King’s Cross Station was cavernous, bigger than a cathedral, and filled with people.
It was eight o’clock, which probably wasn’t that late in London where there were nightclubs and restaurants with fine linen tablecloths and silver champagne buckets where dark-suited men and women in fur stoles had supper after the theatre. In Durham, people didn’t roam about at night, because there was nowhere to roam to, apart from pubs and well, she didn’t know anyone who’d frequent a pub.
But here in London there were positively hordes of people hurrying about, heads down, faces grim and unsmiling. Soldiers. Sailors. Khaki and navy everywhere she looked. An older man with a suitcase lifted his hat as he saw her glance in his direction. A woman juggled assorted luggage, two small children, and a baby on her hip.
Next her attention was caught by two girls not that much older than herself in WAAF uniforms; hair rolled impeccably, arms linked as they marched smartly along. The blue serge was almost the same shade as her eyes and she thought that maybe she might join the WAAFs when she was old enough to volunteer, though they weren’t allowed to fly planes, which was a shame because learning to fly a plane would be thrilling.
The longer she stood there, the more her eyes sought out the people who lingered, rather than rushed. Saying goodbye with embraces that went on too long: tense hands clutching at shoulders, sobs not quite swallowed up by the distant sound of a brass band and the cacophony of train doors slamming shut. She turned her head away from one young couple, the girl’s face almost obscured by her handkerchief as she wept in the arms of her corporal.
She suddenly felt very small and very alone. Too scared to put one foot in front of the other, to choose a direction to go in. She had nowhere to hurry to, no one to linger with and the creeping suspicion that she’d made a terrible mistake. She was always getting scolded for being impetuous, though it was more than impetuosity that had made her jump on the London train with her mother’s ‘funeral’ fur coat around her shoulders and her sister’s two best dresses stuffed in her suitcase.
By now they’d have found the silly, spiteful note she’d stuck behind the clock on the mantelpiece.
I didn’t kiss Cedric. He tried to kiss me. I think it’s beastly that you refused to give me a fair hearing and instead expect me to be happy that I’m being shipped off to the back of beyond to join the Land Girls as soon as I’ve taken my Highers.
Well, I’m not going. By the time you read this I’ll be in London having all sorts of adventures rather than seeing out the war shovelling pig muck, hoeing fields and wearing corduroy knickerbockers and horrid, clumpy boots.
It might have been her rashest, most impetuous act. Oh, if only she stopped to think about the consequences of her actions…
‘Hey! Watch where you swing that thing,’ exclaimed a loud voice to the left of her.
She whirled round to see two men carrying duffel bags. They were in uniform, but their khakis were crisper, sharper, and they wore their caps at a jaunty angle. One was fair, one was dark, but they were both strapping specimens of masculinity who didn’t look the least bit like their raw-skinned, pasty-faced British comrades.
They were drawing level with her now as she stood there, mouth agape, because they were from that magical land of movie stars and Broadway and dancing girls in sparkling costumes and everything that was good and great and in glorious Technicolor.
Then they walked right past her, joking in loud, breezy voices, and the fact that she was alone, without purpose and in the most terrible trouble didn’t matter any more. She rushed after them, suitcase banging against her legs. ‘Please! Oh, please!’ she cried, catching up so she could tug on a khaki-covered arm. ‘Please! I need you to take me to Rainbow Corner!’