A Girl in Wartime by Maggie Ford Page A

so glad you’re home.’ Her voice sounded strained.
    â€˜A letter’s come from Bertie. Oh, Connie, he says they’re still all right but that they’ve been sent to the front, still together, though.’
    â€˜The front – where the fighting is?’ Connie cried stupidly, her own news forgotten. It was three weeks since their twenty-four-hour embarkation leave.
    â€˜You’d best read it.’ Her mother was holding out the single sheet of scruffy notepaper to her, Connie taking it to stare bleakly at her for a second or two before lowering her eyes to read:
    Dear Mum, Dad and Con
,
    Just writing to say me and Ronnie were conveyed here yesterday. So far all is quiet, well, almost, but I want to tell you we are both doing well. Blokes say it can be like this with nothing really happening apart from an exchange of rifle fire every now and again, so it don’t seem so bad. But it’s not all that comfortable what with this blooming weather. Ain’t stopped raining since we’ve got here and the trenches have got about a foot of water in them. It don’t drain off and some blokes who’ve been here longer have got what’s called trench foot. Hope we don’t get it. Makes them really miserable. But the rain just keeps making the walls of the trenches cave in and our job at the moment is to keep shoring them up.
    But I don’t want you back home to worry. We’re all right. By the way, Ronnie sends his love. That’s all I can say for now. Write again soon as I can. Thanks for the letter you wrote, only just got it, and the photos of you and Dad. Bit faded but keeps us in touch, a bit of home. That’s all for now, run out of paper. Love to all and to Connie as well. Tell her to take care of herself.
    Bert & Ron.
    P.S. By the way, I’ve been made up to lance corporal. And Ronnie’s bloody jealous, bless his little cotton socks! Love, Albert
.
    The letter, dated just over a week ago, revealed how long the post took to reach its destination. Then came the dread thought: how long would it take to be notified of the death or injury of a loved one? Connie dismissed the thought instantly. Her brothers were going to be fine, she had to keep believing that.
    Looking up, she saw her mother nibbling at her bottom lip and realised she had been watching her the whole time she’d been reading, as if going over her son’s words with her. How many times today, all on her own, had she gone over and over what her son had written?
    As she caught her eye it seemed to break the spell. Mum drew in a long, audible breath, and then let it out again in a long, tortured cry. ‘Oh, Connie, I pray they’ll both stay safe …’ The next instant she reached out and took her in her arms, the two of them weeping silently as they held tightly to each other, each striving to draw comfort from the other.
    By the time Dad came home they were composed. ‘Had a letter from the boys today,’ Connie’s mum said in a controlled tone. ‘Read it yourself. They’ve been sent to the front, together, just over a week or so ago.’
    As Connie watched her parents’ faces, saw her mother’s mouth crumple, her father’s eyes become filled with a haunted gaze as he read, as if he was already being notified of a loss, she let a silent prayer rise up inside her.
    Please, God, keep them safe, make this war end soon and bring them home, unhurt, please
.

Chapter Ten
    May 1915
    Three weeks she’d been at this job. In that time nothing seemed to have progressed. She was a junior filing clerk in this noisy newsroom: people moving about, typewriters clacking, telephones ringing, voices raised in discussion. But at least she now knew what went into each file, how to find its place in the filing cabinet and retrieve it again when needed.
    During her trial period she’d several times been asked to sketch this and that person’s likeness so that