Swim Until You Can't See Land by Catriona Child

necessarily mean that you’re suitable. There are various skills we are looking for which we hope you will display during training.’
    ‘What sort of training?’
    ‘Oh, nothing to worry about now. Just basic stuff at first, a bit of PT, map reading, that sort of thing. The Germans have a very backwards attitude towards the fairer sex – don’t think you girls are up to the task.’
    She felt the fire in her belly. How dare they?
    Oh, he was good, he was very good. Manipulating her. Making her angry so she would agree to help him and ignore the fact he was being so evasive. She  was still none the wiser as to what the interview was for, but she was determined to sign up anyway.
    London was cold and grey when she stepped off the train. Gosh, and people thought that Aberdeen was bleak. Aberdeen sparkled like glitter.
    The fog was damp and clung to her and she pulled her coat tight. Where was the sky? She couldn’t see it. She’d never been so far South before, the sky had disappeared somewhere on the way down.
    She needed to find somewhere to freshen up, get something to eat before the interview.
    Motorcars, army vehicles, buses and trams drove past, while the pavements were just as busy with people. London looked familiar but strange to her. She’d heard about it on the wireless, seen film of it in newsreels and at the pictures. She recognised bits of it without ever having been there before.
    Sophisticated looking girls hung on the arms of men in uniform. Smart looking girls, also in uniform, hurried past, full of purpose, busy. Doing something. She looked down at herself. Her knee length skirt and silk blouse, the best clothes she owned. She felt so young and pathetic next to these girls. No, not girls: ladies, women. Maybe she’d join them, be one of them soon?
    ‘Les Allemands , we want you to get under their skin, annoy them, hinder them, do you think you can do that?’
    ‘ Bien sûr . I want to help, only I’m still unsure what you’re asking me to do. Do you want me to go to France?’
    ‘Miss Downie, you’re getting ahead of yourself. One step at a time, s’il vous plait .’
    God, he infuriated her. She wanted to shake him – stop being so evasive and answer me. It was okay for him to pry personal information out of her, but God forbid she asked him a question. Like a politician, Father would say.
    ‘You want to help liberate France, don’t you? Help end the war, bring our boys home?’
    ‘ Oui, bien sûr .’
    ‘ Formidable , that’s all we want to know for now.’
    Was that it, interview over? And who was ‘we’? She had agreed to do something but she wasn’t very sure what it was. She had signed on without realising.
    She looked up as she went, a lot of the street names had been taken down, blanked out in case of invasion. She had the map from Father to help if she got lost.
    Interview.
    She looked for 143, walked on until she spotted a door number.
    71.
    She was on the right side of the road at least. She continued, counting the doors as she went.  
    73. 75. 77. 79. 81.
    For what?
    She stopped outside 143. Was this the right place?
    It didn’t look like much. What had she been expecting? Maybe a sign on the door, a plaque, a clue? Something to explain why she’d been asked to travel all the way down here.
    Nothing though. As uninformative as the letter. She took a compact out of her bag and checked herself, ran a comb through her hair and applied a bit of lippy. It was an odd shade, two old stubs of lipstick melted together. Better than nothing though.
    It was real, all of a sudden, and she felt the nerves flutter in her tummy. Back at home, telling her parents and Cath, it had been a game. Marièle playing at being a grown up. Yes, I have an interview. In London. You know? It’s all very hush-hush, important War Office stuff.
    For what?
    She didn’t feel so grown up now. A long way from home and out of her depth.
    She snapped the compact shut.
    Out of your depth you either sunk or