The Code Girls

by Daisy Styles

  Grabbing the coffee pot from the Aga, Ruby poured the steaming contents into an Edwardian silver coffee pot and placed it on a tray, alongside delicate china cups and saucers, sugar and cream. Heaving the loaded tray, she walked past Timms and made her way up the back staircase again, wondering what time she’d get to bed after clearing the supper, preparing breakfast for the trainees and sending out a grocery order for the following day’s supper.

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ she said to herself as she puffed and panted up the stairs, ‘I can’t carry on like this – I’ll be dead in a week!’

  3. Walsingham Hall

  Ava woke up with a start; the bed springs overhead twanged and bent as the hefty girl in the top bunk lowered herself to the ground and yawned loudly.

  ‘Wakey wakey!’ she called, and hurried off to the bathroom.

  Ava hung back. Left alone, she listened to the new sounds around her: footsteps hurrying down echoing corridors, girls calling excitedly to one another and, from outside, riotous birdsong. She pulled the black-out blind by the bed, which flipped up to reveal rolling parkland and the stunning façade of Walsingham Hall. It had seemed large and majestic last night but spread before her now, brimming with sunshine, its golden brickwork and classical columns glowed with a luminous light that hurt her eyes. Flights of steps ran to the right and left of the elaborately carved front door, leading on to a circular gravel drive. Ava imagined horse-drawn carriages bearing ladies in crinolines and gentlemen in black suits and stove-pipe hats arriving for weekend parties a century ago. Spellbound, she stared at the Greek-style carved pillars that ran along the front of the house, each embellished with carvings of ancient gods.

  ‘It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,’ Ava murmured.

  Rolling over on to her tummy, she leant on her elbows so she could watch the deer grazing under the ancient oaks which flanked the curve of the long drive, which ended at a huge ornamental gate which, she remembered from last night, bore the Walsingham coat of arms.

  Ava felt like she was on a film set, and that, at any moment, Laurence Olivier was going to swoop up in a Bentley with Vivien Leigh beside him.

  The sound of a bell ringing made her jump out of bed and reach for one of her dresses, which she’d hung up before she went to sleep. Looking at them now in the lovely morning light made her heart sink; they were so limp and tired ‒ and her shoes! She picked them up then dropped them back on to the floor: for all her mother’s hard polishing, they still looked worn and tatty. She wondered how the other trainees would be dressed? Surely not all of them would be well off enough to afford a whole new wardrobe? There must be other girls from poor backgrounds like her own. Determined not to be cast down on such a glorious summer morning, Ava shrugged and hurried to the bathroom, where she cheered up when she examined her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her long, rich-brown hair glowed with health, her blue eyes were big and bright, there was a flush of excitement on her high cheekbones and her teeth showed white and straight under her curved, smiling lips. Feeling nervous and thrilled at the same time, Ava ran down the winding corridors and joined the other girls in the old library, where a tall, military-looking man and a short, slim frowning woman were standing in front of the huge marble fireplace, both holding clipboards.

  ‘Good morning, ladies ‒ or should I say, welcome, code girls. I’m Brigadier Charles Rydal and this is my senior, Miss Cox.’ The woman beside him smiled thinly. ‘Before we have breakfast we need to run down the list of trainees to make sure you’ve all arrived safely.’

  ‘You’re the first to arrive. Some more new conscripts will join us later,’ Miss Cox explained. ‘Please respond when I call your names, then you’re free to go into breakfast.’

  Ava stood and waited as Miss Cox briskly worked her way down the list until only one girl remained in the now almost empty library: Ava.

  ‘Where should I go?’ she asked.

  The brigadier checked the list. ‘And you are …?’

  ‘Ava Downham.’

  The brigadier frowned, still scanning his list. ‘Your name doesn’t appear to be here ‒’

  Miss Cox interrupted him. ‘She’s downstairs, remember, sir?’

  When the brigadier didn’t immediately respond, she bossily reminded him, ‘She’s the girl from Bolton who’s the canteen cook.’

  ‘Ah, yes, now I recall.’

  ‘You’re upstairs – you should be downstairs,’ Miss Cox explained.

  Still thinking she was supposed to join other trainees, Ava asked, ‘Can you direct me to the downstairs classrooms, please?’

  Miss Cox sharply put her right.

  ‘There are no classrooms below stairs, just the kitchen – you’re the new cook.’

  If she’d been hit with a sledge hammer, Ava couldn’t have been more winded. Her mind raced, she couldn’t believe she was hearing right.

  ‘I think there’s been a mistake.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Miss Cox sharply

  ‘I signed up to train in communications,’ Ava spluttered. ‘To be a code girl!’

  ‘You might have signed up for one thing, but you’ve finished up with quite another,’ Miss Cox answered briskly.

  Seeing Ava’s eyes begin to fill up, the brigadier added in a kind but firm voice, ‘We have a crisis; we have no cook and almost thirty people to feed. I’m sorry to disappoint, but needs must.’

  Panic washed over Ava; they must have got it wrong. Steadying herself, she took a deep breath to calm her raging thoughts.

  ‘I’m happy to do my duty, sir, but I did state on my conscription form that I was keen to work in communications. I know that’s where my strengths lie.’ She paused to look from the brigadier to Miss Cox. ‘Are you sure there hasn’t been a mistake?’

  The brigadier shook his head. ‘There’s been no mistake, Miss Downham.’ Before she could even open her mouth to protest he added firmly, ‘Sorry, we all have to make sacrifices – there’s a war on. Feeding vital war workers is just as important as learning communication skills.’

  Again, Ava caught her breath. Although she was devastated, she knew that if she overstepped the mark and refused to accept his orders, he would have to take action. Bowing her head to hide the scalding tears that were beginning to roll down her cheeks, Ava dumbly nodded.

  ‘Dodds will show you the way,’ said Miss Cox.

  Ava followed the butler below stairs; she couldn’t believe that the subterranean labyrinth of dark, winding passages was to be her world henceforth. The mill canteen where she’d worked had large windows that opened wide and gave on to views of rolling moors; this kitchen, which seemed to sprawl from one gloomy room to another, had no windows. Water flowed into slop sinks, the only oven was a huge old Aga and, worst of all, the tall, resentful-looking woman in black from the previous evening was staring at Ava as if she was a piece of dirt.

  ‘And who are you?’ Timms asked.

  Angered by her rudeness, Ava attempted to walk past, but the woman blocked her path.

  ‘Answer me!’ the woman cried.

  She was sick of being bossed about but Ava made a supreme effort to be polite to the arrogant woman standing before her.

  ‘I’m the new cook,’ she said.

  Timms’s eyes raked over Ava, taking in her poor clothes and old shoes.

  ‘Are you indeed?’ she murmured. ‘And what experience do you bring to Walsingham Hall?’

  ‘I’ve worked in a mill canteen for nearly five years, cooking for over two hundred workers,’ Ava answered, with a more than confident tone to her voice.

  ‘Canteen food!’ scoffed Timms.

  Ava had had enough now. It was one thing to be ordered to do kitchen work by the brigadier, but to be insulted, on top of that, by a total stranger, who hadn’t even the manners to introduce herself, was seriously out of order. The tension in the room was broken by the appearance of a pretty young woman with black hair and lively, dark eyes who rushed into the kitchen bearing a loaded tray
, which she plonked down in order to shake Ava vigorously by the hand.

  ‘Welcome, welcome!’ she cried. ‘I’m Ruby, the maid,’ she said with a wide smile.

  Seeing the attractive girl making an effort to get between her and the dragon of a woman in black, Ava responded with words which nearly choked her. ‘I’m Ava … the new cook.’

  Ruby sagged with relief. ‘Thank God for that!’

  Timms scowled at the girls, who were smiling at each other.

  ‘Well, this should be interesting, two girls cooking for thirty. Let’s see how you manage that,’ she said viciously.

  Unable to hold her tongue a minute longer, Ava retorted, ‘We’ll manage just fine as long as you stay out of my kitchen!’

  As a scowling Timms walked away with her head held high, Ruby covered her mouth to hide her laughter.

  ‘I never thought I’d hear anybody tell Timms to bugger off.’

  Ava was far from amused, though. After two altercations in rapid succession, she felt sick to her stomach. Slumping into an old Windsor chair, she sat with her head in her hands.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she wailed. ‘I want to go home.’

  Ruby put a comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

  Ava nodded and blinked back the tears; thank God she’d found an ally.

  Ava’s first few days below stairs were a baptism of fire, as she familiarized herself with a kitchen and domestic apartments that were simply ‘out of the Ark!’ as she put it.

  Ruby gave her a tour of the maze-like passages, flinging open doors to numerous rooms. Ava shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘How many rooms are there, and what are they all for?’ she cried.

  Ruby grinned at Ava’s stunned face.

  ‘They all have a purpose,’ she said, and chanted out the function of each room. ‘Washing, drying, ironing, sewing, prepping, storing, baking, chilling and freezing; rooms for linen, china, boots, shoes, silver, dogs, guns, servants, flower arranging and gardening.’

  In the massive walk-in pantry, which had a huge, granite slab for cold storage, Ava incredulously examined the bottles, jars and tins which lined the shelves, which were as deep and numerous as a small library.

  ‘I’ve never seen half of this stuff before!’

  In the larder further down the corridor hung two dead hares and a couple of pigeons, all of which smelt high and meaty.

  ‘Where did they come from?’ Ava shuddered and grimaced at the congealed blood on the stone larder floor that had dripped from the game.

  ‘Townie!’ teased Ruby. ‘They’re from the Walsingham estate. Peter, the gardener, drops off any surplus kill whenever he can.’

  ‘Ugh! But they’re all bloody,’ cried Ava, squeamishly.

  ‘I’ve been disembowelling rabbits and plucking pheasants since I was a kid, used to get twopence for every carcass.’

  ‘Good, you can be the pheasant plucker – I’ll stick with the cooking!’ Ava declared.

  ‘The Walsinghams appreciate the odd game pie or brace of pheasants,’ Ruby informed her. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing easier than shoving some buttered pheasants in the low oven of the Aga ‒ they cook themselves and the RAF officers can’t get enough of them,’ she added with a wink.

  Ava stopped dead in her tracks. ‘What RAF officers?’

  Ruby tipped her head in the direction of the officers’ billet. ‘In the west wing.’

  Ava shook her head again in disbelief. ‘Nobody mentioned any RAF officers to me!’

  Ruby shrugged as she replied, ‘Don’t worry, they come and go.’

  ‘Exactly how many come and go?’ Ava persisted.

  ‘Depends,’ Ruby said, and counted up on her fingers. ‘Last month there were about six here on short-term leave; they’re no trouble,’ she assured startled Ava. ‘They usually arrive after a bombing raid, hungry as lions, sleep round the clock, then return to duty back on the base.’ She giggled and added. ‘I quite enjoy serving supper to good-looking RAF officers!’

  Ava continued her questioning. ‘Where’s the airfield?’

  ‘About five miles away, at the far end of the estate ‒ between two turnip fields!’ Ruby replied.

  Ava felt weak at the thought of how many mouths they had to feed. Where on earth would all the food come from?

  ‘Maybe that old bat Timms is right.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Maybe we won’t manage.’

  Ruby frowned and shook her dark hair. ‘This is our war work, Ava,’ she declared fiercely. ‘We might not be learning Morse and breaking codes –’

  ‘If only!’ Ava groaned.

  ‘But we’re feeding brave lads who risk their lives every day and every night for their country, and we’re doing our best for the code girls, too,’ Ruby insisted. ‘We might be stuck skivvying below stairs, but it’s our bit to beat Hitler and win this damned bloody war!’ she finished, with a burst of passion.

  Ava smiled at Ruby. Although she was small and slender, she had the heart of a warrior.

  ‘You’re right, lass,’ she replied. ‘Time for less moaning and more action.’

  Ruby grinned. ‘That’s right. ‘Keep calm and cook!’

  Ruby’s phenomenal efficiency facilitated Ava’s entry to the world of ‘downstairs’; she knew where every pot, pan, tureen, bread knife, glass, napkin, plate and ladle was kept. And she understood the weird, idiosyncratic workings of the ancient Aga, which had to be constantly fed with seasoned logs.

  ‘It’s a contrary bugger of a thing,’ Ruby joked as she stoked it. ‘But it works.’

  She knew how to clear the kitchen flue and the slop sink waste pipe, how many buckets of coal had to be carted up to the first-floor sitting room every morning, what time her ladyship might want coffee served; in a blink, she could put her hand on a bag of starch, a tin of furniture polish, a packet of caustic soda, a potato peeler, a meat cleaver, a rolling pin, a pudding bowl or a soufflé dish. She could even predict what veg Peter would deliver every morning.

  ‘How can you possibly know that?’ Ava laughed as Peter walked in with exactly what Ruby had foretold.

  ‘Salad, carrots, new potatoes, peas and the last of the asparagus,’ Ruby chanted. ‘It’s simple, it’s that time of the year. It doesn’t take much, it’s just knowing what the different seasons bring! Mind you, a lot of the estate produce goes to the local shops and markets. We can’t hog it all, even though we have a hall full of hungry workers.’

  ‘Just thank God for what we can get,’ Ava said, as she shelled peas into a basin. ‘’Cos there’s precious little fresh veg you can buy with ration coupons!’

  Everybody living at the hall handed over their ration books to Ava, who prepared menus based on what she could buy with the combined points. Well used to planning menus using only rationed goods, Ava more or less cooked the same food for the trainees as she had for the mill workers. Corn-beef fritters, shepherd’s pie, cottage pie, parsnip soup, split-pea soup, cheesey baked potatoes, nourishing stews made from any left-over meat, with a bit of added Oxo or Marmite, curried carrots, Spam hash, cheese and potato dumplings, Lord Woolton pie, and numerous variations of pasties based on whatever Peter the gardener delivered to the hall.

  Ruby, who was used to a more luxurious style of pre-war cooking, when every dish turned out by the cook swam in cream, sherry, brandy and butter, was impressed by Ava’s ability to improvise plain but wholesome meals from very little.

  ‘You have to make not much go a long way,’ Ava explained. ‘It’s possible to feed a big plate meat pie to a dozen people if you cut it carefully and fill up the rest of the plate with chips and gravy.’

  ‘Lord and Lady Walsingham are not going to appreciate plate meat pie, chips and gravy,’ Ruby giggled.

  Ava burst out laughing. ‘Daft buggers! They don’t know what they’re missing.’

  4. Maudie

  ‘Haben Sie wandte sich die Brötchen, Maudie, meine liebe?’

  ‘Yes, Papa. I’ve taken the bread out of the oven,’ Maudie replied. />
  ‘And the cinnamon swirls?’ her mother called from the shop, where she was laying warm rye bread in the shop window.

  ‘Of course, Mumia.’

  Maudie smiled to herself; she loved these early mornings in the bakery with her parents, chatting in German or Polish, or sometimes Yiddish, as they checked everything was in order before the bakery opened and the customers poured in. They didn’t just come for the fine produce the Fazakerly family provided on a daily basis, they came for a gossip or a bit of sympathy, or sometimes just to have a good moan. This was the stuff of life to Maudie; a caring, sharing community where each neighbour looked out for the other. Growing up in London’s East End, Maudie had witnessed the Mosley rallies, angry, shouting Blackshirts striding through her streets, claiming that fascism was an ideal belief. Like the rest of her heavily populated Jewish community, she had nothing but contempt for Mosley’s men, and for the bourgeoisie, too, for that matter. Maudie had imbibed socialism with her mother’s milk, and grew up with her father’s passionate belief that all men were equal.

  ‘Women, too, Papa!’ Maudie often reminded him.

  Maudie had arrived in England with her parents, seeking refuge from the growing terrors of the Nazis’ anti-Semitic attacks, which were sweeping across Germany in the early thirties. Now twenty and a grown woman, Maudie was tall and slender with narrow hips and long legs. She had a mass of auburn curls, penetrating, intelligent, green eyes, a scattering of freckles across her pert nose and a wide, generous mouth. Her parents were proud of their clever, independently minded, beautiful daughter, though they constantly regretted that they couldn’t afford to put her through university.