Turn Left at the Daffodils. Elizabeth Elgin

six-fifteen in the morning, I’d positively grovel if there was tea at the end of it. Lead on, lance-corporal!’

      Nan switched on the kettle then rinsed mugs under the tap. Amazingly, a tea towel hung behind the door. Short of nothing, that lot at the big house, and tea and sugar unrationed, it would seem.

      Carefully she spooned tea leaves into a cream enamel pot with a green handle, then leaned against the draining board, feet crossed, arms folded, to await the kettle, and to think.

      Think about Heronflete Priory and the diddy little billet. And Evie and Carrie who were smashing and Sergeant James who just might become human, given time.

      And she thought about being in this unbelievable place where a lord once lived, and the fields and trees and wild flowers; the peace and quiet of it, too, with only the bombers – ours – that flew over, to remind her that somewhere out there, a war was going on.

      Then she closed her eyes and smiled, because tomorrow was pay day.

      ‘What will happen, Sergeant,’ Evie asked later, ‘when we go to the cookhouse for meals? Will you be able to manage?’

      ‘Of course I will, even when you get long leaves – provided you go one at a time. I’ve been in signals from day one of this war, and teleprinters and switchboards bother me not one iota.

      ‘And if you are reminding me that the cookhouse is open and none of us has eaten yet, I suggest you toss up for who goes first. In fact, the way things are this very minute, I think the three of us could slope off and never be missed!’

      She had wondered about the lack of activity; had even thought that the Post Office engineers might have left without connecting things up, had silently fumed about this tuppeny-ha’penny place and longed with all her heart for the bustle and discipline of a properly-run unit on a wartime footing. And girls in Nissen huts!

      ‘You take first breakfast, Turner,’ she said absently, standing behind Nan who sat in front of two silent teleprinters, willing one of them at least to cooperate.

      ‘Switch that printer on, Morrissey.’

      Nan pressed the start button and with a clatter the black machine came alive, so she hit the answerback key, and the carriage swung from left to right and back. On the page in front of her came CEN HP4.

      ‘There, sarge! Must be our call sign! HP4, off Central switchboard. We do exist, then.’

      ‘Seems we do. Give it a go, Morrissey – see if it prints.’

      Nan cancelled the transmit swich, then typed The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The words appeared speedily, because it was one of the sentences you typed a lot, when you were a learner. If she had a silver shilling for every time that fox had jumped, she would be a very well-to-do ATS private.

      ‘Do you suppose they know we’re here, Sergeant? I mean – they’re so secretive that maybe they’ve forgotten to tell the government about Heronflete.’

      ‘Y’know, that wouldn’t surprise me at all, Morrissey!’

      She sat down at the switchboard, adjusted the headset, then willed one of the circular, numbered discs to fall, or one of the square flaps of the outside lines to open with a brrr, then sighing, fixed her eyes on the second hand of the wall clock, which moved very, very slowly.

      The silence became so uncomfortable that Nan said,

      ‘Have you heard about the ghost, Sergeant? The one they call Cecilia? She was a nun that got walled up in the old priory – left there to die…’

      But the Sergeant continued to stare at the switchboard in silence. She was so browned off that the last thing she wanted to hear about was a stupid bloody ghost!

      It seemed that eight-thirty – or 0830 hrs BST -was the magic time and it was as if all those who lived at Heronflete had arisen, bathed and eaten breakfast, and were ready to do whatever it was they had come to Heronflete to do. When both Evie and Nan had breakfasted and Sergeant James had left for the cookhouse, a disc on the switchboard fell. It was No.5. Picking up a plug she pushed it into the hole beneath No.5, said ‘Switchboard’, very clearly and firmly, and was asked for an outside line.

      She pushed in the corresponding plug, said, ‘You’re thrrrrrough.’ Then she turned triumphantly to Nan. ‘We’re in business, old love!’

      ‘Who was it?’

      ‘Extension five – a man, for an outside line.’

      ‘What’s he talking about? Have a listen, Evie?’

      ‘You reckon?’ After all, they were alone. ‘I shouldn’t, you know…’

      ‘Ar. Be a devil!’

      Evie said, ‘Ssssh, then,’ and placed the palm of her hand over the mouthpiece of her headset. Slowly and carefully so as not to make even the smallest click, she pushed a switch forward.

      ‘Ha! Wouldn’t you know it, Morrissey! They’ve got the scrambler on!’

      ‘What’s that, when it’s at home?’

      ‘Some clever-dick device to distort sound so that anybody tapping in on a phone call just hears gobbledygook. Sensible, I suppose, when you think that a spy could climb a telegraph pole and listen in to any conversation he wanted. They do it all the time, I know that for a fact.’

      ‘Ar,’ Nan nodded. ‘Amazin’ what them Jairmans get up to.’

      ‘Don’t worry. We do it, too. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if that lot,’ she nodded towards the green baize door, ‘aren’t up to something similar.’

      ‘Climbing telegraph poles, you mean?’ Nan was disappointed.

      ‘No, but they might be listening in. Monitoring air waves, I mean. They might have operators searching for anything they heard in Morse code and taking it down. Telegraphists.’

      ‘Like Carrie’s feller?’

      ‘Yes, though I think he’s still in barracks, waiting for a ship. Carrie says he’s not best pleased about it.’

      ‘Hmm. What do you make of that romance, Evie?’

      ‘None of my business. The fact that Carrie doesn’t wear her ring is neither here nor there. I never had an engagement ring. We used the money to open a bank account for when the war is over. But Carrie often gets her hands dirty and greasy. You can’t blame her.’

      ‘Yes, but -’ Nan bit on her lip, deciding against telling Evie that Carrie wasn’t absolutely sure she wanted to get married just yet and said instead, ‘Well, if I had a ring, I’d wear it! Not that anybody’s offered yet.’

      ‘Give it time, Nan. You’re young enough. Have a bit of fun before you settle down.’

      And nan was about to say that chance would be a fine thing when, just as the sergeant opened the door, one of the teleprinters came to life with a loud clatter.

      ‘Hey up, Sergeant! A signal!’

      They watched as figures in groups of four clicked themselves into columns. They flew across the page.

      ‘That’s a good operator on the other end.’ The sergeant nodded her approval.

      The typing stopped.

      ‘Go on then, Morrissey. Give them a receipt.’

      So Nan looked at the wall clock then typed R 0858B/3/9/41 NM, then tore off the message and handed it to the sergeant.

      Now she really was a teleprinter operator! Her eyes shone, her cheeks pinked. And one day Nan Morrissey too would be a good operator!

      ‘Hm. HF4 V ZAA. That’s Heronflete from ZAA. So who the heck is ZAA?’ the sergeant frowned.

      She pressed the bell beside the hatch, placed the signal in the out-tray, then waited