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As a child I had longed for my mother’s beauty and elegance but despaired that it would ever come to me.

She had regularly reassured me it would happen by saying, ‘You are the ugly duck now, ma petite, but you will be the most beautiful swan.’ She had been right and the transformation happened at seventeen.

Then for a while I’d considered my looks a hindrance, but now I realised they opened doors for me.

But I also knew that it was my brain that kept those doors open.

This was the combination that was so appealing to Fleming.

He had quickly noted that men didn’t take me seriously because of my looks, which gave Fleming an advantage.

It had taken only one meeting to make Meredith Tremayne his secret weapon.

‘Do I pass muster?’ I asked, glad that I had taken the detour to the powder room to check my appearance.

‘Yes, though I prefer it when you don’t look so stern. We have a better chance at everything if you smile.’ Fleming held the door open for me. ‘Let’s do this.’

We entered the wood-panelled meeting room and all heads turned towards us.

There were enough officers in here to run the war: two British admirals, two generals, two majors, an air chief marshal, an air commodore, a colonel, and a minister.

That wasn’t all; the Americans in attendance included three generals and a captain.

‘Does your secretary have clearance?’ an admiral asked.

‘How can she help?’ asked the minister.

Fleming smiled slowly, enjoying their discomfort. ‘Dr Tremayne is not my secretary, but a geographer, and I’ll let her speak for herself.’

The men in the room were clearly surprised by the fact that Meredith Tremayne, BA (Hons), MA, DPhil (Oxon) on the memo was a woman and not some tweeds-wearing member of the Royal Geographical Society.

This frequently happened as Meredith was a far more common name for a man.

Their faces were pictures of disbelief and I suppressed a smile.

Once they had regained their composure, it was time for me to begin the process of reassuring them about my qualifications.

It would not be an easy battle to win their confidence.

‘Gentlemen, what is possible for us to achieve in this war depends first and foremost on geography. The climatic conditions our soldiers will face, as well as thorough knowledge of the terrain they will need to conquer – this information is vital before any action is taken.’ I paused.

All eyes were on me as I placed my latest maps on the table with the others already there and unrolled mine.

‘Maps are not simply pieces of paper with towns and cities marked on them; they tell us so much more. They inform us about who made them, what was important to them, what they were thinking and how they will be used.’

‘We know this,’ said one of the generals, clearly irritated by my lecturer tone.

‘Then you will know that a map is only as good as the intelligence used in the making of it.’ I looked down at the copies of photographs of Calais I’d been working on and moved them alongside a set of holiday photographs sent in by the public taken in 1938 that were also on the table.

‘For example here—’ I looked up and met the general’s gaze.

‘If you expected a bridge crossing the canal and it has been blown up you are in trouble if you haven’t worked out alternative plans. ’

‘It is still there.’ The general pointed to the aerial photograph.

‘But what is the date of the image? A day can make all the difference.’

He huffed. ‘So, you are saying this intelligence is useless.’

‘Not at all. All these photos provide a way to see the increase of war defences and with them one can make projections on what is to come next and what possible targets will interrupt that progression.’

The general stepped back from the table. ‘Hmmm.’

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Fleming who almost smiled.

‘The quality of our intelligence, the questions we ask, and the maps that are made from them will influence the success or failure of every battle and ultimately the war.’ Moving away I sat down at one of the chairs lining the wall and waited to be called when my expertise was needed again.

I was grateful the spotlight had turned away from me and onto whatever the task was at hand.

After a few moments into the subsequent discussion, I knew that we were looking at invasion.

However, each man around the table had a different view on the matter.

Fleming and I were not consulted again and the reason for my ongoing presence wasn’t clear unless the northern coast of France, particularly Normandy, was the intended invasion site.

I turned to Fleming to try and read his thoughts, but his face gave nothing away.

The maps I unrolled were shunted across the table and then one of the admirals took one and tacked it on the wall. My heart sank. It wasn’t finished. It shouldn’t be here but it was because I’d been in a rush.

‘Miss Tremayne. This is your work?’ the admiral asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What am I supposed to make of this?’ He pointed to a square object on the map – the smudge that I’d been unable to clearly identify.

I gritted my teeth. That map should never have left the office.

‘There’s an object or building of some description there—’

‘Some description?’ he interrupted. ‘Buildings come in many shapes, sizes and most importantly purposes.’ He paused. ‘I can tell it’s large by looking at the scale of the map, but there is no indication if this is residential or industrial. What is it?’

I drew a breath. ‘I don’t know.’

‘If it’s residential then it would have to be a chateau or extremely large farmhouse, based on its size. We already know there is no chateau here,’ he said. ‘If I were on the spot being fired upon, what else would this map tell me?’

I opened my mouth, uncertain of what I could say aside from pointing out the obvious – the railway, the port, the canals. I should be asking questions to find out more but I didn’t know which ones to ask.

‘Excuse my late arrival,’ an American admiral announced as he entered the room.

‘Ah, Admiral King,’ the general said.

The American glanced about the room and his gaze fell on me and Fleming. ‘Newcomers?’

‘Commander Fleming from Naval Intelligence Division and his . . . geographer Miss . . . err, Dr Tremayne,’ said the general.

‘Necessary?’ he asked.

‘Possibly, she is an . . . expert on the northern coast of France.’

‘Not needed for today.’ He glanced at the many maps on the table and took one of the North African coast and tacked it over the one of Calais on the wall. ‘Unless North Africa is also a speciality.’ He looked directly at me.

I met his glance. ‘No, sir.’

‘Best you leave then,’ the admiral said. ‘Commander Fleming, please remain.’

I left and returned to the Citadel, to my sandwich and to my book.

Hopefully I would find my equilibrium again.

I did not like being unable to answer a question or to feel so unprepared.

There had to be a way to solve this so I could make better maps that could help us win this awful war.

Only when it was won could I return to Oxford and my work.

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