by Daisy Styles
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 browning nicely. She was looking forward to seeing what the customers’ reactions would be when they tucked into their puddings. She’d added a surprise ingredient. Last night, she’d ridden 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 the small, fruity berries, and she’d mixed them with baking apples, then covered the mix 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 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 that belonged to a local farmer. He’d asked her if she’d like to take care of his horse Shamrock, who needed exercising now that his daughter had left home. Ava wasn’t 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 learnt the hard way how to make the mare walk, trot, canter and how to 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, which had been left lying around by the farmer in the tack room.
WOMEN WORKING IN COMMUNICATION CENTRES
Ava 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 who have gone to fight on the front line. Conscripted women are needed for training in communications, decoding, Morse, tracking, signalling, administration, interception and mapping intelligence in military-command control centres. Training Centres offering intense six-month training are opening across the country to provide women, potential code girls, 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 and 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!’
The first spare moment she had, 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 had announced, with a proud ring in her voice.
The woman behind 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 the woman’s face.
‘Canteen cook!’ she exclaimed.
Ava nodded.
At Dove Mill. I’m second in charge,’ she added with a proud smile.
‘Cooking isn’t exactly the right kind of background for a communications trainee,’ 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.
‘I’m not going to argue with that,’ she replied, handing Ava an application form and a pen. ‘Fill this in. When it comes to “present employment”, you must state your current 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 me 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 and do anything that’s required.’
‘I’ll knuckle down to anything,” Ava said with a winning smile.
The woman watched Ava walk away. She was a stunning girl, but good looks didn’t always 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 the next day.
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 oven, stirring a mince-and-onion stew bulked up with root vegetables such as swede, parsnips and turnips, Ava reiterated what she’d read in the paper.
‘It could be anything from operations, tracking, signals, administration, interception, decoding, Morse – even working in military-command control centres,’ she said with a bit of a swagger.
‘Sounds too much like bloody spying to me!’ Audrey joked. ‘Here, roll that lot out,’ she added, pushing 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.’ Audrey slapped a pastry crust on top of the filling 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; it’s exactly the war work I’ve been looking for.’
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, wrapping her two pairs of battered shoes, which her mother had polished till they shone, in the newspaper.
‘I wish I could have bought you a warm twin set,’ her mother 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.
Her mother 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 t
rees like Marjorie Todd from round the corner!’
Her mother 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 daydreams, this is my contribution to beating Hitler,’ Ava said with a laugh, and kissed her mother’s cheek.
Before leaving, Ava 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 softly in the chest.
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Ava murmured, as she produced the mandatory carrot, expected on every visit.
As Shamrock contentedly crunched on it, Ava gulped back the 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, then nuzzled 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 a dumb animal that your 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 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 had been 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 that of 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 evacuation of Dunkirk in May 1940 had shown the true grit of the British. They’d launched thousands of boats into the North Sea on the hazardous mission to rescue soldiers from the Normandy beaches, but the losses on that fateful day had cut deep, as did the continual bombing of Britain’s major cities. The nation, no longer gripped with the irrefutable belief that it would win the war, began to fear the worst: an invasion.
‘Which is why we all have to do our bit,’ Ava said, swiping away sentimental tears with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll miss you, sweetheart,’ she whispered, and kissed Shamrock for the last time. 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 the news reader announced in a grim voice that Operation Barbarossa was underway, the Germans were marching 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 – she thought rather guiltily – there was a 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 leant out of the open window to smile at her family, who stood on the platform with heavy, sorrowful faces.
‘Write!’ her mum sobbed, dabbing away her tears with a hankie.
‘Don’t forget me!’ yelled 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, Ava was wide-eyed as she peered out of the window at the ever-changing countryside. The wild northern moors gave way to the Peak District, with its 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 pud, 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,’ said an older soldier, who was sitting next to him, puffing hard on a cigarette. ‘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, and 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, opening a small tin she’d packed with home-made buns.
‘That’ll be a rare treat,’ said the soldier. He bit into the bun and nearly swallowed it whole.
‘You, too,’ Ava said, proffering 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 each gave Ava something in return for her kindness: half an orange, a piece of chocolate, a soggy sandwich, a cigarette and cold tea from a bottle.
The cheery soldiers got off at Peterborough, where Ava changed lines. On the slow train to Norwich, her 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.
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 jeep.
‘Hop in, ladies. I’m Peter, gamekeeper-cum-gardener from Walsingham Hall.’
As he piled their luggage on the roof, the new code girls squeezed in tightly beside each other. Instead of sitting side by side, they sat on benches facing each other, and when Peter cranked the gears and the jeep bounced forward they all fell towards each other, almost into each other’s’ laps.
‘Hold on tight!’ he warned, too late.
Though the sun had set, the light lingered in the eastern sky. Peering through the window, Ava could see the townspeople had dutifully pulled down their black-out blinds. 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.
‘Instinct,’ Peter replied, without taking his eyes off the twisting road for a second.
Ten minutes later, Peter took a sharp left turn and swung into a drive flanked by elaborate metal gates gilded with an elaborate coat of arms.
‘That’s the hall,’ Peter said, dropping down a gear to make his way up
the drive, which threaded through a deer park. Even in the half-light, Ava could see fallow deer grazing under ancient oak and horse-chestnut trees. They rattled over a cattle grid, then, with a swoop, Peter came to a halt in front of Walsingham Hall. Ava caught her breath. She’d expected a big place that could accommodate a lot of people, but she hadn’t expected this.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed, as she stepped out of the jeep and gazed up at the majestic building that towered before her.
‘One of the finest stately homes in the country,’ Peter said proudly. ‘Just wait till you see it in the daylight. It’s a sight to behold.’
As the girls tumbled out of the jeep, Peter called out, ‘Make your way indoors. I’ll follow with your luggage.’
With their feet crunching on the gravel drive, the trainees pushed open the heavy front door and entered the elegant marble hall, which was decorated with ancestral portraits hung in huge, ornate gold frames.
‘Nobody mentioned we’d be billeted in Buckingham Palace!’ giggled one of the girls.
Her laughter faded as a grim-faced woman dressed from head to toe in black approached.
‘Your accommodation is in the south wing,’ she said, in a voice that bristled with contempt. ‘Follow me.’ Then she quickly moved off, as if she wanted no association with any of the newcomers.
‘Who’s she?’ Ava whispered to Peter, who was staggering along with as many cases as he could carry.
