Jane grinned. ‘Peculiar stew,’ she said. ‘The girls – and some of the blokes – nickname everything and everyone. They used to call you “Frozen Fanny”, as I recall, but they’ve not done that for a while.’

‘No, and they’d better not,’ Glenys said. ‘I’d see the bombardier and get them put on a charge. Hey, the girls are forming up into two lines, bath towels at the ready; better get a move on, Gunner Bennett!’

Marching smartly through the streets of Liverpool, Glenys was aware that all her section regarded bath parade with mixed feelings. Their way led them past several enormous factories, and as soon as the factory girls spotted them the jeers would begin to fly. Some of the more hot-tempered girls were wont to reply in kind, though always beneath their breath, but as their bombardier had pointed out the first time they were verbally attacked, the ATS were always immaculate and could afford to ignore the factory girls. Those in munitions were yellow-faced as daffodils, save for their hands which would have done credit to a coal miner, and whilst their overalls might be clean at the beginning of the week, after two or three days of wear they were stained, oily and filthy. Hair was dragged back with bits of string and fingernails were grimy, although the bombardier was at pains to point out that none of this was actually the fault of the girls themselves.

‘The thing is, you can damn well take no notice, because you know it’s only jealousy,’ she had informed them as the girls quickened their pace, eager to escape from the tide of insults. ‘Eyes front if you please!’

The attitude of the factory girls had been painful at first, but now it was accepted as something to be ignored, and Glenys and Jane exchanged wry looks as Swithin, who had been promoted to lance bombardier only the previous week, gave the order to wheel right and the factories were left behind.

The bath house was a large building, steamy and warm, and Glenys thought the pleasure of having a hot bath more than made up for the insults of the factory girls. There were not enough tubs for everyone to bath at the same time, so Swithin adjured them to remember that others were waiting. ‘Five minutes to wash, five minutes to soak and five minutes to get dry,’ she reminded them as they took their places at the head of the queue. ‘And don’t fill the tub over the four inch mark.’

‘Don’t do this, don’t do that . . . what about dressing? Surely you don’t expect us to march out of the bath house in the buff?’ Glenys said cheekily. ‘Just because you’ve been promoted doesn’t mean you can boss your old pals around.’

‘Yes it does,’ Swithin contradicted. She sniffed. ‘Oh, someone’s got scented soap. Is it you, Bennett? Can I have a borrow when it’s my turn for the tub?’

‘So long as you don’t leave it in the water to go all soft and squishy,’ Jane conceded, and was about to expatiate on this theme when the door against which Glenys had been leaning opened and a damp-haired, pink-cheeked girl emerged, beaming. She started to say ‘In you go, Trent’, but Glenys had already shot into the cubicle, slammed the door and begun to hurl her clothes on to the wooden rack provided. It was tempting to fill the tub to the brim, but naturally she did not do so. Instead she filled it exactly to the four inch mark, and jumped in. Jane’s lovely soap was much appreciated, and by the time Glenys was neatly dressed once more she was at peace with the world.