The Secret Ministry of Ag. & Fish Read Free

down, and she had been unable to obtain any news of me. Naturally she
thought the worst. When I was late home, her fears had been confirmed, and she was about to scour the local hospitals, convinced that I was one of the casualties. I almost had been! I shudder now
to think what dreadful injuries I might have sustained had it not been for the airman’s rapid intervention. But at the time I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.
    I regretfully left this idyllic situation when my call to salute the flag gave me the choice of working either in a munitions factory – an idea which did
not
appeal – or
joining the armed forces. Deciding that if I couldn’t beat ’em I’d better join ’em, I marched to the recruiting office to enlist in the Women’s Royal Naval Service, as a Wren
– partly because I come from a naval family, but mainly because I liked the hat. I found it most seductive, and one’s legs were shown off to much better advantage in sheer black
stockings than in the thick woolly khaki or dull blue ones issued to the unfortunate women recruits to the Army or Air Force.
    When I went to sign on, however, a vinegar-faced woman told me tartly that the only vacancies in the Wrens were for cooks and stewards. My hopes took a rapid plunge. This was not at all the
future I had fantasized over. The idea of spending the rest of the war making stews and suet puddings was not the glamorous image I intended to present to the waiting world. Vinegar-face seemed to
gloat over my crestfallen appearance. ‘It’s either that or a munitions factory,’ she threatened. Her voice, like an umpire’s whistle, rang a death knell in my ears. The
future looked very bleak. I knew there was no point in arguing, so I asked for time to consider. She sighed exaggeratedly and glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s almost lunchtime.
Make up your mind and come back at two o’clock,’ adding menacingly, ‘Otherwise I’ll put you down for a factory.’
    Like a beaten dog, I slouched from the room and out of the building and teetered glassy-eyed down the street, convinced that, because of her decision not to allow me to lead my country to
victory, there was now no hope for Britain.
    ‘Hey there, you look as if you’ve lost half a crown and found sixpence.’
    I raised my eyes. It was my friend Tilly. I immediately cheered up. She had been at the Lycée with me and was great fun.
    ‘What’s up?’ she smiled, linking her arm in mine and propelling me along Holborn.
    I told her of my tragic situation. She was sympathetic, but didn’t seem to find it as dramatic as I did. In fact, she laughed, which didn’t help.
    ‘Come and have a cup of coffee in the canteen. We can talk it over.’
    ‘What canteen?’ I asked suspiciously, envisaging the British Restaurants the government had patriotically set up and which served cheap, unappetizing meals and grey stuff in thick
white cups referred to as ‘coffee’.
    ‘The BBC, down the road at Bush House. I’m on my way there now. I work in the German section. The French Section is just across the corridor, I’m sure they’d give you a
job.’
    My spirits immediately rocketed. I hadn’t thought of the BBC. What an opportunity. Blow the hat.
    Settling me at a formica-topped table in the BBC World Service’s underground canteen with a cup of coffee, which looked and tasted like coffee, and a currant bun, Tilly disappeared to make
enquiries. I was fascinated. All around me interesting-looking people were jabbering away in a variety of languages. They seemed very friendly and smiled at me as they passed with their trays. The
canteen was crowded, and a young Norwegian asked if he could share my table. He and I were getting along very nicely, practically on first-name terms, when Tilly returned.
    ‘Mission accomplished,’ she announced, her dark-brown eyes shining. ‘One of my friends is secretary to the head of the French Section. She spoke to him about you, and