by Annie Murray
Audrey folded the letter and sat staring ahead of her. Dorrie soon appeared with two cups of tea.
‘What’s up?’ she asked, cautiously. ‘Not bad news?’
‘I knew it!’ Audrey looked round at her friend, a savage rage rising inside her. ‘I don’t know how I knew, but I could just see she was a little bitch.’
‘Blimey, Aud, what’s happened?’ Dorrie said, startled.
‘D’you mean that girl at home – the one you didn’t like?’
‘Yes.’ Audrey banged her fist on the table so that the cups jumped, and some of the others looked round. ‘God, if I could get my hands on that sneaky, grovelling little piece of work. You should have seen her: “Yes, Mrs Whitehouse; no, Mrs Whitehouse; let me do the washing-up, Mrs Whitehouse; oh, poor little me, everyone’s so kind to me . . . ”’ Audrey spoke in a mocking, saccharine tone. ‘I just couldn’t understand it. Sylvia was so taken up with her – but then that’s Sylv for you. If the Devil popped in one afternoon, she’d sit him down and make him a cup of tea. But our Mom’s usually a lot quicker on the uptake than that. She took all of them in, that Kitty – but not me. There was just something about her.’
‘You said. Insincere.’
‘Yes, false. It stood out a mile to me. And as for Ian.’ Once more Audrey ground her fist on the tea-stained table top. ‘God, if I could get hold of him, I’d have a few things to say to him. He’s only gone and run off with Kitty.’
‘No!’ Dorrie digested this for a few seconds, looking appalled. ‘God, how awful! Mind you, sounds as if she’s better off without him, if he’s just going to run off at the drop of a . . . whatever it is you drop in these situations.’
‘Well, I never thought much of him. He was all right. But he was quite a bit older than her, and he always liked to feel one up on Sylv, because she’s sweet and doesn’t think she’s very clever. She’s a lot cleverer than him in some ways. I thought she was always trying to turn a blind eye to his faults, personally. But all she wants is to get married and have a nice home, and – you know, all the usual.’
‘Poor girl. That’s rotten.’
‘I must write to her tonight. I’ll go home on leave anyway – Mom wants some moral support.’ She groaned. ‘God, my poor little sis. We’re like chalk and cheese, us two, but she’s a good sort, Sylv is. This is the last thing that should’ve happened to her.’
Audrey sipped her tea, seething with fury. She was so angry she felt her fists clenching, thinking of all the things she’d like to say and do to Ian Westley and Kitty Barratt. Her rage even stopped her noticing the pain from her cut hands.
‘What did you say?’ She realized Dorrie was talking to her.
‘I said: what about you? Is that what you want, too? Marriage, I mean.’
‘Me?’ Audrey shrugged. ‘Oh, I’ve never been one for wanting to get married. It just feels wrong, having some man ruling your life all the time, deciding everything. No – I don’t want it.’ She looked round at Dorrie, realizing in that moment how strongly she felt. Even Hamish, gentlemanly though he was, always assumed that she would just fall in with his plans. ‘I want to decide things for myself – and get out and see a few things.’
Dorrie smiled, and for a second Audrey saw in her face a look of happy relief.
‘Me, too. It’s nice to find someone else who’s not just dreaming of a white wedding.’
‘Oh, not me,’ Audrey laughed, clinking her teacup against Dorrie’s, like a toast. ‘Not even a black one!’
Audrey opened the letter from Hamish later, when things were quiet in their hut. The only other person in there was Maggie, who was lying on her side, facing the other way and reading a book. There was a box of chocolates open on the bed and every so often her hand reached out and ferreted about in it. Her mother sent her boxes as a treat.
Audrey sat back on her bed, boots off, but still in her overalls, her long legs stretched out, the muscles aching and feeling pleasantly tired from her day’s work. Nowadays she never noticed the lumpy, uncomfortable bed. She slept like a log.
Hamish had left some weeks ago to do further training in Fighter Command. Since then he had written faithfully to her, and each of his letters made Audrey feel worse than the last. Hamish always told her that he was well and that training was progressing. He always added, in his restrained way, that he was missing her and very much wanted to see her. This letter ended with the words, ‘Thinking of you always, as ever, Hamish.’
Thinking of you always, Audrey thought, gloomily. It was hardly the heights of passion, was it? The truth was that unless Hamish wrote to her, she almost never gave him a thought and she was glad he had gone. Although he was a nice lad, she had found him dull company. His gentlemanly but persistent petting oppressed her. When she was kissing him she was thinking of other things, like whether she had finished all the typing that the CO had given her, and what there might be for tea. This did not seem a very good sign. Should she not feel aroused and want to respond?
What was all the fuss about with men and women? She felt it was her fault, some deep lack in her. She had had a handsome man kissing her – in fact, there had been several handsome men over the past weeks. There was never a shortage, and Audrey, with her dark-eyed looks and outgoing personality, was always in demand. Every time a new one came along she lived in hope. Perhaps this would be the one who would steal her heart, would make her feel something. It was nice knowing that someone was attracted to her, it was true. But usually she ended up in the same state of boredom tinged with melancholy at the lack that she felt in herself. It all seemed wrong when there was old Sylv, desperate to get married. But Audrey’s emotions were just not involved, and she couldn’t seem to get her body involved, either. The men didn’t seem to care about this, she noticed. A few touches and they were off.
She sat back with the letter folded on her stomach.
Oh, Hamish, she thought desperately, why don’t you just give up?
She had only written back to him once, before deciding it was a waste of time. Yet still Hamish kept writing, imploring her to reply.
She slipped the letter in among her things and tried to forget about it. She thought she would probably never see Hamish again. He’d been posted miles away, up the east coast. At first he had been talking about visiting her on his leave, but since she had not answered any more of his letters there had been no further mention of it.
Maggie turned over onto her other side and looked up at Audrey. She licked her chocolatey fingers with narrowed eyes.
‘What’s up with you?’ Despite her soft, kittenish looks, Maggie could be quite sharp.
‘Oh . . .’ Audrey lay back with a groan. ‘Just life.’
‘Men trouble?’
‘In a way.’ Audrey sat up, genuinely wanting Maggie’s advice. ‘It’s just – one of the lads I went about with a few weeks ago . . .’
‘That red-headed one? He was very sweet on you.’ Maggie held out the chocolate box. ‘Here, have one. Mainly nuts left, I’m afraid.’
‘Thanks.’ Audrey took something with half a hazelnut on top. ‘I know, that’s just it. He keeps on writing, and I don’t want . . . I mean, there’s nothing in it for me. I wish he’d just stop, but it seems so unkind to tell him.’
‘Audrey,’ Maggie sat up, looking very earnest. ‘Just write to him, for heaven’s sake! It doesn’t matter if he’s not the love of your life, or even close. Those boys could all be dead soon. Where’s he gone, d’you know?’
‘Fighter Command. Norfolk.’
Maggie looked sad. ‘Two of my brother’s school pals died in Fighter Command – Battle of Britain. Only twenty-one, both of them.’ She leaned forwards. ‘You don’t have to marry him, Audrey. Just give him something to look forward to while he’s still here.’
Audrey stared back at Maggie, ashamed. The dark waters of Raymond Gould’s death washed through her head again. ‘Yes. You’re right. I’ve been stupid about it. I will write to him.’ As soon as I’ve written to Mom and Sylvia
, she thought. They were the ones who really must come first. She could imagine only too clearly what a state her sister must be in.
Thirty-One
She managed a brief visit home for the two days she had been allocated for the wedding. In fact she did not see as much of Sylvia as she expected, for she insisted on working her shifts throughout the time.
‘There’s no point in me mooning around here, is there?’ she said. ‘Sorry, Aud – but you can keep Mom company anyway.’
Against the dark serge of her uniform Sylvia’s face looked very pale and sickly, and Audrey could see she was bottling up all her hurt and sadness. Instead of her usual sweet self, she was silent and snapped at everyone when they asked her anything.
‘I don’t know what to do for her,’ Pauline said to Audrey. The strain was telling on her as well. She had dark rings under her eyes. ‘I’ve told Marjorie to hang on to the dress – not let Sylvia see it. I don’t know what to do for the best. If I could get my hands on that Kitty . . .’
‘And flaming Ian,’ Audrey said. ‘Let’s hope they go to hell in a handcart.’
She did her best to offer comfort and a listening ear, but Sylvia was not ready to open up. Audrey was relieved to get back to RAF Cardington. That was where her real life was now, she felt.
The realization hit her like a blow.
‘Of course, you daft thing,’ Dorrie said, when she saw Audrey’s downcast face. ‘What did you imagine – that you’d just stay here?’
‘I just thought . . .’ She trailed off. ‘Yes, I s’pose I did.’
Audrey had only just realized that once she finished her ten weeks of training, she would be posted to a balloon site elsewhere. She had visualized staying on at RAF Cardington for the remainder of the war with her friends, and the usual routine; and, above all, with Dorrie. She was horrified by the thought of leaving.
Dorrie shook her head. ‘Doesn’t work like that, dearie. You’re a pawn on the big service chessboard for the duration. So we all have to be brave!’
Audrey started calculating how long she might have left. A few weeks anyway. ‘Well, we must make the most of it!’ she said.
It was a very happy time. She and the balloon team were now learning their skills outside. They were driven on trucks out to the green open space of the base. Here they spent the day putting into practice all they had learned about rope knots and letting out the wires from the winch. They knew how to inflate the balloons from hydrogen cylinders. As the balloons filled, they paid out the ropes as the bloated, fishy shapes rose into the sky above them, tugging for their freedom. They had to learn how to put the balloons ‘to bed’: deflating them, getting them captive on the ground and rolling them up. It was heavy work, but the girls all worked well together and Audrey enjoyed it all, the challenge of it, even on not-so-fine days when the rain beat into their faces.
She enjoyed all the camaraderie and jokes, and the huge appetite they all worked up. Their instructor, Sergeant Nick Reynolds, a fair-haired, athletic man, had obviously taken a liking to her as well and there was an atmosphere of friendship and fun. She felt she was having the time of her life, feeling active, powerful and useful all at once. At least, she thought, if they re-post us, some of us might be sent somewhere together.
What filled her with a sense of desolation, every time she thought about it, was the prospect of leaving Dorrie. As the weeks went by, the two of them grew so close that they spent every possible moment together. They went to the pictures on the camp or sat in one of their huts chatting. On free days, for a change of scene, they might go into Bedford to the Corn Exchange, where you could get tea and a scone with bramble jelly. In the long summer evenings they would find a place to sprawl on the grass outside and talk and laugh, until long after dark had fallen and the midges were biting.
Audrey turned down quite a few possible dates with RAF lads. The prospect of a long evening drinking and listening to the thoughts of a boy she didn’t care about, ending probably with him wanting to take her to a dark spot and go as far as she would let him, left her cold. How much more fun it was to sit with Dorrie, to talk with absolute freedom. Dorrie was interested in everything – especially people and politics. And they laughed! Audrey thought she had never laughed as much in her life as she had since knowing Dorrie. Seen through her friend’s eyes, everything became humorous, even when they were talking seriously. As the weeks went by, they talked more about their families, their feelings and their experiences. About everything – or almost everything.
Audrey kept pushing her own confusion from her mind. These feelings of excitement when she saw Dorrie – the fact that this girl was the one who filled her with joy, longing and tenderness – wasn’t this what falling in love was supposed to be like? She pushed this thought away. How silly! That couldn’t be. She’d soon be gone from here anyway, so why not just enjoy the fun?
The two of them took a leave day together and got passes to go to London.
‘I’ve never been before!’ Audrey said, full of excitement.
‘Well, it’s looking pretty battered,’ Dorrie told her. She had been a number of times with her parents, to go to plays and see the sights. ‘The poor old girl isn’t looking her best. But you must see her anyhow. Everyone should see London.’
They travelled up to London crushed into a railway carriage, some fellow passengers in service uniforms, others not. Both of them were wearing WAAF uniforms – skirts this time, with short-sleeved shirts. Audrey had a letter from Sylvia, which she had saved to read on the train. Once they had set off, she opened it and read it with growing astonishment, her anger boiling up again.
‘My God!’ she erupted. Ears were flapping all around as she spoke, but she was too furious to care. She passed the letter to Dorrie. ‘You’ll never believe what’s happened now.’
Her eyes followed Dorrie’s, reading the lines of Sylvia’s painstaking, childlike writing:
There’s been another horrible shock. Dad called us over yesterday to look at the paper. There was a bit announcing the death of one Josiah Barratt of Barratt & Stone Castings . . .
Dorrie looked round at her, frowning. ‘But . . . ? Is that . . . ?’
‘Yup,’ Audrey said. ‘The father. Of Kitty Barratt. The one who was killed when they were bombed out – or not, as it turns out.’
Dorrie gasped, staring back at the letter. Sylvia went on to say that Josiah Barratt had been found dead in his office over the works one morning, his heart having apparently given out the night before. The piece went on to say that he died intestate. Though he had one surviving daughter, she had been absent from home for some months and so far could not be traced.
Dorrie was looking truly baffled by now. Audrey explained heatedly, not caring who heard.
‘According to Kitty, they’d been bombed out and the old man was killed. That’s how she turned up living with us – and Sylv, of course, took pity. But that was all a lie as well.’ She raised her voice slightly. ‘Old man Barratt was alive and kicking, and getting on with making a tidy sum out of the war effort, thank you very much – when Kitty told us he was pushing up the daisies. Now he’s actually dead, and he must either not have made a will or destroyed the one he had made.’
Audrey was dimly aware that all ears in the carriage were now tuned in, riveted, to what she was saying, despite the fact that they were all pretending to read their newspapers and fiddle with cigarettes.
Dorrie turned to her, her grey eyes wide with incredulity. ‘She couldn’t have lied about something like that, surely? Saying he was dead when he wasn’t!’
‘Oh yes – and she did. My God, she’s a piece of work. You wouldn’t believe it, would you?’
‘But didn’t he report her missing? You’d think the police would have come and checked out where Kitty worked.’
‘P’rhaps he didn’t care. Or thought she’d run off with a man – and good riddance. Not much love lost there, I don’t think.’ Audrey gave a sharp sigh. ‘My poor little sis.’
Sylvia’s letter was not very long, but through it Audrey could feel all her hurt and misery.
Dorrie shook her head. ‘Some people!’ she said. Both of them became uncomfortably aware of the attentive atmosphere in the carriage. Audrey looked round and the middle-aged man opposite held his copy of The Times up even higher in front of his face.
‘Mind you,’ Dorrie lowered her voice to a whisper, moving closer to Audrey, ‘my grandmother was a bit like that. My father’s mother. She’s dead now, but she used to come out with some corkers. They lived a few miles from us. She spent the last couple of years of my granddad’s life telling everyone he was already dead, even when he was quite obviously there, walking about around the village.’
Audrey frowned. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ Dorrie said. ‘Not that I remember this – it was when I was a baby. I don’t think she liked him very much.’
‘Well, yes, it does look like it,’ Audrey said. Their eyes met and they both creased up, having to stifle their giggles in the strangely silent carriage, so as not to make fools of themselves.
It was a muggy, overcast day. The train pulled into King’s Cross and they walked through the shade of the enormous station and out into the crowds. Dorrie caught hold of Audrey’s elbow so as not to lose her. The battered, sooty splendour of London burst in on them. Audrey looked round her, awed.
‘It’s lovely,’ she said to Dorrie. ‘It feels so big! Oh, look – balloons!’
They could see a barrage balloon in the distance, tugging gently on its ropes. The girls looked at each other and laughed with happiness.
‘So,’ Dorrie said. ‘Where d’you fancy going?’
They walked and walked, taking in the sights and following the river. They ate the packed lunch they had been provided with, looking out over the sheen on the sludgy water and watching the boats. By mid-afternoon they found themselves at Lyons Corner House in Oxford Street.
‘Come on,’ Dorrie said. ‘Let’s go and have a sit-down. I’m gasping.’
