"Working as a man, you simply can't wear the clothes you wore when you were just sitting still as a girl!" she remarked.
"I can't wear woollies and sweaters next me," I protested. "I would rather die of cold!"
"You needn't wear wool," Sybil said, as I got stiffly into my costume. "Though of course athletes say a sweater next your skin is the only thing. They do scoff at the way women wear four thicknesses of silk or lace, and then a 'sweater' over it all, doing no good! But you must wear a woven vest or one of linen mesh—or anything that dries quickly, and lets the air through to your skin. I'll lend you something, then you can order more."
"And keep dinky undies
For civvies and Sundays,"
sang out Vic. "Now then, ready?"
Vic caught each of us by an arm, and ran us out of hut and home, down the green and daisied meadow at the back of the camp.
In front of us two girls, with bare legs showing under their ballooning Land Army coats, and a third swathed round with a bath-robe, were gambolling like lambs down the grassy path. From behind the alders at the bottom came sounds of splashing and laughter. We followed to where the bank descended under trees to the Welsh trout-stream, brightly clear as a child's eyes, with little cataracts between mossy boulders from which the girls could dive into the wide, smooth pool that reflected them.
Well! It was all the bathroom the camp had. We might as well get in and treat it as a good wash!
Elizabeth, on the pool brink, said:
"N—neither of us can swim, you know—oooh!" she wound up with her little screech. Vic, gently, but firmly, had shoved her under water.