The officer shook her head. “They’re worse off than we are. I’ve telephoned, and Croydon said they’d have them ready for you so you won’t need to wait.”

Well, that was something, and no ambulance post had been hit in 1944. Which didn’t help as far as the way there and back were concerned. I’ll just have to drive very fast and hope the Germans aren’t paying attention to British Intelligence tonight.

At least she didn’t have to worry about Fairchild’s talking distracting her—she sat stonily silent. And Mary had no attention to spare for conversation. She had all she could do to find the post in the blanketing darkness. The FANYs would have a dreadful time dealing with their incidents tonight. There was no moon at all and a heavy October mist that seemed to swallow up the headlamps. She couldn’t see a thing.

It took her over an hour to find the post in Croydon, and then the FANY on duty couldn’t find the supplies. “I know they were set aside,” she said vaguely, and looked all over while the sirens went three separate times. She finally had to box up more lint and bandages and make Mary fill up a different requisition form.

By the time she’d finished, Fairchild was in the ambulance in the driver’s seat. Mary considered telling her she should drive because she knew the way, but the set look on Fairchild’s face made her decide not to. They’d only waste more time in arguing, and she wanted to get out of there before the sirens went again.

She climbed in the passenger side, and Fairchild drove along Croydon’s blacked-out high street and turned onto the road to Dulwich. Good, Mary thought. In another ten minutes we’ll be safely back inside the area I’ve memorized.

Fairchild pulled the ambulance over to the side of the road and stopped. “What are you doing?” Mary asked.

Fairchild switched off the ignition and pulled on the hand brake. “I lied about Camberley,” she said. “I was the one who asked to change shifts so I could come with you. I needed to talk to you, Mary.” Mary. Not Triumph or De Havilland or even Kent. “That is, if you’re still speaking to me.” Fairchild’s voice faltered. “After the beastly way I’ve behaved to you. Are you?”

It was too dark to see her face, but Mary could hear the anxiety in her voice. “Of course I am,” she said. “You haven’t been beastly, and I wouldn’t blame you if you had been. But can’t we discuss this when we get home?” Or at least inside the area where she’d memorized the rockets?

“No,” Fairchild said. “This can’t wait. Yesterday Maitland and I pulled a thirteen-year-old boy out of the wreckage of his house in Ulverscroft Road. It was a V-2. His mother was killed. Direct hit, nothing left of her at all. The boy kept sobbing that he’d been angry with her for making him sleep in the Anderson, and he had to tell her he was sorry he’d called her an old cow. It was dreadful watching him, and I began thinking about how either of us might be killed at any moment, too, and how important it is to mend things before it’s too late.”