Daughters of Cornwall

by Fern Britton

  Granny’s, when I found her, was to the left of the church and close to a clipped yew tree. I stopped and read the inscription.

  In Loving Memory

  of Clara Bolitho.

  A True Daughter of Cornwall.

  We shall miss you always,

  Michael, Edward,

  Hannah and David.

  I read it again. A daughter of Cornwall? That’s a laugh. She had been born in Kent, according to the trunk diary.

  And then I realised. Her four children were named. My mother and uncles knew about their half-brother?

  A handy bench was a yard or two away, so I made myself comfortable and began telling Granny Clara that I had found her out.

  ‘Hello. It’s Caroline. I have been reading about you. Recently a huge trunk was delivered to me, and inside it was your diary. I expect you are a bit shocked that I, your granddaughter, a real Daughter of Cornwall, am telling you this.’

  I stopped and put my face to the sky, feeling the light warmth of the sun. I could hear skylarks in the fields behind and the scent of new gorse hung on the breeze.

  ‘So you were orphaned and shot off to London, leaving your old life behind you, to seek your fortune. Some would say that was brave; others might say you were a chancer.’

  I stopped. I knew I was angry with her and wanted to tell her how angry I was, but maybe she had no choice but to do what she’d done. Perhaps I hadn’t taken her circumstances into consideration?

  I cleared my throat and spoke to her again.

  ‘I know all about Michael. Your first child. The one you left for another woman to bring up while you found yourself another man and skipped off to Malaya. You completely removed him from your life. Do you know what that must have done to him? He must have spent the rest of his life looking for you. I know how that feels. I would love to find my father but no one gave me any clues at all. Did they?’

  I heard my voice growing louder. I was hurling these words at her gravestone and the emotion inside me exploded.

  ‘Neither you nor Mum would tell me who mine was!’

  And there it was. The reason I had been angry all my life. Why I had insisted on marrying an ordinary, kind man. Both of us being pure on our wedding night. Teaching Natalie to do the same.

  I tried to control my sobs and tears but the dam had broken.

  ‘And I am so angry that you and Mum allowed yourselves to let go and enjoy passion and love and danger and excitement. I know it cost you a lot, too, but I would have loved a bit of that. Being as good as I have been allows me to sleep at night, but it is so boring.’

  Hannah, Salisbury

  1943–1945

  After months of training and endless practice, I joined a battery of women capable of picking off anything that flew in the sky above us. I started as a spotter, able to identify any aircraft flying, moving on to working with plotting instruments and range-finders, which allowed the Predictor to calculate the correct angle for the gunners to fire and bring the aircraft down. I was passed as able to do all these jobs and at nineteen years old I became a sergeant. The work demanded steady nerves under gunfire; at the end of several hours we were mentally and physically exhausted, our ears numb from the noise and our voices hoarse from shouting orders. I preferred not to think about the pilots that were killed in these operations, and we were always relieved to see parachutes deployed. Those men would be taken prisoner, losing their freedom not their lives.

  Edward was flying more sorties than were good for him. He had passed the mark where the odds were favourable for him. Now, every time he flew, the odds of his being shot down were getting shorter. It was only a matter of time before he could cop it and he nearly did. He had been on a bombing raid over Essen when his Lancaster was hit by anti-aircraft fire. One engine was hit and began to burn but, using his skills and the remaining engine, he managed to fly his entire crew home over the Channel at a height of only four hundred feet. He had been a sergeant pilot then but was promoted to pilot officer before being awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross by the king. The invitation to Buckingham Palace for his investiture had places for only three guests. He had wanted to take Mum, David and Shirley! But with sisterly persuasion he took me instead. I still had the photo of us all outside the palace.

  Afterwards, Mum and David caught the train home to get back to Grandfather, while Edward and I hit the town. In the first pub I had a lemonade, which lasted me all night as I didn’t like alcohol, and Edward had a large whisky. Then another and another, but he didn’t seem a bit drunk. In the next pub it was the same, but this time we met a party of other RAF pilots who also drank whisky after whisky and yet appeared unaffected.

  I asked one of them how they stayed so sober and he told me, ‘I drink a bottle of Scotch a day when I’m not flying. We all do. It’s the only way to get through the job.’

  When I finally got Edward out of the pub and off to the lodgings that Mum had booked, I took his arm. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Sure, Toots. I’m fine.’

  ‘But you have had an awful lot to drink.’

  ‘Have I? Doesn’t feel like nearly enough.’

  I looked at him and he looked away, pinching the top of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked again.

  I heard his in-breath catching raw in his throat. He still wouldn’t look at me. ‘Sure, Toots. I’m fine.’

  We stopped walking and I turned to face him. ‘Talk to me.’

  I saw his face change from despair to fury in a split second. ‘For God’s sake! I’m absolutely fine. Absolutely. It’s the others who aren’t. My friends. The enemy. God knows they are not fine. Blown to bits or drowned in the Channel.’ His voice was choked now. ‘But I am absolutely fine.’ He rubbed at his eyes with the sleeves of his greatcoat.

  We sat on a bench in the dark and I held him as he cried.

  After about twenty minutes, when he had recovered himself, we got up and walked to our digs. We didn’t need to say anything.

  That night I didn’t want him sleeping alone, so I stayed in his room and watched while he slept, and in the morning we got up, had breakfast, and never spoke about that night again.

  He and I got on with the work we were trained to do and lived our lives as fully as we could. What would be the point of not doing so?

  I began to drink a little and accept offers of dinner out with men who made me laugh. One of them I fell rather heavily for. I gave him my virginity, and for several weeks I was a walking advertisement for young love. Until he became ill and had to have his tonsils out.

  I was waiting on the ward to surprise him when he came back from theatre and noticed a very pregnant, pretty woman waiting for someone too. We smiled at each other and would have struck up a conversation together if a nurse hadn’t bustled in. ‘Your husband is on his way soon. Tonsils at his age can be very difficult.’

  The woman laughed. ‘Men never grow up. We have two small sons at home and he’s just as helpless as them.’

  I slipped out of the ward and down the corridor, their laughter following me, making my foolishness feel all the greater.

  When the girls in my hut found out, they were sympathetic and judgemental in equal measure. Unable to bear their pity, I joined in with their coarse talk of romance and began dating again, burying my pain in men who would take me out to dinner and away for weekends.

  Grandfather died in March 1945. Mum’s letter told Edward and me that it had all been very peaceful. She had been on her way to bed and made her usual visit to him to make sure he was comfortable. He had taken her hand, kissed it, and thanked her for being such a good daughter to him. It was a rare moment of lucidity, and one of the few times he had called her Clara rather than Louisa. The next morning she took him his tea and settled the cup on his bedside table before opening the curtains and telling him it looked like a fine day for Trevay, and when he didn’t answer she knew he had gone.

  Edward and I went home for the funeral, a twenty-four-
hour pass, and to be honest I was glad that Mum had one less person to think about at home.

  In April she wrote to us again. The War Office had given her news that our father was alive but still a prisoner in Changi Jail, Singapore. The Red Cross had been allowed into the prison to check on civilian detainees and had found him emaciated, and showing signs of having been tortured (we later discovered he had had his toenails removed), but he was at least surviving. I hadn’t seen him for more than fifteen years and had no idea if any of my letters had got through to him, but the news he was alive made me even more impatient to finish this war. Every enemy bomber we shot down I dedicated to Dad, may God forgive me.

  I was twenty-one at the end of April. All twenty-first birthdays in my hut were celebrated in the same way. The birthday girl would be taken to the pub, plied with alcohol, taken back to the hut, stripped of her clothes and left naked in the dark, locked out of the hut. I fought hard but the alcohol had made me dizzy and my efforts to resist were futile. I banged on the door, shouting to be let in, while they all laughed inside.

  ‘You.’ A male voice in the dark spoke.

  Covering my nakedness as best I could, I turned to face our commanding officer, who had with him two colonels I had never seen before.

  ‘Yes sir?’ I managed, noting that the girls behind the locked door had gone very quiet.

  ‘Name?’ asked the CO.

  ‘Sergeant Bolitho, sir.’

  ‘Why are you out of uniform?’

  I heard a snigger through a crack in the door. ‘It’s my birthday, sir.’

  ‘I see. In normal circumstances I would expect you to salute me and my guests, but I can see that would hardly be appropriate.’

  ‘No, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Right, well. I don’t expect to see this happen again.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  I could hear the bolts being drawn behind me. The door opened and several hands steered me backwards into the shelter.

  The CO ushered his guests ahead of him before saying, ‘Sergeant Bolitho?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Happy Birthday.’

  On 7 May, I was in our Nissen hut trying to get some sleep, having been out on duty overnight, when the familiar voice of the prime minister, coming through the camp’s Tannoy system, jolted me awake.

  ‘Yesterday morning … the German High Command … signed the act of unconditional surrender … Hostilities will officially end at one minute after midnight tonight, Tuesday 8 May … The ceasefire began yesterday … The German war, Mr Speaker, is therefore at an end …’

  ‘It’s over,’ I whispered. ‘This bloody war is over!’ I jumped out of bed. ‘Girls, get up. We’ve won!’

  The ensuing commotion drowned out the next part of Mr Churchill’s speech until he got to ‘long live the cause of freedom! God save the king!’ Then, all around me, inside and outside our hut, I heard the growing swell of cheers and running feet. Someone was singing ‘God Save the King’ and other voices were joining in. All thoughts of exhaustion and sleep left us and we ran out into the crowd. The entire camp was electrified with joy and relief. We were ordinary people again.

  I put a call through to RAF Scampton to make sure Edward was safe. ‘I’m OK, Toots. When you’re in London, send my love to the king, won’t you.’

  By happenstance, seven of us from my battery had been given a twenty-four-hour pass for 8 May. We had planned to get the bus down to Winchester to get our hair done for a concert party, but we ditched that and caught the early train to London.

  It was standing room only on the train. Anyone in uniform stood, freeing the seats for the young women with children, older women with their friends, young boys, old men, and even dogs. Everyone was going to London to witness the momentous day.

  Getting out at Waterloo, we surged through the throng and walked over Westminster Bridge and into Parliament Square.

  Some of our gang had never been to London before and were goggle-eyed at seeing Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. ‘Blimey,’ said Jane, one of the best spotters, ‘to think Mr Churchill lives there. Big, innit.’

  ‘It sure is!’ A young American sailor with a group of pals surrounded us. ‘And you ladies sure look swell.’

  ‘Hey, I like a woman in uniform,’ said another, cosying up to one of our posher girls called Fiona.

  She flicked his hand away from her waist. ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Aw, come on. The war is over. Time to have a little fun.’

  ‘We are having our own fun, thank you very much,’ Fiona said. ‘Come along girls, we don’t want to miss Mass.’

  The sailors knew when they were being brushed off and, whistling and winking, they attached themselves to a group of WAAFs instead.

  Fiona was walking in the opposite direction and we all followed her. ‘What did you mean about Mass?’ I asked her.

  ‘Just an excuse. They wouldn’t want to be stuck with nuns, would they?’ She chuckled. ‘Anyway, if I am going to be chatted up by an American, I want him to be handsome, sober and a general at least. And also, while we are here, I think we should pop into Westminster Abbey before we do the things we’ll regret and have a word of thanks with the Almighty. Mummy knows the archbishop very well. Mummy and Daddy were married in the Crypt. Come on.’

  ‘Are we allowed to go in? asked Ena, a new girl to our battery and from Manchester.

  Fiona tutted, ‘God’s doors are open to all. Follow me.’

  The shouting, joyful rabble of voices were left behind and dimmed as we entered the quiet gloom of the ancient church. The height of the roof and its vaulted ceiling made me feel tiny and insignificant.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Jane said under her breath.

  Advancing towards the grave of the Unknown Warrior, we stopped and took our caps off in respect.

  Fiona bowed her head smartly, put her cap back on and saluted. After a moment’s hesitation, we all followed suit.

  Several people in civilian clothes smiled at us. An elderly man spoke. ‘Thank you.’

  None of us knew quite what to say. I felt clumsy and humbled. Jane grinned and replied, ‘Our pleasure, sir.’

  Then more people appeared wanting to give us their thanks and shake our hands, telling us how brave we were. Not one of us knew how to respond, feeling neither brave nor boastful.

  Eventually we made our way down the nave and past the quire, where we found a pew to share. The peace seeped into me. I knelt, thinking of Grandfather and the services he had presided over in his own simple church in Callyzion. Closing my eyes I tried a very unsatisfactory prayer of thanks. The words were clumsy and my thoughts too busy to make any sense, so I stayed where I was, kneeling, until my knees got cold and I could sense the girls wanting to rejoin the outside world of mass celebrations.

  As we left the abbey, a cordon of police officers and mounted cavalry were holding the crowd back and clearing a path in the road.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked a woman with a baby in her arms.

  ‘The king and queen are coming, I think,’ she told me.

  ‘Really?’ The girls and I were very excited and pushed our way to a better vantage point. Suddenly a huge cheer went up and an open horse-drawn carriage went past with the king and queen and the two princesses riding in it.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ screamed Jane. ‘Me mam will never believe me!’

  As the royal procession moved around Parliament Square and up The Mall, the police cordon and mounted soldiers formed a barrier ahead of us and moved us slowly towards The Mall and Buckingham Palace. Shoulder to shoulder, the crowd moved and swayed like the sea running up a beach. As soon as the message got through that the royal family were safely back home, the cordon broke, allowing us to rush towards the palace gates and jam our faces against the iron railings. The famous balcony was hung with red velvet and gold braid.

  ‘Terrific view from the balcony,’ Fiona said to me quietly.

  ‘Don’t you mean of the balcony?’ I answered.
/>   ‘Princess Elizabeth and I were at school together. At a party once, she took me up to show me the view.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘No. Why do you think she joined the ATS?’

  ‘Because of you?’ I couldn’t believe what she was saying.

  ‘Well, I may have mentioned to her that it was jolly good fun. But don’t tell the others, will you?’

  I shook my head. ‘Are you telling the truth?’ I said sceptically.

  ‘I’m afraid so, oh look …’ A huge cheer went up behind us. ‘There they are!’ She raised her hand and waved wildly.

  ‘Will they see you?’ I shouted.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so … oh look … there’s Lilibet and Margaret Rose too. Hooray!’ she yelled.

  I didn’t know if she was telling me the truth or not, but I decided to believe her as it would make a wonderful story for Mum. As I watched and waved my hat and cheered, Mr Churchill himself appeared on the balcony and stood between the king and queen. A huge wave of noise came up from the crowd, which must almost have knocked him off his feet, and yet he remained dignified and unassuming. The emotion of the moment affected almost everybody witnessing the event. Fiona put her arm through mine with tears rolling down her face. ‘Almost six bloody years and it’s over!’

  ‘I don’t think it’s properly sunk in.’ I looked around to find the rest of the girls but they must have been swept up in the crowd. ‘Can you see Jane and the other girls?’ I shouted to Fiona.

  She stood on tiptoes, a little bit taller than me. ‘No. They’ll be fine though. Don’t worry.’

  We stood as we were, cheering and waving until the balcony was empty and the curtained doors closed.

  ‘I think we need a drink,’ Fiona said, putting her cap back on. ‘I want to find my handsome Yankee general.’

  Together we embraced the moment, ending up in Soho where the music and customers were flowing out of the bars onto the pavements, infecting us with joy. I had never been so drunk or so euphoric. We weren’t going to die tomorrow after all. Years later we heard that Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret had been out on the town in disguise. If they had half as good a time as we had, I am glad.