by Mary Nichols
‘Then I won’t. We’ll talk about something else.’
Florrie was as good as her word and took it upon herself to make introductions to the rest of the girls in the carriage.
Sylvia Burrows, who was sitting on the other side of Julie, was a Londoner – a little plump, brown-haired, rosy-cheeked. She was engaged to a fighter pilot. ‘Thank God he came through the worst of the bombing, but I still worry about him,’ she said. ‘He’s stationed at Duxford and I want to wangle a posting there if I can.’
Connie Braithwaite, sitting opposite, was older and had been twice married: once divorced, once widowed. She came from Yorkshire and had joined up because she thought it might be an adventure and she might meet a new man in her life. ‘Some hope,’ she said. ‘If that Sergeant What’s-his-name is anything to go by, I’ll stay single.’
‘Sergeant Parrish, you mean,’ Florrie said, referring to the sergeant who had taken their details at Adastral House and shepherded them onto the lorry. ‘It can’t be easy for him, looking after a lot of women. We don’t come in standard packs.’
‘No, thank goodness. Where do you come from?’
‘Harston in Wiltshire. It’s near Andover.’
‘What about you, Eve?’ Connie asked, turning to Julie. ‘Where do you hail from?’
‘Southwark.’
‘Eve was bombed out,’ Florrie said. ‘She was the only one of her family to survive.’
‘My God! How awful!’ This from Sylvia. ‘We get raids in Edgware but nothing like the East End.’
‘Eve spent months in hospital,’ Florrie put in. ‘Then she joined up straight away. I’m going to be her family from now on.’
‘We’ll all be your family,’ Sylvia said, putting her arm round Julie’s shoulder and giving her a hug. ‘You’re not alone.’
Julie was near to tears. Kindness seemed to hit her like that, which made her wonder if she had not been used to kindness in the past. Everything set her wondering, every new sight, every new voice, every new situation.
‘May I join you?’ They looked up to see a dark-haired girl hovering in the doorway.
‘Of course,’ Julie said, hitching along to make room for her. ‘We’re just getting to know each other. I’m Eve. This is Florrie, Connie and Sylvia.’
‘I’m Meg, short for Megan.’
‘We can tell where you come from,’ Florrie said. ‘You’ve got Welsh written all over you.’
Megan looked down at herself and laughed. ‘Does it say Llangollen?’
‘Is that where you live? It’s a beautiful part of the country,’ Connie said. ‘I was there on my first honeymoon. Nothing to do but walk and climb hills, but we didn’t care. Pity it didn’t last.’ She didn’t sound particularly unhappy about it.
To Julie’s relief the conversation became general, much of it speculation about what lay ahead of them, and she did not feel she had to contribute, except for a comment here and there, and the rest of the journey passed pleasantly.
They arrived at Bridgnorth Station in the dark and were met by another lorry which took them to the camp, a few minutes drive up a very steep hill. ‘I’m starving,’ Florrie said. ‘I wonder what we’ll have for supper?’
Supper had to wait until they had been taken to their hut, which held beds for thirty-two recruits and a tiny private room for their corporal, who was there to greet them. There was a stove in the middle of the room, whose metal chimney disappeared through the roof, and a table with a few upright chairs round it.
‘Find yourself beds,’ Corporal Wiggin told them as they milled around. ‘Then I’ll show you the ablution block and toilets.’
The scramble for beds next to friends was noisy but good-natured as everyone claimed a bed and put what little luggage they had in the lockers beside them. The beds were iron-framed and the mattresses each consisted of three square biscuits which, laid on end, covered the steel springs. Now they were piled on top of each other at the head of each bed, topped with two blankets and a pillow. Sheets there were none. After visiting the severely basic washroom and toilet huts, they were herded to the canteen where they were given cutlery and a tin mug and lined up for sausages and mash, stewed apples and custard and a mug of strong tea. After that, tired and bemused, they stumbled in the dark back to their billet to make up their beds and fall into them.
Julie sat on the end of her bed and watched the others undressing. Some were so shy they scrambled into their nightclothes under the blankets, some knelt to say their prayers before getting into bed. Others were brazen and stripped off flimsy underwear before donning pyjamas. Their accents ranged from the London of Sylvia Burrows to the aristocratic accent of Joan Parson-Ford, the Welsh of Megan Jones to the Yorkshire of Connie Braithwaite, and everything in between. It was obvious that the population of the hut came from many backgrounds and levels of society. It would be interesting to see how they all got on. Strangely, she didn’t feel uncomfortable in the crowd, nor did the spartan conditions worry her, so had she known communal living before? At school perhaps?
‘Hi, Eve, what are you sitting there dreaming about?’ Florrie called out from the next bed. ‘Get undressed, for goodness’ sake. It’ll be time to get up again before you know it.’
Julie turned and smiled at her friend. ‘Just thinking.’
‘Well, don’t. Brooding on the past won’t help you know. We’ve just got to get on with it.’
‘I know.’ No good saying she wasn’t dwelling on the past, that she had no past to dwell on; no one would understand how it felt not even to know the name she was born with. She undressed, put on the winceyette pyjamas given to her by the WVS and climbed into bed. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she murmured, already half asleep.
They were woken at six next morning by Corporal Wiggin’s strident voice telling them to ‘Rise and shine’. Reluctantly they stirred and ambled over to the wash house in dressing gowns, then returned to dress, after which they were taught how to make their beds, with biscuits stacked and blankets precisely folded on top, followed by the tick pillow. It was obvious that no one was to be allowed to lounge on their beds during the day. That done, and the spaces around the bed swept to the corporal’s satisfaction, they went for their breakfast.
It was daylight now and they could see that the camp was a collection of wooden huts and a parade ground. Their corporal pointed out the admin office, the cook house, the sickbay and the stores. The rest were accommodation huts for new recruits and the permanent staff. Aeroplanes there were none; there wasn’t even a runway. Breakfast was substantial and they did it justice before being taken for a medical. Julie held her breath as the medical officer paid particular attention to how well her leg and arm had healed, but he expressed himself satisfied and she rejoined the others.
The next stop was another hut. ‘Right, you lot.’ The voice was loud and belonged to a WAAF sergeant who was standing beside a long table piled high with clothing. Behind each pile stood a WAAF. ‘Get in line and collect your kit.’
They shuffled into line and passed along the table and were handed items from each pile. Because they were all different shapes and sizes, this took some time, but they eventually ended up at the other end of the table with a mountain of clothes: skirts, shirts, tunics, a cap with a badge, an overcoat, black lace-up shoes and lisle stockings, and four pairs of enormous bloomers, two in blue and two in white, big enough to cover them from bust to knees.
‘We aren’t meant to wear these, are we?’ Florrie asked the sergeant, holding them up for everyone to see.
‘Yes; now move along, you’re keeping everyone waiting.’ This was said with only the faintest glimmer of a smile.
‘No wonder they’re called “passion killers”,’ came from Connie, raising a nervous laugh.
They continued along the line. Overalls, two pairs of striped pyjamas, shoes, laces, spare buttons, a button stick and a sewing repair kit joined the growing pile, together with a haversack and kitbag to put it all in. At the end of the line they were handed a
sheet of strong brown paper and some string. ‘Pack your civilian clothes up ready to be sent home,’ the sergeant told them. ‘You won’t be needing them again for the duration.’
‘I haven’t got a home address,’ Julie said to Florrie as they walked back to the barracks laden like donkeys. ‘I went straight from hospital into digs.’
‘You can send your stuff to my home if you like. Mum and Dad won’t mind.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Course. We’ll stick together, shall we?’
‘Yes, if we’re allowed to.’
They took everything over to their billet where they changed into uniform and stowed everything else away in their lockers. They had been told their hair must not touch their collars and that involved pins and combs for those with longer hair. Julie’s had been cut while she was in hospital in a kind of boyish cut that suited her pixie face and she had no trouble conforming. Florrie’s was a rich brown, thick and long, and the only way she could get it off her collar was to plait it and wind the plaits round her head. Megan rolled her dark tresses round a thin silk scarf and secured it with pins, a style adopted by others with long hair. Now they began to look and feel more like members of the armed services. ‘You look nice in your uniform,’ Florrie told Julie.
‘Thank you, so do you.’
Their civilian clothes parcelled up and left to be collected, they were taken to the Astra Cinema where the occupants of several other huts joined them to learn the hierarchy of the service and the various ranks, and the rules and regulations, which seemed unending, together with a frightening film about venereal diseases and another about the birth of a baby. It set Julie wondering about the baby she was supposed to have had and had forgotten. How could you forget something like that?
After that they had lunch and then assembled on the parade ground, there to be greeted by an RAF sergeant who proceeded to tell them in no uncertain terms what was expected of them as new recruits and what was in store for them, which on the first day and many subsequent days meant assembling on the parade ground and learning to march. Up and down they went, back and forth, falling in, falling out, wheeling and turning. There was no quarter given on account of their sex and it was no good complaining their feet hurt in their new shoes; they were quickly silenced.
Released from that at the end of the day they went to the canteen for their evening meal which was substantial but uninspiring. By that time the thirty-two had formed into smaller groups. Julie and Florrie were joined by Sylvia, Connie and Megan.
‘There are walks and hills, hereabouts,’ Julie said. ‘When we get time off I intend to explore.’
‘If we get time off,’ Sylvia put in.
‘What work did you do before you joined up?’ Connie asked her.
‘I was a shop assistant at John Lewis in Oxford Street.’
‘And I worked in a hotel looking after tourists,’ Megan said.
‘What about you?’ Connie asked Julie.
She couldn’t say anything that needed qualifications or special training because she would undoubtedly be caught out. ‘I was in service.’
Connie laughed. ‘Out of the frying pan into the fire, then. I was a typist before I married. Haven’t done much since – a job here, another there.’
‘You’ll find this a bit of a shock, then,’ Florrie said. ‘I’m used to hard work. My father has a farm and I was always expected to do my share.’
‘Surely farming’s a reserved occupation?’
‘Yes, but I wanted to spread my wings, learn something new. I’ve been told there are opportunities galore in the services.’
‘What, to learn square-bashing?’
‘I heard you can choose to do what you like within reason,’ Julie ventured. ‘You can be almost anything: cook, telephonist, typist, clerk, driver, wireless operator, medical orderly, plotter, parachute packer …’
‘I’m going to ask to be a driver,’ Florrie said.
‘Can you drive?’ Julie asked.
‘I can drive a tractor and I drove my brother’s Austin Seven before I pranged it. He was furious, but then the war came and petrol was rationed so he couldn’t use it anyway. Can you drive?’
This was another of those questions to which she did not know the answer. ‘No,’ she said, to be on the safe side. ‘We never had a car.’
‘If you want to do it, the WAAF will teach you, providing there’s room on a course.’
‘I’m not really fussy what I do.’
‘Don’t be like that, you’ll get the worst job going if you say that, cleaning out latrines, washing dishes. You’re too intelligent for that.’
‘How do you know I’m intelligent?’
‘I can tell by the way you speak, the things you say and how you hold yourself, head up and eyes shining. I bet you went to a good school.’
Having no idea whether this was true or not, Julie laughed. ‘Thank you for that. I’ll see what they offer me.’
‘When the time comes, say you want to be a driver and we’ll stay together.’
‘What’s so special about being a driver?’ Sylvia said.
‘You get to move about a bit and meet all sorts, better than being stuck in one place all the time. You might get to drive a wing commander or a group captain, preferably an unmarried one.’
‘I’ll have some of that,’ Connie said, making them laugh.
They laughed a lot; everything was found to be funny, incidents that would previously hardly raise a smile had them giggling uncontrollably. Their NCOs and officers all seemed to have character traits that caused hilarity. Laughing at them counteracted the severity of their commands and the rules and regulations one or other of them was always breaking. Joan Parson-Ford was always in trouble. She had led a privileged life with servants to do her bidding and she did not like being ordered about or criticised, nor did she take to communal living, making Julie wonder why she had joined up in the first place. It did not surprise them when, one Saturday, she packed her bags and disappeared. ‘What d’you know,’ Connie said, joining everyone in the barracks after lunch. ‘Lady Muck’s been posted for officer training.’
‘Then I hope I don’t come up against her,’ Florrie said. ‘There’s transport going into Bridgnorth this afternoon. Anyone coming?’
It was their first Saturday afternoon off and they had been debating how to spend it. Exploring Bridgnorth seemed a good idea and Julie, Connie, Sylvia and Meg elected to go with her.
Bridgnorth, divided by the River Severn, had a High Town and a Low Town, which had once been a thriving port. On either bank the houses, shops and pubs climbed upwards. The girls climbed the narrow cartway, which had once been the route that donkeys and mules took bringing goods up from the river, a walk which, in spite of their being fit, made them breathless. It was only after they had made the ascent they realised there was a funicular railway which took passengers up and down the steep hill. ‘We’ll know another time,’ Julie said, as they set off along the Castle Walk to the ruins of a castle, one wall of which was so far out of perpendicular it looked in danger of falling over. According to Megan, who knew the town, it had suffered at the hands of Cromwell’s troops who had tried and failed to bring it down. Here they leant over the railings to admire the extensive view. Below them the river wound its placid way, and on the far side the hills climbed again. ‘I never realised England was so beautiful,’ Julie murmured, eyes shining as she looked about her at the rolling green countryside.
‘Didn’t you ever go away on holiday?’ Sylvia asked.
‘No, we couldn’t afford holidays. A day at the sea sometimes.’ A day at the sea; that rang a bell in her head, but though she worried away at the thought, she could not place where or when she had been to the coast. It was connected with a child, she thought, but she couldn’t be sure.
‘You must have seen pictures,’ Connie said.
She pulled herself together. ‘Yes, but it’s not the same, is it?’
‘When we get leave, you can come home
with me,’ Florrie said. ‘It’s beautiful where I live too.’
‘Won’t your parents mind?’
‘No, course not. We’ve got a telephone – Dad had it installed just before the war. I can always ring them and warn them we’re on our way.’
They turned and went into the town where, after wandering about looking at the shops and buying a pot of tea in a café, they decided to go to the Majestic and see Gone with the Wind, a very long film about the American Civil War, starring Clark Gable and a new English actress called Vivien Leigh. It was so late when they emerged, they missed the transport back to camp and had to walk, which they did, linking arms and singing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ as they went. They just managed to get in by 11.59, which was the latest they were allowed out.
Julie, who was still a little reticent on account of having to invent answers to questions about herself, slowly learnt to relax and became one of the crowd, perhaps not as noisy as the others, but ready to take part in anything that was going. Her niggling over her unknown past slowly began to fade as she built up a new life. They got to know some of the men in the camp, but none made any lasting friendships when the future was so uncertain and anyone could be posted at a moment’s notice.
Training continued until, one day in July, they were issued with passes and travel warrants and told they could have a week’s leave, after which they would be posted for more training in whatever job they had been allocated. Florrie and Julie headed for Wiltshire and Hillside Farm.
The warm welcome Julie received made up for the dismally long journey by several different trains, all going at the pace of a snail. ‘Come along in, make yourself at home,’ Mrs Kilby told Julie. ‘I’m Maggie, by the way.’ She was a big woman, wearing an apron over a dark skirt and a flowered blouse, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a wisp of flour on her nose and lustrous brown hair pulled untidily into a bun on top of her head. ‘You don’t mind sharing a room with Florrie, do you? Only I’ve got two little evacuee girls in the spare room.’
‘Mum, we’ve been sharing a room with twenty-eight others for six weeks now,’ Florrie said. ‘Come on, Julie, I’ll show you where to go.’ She conducted her upstairs and into a spacious bedroom.
