a door close.

“Not as free and easy as dear old Mrs. Harris, is she?”

Vi sighed.