Free A Girl in Wartime by Maggie Ford Page A

the postscript Stephen!
    As if … had he felt a small tinge of attraction? Her heart had gone pit-a-pat but what if he had felt something too? No, she was just being silly. Better to forget it.
    Tomorrow she’d promised Sybil she’d go with her to the labour exchange to see about volunteering for war work. Here there’d be no question of laying her off. It would be a steady, long-term job, at least until the war was over. By that time she would have become a skilled worker, hopefully a still needed skilled worker. Was she ready to sacrifice that solid chance for this slim one? And what would the job entail? Mr Clayton must think that he had told her what she was engaged to do, but she still didn’t know. She wasn’t so sure about the job now. And what would Sybil think? Talk about burning one’s bridges. But Stephen …
    There was no sleep for her tonight. She was still awake watching a rainy dawn come up when Mum brought her a cup of tea.
    â€˜Your dad will be up soon so best hurry and get dressed, love.’
    She was dressed, her face washed, her teeth cleaned, and eating her breakfast of porridge as he came downstairs.
    â€˜What was goin’ on last night?’ he muttered to her across the kitchen table. ‘I could ’ear you movin’ about for ages.’
    Yes, the walls, floors and ceiling were thin in terraces. One could hear everything the people next door said when they raised their voices just a fraction. There’d be bumps and bangs every second of the day, and a child crying was like a siren piercing the ears.
    At eight o’clock Connie was on the corner of Ellsworth Street where Sybil lived and Bethnal Green Road. What was Sybil going to say when she told her of her news?
    â€˜I can’t come with you today,’ she began as they met. ‘I think I’ve got that job in Fleet Street – there was a letter waiting for me when I got home last night.’
    â€˜That one you told me about all that time ago? That was a couple of months ago.’ As Connie nodded, Sybil said, ‘That’s really marvellous!’ Her round face creased into a huge smile. ‘And you thought they’d forgotten you. You lucky cow! But why did they take so long?’
    No disparagement, no offhanded shrug, but a huge smile of genuine joy for her. Connie felt a twinge of regret; Sybil was such a nice person, a good friend at work and out, and now hearing her news she was just happy for her.
    â€˜My interviewer, Mr Clayton, Mr Stephen Clayton,’ Connie went on with a need to state his full name, at the same time with a stab of excitement at the prospect of seeing him again. ‘He had a job persuading them.’
    â€˜We will see each other still, when we can, won’t we?’ Sybil asked, her smile faltering.
    â€˜Of course,’ Connie replied warmly. Yes, she wanted that more than anything. No not quite anything. She wanted this job. She wanted to prove to Stephen Clayton that she was capable. She wanted to see him again, feel her heart thump like it had that first time, something she’d never experienced before – a strange and wonderful feeling. But she kept her face straight as Sybil said with some disappointment in her tone that she had to be off.
    â€˜Perhaps we can see each other this Saturday,’ Connie said quickly by way of compensation. ‘If you’re not doing anything?’
    â€˜I’d like that,’ Sybil said, bucking up to grin. ‘Still, must be off. Good luck, Con. Can’t wait to hear how you get on and I’ll tell you how I did.’
    And she was off, running for the bus that had drawn up several yards down the road, a crowd of workers already waiting to get on.
    As the bus drew away, Connie, her somewhat tatty umbrella shielding her face from the spattering of rain, made her way to the bus stop opposite to wait for the one that would take her to Fleet Street, and, she hoped, her