by Molly Green
Simone shook her head at Ronnie and pursed her lips. She walked out without another word, leaving Ronnie feeling guilty that she couldn’t match up to her mother’s high expectations. But then, Raine, her eldest sister, never had, either. And look what she was doing now – a ferry pilot in the Air Transport Auxiliary, delivering the planes to the boys in combat. And Suzy had been abroad and was now touring the country with ENSA. Ronnie couldn’t remember what the letters stood for, but it was some sort of entertainment organisation that Vera Lynn belonged to, and Suzy was singing to the troops. Both her sisters had defied Maman, and that seemed to be the reason her mother was clinging on to her, the youngest daughter. It really was unfair.
She waited for a few minutes but there was no sound from upstairs except a bark or two from Rusty wanting to be let out of her bedroom. She’d better go and see if her mother was all right.
Ronnie ran up the stairs but no one was in the bathroom. She knocked on her mother’s bedroom door.
‘Entre.’
Simone was brushing her hair at the dressing table mirror.
‘Did the cocoa leave a burn mark, Maman?’
Simone turned and pulled up her nightdress, showing her shapely legs.
Ronnie stepped closer and saw a red blotch on top of her mother’s right thigh. She pushed down the spike of guilt.
‘I really am sorry, Maman, but at least it hasn’t blistered so I think you caught it in time.’
Her mother rose from the stool.
‘I am going to bed,’ she said coolly. ‘I am not at all well. You will come and see me in the morning with some tea in a cup with a matching saucer.’
Oh, dear. If her mother was being this difficult over a minor accident, she wasn’t going to be in the right mood to talk about working on a canal boat. But at least it had taken Maman’s mind off Joan Crawford’s extravagant outfits that Ronnie couldn’t for the life of her bring even one to mind.
She set her jaw. Whatever Maman said, she was determined she was going to join the canal company. But how to find out about it. Who to write to. That was the problem.
It was only the next morning when Ronnie took Rusty for a walk that she thought of looking in the library for information. She made her way to the one in the village but all they had were leaflets advertising the military forces for men and women. And that was something she definitely didn’t want to do. Like her sisters, she knew she’d hate all that marching and saluting and being shouted at. But Miss Jones, the elderly spinster on the counter, didn’t know anything about working on the Grand Union Canal.
‘Bromley library might be able to help you, dear,’ she said, looking forlorn. ‘Oh, I do dislike it if I can’t be of any help.’
‘I’ll try there … and thank you. You have been a help.’
‘We’re going to get my bicycle, Rusty,’ she told the dog, who gave her a bark of what she fondly decided was wholehearted agreement. He’d turned out to be the sweetest, most intelligent animal. When Ronnie had rescued him he’d been a pitiful creature, his ribs sticking through his mangy coat, shaking with terror in the kind ARP warden’s arms. As soon as Ronnie had taken him she’d named him Rusty for his tan-coloured but filthy ears and a few brown spots on his equally dirty coat. When Maman had set eyes on him she’d had a fit and said Ronnie had to put a notice up in the village shop to say he’d been found. No one had claimed him and somehow he’d worked his doggie way into … well, Ronnie wouldn’t go so far as to say into Maman’s heart, but at least her mother now seemed to tolerate him.
Hoping her mother wouldn’t be home and demand to know where she was going, Ronnie sneaked into the shed and wheeled out the heavy old bicycle. She picked up the dog and set him in the shopping-sized wicker basket at the front.
‘You only just fit in now you’ve put on some weight,’ she said, laughing at him, his body squashed, his tongue hanging out with pure joy that he was off on an adventure with his mistress. ‘We’re going to Bromley library, Rusty. Their library might have some more government leaflets.’
But the elderly volunteer at the counter didn’t seem to know what she was talking about either.
‘I’ll ask the librarian for you,’ she said, her whisper almost a hiss through her buck teeth as she bent her grey head towards Ronnie.
With all the notices around warning, ‘Strictly no talking’, Ronnie could see the woman took her position as library helper very seriously. She managed to suppress a giggle.
‘Miss Lidbetter will know. Wait here, dear. I won’t be a moment.’
Several minutes later Ronnie was losing patience. But the helper was back with a short stocky woman, her greying auburn hair pinned into a bun – presumably it was Miss Lidbetter.
‘Good morning, dear. Miss Ball tells me you are asking for information on girls working on the canals.’
Ronnie surreptitiously glanced behind her, sure that Maman would spring out of the shadows and confront her.
‘Yes, I saw a news clip at the cinema yesterday evening,’ she said. ‘It was about girls like me taking cargo from London to Birmingham and back again. I’d like to apply but they didn’t say how to do it.’
‘I wouldn’t think you were old enough to take part in something like that,’ Miss Lidbetter said, studying Ronnie intently.
‘I’m seventeen,’ Ronnie said, crossing her fingers behind her back, ‘and the man on Pathé News said some of the girls were my age.’
‘Hmm.’ Miss Lidbetter pursed her plump lips. ‘What do your parents say about this?’
What would Dad have said? She had no idea. But she knew exactly what to expect from Maman.
‘Oh, they know I’m looking into it, but there’s nothing definite yet,’ Ronnie said, squeezing her fingers more tightly together.
Miss Lidbetter sighed. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in your writing to them,’ she said eventually. ‘Then it will be down to your parents as to whether they give their permission.’
Ronnie sent what she hoped was a sweet smile in Miss Lidbetter’s direction. She tapped her foot while the librarian took her time rifling through a box of cards and finally pulled one out. She peered at it, then looked at Ronnie over the top of her glasses.
‘I believe you need to write to the Ministry of War Transport, dear. Would you like me to jot down the address?’
‘Oh, that would be marvellous … thank you.’
The librarian adjusted the comb at the side of her bun that was on the verge of falling out and took the pencil the helper offered. She wrote the address on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to Ronnie.
‘Be sure to listen to your parents when making a decision of this nature,’ she said. ‘You’d be doing a man’s job and you’re just a young girl. It’s not to be taken lightly.’
‘I’m really grateful, Miss Lidbetter,’ Ronnie said, tucking the precious piece of paper into her coat pocket, desperate to make her escape.
‘Are there any books you need today, dear?’
‘Oh, no, not at the moment.’ Ronnie smiled. ‘I’d better go. I’ve tied my dog up outside and he’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.’
She didn’t bother to inform Miss Lidbetter that the real truth was that it would be Maman she’d have to face when she got home – who would ask why had she been so long – not Rusty.
Ronnie wasted no time in writing a letter to the Ministry of War Transport, explaining that she’d seen a newsreel on Pathé News which had inspired her to apply for a position on the canal boats to haul cargo. Now she’d have to wait for a reply. It seemed as though she was always waiting. Surely this time she’d get the answer she was looking for.
And this time she wouldn’t let Maman come anywhere near it.
It was three weeks later when Micky turned up with the post at seven in the morning. Ronnie was up and dressed and had seen him walk up the path, but she’d given up now on the Ministry of Transport.
‘Morning, Micky. What have you got for us?’
‘One for your mother
from that pilot sister of yours.’
Ronnie hid a smile, imagining how annoyed Maman would have been if she’d opened the door to the postboy who loved commenting on everyone’s letters. She glanced at the envelope. Yes, it was Raine’s large looping writing.
‘Anything else?’
‘Nah.’
The last flicker of hope died.
Then Micky glanced at the pile of envelopes in his hand, tightly bound together by an elastic band. ‘Oh, yes, sorry. One other. For you.’ He looked up. ‘It’s typed,’ he added as he handed her a long envelope, then hopped onto his bike.
‘Thanks, Micky,’ she called after him, but he just pulled his cap off and still with his back to her, put his hand up in the air and waved as he pedalled off.
She’d only been indoors long enough to put the kettle on when Maman called downstairs.
‘Véronique, please bring my post up to my room with my tea.’
Assuring Rusty she’d be down soon to give him his breakfast, Ronnie took the tray upstairs with the two letters. But first she went to her own room and tucked the typed envelope under her pillow, then picked up the tray again and knocked on her mother’s door.
‘Entre, chérie,’ Simone called.
‘Ah, the English cup of tea for all evils.’ Simone was sitting up in bed expectantly, her hair groomed, her make-up on, and wearing a white fluffy bed-jacket, looking for all the world like an actress who was waiting for the newspapers to be delivered giving the reviews of her successful first night.
‘I think you mean “ills”, Maman.’ Her mother’s eyes narrowed. She hated to be corrected on her English. ‘I’d bring you coffee if it wasn’t so scarce,’ Ronnie went on, ‘although there’s Camp if you’d prefer it to tea.’
‘Do not even use that word to me.’ Simone grimaced unattractively. ‘Camp! How can the manufacturers even pretend it is like coffee. It is more unlike coffee than any drink I can imagine.’
Ronnie laughed. ‘You’d better drink your tea then. And I have a letter from Lorraine for you.’ She used Raine’s full name on purpose. She mustn’t allow anything to put Maman in a difficult mood.
‘It will be for both of us, so hand me my letter-opener and come and sit by me. I will read it to you.’
Simone took the letter and carefully slit it open.
‘Dear Maman and Ronnie’ – Simone stopped and gave a deep sigh. ‘I so wish—’
‘Maman, you won’t stop her using “Ronnie”. Besides, I prefer it. Come on, I want to hear what Lorraine’s been doing.’
Simone shook her head but carried on reading:
‘I hope this finds you both well. I’m busy as usual but at least the pilot I’ve been filling in for is now back at work which has taken off some of the pressure. I have managed to get a decent sleep for the last two nights. But you know I’m not complaining – I love every minute of my job and still consider myself incredibly lucky.
‘Our American pilot, Dolores, brought us some luxury items from one of the American bases (as they call them) and she always shares everything with us. I now have two pairs of silk stockings – yes, two whole pairs! – a box of chocolates and a bar of soap smelling of roses just for me and a huge tin of biscuits she calls cookies for all of us. What a generous girl.
‘You will remember Stephanie who I invited for Christmas last year— Simone broke off and looked up. ‘Yes, I liked her, but I thought she was sad.’
‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’ Ronnie said anxiously.
Simone bent her head again, then smiled. ‘She is very much all right. It seems she has a nice boyfriend – although unfortunately he is another pilot.’
‘It must be difficult meeting men who aren’t pilots in that sort of place,’ Ronnie said.
‘Hmm. Now, where was I?’
‘Stephanie’s boyfriend.’
‘Oh, yes. Lorraine does not give any other details. Now she is talking of Miss Gower.’
‘That’s Raine’s boss,’ Ronnie said. ‘What does she say?’
Simone cleared her throat.
‘We women pilots have had some incredible news from Pauline Gower. She’s been telling the powers that be in the ATA that we take exactly the same risks as the men, work just as hard, and fly just as many different planes, yet we are paid a third lower in wages. After much arguing and persuasion they have actually agreed we are to have equal pay to the men! It’s not even the money so much as the acknowledgement that we’re every bit as good!’
Simone pursed her lips. ‘What is she saying – “it is not even the money”?’
‘I know exactly what she means,’ Ronnie interrupted. ‘It’s the principle of the thing. And the women have finally won!’ She jumped up from the bedside chair and clapped her hands. ‘Good for Miss Gower. Is there anything more?’
‘Non, just she sends her love to us and not to worry … she is fine. As if I can stop from worrying.’
‘She’s happy, Maman, and really that’s all that matters.’ She smiled at her mother but Simone didn’t smile back. ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed while I put the porridge on.’
‘Give me twenty minutes, please,’ Simone said, draining her cup.
Ronnie decided not to risk Maman bursting into her bedroom, demanding to see this particular letter and tearing it to shreds, so she retrieved it from under her pillow and ran down the stairs, Rusty flying after her, for once not barking. Outside, she unbolted the shed and perching on an upturned crate, ripped open the envelope. The heading in capitals and underlined was: MINISTRY OF WAR TRANSPORT. Her heart began to pound. She skimmed through the two-page letter trying to see if they’d accepted her, but she couldn’t tell so she took in a deep breath and read more slowly from the beginning:
Dear Miss Linfoot,
Re: Training Scheme for Women
Thank you for your letter. The training scheme for women is as follows:-
Training takes at least 8 weeks where you will learn to manage a pair of boats – the motorboat and the butty and how to load and unload cargo etc., as well as rudimentary training on care of the engine. You will live on the boats which will carry the cargo along the Grand Union Canal from London to Birmingham and back.
During training you will be paid £2 per week but you must pay for your own food, national insurance and all personal expenses. You should bring your ration books so we can arrange to issue Emergency Coupons. You may then make purchases in any part of the country. When you are able to operate the boats you will be allotted your own pair of boats working together with two other women.
After training, earnings of around £10 per week must be shared by the three crew members. This figure may vary according to the cargo and distance travelled etc. and will depend upon each member’s effort.
When you have completed two trips – usually around three weeks each – you may take three days off unpaid. The more trips you make, the more days you may take (unpaid). After a year you will be paid one week’s leave, and the same thereafter.
We must stress that you should be fit and healthy as you will be working long hours over a seven-day week.
If you are still interested in this vital war work, and are at least 17 years of age, then we will arrange for you to come for an interview at our offices.
Yours sincerely,
D. Hunter (Mrs)
Supervisor
Grand Union Canal Carrying Co.
They hadn’t turned her down! She hadn’t stated her age so she’d have to take a chance they wouldn’t ask for her birth certificate. After all, she’d be seventeen in December – only two months away. With a shiver of excitement she tucked the letter back into its envelope. She’d write back immediately. Then when they gave her a date to attend the interview, only then would she tell Maman her plans.
There was one problem even more insurmountable than Maman – and that was Rusty. Maman would never agree in a million years to look after him. She wondered if she could somehow smuggle him onto the boat. She read the letter again
. There was no mention of not being able to take a dog aboard and she’d seen dogs on boats when she’d cycled to Keston Common with Rusty in the front basket. They’d always looked perfectly happy. She was sure Rusty would be thrilled to accompany her – and Maman would be delighted to be rid of him.
But would whoever was in charge of the training allow it?
Chapter Three
At the vet’s the following Saturday where Ronnie helped out and earned some useful pocket money, she stood on the opposite side of the table to Mr Lincoln. He was having to put down a perfectly healthy dog because the owner, an elderly lady, said she was no longer able to feed it. She hardly had enough income to keep herself together, she’d said, her chin trembling as she left the mongrel to his destiny.
If she didn’t already have Rusty, Ronnie would have immediately taken the little dog home, but the thought of Maman’s anger stopped her. Ronnie swallowed hard. This would have been Rusty’s fate if she hadn’t rescued him, and he’d been in a dreadful condition compared to this boy. She vowed never to witness something like that again. She’d have to confess to Mr Lincoln that she wasn’t cut out for this kind of work after all. Not that she was squeamish at assisting the vet with the most gory operations. She rose to the challenge just as she knew Mr Lincoln did. And the glow of happiness she felt every time an animal recovered and was back with its owner was all the reward she would ever want. She loved how Mr Lincoln would celebrate a job well done by making her a cup of tea instead of the other way round, and adding a finger of Kit-Kat in the saucer. But poor Oscar being lethally injected after looking up at her with such trusting eyes just moments ago sickened her.
She gulped back her tears and turned to blow her nose.
‘I hated doing that,’ Mr Lincoln said with a sigh. ‘Bad enough having four injured pets brought in yesterday evening, caused by a couple of ignorant youths throwing fireworks at them.’ He shook his head in disbelief.
‘Maman thought it was a bombing raid,’ Ronnie said. ‘I must say, Rusty shook with terror every time a banger exploded.’
