Read Online Wish Me Luck by Margaret Dickinson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margaret Dickinson
Ads: Link
glanced back over her shoulder.
Fleur smiled reassuringly. ‘Course not. Don’t be daft. It’s fine. It’s not much smaller than the one I have at home. Honest.’
‘The old dear sleeps downstairs in her front parlour now. Bless ’er. I’ll show you when we go down.’
As Ruth helped her unpack her belongings, hanging her clothes in the narrow wardrobe with a creaking door, she pulled a face and said, ‘At least staying here we don’t get those dreadful kit inspections every morning. Mind you, I’ll warn you now. Ma’am has eyes like a hawk so it pays to keep your uniform spick and span. And she has been known to make an unannounced inspection of our billet now and again.’
‘Is she very strict?’
Ruth turned surprised eyes towards her. ‘Who? Mrs Jackson? Heavens, no!’
‘I didn’t mean her.’ Fleur laughed. ‘I meant the WAAF CO. I mean, are we allowed to meet the RAF lads?’
Ruth stared at her for a moment. ‘Well, of course we meet them at work. And there’s the dances on camp, usually in the men’s NAAFI or sometimes in the sergeants’ mess. Then there’s the Liberty Bus on a Saturday night.’
‘What on earth is the “Liberty Bus”?’
Ruth grinned. ‘A bus laid on to take us into Lincoln. To dances or the pictures.’
She was silent a moment, watching Fleur sort out her underwear and put it away in one of the drawers in the dressing table. Then Ruth said quietly, ‘Why all the questions? Do you know someone on camp? Someone – special?’
Fleur felt the blush creep up her face and knew she couldn’t hide the truth. ‘Well, sort of. I’ve only just met him. We bumped into each other – literally – on Nottingham station. He’s just been posted here an’ all. That’s how we met.’
‘Oh, Fleur!’ Ruth flopped down onto the bed. The springs protested loudly, but neither of the girls noticed. ‘Don’t get involved with someone – with anyone. Not if he’s a flier. He is, I take it?’
Fleur nodded. ‘He’s a wireless operator on bombers.’
Ruth groaned and then sighed heavily, regarding her new-found friend with a hangdog expression. ‘I don’t suppose anything I say’s going to make any difference, is it?’
Fleur grinned. ‘Not a scrap.’
Ruth heaved herself up. ‘Well, my shoulder’s ready when you need it.’
‘Don’t you mean “if”?’
Ruth stared at her for a long moment before she said seriously, ‘No, love. I’m sorry, but I do mean “when”.’
Eight
As Fleur approached the control tower early the following morning, her heart was beating faster. Although she had been thoroughly trained and had been briefed on how to cope with every emergency possible, she was still a little apprehensive. This was her first posting as a fully fledged R/T operator and she knew that ‘the real thing’ would be very different. Mistakes in training hadn’t mattered. Now they did.
She stepped into the ground floor of the watch tower. The concrete steps leading to the upper floor were on her right, but first she was curious to see what else the building housed. The first room on the left was the met office, with maps spread out on the waist-high table against the wall. A WAAF sat at a telephone switchboard; another stood in front of a teleprinter, which was noisily chattering out a message. A nearby desk was cluttered with telephones, a black typewriter and papers. Next door to the met office was the duty pilots’ rest room. It was empty and silent, newspapers flung down untidily amongst the battered easy chairs. Dirty mugs, an overflowing ashtray and dog-eared books littered the table almost hiding the telephone. It seemed, even here, there was no escaping the call to duty. Near the door was the compulsory sand bucket – the ever-present reminder of the war and all its dangers.
Fleur climbed the stairs to the upper floor. The smell from the freshly painted cream and green walls reminded her that this was a new station, still in the process
Fleur smiled reassuringly. ‘Course not. Don’t be daft. It’s fine. It’s not much smaller than the one I have at home. Honest.’
‘The old dear sleeps downstairs in her front parlour now. Bless ’er. I’ll show you when we go down.’
As Ruth helped her unpack her belongings, hanging her clothes in the narrow wardrobe with a creaking door, she pulled a face and said, ‘At least staying here we don’t get those dreadful kit inspections every morning. Mind you, I’ll warn you now. Ma’am has eyes like a hawk so it pays to keep your uniform spick and span. And she has been known to make an unannounced inspection of our billet now and again.’
‘Is she very strict?’
Ruth turned surprised eyes towards her. ‘Who? Mrs Jackson? Heavens, no!’
‘I didn’t mean her.’ Fleur laughed. ‘I meant the WAAF CO. I mean, are we allowed to meet the RAF lads?’
Ruth stared at her for a moment. ‘Well, of course we meet them at work. And there’s the dances on camp, usually in the men’s NAAFI or sometimes in the sergeants’ mess. Then there’s the Liberty Bus on a Saturday night.’
‘What on earth is the “Liberty Bus”?’
Ruth grinned. ‘A bus laid on to take us into Lincoln. To dances or the pictures.’
She was silent a moment, watching Fleur sort out her underwear and put it away in one of the drawers in the dressing table. Then Ruth said quietly, ‘Why all the questions? Do you know someone on camp? Someone – special?’
Fleur felt the blush creep up her face and knew she couldn’t hide the truth. ‘Well, sort of. I’ve only just met him. We bumped into each other – literally – on Nottingham station. He’s just been posted here an’ all. That’s how we met.’
‘Oh, Fleur!’ Ruth flopped down onto the bed. The springs protested loudly, but neither of the girls noticed. ‘Don’t get involved with someone – with anyone. Not if he’s a flier. He is, I take it?’
Fleur nodded. ‘He’s a wireless operator on bombers.’
Ruth groaned and then sighed heavily, regarding her new-found friend with a hangdog expression. ‘I don’t suppose anything I say’s going to make any difference, is it?’
Fleur grinned. ‘Not a scrap.’
Ruth heaved herself up. ‘Well, my shoulder’s ready when you need it.’
‘Don’t you mean “if”?’
Ruth stared at her for a long moment before she said seriously, ‘No, love. I’m sorry, but I do mean “when”.’
Eight
As Fleur approached the control tower early the following morning, her heart was beating faster. Although she had been thoroughly trained and had been briefed on how to cope with every emergency possible, she was still a little apprehensive. This was her first posting as a fully fledged R/T operator and she knew that ‘the real thing’ would be very different. Mistakes in training hadn’t mattered. Now they did.
She stepped into the ground floor of the watch tower. The concrete steps leading to the upper floor were on her right, but first she was curious to see what else the building housed. The first room on the left was the met office, with maps spread out on the waist-high table against the wall. A WAAF sat at a telephone switchboard; another stood in front of a teleprinter, which was noisily chattering out a message. A nearby desk was cluttered with telephones, a black typewriter and papers. Next door to the met office was the duty pilots’ rest room. It was empty and silent, newspapers flung down untidily amongst the battered easy chairs. Dirty mugs, an overflowing ashtray and dog-eared books littered the table almost hiding the telephone. It seemed, even here, there was no escaping the call to duty. Near the door was the compulsory sand bucket – the ever-present reminder of the war and all its dangers.
Fleur climbed the stairs to the upper floor. The smell from the freshly painted cream and green walls reminded her that this was a new station, still in the process
Similar Books
