forbidden to know.
Those in the dark.
Out there.
Hours later – and the end of the shift was in sight.
Her energies burned up, Mary was woozy and depleted, which meant she would need to take extra care not to make mistakes. All too aware that the present shift pattern was wreaking havoc with her constitution and her sleep, she felt permanently askew, as if she was sailing with a broken compass. Her dreams were particularly bad – vividly disruptive and alarming – and she awoke battered and exhausted.
The dreams were almost certainly her mind registering its protest at the upheaval to her body. Seven days on days. Seven days on nights. But she wasn’t about to repeat the mistake of discussing the problem of sleeplessness to the others. When she had mentioned it to Beryl some months ago, Beryl had shrugged as if to say that working nights didn’t bother her, which made Mary feel even older than she was.
Yet the fun she had in the canteen made up for a lot. To be united in camaraderie was a novel experience for Mary. In her previous job as supervisor at her local telephone exchange, she had had to respect the boundaries and keep herself to herself. But here she couldn’t help overhearing the chat and the free exchange of opinions. Oh, how they disliked the bosses, the predatory men, the rotten conveniences and the endless spam,but their collective admiration and loyalty for Mr Churchill gave them a nice warm glow. Before they went on shift there tended to be lots of jokes and chat at the tables. Post-shifts were more subdued occasions and the girls regarded each other through glazed eyes or stared at the exhortations pinned up on the canteen walls.
YOUR SILENCE IS VITAL
WALLS HAVE EARS
IF THE ENEMY DISCOVERS US THEY WILL BOMB US
Mary often wondered who it had been at the telephone exchange who picked up that she knew Morse. Whoever it was must have had connections and Mary found herself being interviewed by a woman in a severely cut suit in a vicarage in Kensington, who asked her all sorts of questions, including how she had learned Morse. The answer was simple: her father, who had been in Signals during the Great War, had taught it to her to help Mary out before she joined the Girl Guides.
The woman in the suit had looked very grave. ‘Miss Voss, if you were instructed to keep a secret, and to keep it for the rest of your life, could you do it?’
Her answer must have been convincing because, before she knew it, Mary had joined the FANYs and signed the Official Secrets Act.
The shift ended and Mary fetched her coat from the room which in a previous life had had been designated for the house’s vases –
an entire room for vases! –
and now did service as a cloakroom. She glanced in the meanly dimensioned mirror propped up on the windowsill. Hair still neatly rolled up. Tie straight.
It was eight o’clock in the morning and her day was ending.
When she stepped outside, figures were drifting up and down the drive, their faces pallid and ghostly in the quasi light of a December day – probably, like her, suffering from too littlesleep. There were a couple of WRAAFs, an army sergeant and a stream of cipher and signals clerks.
Nancy came out behind her. ‘Lucky sods,’ she said. ‘At least they can get to the pub when they come off duty.’
The sergeant from provisions, the one with a ridiculous handlebar moustache, passed them on the steps and gave a thumbs-up.
‘I think he fancies me …’ Nancy took her time to smooth her gloves over her hand. ‘He can think again.’
A car drew up in front of the main door. A chauffeur sprang into action and a uniformed figure with many pips and braids emerged from its interior.
‘Bigwig,’ said Nancy. ‘I could put up with him for the car.’
Mary focused on the bigwig, who was ruddy and portly with a mean little moustache. ‘No, you couldn’t.’
Mary’s digs in Locarno Avenue were at number eight. Letting herself in, she placed the key on
Those in the dark.
Out there.
Hours later – and the end of the shift was in sight.
Her energies burned up, Mary was woozy and depleted, which meant she would need to take extra care not to make mistakes. All too aware that the present shift pattern was wreaking havoc with her constitution and her sleep, she felt permanently askew, as if she was sailing with a broken compass. Her dreams were particularly bad – vividly disruptive and alarming – and she awoke battered and exhausted.
The dreams were almost certainly her mind registering its protest at the upheaval to her body. Seven days on days. Seven days on nights. But she wasn’t about to repeat the mistake of discussing the problem of sleeplessness to the others. When she had mentioned it to Beryl some months ago, Beryl had shrugged as if to say that working nights didn’t bother her, which made Mary feel even older than she was.
Yet the fun she had in the canteen made up for a lot. To be united in camaraderie was a novel experience for Mary. In her previous job as supervisor at her local telephone exchange, she had had to respect the boundaries and keep herself to herself. But here she couldn’t help overhearing the chat and the free exchange of opinions. Oh, how they disliked the bosses, the predatory men, the rotten conveniences and the endless spam,but their collective admiration and loyalty for Mr Churchill gave them a nice warm glow. Before they went on shift there tended to be lots of jokes and chat at the tables. Post-shifts were more subdued occasions and the girls regarded each other through glazed eyes or stared at the exhortations pinned up on the canteen walls.
YOUR SILENCE IS VITAL
WALLS HAVE EARS
IF THE ENEMY DISCOVERS US THEY WILL BOMB US
Mary often wondered who it had been at the telephone exchange who picked up that she knew Morse. Whoever it was must have had connections and Mary found herself being interviewed by a woman in a severely cut suit in a vicarage in Kensington, who asked her all sorts of questions, including how she had learned Morse. The answer was simple: her father, who had been in Signals during the Great War, had taught it to her to help Mary out before she joined the Girl Guides.
The woman in the suit had looked very grave. ‘Miss Voss, if you were instructed to keep a secret, and to keep it for the rest of your life, could you do it?’
Her answer must have been convincing because, before she knew it, Mary had joined the FANYs and signed the Official Secrets Act.
The shift ended and Mary fetched her coat from the room which in a previous life had had been designated for the house’s vases –
an entire room for vases! –
and now did service as a cloakroom. She glanced in the meanly dimensioned mirror propped up on the windowsill. Hair still neatly rolled up. Tie straight.
It was eight o’clock in the morning and her day was ending.
When she stepped outside, figures were drifting up and down the drive, their faces pallid and ghostly in the quasi light of a December day – probably, like her, suffering from too littlesleep. There were a couple of WRAAFs, an army sergeant and a stream of cipher and signals clerks.
Nancy came out behind her. ‘Lucky sods,’ she said. ‘At least they can get to the pub when they come off duty.’
The sergeant from provisions, the one with a ridiculous handlebar moustache, passed them on the steps and gave a thumbs-up.
‘I think he fancies me …’ Nancy took her time to smooth her gloves over her hand. ‘He can think again.’
A car drew up in front of the main door. A chauffeur sprang into action and a uniformed figure with many pips and braids emerged from its interior.
‘Bigwig,’ said Nancy. ‘I could put up with him for the car.’
Mary focused on the bigwig, who was ruddy and portly with a mean little moustache. ‘No, you couldn’t.’
Mary’s digs in Locarno Avenue were at number eight. Letting herself in, she placed the key on
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