She glared at the urn and wondered if it was broken. She hoped not, as finding spare parts would be almost impossible. Maybe Mrs Moyes would know of someone. Nancy sighed and turned away from the hateful machine and decided to sort out the cutlery while she waited. She picked up the butter knife and all but stabbed it into the box where it belonged. It wasn’t as if there was much butter in the first place.

‘Are we ready, Mrs Kerrigan?’ Delia Moyes was much older than Nancy and had a motherly way about her, a sensible but immaculately well-pressed apron stretched across her neat peppermint-coloured twinset, an amber necklace at her throat. Matching tiny earrings twinkled behind her greying curls. She was the epitome of respectability, the embodiment of the WVS.

Nancy liked to think she herself represented the other side of the Women’s Voluntary Service, bringing a little much-needed glamour to the proceedings. However, she didn’t feel very glamorous this morning, with all the cares of the world on her shoulders. Gamely she painted on a smile, as there was no point in annoying her supervisor. ‘Almost there, Mrs Moyes,’ she replied, and just at that moment the reluctant urn finally began to boil. Nancy thought it was a lucky sign and that maybe this shift wouldn’t be so bad after all.

‘Excellent, Mrs Kerrigan, you know we don’t like to keep our brave boys waiting,’ said the older woman, smiling encouragingly. ‘They look to us for comfort now they are so far away from home, as you are well aware.’

‘Yes, Mrs Moyes, they count on us, don’t they?’ said Nancy loyally. She swiftly sorted the teaspoons while her supervisor went to open the main door. She could see through the window that a few servicemen were already gathered waiting for their tea, sandwiches and company. She told herself to snap out of her bad temper – she had a job to do.

The shift was almost over and Nancy was on her last legs. For ages she had secretly mocked her sisters, both nurses, for their frequent complaints about sore feet and tiredness from running around all day at work, sure they were exaggerating to get some sympathy. Now she understood better. Her calves ached and her toes were pressed up against the blunt ends of her shoes, chosen for their stylish effect rather than their practicality. Now she knew why her sisters always wore flat heels. But she’d been so desperate to cheer herself up this morning that she’d gone against her better judgement and dug out her old two-tone stacked heels with their jaunty red bows.