‘He’s not a prince, idiot. He’s just got an Indian mother, that’s all,’ Kath whispered. ‘He’s English as they come otherwise. And he’s not my beau. He’s just a friend.’

‘Sorry, doesn’t wash, sweetie. You were definitely kissing.’

‘A peck, that was all.’

It wasn’t really all, though, as she was beginning to admit to herself. She was beginning to fall for him.

It was the last week of their course, consumed by frantic revision, practical tests and written examinations. There were papers on the theory of radio direction finding and the practice of its operation, with simulated exercises to test their nerves in ‘real-life’ situations, which were of course entirely silly and made Kath and Marcia giggle.

All too soon they found themselves sitting in the anteroom to the officers’ quarters, once more awaiting results that would decide their fate for the foreseeable future. Although she’d acquitted herself reasonably well in the practical tests, Kath was still nervous and not entirely certain of her performance in the theory papers. So when she learned that she had passed with flying colours, it was all she could do to stop herself whooping out loud.

She stood and saluted, before shaking hands with each of the officers.

‘Well done, ACW2 Motts,’ they said. ‘And good luck. You will take a week’s leave from next Monday. This envelope contains details of where and when you are to report on Monday week, and a travel warrant as necessary.’

Back in the barracks, Marcia had already opened hers.

‘So . . .?’

‘Just my ruddy luck,’ she said. ‘I’m being shunted to the back of beyond. Never heard of the place.’

‘Where?’

‘They call it RAF Bawdsey.’ She pronounced it ‘bowd-sey’.

‘Heavens! Bawdsey Manor? In Suffolk? They must be letting the WAAFs back. I live near there. I actually worked there, before the war.’

‘Worked? What as?’

‘Assistant chef. Oh goodness, Marcia. I’m so jealous. I so want to be posted there, to be close to my family, see my friends. There’s not a lot of social life. But it’s such a beautiful place.’

‘Where are you going, then?’

‘Here, you do it.’ As she passed the envelope over, Kath’s hands were shaking.

Marcia ripped it open and looked up with a smile. ‘Someone up there’s looking after you, you lucky blighter.’

The words slowly came into focus. ‘Where the hell is RAF Bentley Priory?’

‘It’s Stanmore, you ninny. Headquarters of Fighter Command.’

‘You’re joking?’

‘Dowding wants you as his batwoman.’ Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding was a legend, the feared and respected Commander-in-Chief of RAF Fighter Command, the man who had co-ordinated the Battle of Britain. He had also been one of the earliest exponents of RDF, making sure that Robert Watson-Watt got the funding for the first experimental work.

‘No, seriously, whatever would they want with a rookie operator?’

‘I guess you’ll just have to find out.’