Kitty smiled to herself. Now there was another little Ellen Callaghan on Empire Street and Rita had written to say she also had a voice – a loud one, which she’d given vent to every night of her short life so far. Rita hadn’t sounded cross, simply delighted that her small daughter had such a healthy pair of lungs. She’d mentioned a date for the baby’s christening but Kitty had hardly registered it, as it was so very unlikely that she’d be able to go. Father Harding was going to do it; he’d been slightly put out that Rita and Jack hadn’t married in his church, although he’d understood that, given Jack’s brief and often unpredictable shore leaves, they hadn’t been able to arrange a ceremony in time. So they’d had a civil ceremony. But Father Harding had known both families for years and wasn’t going to turn down the chance to welcome the youngest member into his fold, Rita had written with relief.

Kitty reached the square brick building that had been requisitioned for their office, quickly checking her watch to see if she was on time. She was very rarely late and only ever because of something out of her control, such as damage to the road forcing a detour. Even that was uncommon in this small town, whereas it had been an everyday occurrence when she’d lived in north London, and you just got used to it. She took off her light scarf and tucked it into her favourite handbag, now showing a depressing amount of wear and tear.

‘Miss Callaghan, you’re wanted in the boss’s office,’ said a young clerk, hurrying towards her.

‘Oh.’ Kitty refastened her bag to buy herself a moment. She couldn’t imagine what it might be about, and racked her brains to see if she’d done anything wrong. Surely it couldn’t be about that lapse of concentration a few mornings ago? Only Lizzie had noticed it, and she wouldn’t have reported it – unless Kitty had read the girl wrong for all this time. It wasn’t as if any calls had been missed or wrongly connected. ‘Do you know what it is about?’ she asked, keeping the uncertainty out of her voice, even as she realised it would be highly unlikely a junior member of staff like the clerk would be told anything serious.

‘No, ma’am. I mean miss. I mean, Leading Wren Callaghan.’ The clerk shuffled nervously, holding a manila folder to her chest for protection, overawed at being asked a question by one of the senior Wrens she looked up to so much. She wanted to please and impress her but didn’t know how.