Reverend Brown threaded his way through the veranda’s jumbled tables and wheelchairs pausing only briefly to acknowledge the patients’ greetings with a brief nod or smile. Everyone was fairly chipper considering their wounds, but it was a fine Indian summer morning with the trees of the hospital grounds only beginning their autumnal turn. He would spend more time with the more seriously injured when he returned though he did not think that he had anything to offer above those in physical pain, his concern was the soul and one young man here was especially troubled try though he might to hide it.
He found Arnold Carstairs at the balustrade, smoking and staring out over the hospital’s extensive lawns. One of his hands rested on the rail as if to steady himself a habit only now as the young pilot’s broken legs had fully healed. The clergyman coughed quietly wondering on what thoughts he was intruding.
‘Morning Anthony’ he said ‘Matron tells me that you’re to leave us today’.
‘What?’ the young man turned his face hovering between a blank expression and a frown, ‘oh it’s you Padre… err yes I am
‘Time for one last game?’ the older man said tapping the wooden box tucked under one arm. Arnold smiled and pulled aside a chair at a nearby table.
Reverend Brown pursed his lips his finger almost skimming the top of his chessmen. ‘I think you’ve got me’ he said with a smile ‘I should never have loaned you that book… are you returning to your old squadron?’
‘No I’m being posted’ Arnold replied ‘don’t know where yet all very hush-hush…’ In the two months the clergyman had known him Arnold Carstairs had never looked so happy.
Mal opened another letter. Censoring mail was no more tedious than most of an adjutant’s official duties if you put aside the constant repetition, the vague phrases used to reassure family when the writers were under strict orders not to reveal their location or what they were doing. So far he had barely had to amend anything but no doubt that would change as time passed and the secrecy played more heavily on everyone. However the knock at the door was a welcome interruption. ‘Come’ he called.
‘Oh hello Sir’ Anthea Carstairs smiled from the doorway. ‘Do you have a minute?’
‘For you flying-officer always’ Mal said. Try as he might Mal could not help treating any of the three latest arrivals as women, even though he had known them as men. Their transformation was remarkable, miraculous almost. They had been picked for their small stature, soft features and their relatively high speaking voices yet he had never believed that they could acquire such convincing femininity in so short a time. ‘Take a seat please’
‘It’s a bit sticky Sir’ Anthea said closing the door behind her and picking her way though the mass of boxes in the adjutant’s office. Mal noticed that she straightened her skirt as she sat, pulling the hem over her knees. How had she been taught such innate, almost automatic, behaviour? Why had the French created an organisation to do this? That he had been lucky enough to inherit it was a blessing.
‘Thing is Sir’ Anthea was saying ‘it’s one of the other pilots…’ She paused briefly pursing her lips ‘…Verity Bliss, we knew one another before the war, her brother was in my squadron’. Anthea looked up from the square of desktop she had been focusing on ‘you promised that no one would ever know that we had done this. She waved her hand across her chest to indicate the WAAF uniform. Mal gave her an encouraging smile.
‘I don’t think you need worry about being recognised’ he said ‘you’ve been here almost a week and I haven’t heard anything. Have you?’ she shook her head. ‘In fact’ Mal continued ‘your own mother would probably pass you in the street without saying a word – I wish I were in a similar position’. That at least made her laugh a little although she still would not meet his eye, instead she seemed to be looking at the chessboard he had left on top of a filing cabinet. On a hunch Mal asked ‘do you play?’