Mulligan frowned at her. Bobby felt her cheeks burning. She wondered if she had crossed a line and was about to be charged with insubordination. This was one thing she hated about the military. None of the normal rules of human engagement seemed to apply, and she had no intuitive understanding of what the new rules were.
‘Your typing and shorthand speeds were impressive,’ Mulligan said at last. ‘We can use those skills in the WAAF. Good, fast, accurate typists are always valued.’
‘Yes, but surely if I did well in the tests then there’s more important work I could be doing?’
Mulligan fixed her in a steely gaze. ‘Don’t assume that because other work sounds more heroic or glamorous, the work you’ve been assigned isn’t important. All our work is important. Without it, the RAF couldn’t function, which means the war could not be won.’
‘I know, I just… thought I could be more help in another area.’
‘Answer me this, Bancroft. Why do you think the work of a plotter is more important than that done by our WAAF clerks, or cooks, or the girls getting blisters on their fingers sewing parachutes?’
‘Well, because it’s…’
‘Men’s work?’ Mulligan asked, lifting an eyebrow.
‘That isn’t what I was going to say.’
‘But it’s what you were thinking. It’s what everyone thinks, whether they know it or not. It’s work that would, in other circumstances, be done by a man, and therefore intrinsically more valuable. Cooking, sewing, typing: they come under the umbrella of women’s work, and like all work done by women, tend to remain invisible. But a man who isn’t fed cannot fight, Bancroft. If parachutes aren’t competently sewn, men will die. The work of a clerk keeps the wheels of the Air Force turning. Do you see that?’
Bobby pondered this. Was that what she had been thinking – that administrative work had less value because it was so often allotted to women? Perhaps she had.
‘I thought I could help the war effort more by using my brain, that’s all,’ she mumbled.
‘Let me teach you the hard truth of life in the forces, young lady. You do the job that’s put in front of you, just as every soldier, sailor and airman fighting for this country is doing. No more, no less. Everyone here has come from a different background in civilian life, and they have each been assigned a job that we feel is the best fit for them. We won’t be victorious if everyone spends their time looking for greener grass on the other side of the fence. Do the job that’s in front of you.’
‘Yes, but surely—’
‘That will be all, Aircraftwoman,’ the officer said sharply. ‘I try to be lenient with new WAAFs in their first week, knowing they still have one foot in civilian life, but I would advise you notto test the limits of that privilege. Go to your work – that’s an order.’
Bobby did as she was told, feeling as she so often had since arriving here – about as insignificant as a worm.
Four days later, there had been only slight improvement in the weather. It had dried up enough, however, for the women to be told that they would head out on their first route march the following day.
Bobby couldn’t say she was looking forward to it. She had heard about route marches from her male RAF friends. In her mind was an unpleasant image of being made to march twenty miles over the fells in full kit, only to return, covered in mud and other unsavoury substances, to the prescribed ten-minute bath in five inches of lukewarm water. Even on the night she had climbed Great Bowside to help the injured airmen, she had at least been able to return home to a soak in a steaming mustard bath, a hot water bottle and a comfortable bed.
After she was off duty, Bobby returned to her dorm. Most of the other women had finished work and would now be in the recreation hut, listening to the wireless and playing cards, but Bobby wanted to see if tomorrow’s fatigue duties had been pinned to the noticeboard yet.
They hadn’t, but she noticed that one of the women had added another strike to the tally counting the days until their two weeks of isolation were up.
To her new friends, the tally meant just one thing: men. They had little interest in the lowly male recruits, but the officer instructors were another matter. The women spoke of theseknights of the air as if they were demi-gods, and longed for the day they could see them up close.
The tally meant only one thing to Bobby too. Letters. She was longing for news from home, but even more than that, she was desperate to see if her last letter to Charlie had produced a response. If she could only know that everything between them was as it ought to be, she could relax a little. As it was, the constant worry that something might be wrong kept her on the very edge of her nerves. Without post she had no way of knowing if he had written back, or if a backlog of letters from the past four weeks might have caught up with her. She hadn’t received any urgent telegrams, thank God, so she at least knew he was safe. It was his heart she now feared for.
‘Just seven more days,’ she murmured to herself as she walked to her bunk. ‘Good God, but there must besomething.’
She found Dilys and Carol on their beds. Dilys was lazing around in her illegally retained civilian knickers and rather grubby bra while laying out cards for a game of Patience. Carol was lying on the bunk above, gazing dreamily at the corrugated ceiling while she smoked a cigarette.
‘Afternoon,’ Bobby said, summoning the mask of joviality she always wore around the others. She had been hoping to have a few minutes to herself before dinner, but no such luck. ‘I thought everyone would be in the rec hut.’
‘I needed to get out of that smothering uniform and let my skin breathe.’ Dilys glanced up from her cards. ‘How’s Stewpot’s pet then?’
‘I’m really not. I don’t even think she likes me. Just my typing speed.’ Bobby waved a hand in front of the dreamy Carol. ‘What’s up with you?’
Carol gave a deep sigh. ‘I’ve met him, Bobs.’
‘Who have you met?’
‘The one. Honestly, I’m ruined for other men now.’
