She was not joking—soot covered her from head to toe. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her hand on the doorknob was covered with blisters.

I gasped. “Oh, Ellen, your poor hands!”

Mrs. Campbell looked her up and down and said grudgingly, “I’ll light the boiler for the hot water before six p.m., just this once. Mind you don’t fill the bath beyond the five-inch mark. There’s a war on.”

“Aye, Nan Campbell, I might have some idea about there being a war on,” Ellen rasped.

Mrs. Campbell dared to ask, “Where’s Phyllis?”

“She’s still at the aerodrome, filling out forms. We lost a big supply of tinned food, and she’s trying to order more. She’s all right. Everyone’s all right. The Jerries missed the operations hut. But the hangar is burnt to the ground.” Ellen sucked in a deep breath, and coughed. “The lads are all right, too, Mrs. C. They had to land at Deeside, because the surface at Windyedge is all over holes. Cromwell was there last night, so I had to collect him and bring him here to look at the damage, and then I had to take him back to Deeside again.”

Nan Campbell clutched the brass counter of the bar and gasped with relief. She gave a quick glance at the wishing coins.

“The ground crew’s filling in the holes, but we won’t be able to bring the Blenheims back till next week at least.” Ellen coughed again. “Phyllis will want a bath, too, when she gets here.”

“Och, no bother, I’ll light the boiler now and you get yourself cleaned up,” Nan said. “And when you go back to the airfield, tell the lads working there that if they get hungry they can come here. I’ll see if Morag can put in extra time behind the bar.”

Morag Torrie was the timid village girl who helped Mrs. Campbell when it was busy.

“Ta for the hot water,” Ellen said, and turned around to stalk upstairs.

“Take her a cup of tea, will you, Louisa?” Mrs. Campbell uttered. “Oh, and there’s some Germolene in the kitchen on the shelf above the sink. For the burns.”

It was as close as I had seen her come to anything like sympathy.

Ellen:

It took me a long time to get my uniform off, for my hands were so sore. Cromwell already had a go at me for wearing mittens knitted by one of my cousins, instead of my gauntlets, which would have protected them. No one to blame but yourself, McEwen. But how was I supposed to drive in those bloody great things? Like wearing Wellington boots on your hands.