‘Unquestionably.’
‘And wore slippers that matched our dressing gowns?’
‘Also that.’
‘I wonder what her name is,’ said Clare.
‘Prunella?’
‘What about Prudence?’
‘Much better,’ said Iris. ‘But no one’s allowed to shorten it to Pru.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Or, there’s always Primrose,’ said Iris. ‘And if we’re shortening that … ’
‘Prim,’ said Clare.
‘Prim,’ echoed Iris, and they both started laughing.
‘Something funny?’ enquired the adjutant, who naturally chose that moment to appear, shouldering his way through the corridor door, a cup and saucer in hand.
‘No, sir,’ they chorused.
‘No, I didn’t think so either,’ he replied, and, without apology or explanation for his lateness, strode towards them, handed Iris his tea, unlocked his door, reclaimed his tea, and ushered both her and Clare in.
A crushingly tedious morning followed, in which the grey dawn slowly lightened, the corridor outside grew more bustling, and the three of them trawled through the endless paperwork that reliably accompanied any wartime posting. Once that was all duly dotted and crossed, the adjutant set to looking for Iris and Clare’s rotas from among the folders piled on his desk: a protracted, and ultimately fruitless search that resulted in him telephoning for someone called Twinton to reproduce the said rotas, directly, and bring a fresh pot of tea, too.
Twinton – a bespectacled WAAF – did as ordered, throwing Iris and Clare a pitying smile, and supplying three cups with the pot. Not that the adjutant offered to pour for Iris or Clare. No, he took up just one of those cups, filling it, and draining it, then filling it again – either truly oblivious to his own rudeness, or making a concerted effort at it (Iris suspected the latter) – all the while briefing Iris and Clare on their shifts.
There was to be no easing in for them. Rather, with all the crews who’d just returned marked for ops again that same night (‘Where to?’ Iris asked anxiously. ‘You’ll find out when you need to know,’ said the adjutant, ‘like everyone else.’), they were to report to a Sergeant Browning in the control tower for their first shift at seven, and would then be on standby for the foreseeable.
‘I’m assured you know what you’re doing,’ the adjutant said, reaching for a cigarette from his tunic pocket. ‘I hope that’s the case.’ He treated them to another of his narrow-eyed glares. ‘I’ve never worked with female radio operatives before. But,’ lighting the cigarette, he exhaled smoke through his thin nose, ‘I must take what I’m given.’
‘I hope we won’t disappoint you, sir,’ said Clare, with impressive sincerity.
‘As do I,’ said the adjutant, not impressed; rather, raising a sceptical brow. ‘Now,’ he tapped ash in his saucer, ‘there’s a deal I need to bring you up to speed with before I set you loose, so listen carefully. I won’t say it twice.’
Iris quickly wished he hadn’t troubled to say it once: ‘it’ being an entirely extraneous history of the life and times of RAF Doverley, from its earliest incarnation, back in the thirties, as a training camp, through the war itself, during which it had variously played host to Fighter Command, special operations, and, briefly, a regiment of paratroopers. The adjutant detailed the planes that had called Doverley home, the volume of airmen who’d passed through its gates, finally working his way up to the year before when, due to the pressing need for more bomber bases, the estate’s runways had been strengthened to bear the weight of Lancasters. The newly formed 96 squadron had itself moved in just a month prior.
‘We’re a large station,’ he said. ‘We have more than fifteen-hundred men based here, and try to keep twenty-four Lancasters operational, the crews cycled on and off to enable rest. There are fourteen of you now,’ he waved his cigarette in Clare and Iris’s direction, ‘WAAFs.Twinton, obviously. She helps me. Then we have three in the kitchen, five drivers, a parachute rigger, one intelligence officer, and one plotter.’
Was Prim a plotter, Iris wondered?
It would make sense, given she’d been upall night.
The adjutant gave her no opportunity to probe. He continued talking, drinking his cooling tea, briefing herself and Clare on Doverley’s rest times, its mealtimes, the protocol for bomb deliveries (everyone was to keepwell clear, was the gist), and the names of all 96’s senior staff, from the station commander, Group Captain Frederick Lacey, downwards. At no point did he enquire whether Iris and Clare had any questions, or might even require a break to visit the latrine. He just kept on, and on, until Clare – legs crossed – glazed over, catatonic with boredom, and Iris, in a similar state, started to despair that he’d ever run out of things to say.
It was noon before he finally released them,setting them loose, and left his office too, at pace: desperate, Iris guessed, for the loo himself. All that tea.
‘It’s coffee I need,’ said Clare, down in the basement, once she and Iris had made use of the WAAF’s lav. ‘Strong coffee.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Iris, who could hardly remember what such a thing tasted like.
‘And all the very best of the British to you,’ said Clare, heading in the direction of the kitchens. ‘See you for lunch.’ She threw a smile over her shoulder. ‘Maybe.’
‘Yes, maybe,’ said Iris.
