Nell and the Girls

by Jeanne Gask

  This was nothing like flying was in the films, Jeanne thought. There was no smart, uniformed steward bringing trays full of delicious concoctions in ice-clinking glasses. She felt quite disappointed. It was not pleasant at all. She couldn’t imagine why she had looked forward to the flight.

  Just when she thought she was really going to be sick, she looked down, and there, through a gap in the fog, were the white cliffs of the south of England.

  ‘Look, look!’ she shouted. ‘There it is! Is that it? It’s England . . . we’re here!’ There was a faint cheer from the passengers. It had been a rough journey.

  They landed at Croydon airport and were taken to a reception lounge. An RAF medical officer walked up and down and talked to the tired passengers, checking them over, looking for signs of disease or neglect. He stood in front of Jeanne, now recovering from her nausea in a comfortable armchair. There was concern in his eyes. ‘And how old are you?’

  Jeanne, summoning up her best English, said, ‘Half past twelve.’

  The MO threw back his head and roared with laughter, and people around joined in. Jeanne was puzzled. What were they laughing at? She had thought her English was rather good.

  They were driven into London by coach with a huge, orange winter sun on the horizon line silhouetting the bare trees. The coach stopped outside a building and they stepped out in a daze. They had no idea where they were. Inside, a glorious sight awaited them. Smiling ladies, all in twin-sets and pearls, led them through into a large sitting room where a log fire sparkled merrily. There were Christmas cards on the mantelpiece, and in a corner stood a beautiful Christmas tree.

  Nell surveyed the scene. ‘Well, this is an improvement on the Paris dosshouse, and no mistake!’

  Jeanne went up to the decorated tree, touching the baubles and the sparkling streamers. It was unlike other Christmas trees she’d seen, not like a French Christmas tree. It was gaudy, more fun, and quite unlike the one the German soldiers had so simply decorated back in the church in Cambrai, all that time ago. She wondered whether Christmas trees have different nationalities, just like people, and talk different languages to each other.

  The Smiling Ladies brought trays of tea and fruitcake and the travellers, warming themselves by the cheerful fire, began to relax and to forget the awful plane journey. Leaflets were handed out informing them that they were at Rochester Row Rest Centre in Victoria. It told them how to apply for identity cards, ration books, clothing coupons, gas masks, etc. The war wasn’t over yet.

  Jeanne didn’t remember much after that. She was so tired.

  The next morning, they were each given a thorough medical check-up. The doctor checked for signs of infectious diseases as well as their health in general. When they were given a clean bill of health, they were free to leave.

  At the reception desk, they were given travel vouchers. As they were about to leave, Nell did the most extraordinary thing. She fished deep into the contents of her handbag, among her papers and, pulling out a one pound note, asked sweetly, ‘Are these still in use?’ The Smiling Ladies behind the desk smiled and nodded. Nell folded and pushed the one pound note through the slit in the top of the collection box. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to think we were charity cases!’ she said to the girls. Through all the long years of hardship, she had held on to that one pound note. It must have been a symbol to her. She probably felt that, as long as she still had it, she’d get safely back home to England some day, somehow.

  At Euston station they boarded the train for Birmingham. Jeanne was taking everything in, so many things were different – the way people dressed, the buildings, the hoardings, the double-decker buses – especially the doubledecker buses. And Nell’s chic Parisian beret, with a feather on the side, so much admired by the girls when she had bought it back in Cambrai, now looked totally out of place. Nell was quite definitely overdressed.

  They settled in a railway carriage and waited to leave. The guard blew a whistle and waved a green flag. They were off!

  The carriage was stuffy. The upholstery smelled of a combination of engine smoke and stale cigarette smoke. Above the seats were pre-war sepia photographs of seaside resorts that could be reached by rail – Llandudno, Skegness, Scarborough. Jeanne didn’t think any of them looked worth visiting, they looked so depressing, but maybe, she decided, it was the photographer’s fault and the towns weren’t all that bad really.

  Under the seats were pipes, pumping hot air into the carriage and creating an unhealthy fug. Nell decided she could do with a little air. She opened the window, and smoke and smuts came pouring in, covering her with tiny black specs. She promptly closed it again, deciding she’d rather stifle.

  Jeanne resumed her favourite place by the window. Coming out of London, there were the same scenes of bombing and devastation, just as there had been on the Paris outskirts. Near the railway line she could see houses with windows criss-crossed with thick brown tape. This was to protect the occupants. Should they be bombed, they would not be injured by flying glass.

  Then, gradually, the houses grew thinner and thinner, and they were in the country. But there were no flat fields, as she had been used to in northern France, but small fields, surrounded by hedges. Pretty and different, not at all what she had been expecting. Well, she didn’t know what she had been expecting, but the English countryside was quite a surprise to her.

  This was England, the promised land . . . the land of plenty. Well . . . the land of plenty of rationing at least! Jeanne went over to sit down next to Nell, and in the fuggy heat and the repetitive rhythm of the wheels on the rails, da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da, she fell asleep. She was so tired.

  She was awakened by a voice, shouting out, ‘Birmingham . . . Snow Hill, Birmingham.’ They were here, they had arrived. Before the train had stopped, the three girls were up at the carriage door, struggling and fighting, each one wanting to be the first to see Tom.

  One of them, either Marie or Irene, shouted, ‘There he is! There he is!’ Jeanne never knew which one.

  At the end of the platform was a small group of people, and Tom in front, tears streaming down his face, holding a huge bunch of white chrysanthemums. Jeanne held back shyly for a few seconds as the others went to him, shouting, kissing and hugging. Then she ran along the platform and hurled herself at him. ‘Papa! Daddy, Daddy!’

  1944–Present

  20. What Happened Next

  When they arrived at 6 Oxford Road, they found that Mrs Reeves, Aunt Rikkie’s housekeeper, had prepared a lavish tea. Jeanne could hardly believe her eyes. There were delicate tinned salmon and cucumber and egg and cress sandwiches, tinned peaches with condensed milk, a Victoria sponge, a trifle made in Rikkie’s special trifle bowl, and, most surprising of all, jelly of an indescribable green colour in dainty glass dishes. Jeanne couldn’t remember ever having jelly. This was the land of plenty, she thought. They were back, and every day would be like this.

  Christmas came and went in a happy haze, there was so much to talk about and catch up on.

  What Jeanne didn’t realise was that Rikkie and Gramp had saved as much as they could from their meagre rations and that, as Rikkie was PA to the Regional Director of the BBC, Percy Edgar, she had begged, borrowed or stolen what she could from the BBC canteen. The family were soon to find out how things really were.

  When the ration books arrived, Jeanne was sent to Sadie’s Sweetshop around the corner to get the sweet rations for five people. She came back with nearly a shoebox full of the most beautiful foreign-looking sweets. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on them. Jeanne remembered how in occupied Cambrai, where no sweets were to be had, she would stop off at the Boulangerie and get fifty centimes worth of yeast and walk slowly home, dipping her fingers in and relishing it. The Baker’s wife had asked if it was for her, and when she said yes, looked at her pityingly. The shoebox of sweets was put away in the wardrobe, to be brought out on special occasions. But Jeanne couldn’t contain herself. She would sneak upstairs and help herself to one o
r two, and eventually a whole handful, and caused a minor family scandal when Nell found the box empty, but it had just been too great a temptation for Jeanne. She had eaten a whole month’s sweet ration for five people.

  Nell, like so many women, had learned to fend for herself during the war, and now found herself relegated to her father’s kitchen, housekeeper to seven people. Her vision of England being the land of milk and honey quickly faded. Her beautiful Parisian beret with a feather in it landed at the back of the wardrobe and, together with the ever-reliable Mrs Reeves, she found herself wrestling a different set of ration books and rules. Gone were the tender days of coffee and brandy with Emil in the afternoons; they had to be forgotten. She donned a pinny and didn’t take it off for the next twenty years.

  Tom was back working for Courtaulds Textiles. He had been interviewed by his bosses several times when he came back to England. ‘I had to prove to them I hadn’t gone crackers!’ he said, laughing. He became a sort of troubleshooter: first sent to the Preston factory, then to help with the opening of the new firm in Carrickfergus in Northern Ireland. He was offered his old job back in Calais and, as soon as he was able, he returned there. He stayed three months, but found it impossible to obtain equipment and get the firm re-started; it was one long frustration. He decided he would be safer in England. He applied to return, sold the car and came back. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘France is moribund.’

  So Courtaulds Textiles offered him the post of Chief Electrician in Coventry, which he gratefully accepted. He was a bitter man, difficult to live with. The best years of his life had been wasted by two wars, years that could not be recaptured, and the wonderful times he had dreamed of while in internment camp did not materialize. Post-war Britain was a very grim place. Rationing and shortages carried on for a long time.

  Marie immediately applied to join the WRENS. When she enlisted, she spent the whole morning strutting around the house, waving her papers in the air, and singing:

  ‘We joined the Navy

  To see the world

  And what did we see

  We saw the sea.’

  Tom was sorry to see his beautiful, lively girl leave so soon. He had hoped they would spend time together so that he would get to know her.

  Irene’s wonderful French classical education was of no use in England. There had been talk of her becoming a doctor but she opted to be a probationary nurse at Birmingham General Hospital and started there at the age of seventeen.

  Jeanne, meanwhile, was making friends. Nell told her that a French lady and her daughter lived down the road at Number 44. Jeanne became a regular visitor, delighted to be able to speak French, and the daughter, Josette, and Jeanne hit it off right away and have remained friends ever since.

  Next door to Number 6 lived two boys, Philip and Christopher (known as Kipper). They lent Jeanne their old books and she learnt to read English with Nell’s help, following Noddy and Big Ears’ adventures and the joys of boating and fishing in old Ladybird books. Her name had been put down for St Joseph’s Convent School in Acock’s Green to start school the following September and she had a lot of work to do to catch up with girls of her age.

  Philip appeared to have a tick, constantly swinging his right arm from his back to his front, keeping it straight the whole time. This puzzled Jeanne who wondered what on earth he was doing. It was strange behaviour and it wasn’t something French boys did. All became clear when they played cricket together with a crowd of friends in the fields at the back. He’d been practising his bowling action! Jeanne had no idea what was going on, as cricket wasn’t played in France, but once she caught on she was quite happy just to be a fielder.

  The boys had another strange ritual. One of them would say, ‘Quick, quick, it’s nearly time for the 4.05 London to Edinburgh,’ and they would all run down to the fence alongside the railway. As the train rushed by they’d say, pointing to the plaque on the side of the monster, ‘It’s a namer, look, it’s a namer! It’s King George the fifth!’ and they would cross the name out in the little book they were holding. Another would say in a derisory way, ‘Oh I’ve got that one, I’ve had it ages.’ Occasionally, an LNER (London & North-Eastern Railway) locomotive would pass by on loan to the LMS (London Midland Scottish Railway). The boys booed and jeered.

  Her new friends seemed so much younger than children back in France. Nicole had started hanging around with the boys, Jeanne following a few steps behind. How very different life was here, she thought. Here she played cricket and collected train numbers. She felt as though she was ten again.

  One day, Aunt Rikkie said she had a treat for Jeanne, who didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry. She had no idea what a treat was! Then it was explained to her that Rikkie had four complimentary tickets for Cinderella at Birmingham’s Alexandra Theatre. So Jeanne saw her first pantomime at the age of twelve and three quarters, and enjoyed every minute of it. Things were decidedly looking up.

  Towards the start of May, it was obvious that the war was coming to an end. There was excitement in the air, you could almost smell it; and when the announcement was made that the war was over, May the 8th was declared VE Day (Victory in Europe Day) and the whole of the world erupted. ‘Thank God, thank God it’s all over, peace at last, they’ll be home!’ Everyone had a smile on their face, and strangers talked to each other, laughing with relief and delight. At last, the men would come home and pick their lives up where they had left off and everything would be back to normal.

  The celebrations were still going on two days later when Jeanne celebrated her thirteenth birthday. A party was held for her at Number 6. Josette, Philip and Kipper brought presents for her. She was so excited. ‘Imagine . . . presents . . .’ she said, ‘. . .for me!’ Rikkie had again twisted someone’s arm at the BBC canteen, and a beautiful birthday cake covered with a red, white and blue icing Union Jack was in the centre of the table, waiting to be shared out. Candles were lit and Jeanne blew them out. Then everyone – Mum, Dad, Gramp, Rikkie, Josette, Philip and Kipper – sang Happy Birthday. It was just wonderful. Jeanne felt very special, like a princess. And she had a feeling that things were going to be all right.

  Epilogue

  Returning to places you knew in your childhood and seeing them with a grown-up’s eyes, makes things seem so very different.

  I returned to the house of my birth in Calais quite recently. We were very kindly welcomed by the present occupiers and sat in their garden, what had been my wonderful garden where I had played in with my dog Dick and the beautiful cat Zezette. It is still a large garden, but the house seemed so small now, tiny, and yet it had been my huge castle up to the age of eight. How the memory plays tricks.

  My sister Irene and I visited Tante Suzanne about thirty years ago. She was my father’s cousin in Paris. I now realised that she lived in the choicest part of intellectual Paris, that the church opposite her flat was the renowned Church of St Germain des Pres and the café opposite was Les Deux Magots, mentioned as the meeting place of all Bohemian Paris of the sixties. The walls of her flat were covered with her father’s paintings, as well as hers, and the beautifully carved furniture had been made by her grandfather, who had been a cabinet maker.

  Some time later, we heard from a Madame France Fremaux, who was Suzanne’s godchild, that Suzanne had died. She had been in her nineties and very frail. France Fremaux had been left with a problem: Suzanne had stipulated in her will that her dying wish was to be buried in the vault of Marguerite Castelle, which is our family vault in the Cimetiere de Montparnasse. All our deceased ancestors lie there. It turned out that the vault was already full, and if Suzanne were to be buried there, the coffin of a long dead relative would have to be removed from the vault and buried elsewhere in the cemetery.

  Suzanne’s solicitor, Maitre Charles Bricard, requested that all persons having the right to the vault give permission for the coffin of a dead relative be removed and for Suzanne to be interred there, but it had to be done within a year. Meanwhile, Suzanne h
ad been temporarily buried elsewhere. My sister Irene, her son John, my three daughters, Julie, Marina and Sophie and I had to send a letter authorising France Fremaux to have the vault opened, explaining our right of parentage, a copy of our birth certificate and other proof of identity. Irene and I decided not to bother my sister Marie’s children; she had died some time before and we thought that the link with them was broken. After several months, with all the paper work done, one of our unknown relatives was disturbed from their eternal sleep and buried elsewhere; Suzanne’s coffin was exhumed and at last placed in the family vault, as she wished. A very French story!

  I have been back to Cambrai in northern France a couple of times. It’s now a thriving town, proud of itself and looking as though it has forgotten the horrors of two world wars. When I stand on the main square and look at the Flemish-style hotels, I still see them covered with red and black flags embellished with swastikas. I just cannot forget.

  Walking down to the old dilapidated quarter where we lived, I was amazed to find that the whole district is now a preservation area, and that the council is erecting plaques on each street corner pointing out items of interest to visitors. I knocked on the door of number 8, rue de Monstrelet where we lived for three years, but there was no reply. I had the feeling that it was social housing and that visitors would be unwelcome. I wonder if the smelly toilet is still in the yard, or has it now pride of place in a local museum?

  We returned to Rieux-en-Cambresis in 2010, laid some flowers at the memorial to the massacre of September 2nd l944, then drove down to 15, Rue de la Gare, where we had stayed for a few months to get away from the bombings. While taking photos a man approached us. He was painting the house next door and it turned out he was Camille Jackemin, whom I used to play with! We were told off one time by his father for running in his asparagus patch and knocking the tips off. Camille invited us into his kitchen, introduced us to his wife, and we had a coffee and reminisced.