It reminded her a bit of Mary Churchillâs: dimpled and doughy. Edie told herself to buck up: no one likes a whinger, least of all a posh one.
At last, the company sergeant major was called to come and inspect, and they stood to attention along the wall, waiting. He threw open the hangar door and walked right across the wet bit that
they had just finished. The bottom of his boots were caked in mud.
âYouâd better do this bit again. Itâs dirty,â he said, walking up and down the hangar, and then he began to stride towards the door. Edie heard the sound of one of the
other girls beginning to sob.
âThatâs simply not on,â Edie said, lurching out of line. There was a collective gasp and she caught Beaâs eye. Bea shook her head, a worried look on her face, but Edie
took no notice. The company sergeant major spun his bulk round to face her, his face beetroot-red, his greasy moustache twitching. âNow listen here,â Edie continued. âIt was
perfectly clean until you walked all over it in your filthy boots. Weâve all worked really hard and youâve ruined it.â
The barrage that followed was worse than she had endured in all drill or room inspections from the previous week. He thrust forwards and the force of his roaring anger pushed her back into line:
just who did she think she was? If she ever spoke that way again . . . letting down the squad . . . letting herself down, letting the country down . . .
his horrid eyes like dirty marbles,
his putrid breath as he shoved his shouting face right into hers. She would scrub the entire floor again. On her own. He turned and stalked out.
âNice one, Lightwater,â said the corporal, handing her a bucket and brush, after heâd gone. Edie realised she was shaking. She could barely hold the bucket handle. The other
girls, dismissed, headed outside. Bea touched Edie on the shoulder as she left.
âChin up, girl,â she said.
And as Edie watched them all file out into the late afternoon, she let a couple of hot tears fall, disappearing softly onto the dampness of the floor. âChin upâ was what Pop always
said when she was sad. âChin up, Half Pint,â when she was in trouble with Mummy or Nanny or had fallen off her pony again. She hadnât even told Pop she was leaving. Heâd be
worried, and Mummy would be frantic. Maybe theyâd come and find her and she could escape this horrible place. Maybe Mummy was right; maybe she was better suited to making bandages and
knitting scarves for prisoners of war. She turned, eyes blurring with tears, and knelt back down with the brush and bucket. The company sergeant had walked the full length of the hangar in his
boots. From outside, she could hear the rest of the squad being shouted at on the drill square: âKeep yer âands still! Eyes front! Hup, two-three-four, down, two-three-four . . .â
What was the point? Theyâd already been told they werenât good enough for church parade, and thereâd be no time off next week. They might as well all give up and go home.
The floor was hard and dug into the thin skin on her knees. The water, cold to start with, was icy now. She was shaking still, partly from the shock of the sergeantâs anger, and partly
from the cold. Her stomach growled; she should have eaten some more of her lunch before passing it over to Bea. Outside, the shouting went on: left wheels and right wheels and marking time. As Edie
scrubbed, she followed the squad in her head, moving the brush in time with the squadâs footfalls. She had let them all down. Talking back to the company sergeant major. What was she thinking
of ?
She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand and began to recite the Lordâs Prayer under her breath. The rhythm of the familiar prayer mingled with the muffled sounds of drill and
the swish of her scrubbing brush.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be
At last, the company sergeant major was called to come and inspect, and they stood to attention along the wall, waiting. He threw open the hangar door and walked right across the wet bit that
they had just finished. The bottom of his boots were caked in mud.
âYouâd better do this bit again. Itâs dirty,â he said, walking up and down the hangar, and then he began to stride towards the door. Edie heard the sound of one of the
other girls beginning to sob.
âThatâs simply not on,â Edie said, lurching out of line. There was a collective gasp and she caught Beaâs eye. Bea shook her head, a worried look on her face, but Edie
took no notice. The company sergeant major spun his bulk round to face her, his face beetroot-red, his greasy moustache twitching. âNow listen here,â Edie continued. âIt was
perfectly clean until you walked all over it in your filthy boots. Weâve all worked really hard and youâve ruined it.â
The barrage that followed was worse than she had endured in all drill or room inspections from the previous week. He thrust forwards and the force of his roaring anger pushed her back into line:
just who did she think she was? If she ever spoke that way again . . . letting down the squad . . . letting herself down, letting the country down . . .
his horrid eyes like dirty marbles,
his putrid breath as he shoved his shouting face right into hers. She would scrub the entire floor again. On her own. He turned and stalked out.
âNice one, Lightwater,â said the corporal, handing her a bucket and brush, after heâd gone. Edie realised she was shaking. She could barely hold the bucket handle. The other
girls, dismissed, headed outside. Bea touched Edie on the shoulder as she left.
âChin up, girl,â she said.
And as Edie watched them all file out into the late afternoon, she let a couple of hot tears fall, disappearing softly onto the dampness of the floor. âChin upâ was what Pop always
said when she was sad. âChin up, Half Pint,â when she was in trouble with Mummy or Nanny or had fallen off her pony again. She hadnât even told Pop she was leaving. Heâd be
worried, and Mummy would be frantic. Maybe theyâd come and find her and she could escape this horrible place. Maybe Mummy was right; maybe she was better suited to making bandages and
knitting scarves for prisoners of war. She turned, eyes blurring with tears, and knelt back down with the brush and bucket. The company sergeant had walked the full length of the hangar in his
boots. From outside, she could hear the rest of the squad being shouted at on the drill square: âKeep yer âands still! Eyes front! Hup, two-three-four, down, two-three-four . . .â
What was the point? Theyâd already been told they werenât good enough for church parade, and thereâd be no time off next week. They might as well all give up and go home.
The floor was hard and dug into the thin skin on her knees. The water, cold to start with, was icy now. She was shaking still, partly from the shock of the sergeantâs anger, and partly
from the cold. Her stomach growled; she should have eaten some more of her lunch before passing it over to Bea. Outside, the shouting went on: left wheels and right wheels and marking time. As Edie
scrubbed, she followed the squad in her head, moving the brush in time with the squadâs footfalls. She had let them all down. Talking back to the company sergeant major. What was she thinking
of ?
She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand and began to recite the Lordâs Prayer under her breath. The rhythm of the familiar prayer mingled with the muffled sounds of drill and
the swish of her scrubbing brush.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be
Similar Books
