The moment had come -- I was going to have to make a decision one way or the other. With the NAAFI manageress bellowing 'Soda scone or fruit loaf, one slice, that's your choice, like it or lump it' I couldn't pretend otherwise. The two Polish sergeants in the queue behind me grimaced at each other, and the young lady waiting with her tongs smiled sadly.

I didn't bother to pretend that I hadn't heard the instruction.

'Fruit loaf, please,' I said quickly. I tried to ignore the harridan.

The young lady gave me my cup of tea and fruit loaf. As I put it down to pay my sixpence, Medusa checked to make sure that I hadn't been slipped an off-ration raisin.

As the Poles moved up and pointed glumly to the soda scones I took my cup to a table by the window. There was almost nothing outside to be seen. I tried to warm my hands around the tea cup, but it just troubled the chilblain on my little finger. I looked out for the runway lights, but nothing was flying and they had been switched off.

There were one or two men who must have been waiting even longer than me -- they had fallen asleep over their kitbags. If things had been flying this would have been busy, but a lot of men had turned up and registered with the detail and then gone back into town to try and get a drink.

'Have you finished with your plate?'

I had been gazing out of the window and suddenly realised that the young lady was standing behind me. I could see her reflection.

'Yes, thank you. I've made sure you won't be bothered with too much washing up,' I said.

She put the plate on her tray. 'Not so much as a crumb left. What are we going to feed the birds now?'

'How about her, through there?' I said quietly, nodding at the ogress who had retired into her lair and sat calculating takings with an abacus made of human skulls. 'Or can't you have her arrested for spreading despondency?'

'She's not that bad, you know. At least you had a choice, even if you took your time in making it.'

'I bet a lot of oicks who pass through here find something to linger about in front of your counter. Or hadn't you noticed?'

She tossed her head. 'And I thought it was the quality of my baking,' she said.

'Anyway,' I said. 'Look, there's a Yank, you can ask him if he's got any gum.'

The door was half open and a bespectacled American officer stood looking hesitantly into the canteen. Perhaps he was looking for other Americans, because he stepped back and let the door close on him.

'Are you going to France?' she said.

'Um, Paris, and then east.'

'Well, you'll have lots of things to eat when you get there -- petits fours and gateaux and choux pastry and profiteroles. They know all about pastries, them French.'

'Oh, I prefer things sweet and simple -- like fruit loaf,' I said.

'I made that,' she said. 'I had one of them Frenchmen helping me out for a while, before he went back with them, last June. He showed me a lot.'

Suddenly there was a shadow over us and I looked up, but it was not the ogress, it was the Transport Officer and I showed him my travel warrant.

'We're putting out one last flight tonight,' he said. 'You'll be on it,' and he walked over and shook the drowsy Poles and told them the same.

A rattle of crockery told me she was moving away and I tried to tempt her back. 'Don't go,' I said. 'I know my grandmother's recipe for Bakewell Pudding, the real thing. I'll let you have it, you've been nice to me.'

'Bakewell Tart,' she said, scornfully, 'Get on with you.'

'No, Bakewell Pudding. That's the genuine article, that's what they call it in Derbyshire where I come from. You could be serving it up tomorrow. If you were desperate you could serve it up for Christmas Dinner next week instead of plum pudding. I'll write it down.'

Later on I was drowsing when the doors opened and the American officer came in again with the Transport Officer following. The U.S. Army uniform was as smart as a tailored suit and his gold rimmed glasses shone under the peak of his cap.

'I've got to get over to my boys,' the officer was saying. 'I've got to take care of business.'

'But you can see what's it's like, sir. We've got one last flight tonight.'

The T.O. looked around the room. He ignored the three R.A.F men who been asleep as long as I'd been in the mess, and walked over to me. 'Show me that warrant again,' he said.

I reached into my pocket for the travel docket. It wasn't there. I went through my other pockets and then my greatcoat and started to unstrap my kitbag.

'Don't bother,' the Transport Officer said. 'You're not going.' He turned to the American, who stood, smiling understandingly. 'It looks like he's chosen to give you his seat, Major Miller.'

'That's just great of you,' the major said. 'And what about the two boys with me?'

The Transport Officer looked around the room again and almost before his neck had stopped craning, the two Poles were struggling to find their papers, too.

In a moment they had given up their seats to Major Miller's two companions.

A little later we watched the aircraft being lifted into the darkness.

The girl came back with the recipe I had given her. 'I don't think I'll be able to get any of this in time for Christmas' she said, as she read the ingredients again.

I looked at the paper in her hand, and the printed words I could read - 'Warrant to Travel' and my name written in. I must have been more tired than I realised when I was looking for paper. I had swapped a recipe for Bakewell Pudding for a possible Christmas in Paris.

Realising what I had done, I looked out of the window. The aeroplane could no longer be seen or heard.

This short story first appeared in the DERBY EVENING TELEGRAPH