Free A Girl in Wartime by Maggie Ford

didn’t want to go into detail on the failed interviews. But now she was home.
    Alone in the parlour, having washed her face clean of face powder at the kitchen sink and cleaned her teeth, she undressed slowly, got into her nightie, turned down the gas lamp and clambered into bed. Mum would be first up in the morning, waking her with a cup of tea. She’d be obliged to dress quickly, concealed by the curtain, before Dad came down. All so easily avoidable and again she felt a twinge of annoyance towards her eldest brother.
    Lying there, she held the unopened envelope between her fingers. It was hard not to resist a temptation to tear it in half and drop it on the floor, its contents unread. But she needed to read it, and braced herself to its bad news. Sitting up suddenly, the bedclothes slipping down to her tummy, she leaned forward and ripped open the envelope to pull out a single sheet of headed notepaper.
    It was too dark to make out what it said. But relighting the gas lamp might alert Dad, always a light sleeper, noticing the glow under the door on one of his frequent trips in the night to the privy in the backyard. He’d be especially hard on her given they’d all been warned to be very careful about too much lighting since January when German Zeppelins had dropped bombs on Yarmouth and King’s Lynn, the towns fully lit at the time but now, of course, like London, swathed in darkness. Three cottages utterly destroyed in one raid; several people killed including a small boy and his little sister; pictures of cottages flattened, utterly unrecognisable as once having been people’s homes, had sent shivers down her spine. This was what devastation truly was, those same towns, and others, shelled by German warships.
    So with relative darkness outside, being a dirty night, any glow would have had Dad opening the parlour door to find why she’d relit the gas lamp, and she wanted no intrusion. Drawing the window curtains was dangerous too. Dad always pulled them back before going to bed – to let out the smell of cooking, he said, and get a bit of fresh air into the place, for all the windows stayed closed in cold weather. Trying to pull them together would inevitably cause that rustle and squeak they always made when being dragged along the rusty metal rail, loud enough to catch the alert ears of a sleepless man.
    But with the letter now open, she needed to see what it said. Creeping out of bed she found a small stub of a candle in a holder in the small table drawer, lit it with one of Dad’s matches and took it back to bed with her. By its fitful light she began to read, knowing that she’d tear the letter to bits in frustration and fury after having read it.
    It wasn’t the terse response she’d expected – more or less saying thank-you-but-no-thank-you – but a longish, hand-written one, the writing small and neat.
    Dear Miss Lovell
,
    First I apologise for the time it’s taken to let you know the outcome of my approach to the management with my idea. But at last I’ve had a response. They’ve decided to give it a shot. A long shot, maybe, but it could work out well. If it doesn’t, I promise to give you a really glowing reference so you’ll be able to get a job anywhere. After all, during the time you do spend on the paper, even if it doesn’t work out a success, you’ll have learned a lot and will be able to make use of it. Would you reply telling me what you think? My reputation’s on the line too over this idea so I need to make this a success. I’m willing to give it a try if you are?
    Please tell me what you think. Don’t leave it too long.
    Mr Stephen Clayton,
    Editor
    P.S. Moving heaven and earth to get them to take you on, I’ve a strong feeling about this. Really looking forward to seeing you if all goes well.
    Stephen
    In the light of the spluttering candle, she stared at the single name. Stephen! He’d signed