The Bomb Girls

by Daisy Styles

  Knowing Emily’s fiancé as well as she did, Alice said, ‘Don’t go telling Bill about Freddie; he’d go berserk if he found out.’ Seeing Emily’s eyes brim with tears, she quickly added, ‘You had the sense to stop before things really did get out of control.’

  Lillian furiously waved her curling tongs in the air.

  ‘What’re we women supposed to do?’ she cried. ‘Incarcerate ourselves till the boys come home?’

  Seeing Lillian red-faced and angry and Emily nervously gnawing her nails, Alice quickly changed the subject. Tossing her hair, she returned to the original subject as she said with a laugh, ‘So come on, what style of bob are we going for, Lillian?’

  ‘I’m thinking Lauren Bacall,’ Lillian replied as she struck a sexy pose, and dropping her voice to imitate the actress’s voice, she added, ‘Hey, know how to whistle … ? Just pucker up and blow … phew!’

  ‘Oh, Lil, you should be on the stage,’ Alice giggled.

  ‘Yeah … mopping it!’ Lillian retorted.

  Later, as Alice tried on her best blue suit with a cream silk blouse in their shared bedroom, Emily sensed there was something wrong.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked bluntly. ‘You should be happy.’

  ‘I am.’ Alice tried to smile. ‘Just nervous.’

  Emily’s eyes raked over Alice’s pale, tense face.

  ‘Is there more to this French malarkey than meets the eye?’ she asked. ‘They’re not parachuting you into France on a rescue mission, are they?’ she joked.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Alice laughed.

  Still baffled, Emily pressed on with her questions.

  ‘Then why aren’t you jumping up and down with joy? Here’s your chance to get out of the Phoenix and study French in London with all them clever fellas at the War Office,’ she teased.

  ‘Let’s not jump the gun, Em,’ Alice answered. ‘You never know, they might not even like me!’

  Emily engulfed her friend in a big bear hug.

  ‘They’ll love you, Al,’ she whispered fondly. ‘We all do!’

  The next day Alice left Clitheroe railway station with a lot on her mind. She was glad of the solitude of the long journey, which gave her time to think.

  Did she want to leave her home, family, friends, she considered as the train rattled south.

  She’d always imagined she’d go to university then return home and teach, maybe at a Manchester grammar school. She’d certainly never imagined living in London or anywhere down south. She was a born-and-bred northerner and thrived on the culture and landscape she’d grown up with. But could she turn down an opportunity to work for the War Office and improve her French in the process? It would be madness, not to mention a bit pathetic. She was twenty-one, a grown woman who should be seeking new experiences, not worrying about leaving home!

  When she arrived at Euston station and walked through the bomb-torn streets of London she felt breathless with shock. The city was crushed by relentless bombings; barrage balloons floated high overhead; buses rumbled round shattered office blocks, factories and churches; the air smelled of brick dust and sewers. As she walked through the city, she looked at the people she passed: carrying their gas masks, they all seemed in a hurry, as if running from the next bomb to be dropped.

  Catching the nervous mood of the city, Alice felt tense as she entered Simpson’s. Dressed in her best blue suit, which had looked smart the day before when she’d tried it on with her friends, Alice suddenly felt shabby and old-fashioned. Peeping out from underneath the brim of her hat, she noted the cut of the dresses worn by the glamorous women in Simpson’s. Their hems were shorter, obviously to save on material, but the skirts were cut on the bias, which gave them a lovely swing and emphasized the extra length of leg shown off by the short hemlines. The fashion was very different to Alice’s tight skirt, which ended mid-calf and showed hardly any leg at all. The women’s hats were different too, sharper, with a military, masculine shape. Apart from worrying about what she looked like Alice wondered how she would ever spot the man she was supposed to be having lunch with.

  As her stomach gave a nervous lurch, Alice dashed into the Ladies, where she reapplied her lipstick and rouge powder then quickly combed the blonde bob that Lillian had so lovingly created. A huge wave of homesickness washed over her; she missed her friends and the warm camaraderie of their digs. She’d travelled to London twice before but on school trips, not a grown-up, nerve-wracking visits like this one. Determined not to hide in a corner and risk not being seen, Alice forced herself to stand conspicuously at the bar. She didn’t order a drink, which she longed for to steady her nerves; instead she lit a cigarette with shaking hands. Men were curiously eyeing her, the only woman at the bar.

  They must think I’m on the game! Alice thought.

  Just when she was on the point of running away, a tall, rangy man in a smart check suit and brown hat wandered up to her.

  ‘Darling!’ he exclaimed. ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long?’

  Alice smothered a shocked gasp as the total stranger bent to peck her on the cheek then, after ordering two Vermouths, confidently guided Alice across the room to a small table for two.

  ‘I’m Leo, by the way,’ he said as he removed her coat and settled her comfortably in a chair. ‘Don’t worry, I know who you are,’ he said with a charming wink.

  A man in tails played romantic airs like ‘South of the Border’ and ‘You’ll Never Know How Much I Miss You’ on a grand piano as they were served salmon, roast beef and a delicious sherry trifle – fresh, plentiful food quite unlike anything Alice had eaten in years. Unfortunately it all tasted like sawdust in her mouth because, as soon as the introductions were over, and throughout the entire meal, Leo talked to her only in French, and clearly expected her to do the same. As she sipped from her wine glass, Alice realized this was a test. Focused on keeping her head clear and her French grammar as good as possible, she refused further wine and stuck to water.

  ‘Vous habitez au nord d’Angleterre depuis combien de temps?’ Leo asked.

  How long have I lived in the north of England? Alice quickly translated in her head. ‘Toute ma vie, j’y ai grandi,’ she said out loud.

  Leo continued, ‘Et votre français est parfait – vous l’avez appris comment?’

  With her heart pounding, Alice translated: Where did you learn such excellent French? She immediately answered, ‘À mon école.’

  She started to visibly relax as the language came back to her. She was definitely rusty but, once she’d got over her initial nerves, she began to enjoy the challenge of answering quickly and as expansively as she could.

  ‘And have you visited France?’ he asked as he poured more wine for himself whilst Alice covered her glass with a hand.

  ‘No, but I would love to when the war is over.’

  ‘And what about before the war is over?’

  As Alice paused briefly to consider her reply, Leo was struck by her composure and the beauty of her stunning grey eyes.

  ‘We live in dangerous times,’ she replied.

  He nodded as he offered her a cigarette and moved the conversation on to her bomb work at the Phoenix.

  ‘We understand you have a good knowledge of explosives,’ he said.

  Alice’s eyes grew wide. So Mr Featherstone had told the War Office about her work on the cordite section.

  ‘The combination of your skills is very valuable to us,’ Leo said. ‘You might be just what we’re looking for,’ he concluded.

  Suddenly the meeting was over.

  Leo led Alice outside, then, standing on the busy Strand, he said, in English, ‘Can you be at the War Office at ten thirty tomorrow morning?’

  Alice nodded, at the same time wondering where she was going to stay tonight. She had expected to travel back home.

  As if reading her thoughts, Leo handed her a card.

  ‘We use this hotel; it’s all taken care of.’

  Later, in the dingy hotel room with the black
out blind pulled down tight, Alice threw her gas mask to the floor and flopped onto the bed, where she lay exhausted by the stresses of the day. Scenes whizzed around in her head: the long train journey down from the north; the streets of London bombed and splintered; sandbags everywhere, heaps of rubble and twisted metal piled high on every corner; blasted gable ends of tenement flats with curtains fluttering where windows should have been; sections of houses sliced in half, open to the elements like a doll’s house. She was no stranger to a bombed city, having been to Manchester often enough and seen Liverpool’s catastrophic devastation. All of Britain’s major cities had taken wave after wave of severe bombing, but London had shocked her rigid. Then there was the strain and pressure of her meeting on the Strand.

  ‘Oh, God! What a day,’ Alice groaned aloud as she rolled off the bed and poured herself a glass of water from a jug on the bedside table.

  She was proud of her French; it hadn’t failed her, but what next? Why was Leo so interested in her explosive expertise? Would tomorrow be a repeat of today?

  Tired and yawning, Alice undressed and washed then climbed into bed. As she pulled the heavy, lumpy eiderdown over her head, she heard a sound she’d never heard before: a squadron of bombers on a night raid, flying overhead. Alice gave a sad sigh. It wasn’t only Britain’s cities that were being targeted; all of Europe was ablaze.

  Before sleep finally engulfed her, Leo’s words echoed in her head.

  ‘Vous pourriez être justement ce que nous recherchons.’

  ‘What exactly are they looking for and why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff?’ Alice muttered as she drifted into sleep.

  Too nervous to eat, Alice skipped the hotel breakfast and concentrated on doing her hair and make-up. If she’d had time and money she would have rushed out into Oxford Street and bought a short, fashionable skirt and a natty military-style hat, but as it was she had to put up with her old-fashioned suit and wide-brimmed felt hat. Sighing, she picked up her bag and gas mask then made her way across town, down Horse Guards Parade and on to Whitehall, where the imposing building of the War Office loomed up before her.

  Hurrying along the endless stairs, Alice looked up to the glass dome where the light streamed in and felt as though she was in a church rather than in an office, but the quiet and solemn atmosphere was broken by the clatter of her high-heeled shoes as she hurried down one long corridor after another. She was ushered into a room where she expected to see Leo, but instead there were three men sat behind a long desk.

  ‘Do sit down, Miss Massey,’ said the secretary as she drew up a chair so that Alice was facing the imposing line of men.

  As the secretary hurried to her desk to take notes, the man in the middle cleared his throat and barked, ‘Colonel Miller. Mind if we run through a few questions?’

  Before Alice could reply, Miller continued, ‘Married?’

  ‘No,’ Alice replied.

  ‘Engaged?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any relationships?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any obligations?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘I have a mother, and I’m an only child.’

  Miller nodded curtly as he turned to his neighbour, who introduced himself as Carmichael then took up the questioning.

  ‘Leo tells us your French is good but we have to work on removing any trace of your English accent.’ He glanced down at the papers lying on the desk before him. ‘You have experience of bomb work,’ he remarked. ‘That too will need refining for what we have in mind.’

  Blushing, Alice seized the moment to butt in and ask, ‘May I enquire as to what exactly you do have in mind?’

  Carmichael turned to Miller, who answered her question.

  ‘Churchill’s Secret Army.’

  Alice felt as if somebody had thumped her hard in the chest.

  ‘What me? Working with spies?’ she gasped.

  Carmichael nodded.

  ‘We prefer the term Special Operations Agent, Miss Massey. We’ll train you in communications, decoding and surveillance, we’ll test your French and we’ll ascertain your suitability for this kind of work. All this, of course, is top secret and not to be repeated.’

  He grasped Alice’s small hand and shook it so hard she thought she’d cry out.

  ‘That’ll be all for now, we’ll be in touch.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Preparations

  Alice was mobbed by her friends on her return from London. They were keen to hear how the interview went, then they all fired a range of questions at her: in Elsie’s case they were about what she had eaten at Simpson’s and where she’d stayed; Emily and Lillian wanted to know what the high fashion points were; and for Agnes it was all about London itself.

  ‘The food was wonderful,’ Alice said. ‘Salmon, beef and sherry trifle, and wine too, but I didn’t drink as the interview was conducted in French.’

  Elsie’s eyes nearly rolled out of her head.

  ‘You had to speak French and eat at the same time!’ she gasped. ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘By concentrating and sticking to water,’ Alice replied. ‘It was really hard because my French was rusty at first, but it kicked in after a while and I started to enjoy myself.’

  ‘Did you see much war damage in the city?’ Agnes asked.

  Alice nodded.

  ‘Sandbags everywhere and barrage balloons floating in the sky. Even walking down Whitehall I had to avoid piles of rubble and gaping holes. Complete blackout too and you daren’t go anywhere without a gas mask,’ Alice replied. ‘It was spooky hearing squadrons of bombers flying over in the dark.’

  Agnes shuddered.

  ‘The Germans have been hitting major cities hard,’ she said. ‘Thank God I left when I did.’

  ‘There’re strange conflicting atmospheres in the city,’ Alice continued. ‘A mixture of tension and misery combined with bursts of cheerfulness. There were troops on open-topped motor buses waving and singing “Tipperary” and blowing kisses. At Euston station there were loads of jolly volunteers helping little kids with numbers pinned on their coats onto packed trains.’

  Agnes nodded grimly.

  ‘I’ve been there,’ she said quietly. ‘I know it has to be done but it doesn’t make doing it any easier.’

  ‘There were rumours flying everywhere,’ Alice told her friends

  ‘Like what?’ Emily asked.

  ‘That Hitler’s gone mad!’

  ‘That’s not news, that’s a fact!’ scoffed Lillian. ‘The bloody man’s stark-raving bonkers!’

  ‘He’s so insane that Goering has taken over as Commander,’ Alice added.

  ‘God!’ gasped Emily. ‘It’s bad enough being at war but being at war with a maniac is terrifying!’

  To lighten the heavy atmosphere, Alice told them about the clothes she’d seen in London.

  ‘The skirts are shorter, above the knee, with a really nice swing, and the hats are sharper, more masculine.’

  ‘I’m not wearing an ’at that looks like a fella’s!’ Elsie laughed.

  ‘And the shoes are flatter – brogues with a tie. The women in the city look busy and confident, like they’ve a serious job to do.’

  ‘We’ve a serious job to do but we don’t wear posh clothes,’ Lillian chuckled.

  Agnes nodded in agreement with Lillian. ‘If I’m honest I’d much rather be here in Pendle in my work overalls than in London – and I am speaking from experience!’ she said with a knowing smile.

  ‘Oh, me too,’ sighed Elsie. ‘It’d break mi heart to leave this town.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind being on one of the open-topped buses with all them cheerful fellas,’ Lillian mused.

  ‘I’d love to have a snoop round Simpson’s canteen,’ sighed Emily. ‘Imagine roasting beef and boiling salmon, not to mention making trifle with real fresh eggs.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ wailed Elsie. ‘You’re making me hungry just talking about it.’

  Al
ice laughed as she said fondly, ‘I bet the pies at Simpson’s don’t even begin to compare with Em’s meat and potato pies.’

  Lillian nodded in agreement with Alice.

  ‘They’re bloody legend!’

  As the weeks passed, Alice began winding down her job at the Phoenix and making preparations for her move to London. There was no alternative but to be sparing with the truth. She’d told her friends in all honesty that she’d been accepted by the War Office as a trainee translator; however the Special Ops business she kept entirely to herself. In fact she hardly dared think about it, never mind articulate it. It was a terrifying prospect that filled her with a mixture of utter dread and wild excitement.

  Her mind reeled.

  Get a grip, Alice, she firmly told herself.

  At the War Office Carmichael had been clear about her training. She’d be working in communications and learning to decode Morse; her French would be tested and at some point she’d be assessed. They had expressed interest in her bomb experience but that didn’t mean she was going to be dropped into enemy territory in France and work undercover for the resistance movement, did it? That was the sort of drama she usually watched in films like The 39 Steps or Man Hunt at the Phoenix picture house, sitting back in her seat whilst eating a choc ice. Spy work wasn’t what people like her, Alice Massey from Pendle, did. She wasn’t a hero; she was terrified of mice and the dark!

  Conflicting with these thoughts was her strong sense of patriotism. She wanted to do more than fill shell cases; she wanted to save lives and pass on information that could change the course of the war. Though frightened, the knowledge that she could play a vital, important role made her skin tingle and her pulse race. But it was top secret and even her mum didn’t know what she was up to. Thank God, thought Alice. Mrs Massey would drop dead on the spot if she thought her only daughter was leaving Pendle to train as a Special Ops agent!

  There was also the problem of Emily, who could read Alice like a book. If she so much as guessed what Alice was planning to do she would lock her up in the digs and throw away the key! The less her friends knew about her plans the better but Alice knew there’d be awkward questions. They’d all asked for her forwarding address, which even she didn’t know. She’d received instructions to report to the War Office on a certain date after which she’d be dispatched to a training centre, whereabouts unknown.