Her brain froze as the seconds ticked by. She made a stab in the dark, discovered that it was wrong. Get a grip, Kath, just use logic. She wrote out Mary’s birthdays until she reached twenty-four. Yes, that was right. Phew. She hurried on.

Which number logically follows the series? That was easy enough to calculate, using plus, minus, multiplication and division signs. Which of the following animals is the odd one out? Again, fairly obvious; a snake doesn’t have four legs. Except that the elephant is the only one with a trunk. She dithered before opting for the snake.

How many of the smaller shapes can you use to fill the largest shape? Kath panicked, looking up over so many heads bent intently over their papers. Then she pulled herself together. The field with the hedges, she told herself, how to calculate surface area. She visualised Adam whispering, ‘Don’t panic, it’s simple if you just . . .’ Across the room she saw Marcia, also looking up. She smiled back. Think like a man, she said to herself.

The rest of their induction went by in a whirl of instruction, marching, physical jerks and yet more form-filling. Kath ate well and slept more soundly than she had in months.

One afternoon she accompanied a friend to the only public telephone in the camp. They joined the queue of recruits and watched as each girl entered the box, lifted the receiver, inserted her two pennies, waited and pressed button ‘A’, her lips just managing to form the words ‘Hello Mum’ before dissolving into tears. However much she longed to hear her mother’s voice, Kath was, for once, relieved that they did not have a telephone at home. Instead she wrote a letter:

To be honest it’s hard going right now, but nothing worse than I expected [this was a lie], and we live in hope. I miss you, and home comforts, but I feel certain things will get easier as I get used to WAAF ways. We don’t yet know which ‘trade’ we’ll be given, but I’ll let you know just as soon as I get a more permanent address.

There was just one final test to survive, the most important of all. The ‘trades allocation’ interviews would seal their fates for the rest of the war – and who knew how long that might be? Possibly years. There were three choices: becoming a Motor Transport (MT) driver; a batwoman, which, she gathered, involved being just an officer’s personal servant; or an RDF operator, which, following Vic’s advice, she’d set her heart on. But this was deemed a ‘Grade Two’ trade requiring a good educational standard and a sound knowledge of geometry, and she was by no means confident that she would make the grade.

The alternatives just didn’t appeal. Her family had never owned a car and she’d never had any inclination to drive, so she reckoned that would count her out as an MT driver. But the thought of spending the rest of the war as a batwoman, making tea and shining senior bosses’ shoes, filled her with horror. Oh, the humiliation, and sheer boredom.