Grim news came in of merchant ships being torpedoed by the dreaded German submarines, the U-boats, with loss of crews and cargoes. Adolf Hitler was reported to declare that all shipping was at the mercy of his U-boats, and the losses led inevitably to food shortages. Under the newly formed Ministry of Food, the first rationing began early in the New Year. Lady Neville, now a member of the Women’s Voluntary Service, joined Councillor Mrs Tomlinson and other WVS members at long tables in St Peter’s church hall, to distribute the already printed ration books to every adult and child in North and South Camp and the surrounding rural area. Each had to be signed for, and the weekly allowances of butter, bacon and ham explained; each person would need to be registered with a named butcher and grocer which left them little choice, the one butcher being Mr Seabrook and the one grocer old Mr Cleveley, assisted by his daughter. Joan Kennard offered to accompany Mrs Allingham to the church hall to collect her two ration books, but was refused.
‘We always get our bacon directly from Yeomans’ Farm,’ the lady said crossly. ‘I have no intention of going to beg from that Seabrook man.’
When Joan gently explained that more foods would soon have to be rationed, items like tea, coffee and sugar, Mrs Allingham replied that she would go into Everham for them.
‘I’m not going to be told which shops I must use,’ she said. ‘And what does your child need with a ration book?’
‘She’s entitled to extra milk,’ replied Joan patiently, ‘and at the Welfare Clinic she gets cod liver oil and orange juice.’
‘That’s more than I ever got at that age. There’s too much fuss being made about children at a time like this. What about the elderly?’
Joan pretended not to hear, but that evening the Reverend Allingham got a detailed account of his wife’s grievances.
‘We must look upon these inconveniences as a test of our faith, Agnes,’ he said, but got only a dubious sniff for answer. Mrs Allingham’s faith had been badly shaken when her sons had gone to war, and she lived only for news of them.
On a bleak Wednesday morning in February there had been few customers at Thomas and Gibson’s, and the inactivity had depressed Valerie’s spirits even further, emphasising her feeling of uselessness at this time, and her secret disappointment at having had only one postcard from John Richardson, showing a picture of snow-capped Ben Nevis and saying that army square-bashing was very different from Page’s department store. His father had received a letter that gave no information about his whereabouts for security reasons, nor what was happening, nor whether or not he was to be posted overseas. He had asked for his kind regards to be passed on to Miss Pearson, and that was all. Valerie imagined him slogging through army manoeuvres and learning about modern warfare, while here she was, uselessly stuck in a shop, selling bolts of stout black cloth and sewing cotton for making black-out curtains. But what could she do? She couldn’t type or act as a telephone operator, she couldn’t ride a bicycle, let alone drive a vehicle. It was no wonder that John Richardson preferred the vivacious Rebecca Neville to a timid, mousey creature like herself, she thought, and besides, her mother would never let her go to do war work.
‘You’d better do some shopping when you leave work today, Valerie, before you go to the Ladies’ Hour,’ Mrs Pearson had told her that morning. ‘Buy up what tea and sugar you can from Cleveley’s, because they say they’ll soon be on ration. I shan’t be coming to the Rectory this afternoon, Dr Stringer says I need to rest more.’
Valerie looked forward to Wednesday afternoons, even though the talk was mostly about the war and the news, or lack of it, from the men in the armed services at home and abroad. Mrs Kennard had said they should now call themselves the North Camp Knitting Circle, as the ladies were now all knitting balaclavas, gloves and socks for the forces, using thick grey wool yarn supplied by Lady Neville as one of her many duties in the Women’s Voluntary Service. They all knew that her son was an officer in the army, but she hid her anxiety under a smile, nodding to Mr Saville to play something bright and cheerful on this dull afternoon. One of the ladies had suggested ‘Whistle While You Work’ from the film about Snow White, and another had asked for ‘There’ll Always Be An England’; Lady Neville said they would sing both, exchanging a smile with Philip Saville who obediently obliged at the piano. He seemed happier these days, as if he actually enjoyed the discomforts of war; Valerie would have liked to ask him if his Aunt Enid listened to that awful Lord Haw-Haw on the wireless, with his Oxford English accent broadcasting from Germany, mocking Mr Chamberlain’s efforts. Mrs Pearson insisted on turning on the wireless when Haw-Haw came on with his ‘Gairmany calling, Gairmany calling,’ followed by his eerie knowledge about which English town hall clock was five minutes slow, and where the air raid shelters were placed in another town, and how ineffectual they would be in a serious air raid.
Mrs Pearson listened to what he had to say, and then loudly contradicted him, point by point, as if he could hear her. If I have to listen to that man one more time, thought Valerie, I shall scream, ‘Turn him off! For God’s sake turn the bugger off!’
And the next thing she knew was that she was lying on the floor with Lady Neville and Mrs Kennard on each side of her, holding her hands and soothing her with ‘Sssh, sssh, dear, sssh, sssh,’ and somebody was handing her a handkerchief.
Heavens, what a disaster, she must have shouted the words out loud, and now she could not stop crying.
Lady Neville was helping her to her feet. ‘Come with me, Valerie, come this way,’ she said, and taking her arm she led her out of the room and into Alan Kennard’s study.
‘Sit down, dear, there’s a cup of tea coming for you soon. Now, would you like to tell me what’s the matter? Are you not well?’
Valerie wiped her eyes and nose. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Neville, I’m not ill—’
‘Please call me Isabel, and tell me what’s the matter, Valerie.’
‘I feel so useless, while other people are busy with war work, like yourself, Lady – Isabel,’ she faltered, ‘and my mother listens to that horrible man, and I can’t bear it!’ The tears began again, and Isabel took her hand, somewhat alarmed at hearing this.
‘Hush, Valerie, don’t upset yourself. What horrible man? You can tell me in strictest confidence, you know.’
‘That Lord Haw-Haw, she always listens to him and answers him back,’ said poor Valerie, thinking what a silly goose she must seem. Isabel laughed with relief.
‘Oh, him! That traitor to his country, he’ll come to no good end, and isn’t worth worrying about! I think you’ve got yourself thoroughly run down, my dear, but is there anything else that’s troubling you? Some friendship, perhaps?’
Valerie could not speak of her unrequited love for John Richardson, so shook her head. Isabel Neville felt deeply sorry for the girl, dominated by her mother and with nobody to confide in. She must be handled gently.
‘Listen, my dear, would you like to do some local war work? There are lots of things you can do as a voluntary worker, if only for a few hours a week. Come and see me next Monday morning at St Peter’s church hall, where the Women’s Voluntary Service has its North Camp headquarters. We could talk things over, and find something to suit you. Do you like children? There’s a nursery at Everham for under-fives, poor little mites whose mothers work at the munitions factory. Come and have a talk with me, and we’ll work out a trial plan for you, how many hours you can give and so on. How does that sound to you?’
Valerie gave a watery smile. ‘It’s very kind of you, Lady, er, Isabel, but my mother would never agree to anything like that. She’s elderly, you see, and needs me to do the shopping and everything. Besides, I’ve got my work at Thomas and Gibson’s.’
‘I would like to have a word with Mrs Pearson, and with Mr Richardson. I’m sure he could find a part-time replacement for you – an older woman, perhaps.’ Isabel paused and looked very thoughtful. ‘Because you see, Valerie, you’re quite right – you are needed for the war effort, and you’re t
oo valuable to waste your potential as you are doing.’ (And heading towards a nervous breakdown, she added in her head.) ‘I believe it would be good for Mrs Pearson to do the local shopping, and a lot more besides. Leave it to me – don’t say anything to her, and I’ll persuade her. Come on, let’s see you smile again!’
Even after a cup of tea and a slice of Mrs Kennard’s fruit cake, Valerie felt unable to face the ladies again, but Isabel Neville did not want her to go home alone.
‘Just wait here until we finish, Valerie, and then somebody will walk with you. I know, I’ll ask Philip to see you home – he’s going your way, and he’d be glad to.’
‘Oh, no, I don’t want to put Mr Saville to any trouble,’ protested Valerie, but she was overruled. Mr Saville readily agreed, because it was Isabel Neville who asked him, and he could refuse her nothing. Even so, he felt sorry for the quiet girl who walked at his side, and having witnessed the scene at the Rectory, he could not help comparing her life with his; due to different circumstances, they shared the same inner emptiness, he concluded bleakly.
‘Thank God it’s nearly spring again,’ Dora Goddard said to the pigs, her Wellington boots ankle-deep in the pig manure she was raking out of the sties and shovelling onto a wheelbarrow. Her charges were busy at the trough of swill, made up from kitchen waste and cooked mangolds and turnips mixed with oats. The newly delivered sow and her twelve new piglets needed special attention, and were kept in a separate pen where she was fed on offal cooked in milk and water. Dora yawned, having been up for two hours in the night, summoned by Billy who was having trouble with delivering a calf. The cow had lain for several hours, lowing with painful contractions; only the calf’s forelegs were visible, but after some strategic traction, the head at last emerged, followed by the rest of the body.
‘Bugger it!’ said Billy. ‘After all that effort, it’s a bloody bull calf, when we need milkers. Should be ready for slaughtering come September. Anyway, let’s get it sucking.’
‘Can’t the poor old girl have a rest for an hour or two?’ asked Dora, patting the sweating animal, now lying exhausted on her bed of straw in the lantern-lit byre.
‘’Course not, the sooner it sucks the better – it’s just thin, watery stuff at first, but get it sucking, and the proper milk’ll come in. Come on, let’s get cleared up – I need to get back to my bed. Sidney can deliver the next one.’
Dora did not reply, but seethed inwardly. Billy had taken advantage of her as a member of the family, and while her father and mother worked as hard as they had always done, Billy lorded it over them since his elevation to husband and father, and reminded them of his ownership of the farm and their secondary place in the scheme of things. They got no help from Pam whose time was all taken up with baby Samuel, now a year old and toddling all over the farmhouse.
‘I’ve had enough of it, Mum,’ declared Dora when she came in for breakfast on this misty March morning. She pulled off her boots in the scullery, and washed her hands under cold water at the sink. ‘I’m sick and tired of the way he treats us, and as for that silly little giggling Pam who never does a hand’s turn in the house, I could slap her!’
Her mother sighed in sympathy, and could not disagree, but Dora had made up her mind. ‘He’s nothing but a slave-driver, and I’m getting out of this place,’ she said.
‘Oh, no!’ Mary protested. ‘Your dad and I would miss you so much – you’re our one comfort now. And where on earth would you go?’
‘Don’t know yet, but somewhere I can work for Britain rather than Billy,’ her daughter replied. ‘I’ll go to the Labour Exchange in Everham, and offer my services.’
‘Do think about it, dear, and have a word with your dad,’ said Mary with a sigh, but Dora had nothing more to say. A thought had crossed her mind, and not for the first time, that Howard Allingham was somewhere in France, a soldier fighting in defence of his country. Poor Howard – she could not return his love, but now wondered if she should have pretended a little, and given him some consolation as he went out to face danger and possible death. She could not forget his face on that Sunday morning after church when he had said goodbye to neighbours and friends in North Camp. Everybody had wanted to shake his hand, and Lady Neville and Mrs Kennard had kissed him. He had held out his hand to her, and she had shaken it, but there was no kiss, not even the briefest peck on his cheek; she had looked into his eyes, and quickly lowered her gaze.
I should have kissed him, she now accused herself.
However bad the news of war, spring had returned to earth again, bringing a green mist of early foliage on the trees, and the orchards were sweet with pink and white blossom. A tall, fine-featured young woman stood at the door of St Peter’s church hall, waiting for two friends to join her – and there they were, smiling in anticipation as well as a degree of apprehension.
‘Come along, girls,’ she said. ‘Let’s go in and offer ourselves up!’
Dora Goddard grinned, and Valerie Pearson was thankful for Rebecca Neville’s offer to accompany them before the recruitment board run by the Women’s Voluntary Service. Inside the hall, all was bustle and activity; long trestle tables were set out with senior members of the WVS interviewing female applicants of all ages and sizes. There was a queue, but Rebecca led Valerie to the table where Lady Neville sat, and pushed her forward.
‘You’re next to see her, Valerie, so take a few deep breaths and get ready to answer her simple questions,’ she whispered with a distinctly unladylike wink, then returned to Dora who was waiting for the next vacant chair.
‘Good morning, Miss Pearson!’ said Isabel Neville pleasantly. ‘How very nice to see you, and isn’t it a beautiful morning! I’ve been thinking about you a lot since I spoke to your mother, and we both agree that The Limes Nursery at Everham would be very glad to have you as a part-time assistant. Have you thought about that?’
‘Yes, Lady Neville,’ replied Valerie who had been astounded at the change in her mother’s attitude since her ladyship’s visit, when a ‘discussion’ had taken place, though it had actually been shameless flattery on the part of Isabel Neville to persuade the lady that this had been her own idea. First she had remarked that a girl as sensitive as Valerie could not possibly work in a munitions factory, but that there were other openings, such as working as a part-time nursing assistant on the wards of Everham Hospital, or helping to care for children placed at The Limes while their mothers worked on munitions.
‘She’d learn First Aid and basic nursing skills,’ said cunning Isabel, not mentioning the changing of nappies and wiping runny noses. ‘Just two days a week would be most helpful, and I’ve spoken to Mr Richardson at Thomas and Gibson’s. He’s willing to take on a young girl just out of school to replace Valerie when she’s not there. I am sure that you can spare her, Mrs Pearson – in fact that would count as your own war effort.’
Seeing Valerie now sitting before her, it seemed that her diplomacy had worked.
‘So, Valerie, shall we go for a trial period? You’ll be given a special pass to use on the bus to Everham and back, though it would be a very good idea to learn to ride a bicycle. How do you feel about this?’
Valerie spoke up and said she would try to do her very best. She shook Isabel’s hand with mixed emotions, but also with determination to succeed at the Limes; what would John Richardson say when he heard about this? Shy, timid little Valerie caring for children!
Dora Goddard sat down in front of Councillor Mrs Tomlinson who was now wearing the grey-green uniform of the service, and the silver and red badge with the letters WVS under the King’s crown, for Her Majesty the Queen was their new President.
‘Good morning, Mrs Tomlinson,’ Dora said politely.
‘Good morning, Miss Goddard,’ came the formal reply. ‘Well, at least we know where your talents lie – a farmer’s daughter through and through, so I wonder you don’t consider staying on at Yeomans’ Farm.’
How much shall I tell, Dora had wondered before attending the recruitment
drive at the church hall instead of the Labour Exchange at Everham.
‘No, Mrs Tomlinson, I need to get away from the farm, though I shall be sorry to leave my parents,’ she replied. ‘I’ve lived there all my life, and want to see more of the world.’
Mrs Tomlinson nodded. ‘Ah, I understand – and so the obvious place for you would be the Women’s Land Army, and a posting away from North Camp – am I right?’
‘Well, no, not exactly, Mrs Tomlinson. I’d like to have a change from farm work for a while.’
‘Oh? What had you in mind?’
‘I’d like to join the army, Mrs Tomlinson – the Auxiliary Territorial Service, and to go wherever I’m sent.’
‘Well, to join any of the women’s services you’d have to apply directly to the relevant headquarters in London, and they would interview you and you’d need to pass a medical examination. I see that you’re now twenty-two, and if that’s what you really want to do, there shouldn’t be any difficulty. In fact I can just picture you in your khaki uniform, changing a tyre on an army jeep! Good luck, Dora, and let me know how you get on.’
‘Thank you so much, Mrs Tomlinson.’ Dora held out her hand with such a radiant smile that the Councillor wondered why she was so keen to leave home.
Rebecca next took her place facing Mrs Tomlinson who greeted her warmly but with some surprise.
‘Good morning, Rebecca. I’d have thought that you’d discussed your plans with your parents.’
‘I have indeed, Mrs Tomlinson, and I’ve made a decision,’ answered Rebecca with a smile. ‘But I haven’t come to waste your time. My parents particularly want me to speak with you and hear your opinion.’
‘Certainly!’ replied the councillor. ‘I’ll be happy to give it. I can see you driving an ambulance, sending messages by wireless telegraphy and all sorts of essential duties.’ She leant forward and lowered her voice as she continued, ‘We’ll be needing all the women with your skills for the services. The war isn’t going at all well, with Hitler invading Norway and Denmark, and no good reports of the expeditionary force in France.’
A Family's Duty Page 8
