Tuesday’s shift was grey and grinding. The skies were the colour of gunmetal and there were sporadic rumblings of thunder throughout the afternoon.
The poets of the Romantic movement Charlotte was studying for her end-of-term exams would have claimed that nature was merely reflecting the sombre mood of Polly’s mindset, for it was clear that she had pulled up the drawbridge to her heart and surrounded it with impenetrable defences.
As the day progressed, a tiny thread of hope started to weave its way around the squad as Gloria quietly mentioned Helen’s idea to each of the women whenever they were on their own.
As soon as Polly had left at the end of the shift, Dorothy gathered everyone together. She was just about to speak when suddenly it started to hail.
‘Admiral?’ she shouted out, grabbing her bag and boxed gas mask and holding them above her head.
The women’s scrunched-up faces showed their acquiescence as bullets of ice bounced off them.
En route, Martha dropped by the drawing office to get Hannah and Olly.
Rosie went to the admin offices to fetch Bel and Marie-Anne. Her intention had been to invite Helen as well – after all, the idea they were about to discuss was hers – but when she got there, Helen was holed up in her office with Mr Havelock and Harold. Rosie could just about see Helen’s expression through the haze of her grandfather’s cigar smoke. She did not look happy.
Within fifteen minutes of the klaxon sounding out, the troops had been rallied and were sitting round the table in the far corner of the pub.
‘So, the basic plan is to get Polly and Tommy together and hope to God they manage to sort themselves out,’ Dorothy summarised. She took a sip of her port and lemonade, happy that the squad’s differences in opinion were being overshadowed by their joint desire to reunite the star-crossed lovers.
‘Hopefully, in time for them to get married,’ Bel said. She still couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t, accept that the wedding wasn’t going ahead. She’d heard from Maud and Mavis, who ran the sweet shop, that the final banns had still been read, despite Polly’s visit to the vicar on Saturday night.
‘Let’s hope so,’ Marie-Anne chipped in. She, too, had been gutted at the sudden turn of events.
‘Yes, fingers crossed,’ Gloria said.
Hannah clapped her hands and looked at Olly.
‘Doufejme,’ he said in Czech.
‘“Hopefully”,’ Hannah translated, smiling at Olly.
‘We’re going to have to work quickly, though,’ Rosie stressed.
‘Yes,’ Martha agreed. ‘We’ve only got three days.’
‘It’s cutting it fine, but it’s not impossible,’ Dorothy said with confidence.
‘So, how we ganna make it happen?’ Angie looked round the table, the question etched onto her face.
It took an hour and another round of drinks, but they got there in the end.
‘Thanks for helping out with my unit,’ Major Black said as Tommy pushed the wheelchair up the ramp to the top of the steps and let them both into the flat.
‘I think it’s more the other way round,’ Tommy said. ‘They’re helping me.’
He went into the lounge and put on the fire.
‘I feel so much fitter already.’
The Major looked at Tommy and wasn’t totally convinced he was ready to go back to Gibraltar. Tommy had been teaching his men and training alongside them for the past few days and every night had more or less collapsed exhausted into bed within an hour of getting back to the flat.
‘Aye,’ the Major said, wheeling himself over to the sideboard. ‘There’s benefits both ways.’
He held the decanter up at Tommy, but he shook his head.
‘What you’re teaching my lads is invaluable,’ said the Major, pouring himself a Scotch. ‘And at the same time, you’re getting your levels of fitness up before you go back out there.’
He turned and looked at Tommy.
‘Which they need to be.’
He swallowed a mouthful of single malt.
‘You’ll be no good to anyone if you’re not up to it and get ill.’
The Major thought Tommy was rushing things and had told him so. He had also told Tommy that if he’d been in his shoes, he would have married his sweetheart first, and only then told her he was going back.
Tommy went into the kitchen and switched on the oven. He got the steak and kidney pie that Agnes had sent round yesterday and put it on the top shelf. Beryl had brought it round and told him that they were ‘all hoping Polly came to her senses’.
Tommy appreciated that others cared and supported him in his decision. But he also knew chances were that Polly would rail against any interference. It might even make her dig her heels in more.
Tommy made himself a cup of tea and went back into the lounge while the pie heated up.
‘I’ve got another favour to ask,’ Tommy said, taking a sip of his tea and looking over to the Major. ‘I promise this’ll be the last one.’ He gave a slightly apologetic half-smile.
‘Ask away, lad,’ the Major said.
‘Can you make contact with Commander Bridgman? See if I can have a chat with him about heading back out there?’
The Major took a sip of whisky. He was quiet for a moment while he savoured the burn trickling down his throat.
‘You’re not jumping the gun a bit? At least wait until the New Year. That’s only a fortnight away. Give yourself more time to get back on your feet properly?’
‘Nah,’ Tommy said. ‘After I speak to him and he sanctions my return, it’ll take a good few weeks to organise getting me back over there. By that time, I’ll be as fit as a fiddle.’
The Major looked at Tommy and pulled a cigar out of his top pocket.
He took his time lighting it.
Commander Bridgman was not known for his procrastination.
He’d wager he’d have Tommy back as quick as a flash.
Certainly quicker than Tommy anticipated.