“You would!” Pamela laughed. “But the boring stuff has to be done, too, Jeremy. If files were not in apple-pie order, and a piece of information couldn’t be found the moment it’s wanted, the delay could cost lives.”
“You’re right.” He grinned back at her. “I never was much good at doing the ordinary things, was I? I got beaten enough times at school for failing to buckle down and study. But then I aced the exams, and they had to eat their words. Most satisfying.”
“You shouldn’t waste petrol driving up to town when there is a perfectly good train,” Pamela said.
“Oh, don’t worry. My father can virtually write himself petrol coupons, you know. He has to go up to town all the time.”
Pamela had a worrying vision of Jeremy insisting on driving her all the way to Bletchley. That would never do. “I’d appreciate a ride to the station,” she said, “but I think I’d rather go back by train after that. I have the voucher to travel.”
“Anyone would think that you were trying to avoid me.”
“Not at all, Jeremy. I love being with you. You know that. We’ve had a splendid time today, haven’t we? It’s just that . . . well, I want to get my head in order before I check back to work. For all I know, I might have to go directly to another night shift.”
“They’ve no right making women do night shifts,” Jeremy said. “I think I’ll come with you and tell them.”
“No, you won’t!” She slapped his hand.
He grabbed her hand, pulled her toward him, and kissed her with passion, gradually forcing her back onto the seat of the Rolls. She was horribly conscious of his weight on top of her, his tongue in her mouth, his knee forcing her legs apart, his hand straying downward. She sat up abruptly, pushing his hand away. “Jeremy, not here, outside my parents’ house. Anyone might see.”
He was looking at her, long and hard. “Pamma, I’m beginning to wonder whether you still feel anything for me. You used to love me; I know you did. My feelings for you haven’t changed, you know. I can’t help admitting that I want you. I want you desperately. And yet every time I get near you, you push me away.”
“I don’t mean to,” she said. “And I do still love you. I dreamed about you every day you were away. I went to sleep with your picture under my pillow. And I do want you to make love to me. It’s just . . .” She gave an embarrassed little laugh. “I’m a twenty-one-year-old virgin, and I’m hesitant to take that next step, I suppose.”
He laughed now. “Then we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? I won’t rush you. I’ll make sure the time and place are right. Our London flat is very comfortable and very private. Mayfair and all that. No family to spy on us. I’ll be moving in at the end of the week. You will come and visit me, won’t you?”
“I don’t know when I’ll get more time off,” she said. “But I will come.”
“We can start with my moving-in party. I thought I might hold it next Wednesday. That will give me time to get settled in. Do you have your evenings free?”
“It depends what shift I am on.”
He frowned. “Surely you can swap shifts for one evening. You don’t have to work seven days a week, do you?”
“No, of course not.”
“And you can get into town by train?”
“Yes, easily.”
He took her hand in his, playing with her fingers. “Then let’s say next Wednesday. I haven’t had a decent party for years. Invite your friends if you like. I bet the old man has some good booze stashed away at the flat. We’ll help him drink it in case the Germans invade and confiscate it.”
Pamela was sitting up very straight in the car, wanting to smooth down her skirt. “Do you think they will invade?”
“I think it’s inevitable,” he said. “Look how easily they walked into France and Belgium and Denmark and Norway. What have we got that those countries don’t have?”
“We haven’t been invaded since 1066,” she said. “Napoleon walked into all those countries, but he couldn’t take Britain.”
He patted her knee. “That’s the spirit. We’ll fight them on the beaches, we’ll fight them in the pubs and public loos . . .”
“Jeremy, don’t make fun. It was a brilliant speech. Mr. Churchill is a brilliant orator.”
“Sorry. Yes, I know he is. But with all the fighting spirit and pride in the world, we don’t have the weapons to take on the Wehrmacht. If America decides to lend us some, then that may be different. But they may sit on the fence for years.”
Pamela shuddered. “Let’s not talk about it. You’re home safe, and that’s what matters.”
“And you’ll come to my party?”
“I’ll try my best to, I promise.”
Pamela went over this conversation in her head as the train bore her out from London to Bletchley. A party. That would be safe enough. Safety in numbers. Then she realised that at some time she’d have to come to terms with her relationship with Jeremy. He wanted to make love to her. She had always thought that she wanted it, too. But her vision included marriage. His didn’t seem to. She’d heard too many rumours of girls who ended up in the family way. Girls who were shipped off to the country and nobody ever spoke about the baby again.
But Jeremy would marry me if that happened, she thought. Of course he would. Besides, she added to herself, I have a feeling that Jeremy knows about such things.
She was feeling better by the time she returned to Bletchley and found she was anxious to get back to work. Trixie was sitting on her bed when Pamela arrived back at their digs. She was carefully easing one leg into a silk stocking. She looked up and smiled.
“Oh, you’re back. Just a minute while I try to do this without laddering my one good pair. God knows what I’ll do after this. Resort to drawing a line up the back of my leg with a pencil, like everyone else, I suppose.” She eased the stocking up and secured it with a suspender. “Did you have a good time?”
“Yes, thank you. Apart from our house being bombed.”
“Bombed? Golly, how awful. Was it destroyed?”
“No, thank goodness. Only very minor damage. The West Kent Regiment is billeted with us, and it was a case of all hands to the rescue. They put out the fire before it could spread.”
Trixie grinned. “I really must come and visit you with all those yummy soldiers on the premises. Speaking of yummy men, did you see the delicious Jeremy Prescott?”
“I did.”
“And how is he? Is he—um—fully recovered?”
“Still a little pale and thin, but well on the road to recovery, thank God. He looks a little like a Romantic poet, you know, like Keats on his deathbed. But recovering rapidly.” An image of Jeremy in the car, trying to pin her down, flashed across her mind. “Yes, making a remarkable recovery.”
“So did you have an absolutely divine time? Confess all. Tell Auntie Trixie.”
“We had family around most of the time,” Pamela said. “We did go out to dinner at a pub, and then he drove me home.”
“Oh God, I remember going home in a taxi with him once, after a deb’s ball,” Trixie said. “My dear, I had no idea you could get up to that sort of thing in the back of a taxi. Nobody had mentioned he was NSIT.”
“What?” Pamela asked.
“NSIT. Not safe in taxis, darling. It was a common code among debs. Did you grow up in a nunnery?”