A sharp rap on the window interrupted her reverie and Glenys wrenched her mind back to the present. It was Driver Bennett, who had parked her own lorry in the space alongside, and the two girls smiled at one another as Glenys opened her door and dropped to the ground. They both walked round their vehicles, checking that all was well, then set off towards their hut. ‘Better clean up before we go to the cookhouse or Sarge will have our guts for garters,’ Jane Bennett remarked. ‘I’m oil to the eyebrows; good thing we wear overalls, because service dress isn’t designed for dirty work.’

Glenys nodded. ‘When I joined – which seems a lifetime ago – they couldn’t find me a uniform of any description. If you remember, the sergeant issuing clothing was quite rude; he called me a giraffe.’

Jane laughed. ‘And we did our basic training in service dress because some high-up thought we were all destined to be clerks, cooks or waitresses . . .’

Glenys blew out her cheeks, crossed her eyes and made a fanning motion with one hand. ‘Can you imagine what our lives would have been like if we hadn’t kept insisting that we could drive! Even now I meet members of the public who simply assume that men drive lorries and women make sandwiches . . .’

‘I know; doesn’t it make you cross?’ Jane agreed. ‘And there are still people who refer to us as “officers’ groundsheets”. It’s bloody unfair, but comments like that just have to be dismissed as ignorant. I gave a Waaf a lift a few weeks ago, and she told me the men on her station referred to her as the station bicycle because she’s been out with more than one fellow.’

Glenys pulled a face. ‘Some men are always quick to judge women, though they seem to think that they can carry on regardless,’ she said. ‘They never seem to take into account that it takes two to have an affair.’

‘True,’ Jane said, as they began to wash off the grime of the day. ‘But it’s just jealousy and ignorance . . . is my cap straight? My hair needs a wash, but a comb through will have to suffice for now. I’m starving, so do hurry.’

‘Got your irons?’ Glenys queried as they reached the cookhouse. ‘I asked Katie what they were making for supper and she said stew, which could mean anything.’

Jane plunged a hand into her gas mask case and produced knife, fork and spoon, and flourished them triumphantly under her friend’s nose. ‘It’s the first thing I check when I get up each morning,’ she observed. ‘No irons, no supper. Though if it’s the sort of stew which is mainly turnips, I think I’ll go to the Naafi instead.’

As they entered the long building and joined the queue waiting at the counter, someone dug Glenys in the back. She turned and saw Dotty Ward, grinning from ear to ear. ‘You two are late; Sarge has been searching for both of you. Where have you been?’