The Bomb Girls

by Daisy Styles

  ‘You’ll sink like a stone with all them spuds inside you!’ she teased.

  ‘You’ve got to have chips on a Friday, cock,’ one of her customers said with a wink. ‘It’s a bugger we can’t ’ave fish like in’t th’owd days but your scallops are bloody beltin’! Give us another, wil’t?’

  Ava smiled as she dropped a few more on his plate; she loved these people and she loved her strong, tight-knit, hard-working community. Half the people queuing up for their dinner lived within a block of Ava, in identical red-brick terraced houses, stacked back to back, row upon row reaching up to the foothills of the moors which dominated the landscape of the mill town. Everybody knew everybody else’s business, it couldn’t be otherwise when outdoor privies were shared and women gathered at the wash house to swop gossip and smoke cigarettes while they did their weekly wash, which they hung on washing lines threaded across the network of back streets where children played under wet sheets flapping like ships’ sails in the breeze. The neighbours’ over-familiar questions about her future had recently become both an irritant and an embarrassment to Ava.

  ‘So when are you going to get yourself conscripted, our Ava? All’t lasses in’t town have gone off to do their bit for’t war but you’re still here. Can you not stand thowt o’ leaving us?’ neighbours and relatives alike teased.

  Ava had self-consciously assured them she was definitely leaving, there was in fact no choice: female conscription was obligatory for women between the ages of eighteen and thirty. Women were being deployed all over the country, most of Ava’s friends had already gone: some to munitions factories in Yorkshire and Wales; others had signed up to work as Land Girls in Scotland, but Ava had held back. She’d felt guilty of course. Would people think she was trying to duck out of war work, that she was unpatriotic? She was in fact fiercely patriotic and passionately believed in committing one hundred per cent to the war effort but she was determined to do something big, something bold that would take her outside of her comfort zone and push her to the limits in her sacrifice for king and country. Three months after female conscription had been authorized by the government, Ava was well aware that she had to do something soon otherwise the Labour Exchange would be on her tail and find war work for her.

  ‘AVA! Check on them apple pies, lovie!’ Audrey the canteen boss yelled as the workers settled down on long wooden benches that ran alongside scrubbed wooden tables to eat their meal.

  Ava dashed over to the huge oven where her pies were turning a soft golden brown, she was excited to see what the customers’ reactions would be when they tucked into their puddings, which she’d added a surprise ingredient to. Last night she’d ridden her horse, Shamrock, across the moors to her favourite spot where wild winberries grew in abundance. Leaving the mare to crop clumps of tough grass, Ava had collected a large amount of small fruity berries that she’d mixed with baking apples then covered with a thick pastry crust. As she inspected the pies she could see rich purple juice seeping through the edges, they would taste delicious served with custard, but she’d have to warn Audrey to cut thin slices if every worker was to have their fair share of her pudding.

  Ava loved the Lancashire moors, especially at this time of the year, late spring when the days were long and the nights were warm. Once work was finished and tea was cleared away at home she’d change into a pair of baggy old tweed trousers and head for the hills. Just a short walk up an old cobbled lane lined with oak and ash trees and Ava was on the moors, where most evenings she rode an old cob mare who belonged to a local farmer. He’d asked her if she’d like to take care of Shamrock, who needed exercising now that his daughter had left home. Not that Ava was an experienced rider but she was certainly not going to turn down the offer. Luckily Shamrock was willing and patient with Ava who took many a tumble as she learned the hard way how to walk, trot, canter and keep her seat over the bumpy moorland terrain. Ava and Shamrock developed a trusting, companionable relationship, both of them enjoying their rides over the rolling moors with only the skylarks and curlews for company.

  It was while she’d been up at the farm the previous evening, tacking up Shamrock in readiness for a ride out that she’d caught sight of the local newspaper left lying around by the farmer in the tack room.

  ‘WOMEN WORKING IN COMMUNICATION CENTRES’

  Ava’s heart had skipped a beat. She laid down Shamrock’s reins and hurried over to read the article.

  ‘As the war rolls on more and more women are required to fill the spaces left by men fighting on the frontline. Conscripted women are needed for training in communications, tracking, signalling, administration, interception and mapping intelligence in military command control centres. Training centres offering an intense six-month training are opening across the country to provide women with the necessary skills for this vital war work.’

  Ava’s deep blue eyes blazed with excitement. With her heart beating double time and her pulse pounding she let the paper drop into her lap as she gazed out over the open stable door at the arching blue sky.

  ‘THIS is what I’ve been waiting for, she said out loud. ‘I could be a code girl! That’s the work for me.’

  At the first available free moment she dashed into the Labour Exchange in the High Street and marched boldly up to the desk.

  ‘I want to be a code girl,’ she announced with a proud ring to her voice. The lady being the desk raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Code girl?’ she asked.

  ‘I want to work in communications,’ Ava explained. ‘Please can I sign up?’

  ‘What’s your present employment?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Canteen cook.’

  There was no doubting the shock on her face.

  ‘Canteen cook!’ she exclaimed.

  Ava nodded.

  ‘In Dove Mill, I’m second in charge,’ she added with a proud smile.

  ‘Cooking isn’t exactly the right kind of background for a trainee in communications,’ the woman retorted. ‘They’ll be looking for more academic lasses, them with a bit of schooling behind them.’

  Ava’s eyes flashed with indignation.

  ‘Women are doing jobs nobody ever expected them to be doing all over England right now – why shouldn’t I?’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘You’re right there,’ she replied as she handed Ava an application form and a pencil. ‘Fill this in, when it comes to present employment you must state your job.’

  ‘But –’ Ava protested.

  ‘You can add that you want to train in communications because you feel you have an aptitude for it,’ the woman quickly explained.

  Smiling happily Ava filled in the form, writing ‘Canteen Cook’ as her profession but adding in big bold capitals that she wanted to switch to communications. ‘I want to be a code girl as I believe it’s far more beneficial to my king and country than cooking in the Dove Mill canteen in Bolton’. ‘That should do it,’ she said as she returned the completed form to the woman at the desk.

  ‘Don’t build your hopes up, lovie,’ the woman advised. ‘Be prepared to knuckle down to anything that’s required.’

  ‘I’ll knuckle down to anything, just so long as it’s not cooking!’ Ava said with a winning smile.

  The woman watched Ava walk away. There was no doubting she was a stunning girl but good looks didn’t pay dividends, with a war on people got what they were given and did as they were told.

  ‘I’ve enlisted as a code girl,’ Ava proudly told her boss. Audrey looked up from the mound of pastry she was mixing and burst out laughing.

  ‘And what’s a code girl when she’s at home?’

  Standing by the massive industrial mixer stirring a mince and onion stew that was bulked up with root vegetables, suede, parsnips and turnips, Ava reiterated what she’d read in the paper.

  ‘It could be anything from operations, tracking, signals, administration, interception or working in military command control centres,’ she said with a bit of a swagger.

  ‘
Sounds bloody scary to me!’ Audrey joked. ‘Here, roll that lot out,’ she added, as she pushed half the pastry across the table to Ava. ‘Roll it thin, mind, we’ve two hundred hungry mouths to feed; a little must go a long way.’

  As the two women at either end of the table rolled and cut pastry to fit into huge tin trays Audrey continued.

  ‘How are you going to cope with all that brainy stuff?’

  ‘I’ll learn,’ Ava said with conviction. ‘I really want to improve myself.’

  ‘Well good luck to you, lass, but I bet they turn you down,’ Audrey said as she poured the cooled mince and onion mix into the trays now lined with pastry. ‘It’s not like you went to grammar school and got a good education, mark my words,’ Audrey said as she slapped a pastry crust on top of the meat and neatly nipped in the edges. ‘Them stuck-up communications toffs will be looking for brains, certificates and qualifications – none of which you’ve got Ava, love!’

  Ava smiled confidently.

  ‘Don’t worry, Audrey – I’ll be a good code girl. Just you see.’

  A fortnight later Ava was packing her small, cheap suitcase, helped by her mother who was carefully folding her few dresses before laying them on top of Ava’s freshly ironed blouses and new tweed skirt.

  ‘Do you think you’ve got enough frocks?’ Mrs Downham asked.

  ‘They’ll do for now,’ Ava replied as she wrapped her two pairs of battered shoes which her mother had polished till they shone in newspaper.

  ‘I wish I could have bought you a warm twin set,’ Mrs Downham said wistfully.

  ‘Mam!’ Ava cried. ‘Stop worrying; it’s a communications centre not a fashion school.’

  Seeing the tears welling up in her mother’s eyes Ava took hold of her hands.

  ‘I’ll write every week,’ she promised.

  Mrs Downham nodded sadly.

  ‘I wish you weren’t going so far away, Norfolk’s the other side of the country, miles away from here.’

  ‘I have to go where the government sends me,’ Ava pointed out. ‘You should be thrilled it’s only Norfolk; I could be in Scotland felling trees like Marjorie Carter from round the corner!’

  Mrs Downham gave a bleak smile.

  ‘I always knew this town wasn’t big enough for you,’ she said as she stroked her daughter’s long dark hair. ‘You were made for better things.’

  ‘Mam, this isn’t about day dreams, this is my contribution to beating Hitler,’ she said with a laugh as she kissed her mother’s cheek.

  Before leaving Ava knew she had to say goodbye to Shamrock, something she’d been dreading doing since the moment she’d signed up; the old mare’s excited whinny did nothing to lift Ava’s spirits.

  ‘Hey, sweetheart,’ she said softly.

  Shamrock nudged her gently in the chest.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Ava murmured as she produced the mandatory carrot expected on every visit.

  As Shamrock contentedly crunched on the carrot, Ava gulped back tears that were threatening to overwhelm her.

  ‘I don’t know how to say this, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘You see, I’ve got to leave you.’

  Oblivious to the changes that were about to unfold Shamrock snickered before nuzzling Ava’s arm. Even though Ava had found a nice, local lass to replace her she still felt guilty about leaving Shamrock; how could you explain to an animal that her life was about to change for ever? Ava thought about the thousands upon thousands of young men who had joined up in September 1939 when the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, had announced that England was at war with Germany. How many lives had been shattered by their departure? How many homes broken and families wrecked by the loss of a loved one who never came home?

  Sighing, Ava bent to kiss Shamrock’s soft velvety muzzle. Her sacrifice amounted to nothing compared to the soldiers, sailors and pilots who were risking their lives fighting the enemy in planes, ships and on land, in armoured tanks. Two years in and the war was not going well; Britain was ill-prepared and ill-equipped when compared to the organized might of the Third Reich. The Dunkirk evacuation had shown the true grit of the British, who’d launched thousands of boats into the North Sea on a hazardous, often fatal mission to rescue soldiers from the beaches, but the losses on that fateful day had cut deep as did the continuous bombing of Britain’s major cities. The nation, no longer gripped with the irrefutable belief that they would win the war, began to fear the worst, an invasion.

  ‘Which is why we all have to do our bit,’ Ava said as she swiped away sentimental tears with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll miss you, sweetheart,’ she whispered as she kissed Shamrock for the last time, then, turning, she briskly walked away leaving the old mare neighing shrilly behind her.

  Ava’s last day at home was fraught with emotion; her little sister kept bursting into tears and if her mum packed her case once, she packed it twenty times. Their last meal together was eaten in an awkward silence with none of the usual family banter and easy teasing. It was a relief when tea was over and Ava could busy herself with washing up while her parents gathered round the big Bakelite radio where they heard the grim news that Germany had marched on Russia.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Ava’s Dad as he puffed hard on a Woodbine. ‘There’ll be no stopping the buggers now!’

  ‘The Russians are bound to put up a fight. They’re not going to take it lying down,’ Mrs Downham insisted.

  ‘Aye, but what guns and weapons have they got against the Huns?’ Mr Downham pointed out. ‘It could end up a bloodbath for the Bolshies.’

  ‘Thank God it’s the summer, at least they won’t be fighting in five feet of snow,’ Mrs Downham murmured.

  Ava boiled up some milk and made cocoa for them all then sat as usual by the coal fire with her parents on either side of her.

  ‘We’ll miss you, our lass,’ her dad said softly.

  Ava took hold of their hands.

  ‘I’ll miss you too.’

  She would miss them for sure but her heart skipped a beat when she thought of the wonderful new world waiting for her in Norfolk.

  The next morning Ava settled her suitcase in the netted luggage rack of the compartment she was travelling in then leaned out of the open window to smile at her family, who stood on the platform with heavy, sorrowful faces.

  ‘Write!’ her mum pleaded as she dabbed away her tears with a hankie.

  ‘Don’t forget me!’ wailed her little sister.

  ‘Take care of yourself, lass,’ her dad cried as the heavy steam train pulled out of the station.

  ‘I love you!’ Ava shouted through a belching cloud of black smoke.

  As the platform receded Ava sat back in her seat and sighed. The goodbyes were over; her adventure was beginning!

  Having never travelled further south than Rhyl, wide-eyed Ava peered out of the window at the ever changing countryside, the wild northern moors gave way to the Peak District with tidy grey stone farmhouses nestled neatly between green fields where sheep grazed.

  ‘What wouldn’t I give for one of them woolly lambs roasted with potatoes, Yorkshire puds, mint sauce and gravy,’ said a young lad in a soldier’s uniform on the opposite side of the carriage.

  ‘That’s never going to happen, lad,’ said an older soldier, puffing hard on a cigarette next to him. ‘Them animals will be made into mince and spread thin across half the county. I can’t remember when I last had a solid piece of meat put in front of me,’ he added as he took a greaseproof parcel out of his overcoat pocket.

  ‘Fancy a beef paste buttie, sweetheart?’ he asked with a wink.

  ‘In exchange for one of my carrot buns,’ Ava replied as she opened a small tin she’d packed with home-made buns.

  ‘That’ll be a rare treat,’ said the soldier as he bit into the bun and nearly swallowed it whole.

  ‘You too,’ Ava said as she proffered the tin to all the soldiers in the carriage.

  By the time it had done the rounds there was only one bun left but the soldiers all ga
ve Ava something in return for her kindness: half an orange, a piece of chocolate, another soggy sandwich, a cigarette and cold tea from a bottle.

  The cheery soldiers got off at Peterborough where Ava changed lines. On a slow train to Norwich Ava’s heart began to pound with excitement, she had to keep reminding herself that this was war work, her sacrifice to save the country from Fascism. The only problem was it felt more like a great adventure rather than a painful sacrifice and she was having trouble keeping the smile off her face. A third and final train took her to Wells-Next-the-Sea on the north Norfolk coast. As Ava walked along the platform she felt the sea air blowing breezily around her and tasted sea salt on her lips. Her stomach flipped with nerves as she joined a few girls standing outside the station in the dark.

  ‘Are you going to Walsingham Communication Centre,’ a cheery, red-headed, young woman asked.

  Ava nodded.

  ‘Join the queue, we’re waiting for a lift.’

  The lift turned out to be a rickety old van.

  ‘Hop in, ladies. I’m Peter, gamekeeper cum gardener from Walsingham Hall.’

  As he piled their luggage on the roof the girls squeezed in. Instead of sitting beside each other they sat on benches facing each other which caused them all to fall sideways, almost into each others’ laps as Peter cranked the gears and the van bounced forward.

  ‘Hold on tight!’ he warned too late.

  Though the sun had set the summer light lingered in the eastern sky. Peering through the window Ava could see the town’s people had dutifully pulled down their black-out blinds and Peter drove to the hall without any headlights to guide the way.

  ‘How do you know where you’re going?’ laughed one of the girls.