Free The FitzOsbornes at War by Michelle Cooper

Henry has had twenty-two demerits, and shows no sign of even noticing what she’s done wrong. Still, she seems happy enough, which is a relief.
    Simon sent a letter, too. I’d like to say he sounded happy, but he didn’t. He said he was ‘making progress with the aeroplanes’ and that the rest of his time was ‘usefully occupied’. Simon, unlike Toby, doesn’t seem to be a natural at flying. Simon’s feet are too firmly planted on the ground, I think. I can’t imagine him actually being incompetent at anything, but I can see him working away doggedly at something he disliked, simply because he saw it as his duty – or as a stepping stone to some higher position. I bet he hates being ordered about by the commanding officers. Anyway, he sent birthday wishes and thanked me for talking to the matron of Rebecca’s clinic, following Rebecca’s latest drama. The staff and patients recently moved north, to a place further inland. Rebecca wasn’t very pleased about it, but then, she’s not very pleased about anything right now. She went berserk when the matron told her that Simon had joined the RAF, and now she’s not speaking to any of the staff. Apparently, she spends most of her time on her knees, muttering furiously at a little wooden crucifix on her bedside table. Poor Rebecca, she was born in the wrong era. A thousand years ago, people would have venerated her as a saint. Instead, she’s locked up in a mental asylum, with doctors prescribing her sedatives and therapists trying to get her to take an interest in the clinic’s sock-knitting circle.
    And now thinking of Rebecca and her grim life has shattered all my lovely, shiny birthday feelings. Oh, how fleeting is Pleasure! ‘And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu . . .’
    I am going to lie on the sofa, sunk in melancholy over Keats dying of consumption in a foreign land when he was only twenty-five and never getting to marry the love of his life. And also, fret about my looming job interview.

23rd November, 1939
    A NOTHER LONG AND TEDIOUS DAY at the Ministry of Food, made bearable only by the thought that it’s Thursday, rather than Monday. Sometimes I can’t understand why Veronica and I argued so fervently to be allowed to work in London . . . No, I do. It was to help the war effort. Which is important, even if nothing very war-like seems to be happening. I’m just in a grumpy mood because I spent the entire day removing apostrophes where Mr Bowker had erroneously added them, then retyping all the pages, then putting them in his tray, then having him summon me to his office so he could deliver yet another lecture about punctuation. This from a man who can’t tell the difference between possessive its and contracted it’s , who gets affect and effect confused, who spells necessary without a c ! Why on Earth is he in charge of editing the food information sheets, anyway?
    Well, I suppose it’s the same reason I’m working at the Ministry – because we both have friends in high places. Apparently, Mr Bowker is the son of a Very Important Parliamentarian, and something needed to be found for him to do. He used to work as an advertising copywriter, and he hasn’t been called up because he has flat feet. He tells everyone how unusually flat his feet are (I once got in a lift with him, and he told a complete stranger standing next to us). I’m not even sure what flat feet are . Not that I’m planning to ask him about it – I’d have to suffer through hours of explanation if I did.
    The others in my department are nicer, or at least, more competent. There’s a brisk lady called Miss Halliday, who does most of the work that Mr Bowker is supposed to do, as well as her actual job, which is liaising with the people in the Ministry of Food kitchens and the scientific staff. Miss Halliday owns a dozen near-identical navy-blue suits and crisp white blouses, and her hair never moves at all – it looks as though a sheet of corrugated iron has