Finally completed my letter to Tom and posted it on Wednesday, although heaven knows when it’ll reach him—letters take such ages, now. Told him all about Mrs Dorn’s baby—well, most of it—and about the mobile canteen and the ‘incident’. Such a nondescript word for a matter of life or death, isn’t it? Hope it didn’t sound too much like boasting, because I know it’s nothing, really, when you compare it to what the RAF do every day. However, I shouldn’t like Tom to think I’m doing nothing while he’s risking his life.
I arrived home from the office yesterday—only half an hour’s delay, hallelujah!—and Minnie handed me a letter. She looked very reproachful, and I saw why when I turned it over: it was from Tom! Tried to be nonchalant, asking what was for dinner and whether she’d done all the blackouts, but fear I didn’t succeed too well; it must have been blindingly obvious that I couldn’t wait to read it. I tore upstairs the minute I could, flung myself down on my bed and ripped it open. It’s dated Monday— five days ago!
It was short and very sweet. Old-fashioned. He hoped it wasn’t a liberty, but he likes me very much and wants to see me again. He’s got some leave coming up, a forty-eight hour pass, and he wants to meet me in London this evening—it only just reached me in time! At the bottom he put, You needn’t write back if this suits, because I may not get the letter in time. I had to stuff my knuckles into my mouth not to shout out loud from sheer happiness.
I was worried about Minnie coming up and finding me reading Tom’s letter, so I put it back in its envelope and pushed it under my pillow, but a minute later I felt I just had to get it out again for another look, to reassure myself that it was real and I hadn’t just imagined the whole thing. In the end I simply lay there on my back with the letter pressed flat against my heart and only went back downstairs when I heard the siren.
I’ve told Mums and Minnie about my escapade at the bomb site last week, but I didn’t mention it to anyone at work. Everyone’s heartily sick of bomb stories, and besides, Phyllis and Vi keep going into huddles and whispering about Mr Bridges, which is very off-putting, especially as they keep glancing at me while they’re doing it. I still haven’t plucked up the courage to say anything to Phyll, and probably won’t—the atmosphere is quite bad enough without my adding to it. As Mums would undoubtedly say, Don’t make trouble for yourself. Not that I’ve told her, of course!
At the centre this afternoon, Mrs L and I were loading up the van when the woman in charge appeared and said, ‘Somebody’s been asking for you,’ and handed me a note. Then she pursed her lips and said, ‘I hope you’re not going to make a habit of this,’— obviously thinking it was a boyfriend—and I was so flustered I didn’t know what to say. Mrs L obviously had the same thought, because she just laughed when I said I’d got no idea who it was from and said, ‘It’s all right, dear, I shan’t pry,’ and tactfully removed herself to the front of the van while I opened it.
Dear Miss Armitage,
I hope you will not mind if I take the liberty of writing to say thank you for helping me. I would like it if you could come and see me soonest, I would like to thank you properly and give back the hanky that you were so kind as to lend to me. I do hope that you will be able to call on me at my address which is 14B Frith Street, Soho, WI. I am usually at home in the afternoon.
Yours sincerely,
Rene Tate (Miss)
Well! I was astonished, and showed the note to Mrs L. ‘It’s the lady from those bombed flats in Wild Street, last week, the one in the tunnel. Saying thank you.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘She wants me to go and see her. Look.’
Mrs L read the letter, and her eyebrows went up. ‘Soho. And, judging by the address, a flat.’ She gave me a meaningful look.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Well, I don’t think you ought to go on your own, dear. I’m sure this Miss…Tate…is a perfectly nice person, but there’s a lot of nasty business in that area, and you do hear these dreadful stories about the white slave trade. I do think it would be a good idea if you took somebody with you, just in case.’
‘I’m meeting a friend later, near Piccadilly, and I’m sure he’d come along if I asked him.’
‘I suppose you’ll be all right if there’s a man there, but you will be careful, won’t you? I mean, with the blackout and everything, I’m sure they—’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs L. Tom’ll look after me.’
‘Tom…is that your young man, then?’
‘Well, yes.’ It was funny hearing him described like that, especially when I haven’t even told Minnie or Mums. ‘Yes, I suppose he is.’
I thought about it on and off during the shift, and by the time we were finished and I’d smartened myself up, I’d decided that Mrs L is right and it’s a good idea not to be on my own. I read in the paper last week that the police have caught the West End murderer—as the press call him—but nevertheless, one does hear of awful things happening to girls in those sorts of places. I’m sure Tom won’t mind, not once I’ve explained, anyway.
I can’t wait to see him!