It can’t be, she thought. This is an ambulance post. Someone has got to be manning the telephone. She knocked again, more loudly. Still no answer.
She tried the door. It opened, and she went inside. “Hullo? Anyone here?” she called, and when no one answered, went in search of the despatch room.
Halfway down the corridor she heard music-the Andrews Sisters singing “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.” She followed the sound along the corridor to a half-open door. Inside, she could see a young girl in pigtails and trousers lying on a sofa reading a film magazine, one leg draped over the arm of the sofa. A girl who obviously doesn’t know about the V-1s yet, she thought. Good. She pushed the door open. “Hullo? I beg your pardon, I’m looking for the officer in charge.”
The girl shot to her feet, lunging for the phonograph and dropping the film magazine in a splaying of pages, then abandoned the effort and snapped to attention. Which meant she was older than she looked, even though she was standing there like a naughty child about to be sent to bed without supper. “Lieutenant Fairchild, ma’am,” the girl said, saluting. “Can I be of help, ma’am?”
“Lieutenant Kent reporting for duty.” She handed her her transfer papers. “I’ve just been assigned to this post.”
“Assigned? The Major didn’t say anything about…” The girl frowned at the papers, and then grinned. “Headquarters finally sent someone. I don’t believe it. We’d given up all hope. Welcome to the post, Lieutenant-sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Kent. Mary Kent.”
“Welcome, Lieutenant Kent,” Fairchild said, and extended her hand. “I’m so sorry I didn’t know who you were, but we’ve been shorthanded for months, and the Major’s been fighting to get HQ to send someone, but we’d given up hope of your ever arriving.”
So had I, Mary thought.
“I do wish you’d been here a month ago. We were absolutely swamped with officers who needed driving, what with the invasion and all. We weren’t supposed to know what was going on-it was all terribly hush-hush-but it was obvious the balloon was about to go up. I got to drive General Patton,” she said proudly. “But now they’re all in France, and we haven’t a thing to do. Not that we aren’t glad to have you. And we shan’t be idle long.”
No, Mary thought.
“The Major will see to that. There’s no slacking off allowed at this post.” She glanced guiltily at the film magazine on the sofa. “She insists we do our bit to win the war every moment of every day. And she’ll have my head if she comes back and finds I haven’t done my bit and shown you round the post. Hang on.” She laid the papers on the desk and went over to the door. “Talbot!” she called down the corridor.
There was no answer. “She must have changed her mind,” Fairchild said. “And gone with the others to the applecart upset.”
What was an applecart upset? Some sort of ambulance call? She was obviously expected to know, but in all her researching of World War II slang she’d never heard the term.
“I should have thought they’d be back by now,” Fairchild said. “Hang on.” She wedged the door open with her rolled-up magazine. “So I’ll be able to hear the telephone, though I doubt if it’s needed. No one’s rung up all day. This way, Kent.”
If no one had telephoned, then an applecart upset couldn’t be a type of ambulance call. Could it be slang for an incident?
“This is our mess,” Fairchild said, opening a door, and she knew that term at least. “And the kitchen’s through there. And out here”-she propped open a side door and led her through-“is our garage, though there’s not much to see at the moment, I’m afraid. We’ve two ambulances, a Bentley and a Daimler. Have you ever driven a Daimler, Kent?” she asked, and when Mary nodded, “What year was it?”
2060. “I think it was a thirty-eight,” she said.
“I’m afraid that won’t be much help, then. Our Daimler’s positively ancient. I’m convinced Florence Nightingale drove it in the Crimean War. It’s ghastly to start and worse to drive. And nearly impossible to turn in a tight space. The Major’s put in for a new one, but no luck yet. This is the log,” she said, walking over to a clipboard hanging on the wall. She showed her the spaces for time, destination, and distance driven. “And no detours for errand running allowed. The Major’s an absolute bear about wasting petrol. And about failing to sign the log before you take a vehicle out.”
“What if you’re going to an incident?”
“An incident? Oh, you mean if a Spitfire crashes or something? Well, then of course one would go to it straightaway and fill out the log when one came back, but we get scarcely any of those. Most of our ambulance calls are for soldiers who’ve got in a fight or fallen down a flight of stairs when they were sloshed. The remainder of the time we drive officers. After you sign in, you take the keys to the despatch room,” she led her back inside to the room with the sofa and the phonograph, “and hang them up here.” She showed her three hooks labeled, “Ronald Colman,” “Clark Gable,” and “Bela Lugosi.” “We thought since the RAF crews name their aeroplanes, we’d name our ambulances.”
“I thought you said you had two ambulances.”
“We do. Ronald Colman is the Major’s personal Bentley. She lets us use it when both ambulances are out or when we’re to drive someone important.”
“Oh. I assume Bela Lugosi is the Daimler?”
“Yes, though the name doesn’t begin to describe its evil nature. I wanted to name it Heinrich Himmler.” She led Mary down another corridor and opened the door on a long room with six neatly made cots. “You’ll bunk in here,” she said, walking over to the second cot to the right. “This one’s yours.” She patted it, then walked over to a wardrobe and opened its door. “You can stow your things in here. You’re allowed half, so don’t let Sutcliffe-Hythe take more than her share. And don’t pick up after her. She tends to strew her things about and expect other people to put them away. She only joined up four months ago, and before that, of course, she had servants to do for her.”
The casual way in which Fairchild said it confirmed what Mary’d already deduced-that in spite of the pigtails and film magazine, Fairchild was from an upper-class family, as was Sutcliffe-Hythe, and most of the young women in the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. They’d qualified for the FANYs because, unlike lower-class girls, they’d known how to drive. They’d also possessed the social skills to mingle with officers, which was why they’d ended up chauffeuring generals as well as driving ambulances.
“Let’s see, what else do you need to know?” Fairchild said. “Breakfast’s at six, lights out at eleven. No borrowing someone else’s towel or beau, and no discussing Italy. Grenville’s fiancй’s there, and she hasn’t heard from him in three weeks. Oh, and don’t mention anything to do with getting engaged to Maitland-you’re not engaged, are you?”
“No,” she said, setting her duffel bag down on the bed.
“Good. Engaged girls are rather a sore point with Maitland just now. She’s been trying to persuade the pilot she’s seeing to propose, but so far she’s not having any luck. I told her she should take lessons from Talbot. She’s been engaged four times since I’ve been here. Were you seeing anyone in-where were you stationed before this?”
“Oxford.”
“Oxford? Oh, then you must know-” She stopped and cocked her head alertly as a door slammed somewhere.