‘But Dorotha’s your sister and just about the most understanding woman on Earth,’ Joyce protested.
‘You have to promise me, Joyce,’ she said, with a sharp edge to her voice.
A silence washed up the tracks, broken only by the sound of the singer’s voice echoing through the tunnels.
Show me the way to go home, I’m tired and I want to go to bed...
She nodded as Adela’s fingers tightened around hers. ‘Say it, Joyce. You must promise me. You will never tell Dorotha her little sister had a baby.’ Tears slid down her cheeks. ‘I’d rather die of shame than my family discover this.’
‘I promise,’ Joyce said, with a sinking feeling.
She heard the tapping of a stick and looked up to see Mitsy making her way slowly up the tunnel platform, holding the latest copy ofThe Swiss Cottager, her dog trotting after her.
‘Spam or jam,’ she announced.
‘Pardon?’ Joyce replied.
‘I got you the last two sandwiches at the station café. You can fight it out between you. I know you two don’t eat properly.’
Mitsy was right there. They bolted down a margarine-smeared roll and a cup of tea from a café in the morning. Most evenings, there was some form of meat on offer from a British Restaurant, a government-funded communal kitchen, formed to ensure war workers ate an inexpensive, but nourishing diet. But the bits in between were usually just a hurried sandwich and a cup of tea from a WVS van.
‘I’ll take Spam, Adela, you have jam,’ she remarked, knowing Adela couldn’t eat pork.
‘Why are you two hiding out here and not watching the concert?’ Mitsy asked, sitting down on the edge of the bunk bed.
‘Adela’s a bit peaky.’
‘I’ve got the curse,’ she said.
‘To be honest, darlings, you’re probably better off here. ENSA are putting on a concert and it’s shockingly bad,’ Mitsy said. ‘What is it folks are saying ENSA really stands for, Every Night Something Awful?’
Even Adela smiled at this. The Entertainments National Service Association was a government-backed organisation to raise the morale of the people, but the standard of entertainment was a bit hit-and-miss.
‘Mind if I join you two instead?’
‘Be my guest,’ Joyce smiled. ‘Read us out something, would you, and take our mind off things.’
‘Yes, please, the Lonely Hearts column,’ Adela said.
Of all the features that Dore worked hard each week to publish, the Lonely Hearts column was far and away the most popular, proving that even in war, or perhapsbecauseof the war, people craved romance.
‘Very well.To the girl in bunk 18 on the eastbound platform. I adore your smile, your bubbly personality and your smashing pins. Meet me under the clock in the booking hall at midnight and grant me a kiss. I promise not to turn into a frog.’
Mitsy rolled her eyes.
‘If you’re in the mood, write to me at bunk six and I’ll be in the nu—’ Mitsy broke off. ‘Honestly, how did Dore let that one through? Mind you, this isn’t much better.
‘I’m on leave from my regiment for the next forty-eight hours, anyone underground at Swiss Cottage looking for a fun New Year’s Eve night out, come and find me in the café. I’ll take you dancing at the Café de Paris. I’m a terrific dancer and I’m sure you won’t find me lacking in the looks department either.’
‘Bet he’s doing the double shuffle,’ Mitsy remarked. ‘Let’s find another . . . oh gracious . . .’
‘Why, Mitsy Bouvoir,’ Joyce gasped. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were blushing.’ She took the newspaper and read.
‘Mitsy Bouvoir, I am under your spell. A fan.’
‘How many’s that been now?’ Joyce exclaimed. ‘Two?’
‘Five actually.’
