Women on the Home Front

by Annie Groves

  ‘I suppose,’ Connie said with a broad grin, ‘as soon as ol’ Hitler heard you were coming, he pushed off elsewhere.’

  Eva chuckled.

  ‘What do you do in the WAAFs?’ Connie continued.

  ‘Telephone operator,’ said Eva. ‘Mum seems to think it’ll hold me in good stead when I get demobbed. She says I could join the GPO as a telephonist but I’d much rather join the police or something.’

  ‘Oh no,’ cried Connie. ‘I can’t wait to get out of uniform. I hate it. All those damned buttons to polish, no thank you!’

  Eva chuckled.

  ‘I mean it,’ Connie said defensively. ‘When I went for training in Blackpool, our billet was so damp that every single one of my buttons was green by the morning and that was even after I’d used the button stick and a duster. I had to polish the darned things up again with my uniform cuffs before parade.’

  By now, Eva was laughing heartily.

  ‘You may well laugh,’ Connie continued, ‘but I was forever getting into trouble. There was a constant film over them.’

  ‘I trained in Blackpool as well,’ said Eva wiping her eyes. ‘1942. I had the choice of factory work or the WAAFs.’

  ‘I was there in September 1943,’ Connie said. ‘Blowing half a gale on the seafront, it was.’

  ‘And if your hat blew off while you were marching, you weren’t allowed to stop and pick it up,’ laughed Eva.

  ‘Yes, and how daft was that?’ Connie remarked.

  ‘Did you have old Wingate?’

  ‘You, that gel over there,’ Connie said mimicking Sgt Wingate, the WAAF officer who presided over new recruits, perfectly. ‘Head up, chhh … est out.’ And they both roared.

  ‘So, what will you do when you get demobbed?’

  ‘I want to be a nurse,’ said Connie.

  ‘And they don’t have a uniform?’ Eva teased.

  ‘Yesss,’ Connie conceded, ‘but it’s much sexier,’ and they both laughed again.

  Even after the long walk down The Mall, the crowd outside Buckingham Palace was every bit as good-natured as the crowd had been in Trafalgar Square. People milled about, meeting old friends and new faces with equal enthusiasm. The area around the Victoria Memorial was so overwhelmed with people, you could hardly see the mermaids, mermen or the hippogriff. People sat on the plinths beneath the great angels of Justice and Truth either side of Victoria herself. The statue depicting Motherhood was just as beautiful but it was facing the wrong way. Nobody was interested in what was happening down The Mall. Today all eyes were on the palace.

  ‘At least he’s home,’ said Eva, rolling her eyes upwards.

  Connie turned her head and glanced at the royal standard on the roof, fluttering in the breeze. ‘Oh good-o,’ she grinned as she put on a posh voice. ‘Shall we knock on the door and ask for tea?’ and Eva laughed.

  According to one woman in the crowd, the King and Queen had already come out onto the balcony four times so Connie and Eva didn’t hold out much hope that they would be lucky enough to see them. An impromptu conga snaked its way through the crowds and Connie and Eva joined in until they were breathless with laughter.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ said Eva eventually. ‘Do you want to wait a while?’

  ‘May as well,’ said Connie with a shrug, ‘now that we’ve walked all this way.’

  ‘What if we don’t see them?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Connie. ‘At least we were here.’ In her heart of hearts she was hoping they’d be lucky. Two disappointments in one day was too much to bear.

  All at once, the cry went up, ‘We want the King, we want the King.’

  As it gathered momentum, Connie and Eva joined in. The volume of noise reverberated all around and it felt as if the whole world was stilled by the cry of the crowd. ‘We want the King.’

  Dodging one of the few cars still travelling in the area, they crossed the road and joined the people nearer the railings. Connie stared at the imposing building beyond the iron gates and especially at the red- and gold-covered balcony.

  ‘They say Buckingham Palace has 775 rooms,’ said Eva.

  Connie wrinkled her nose. ‘Just think of all that dusting. You’d hardly be bloomin’ finished before you had to start all over again!’

  ‘Look!’ Eva nudged her arm and Connie’s heart nearly stopped with excitement when a small door within the great centre door opened and a tiny figure in naval uniform came out onto the balcony. The King! King George VI, King of the United Kingdom and the Dominions of the British Empire, and here she was, looking right at him! He raised his arm and with a circular motion of his hand began to wave to the crowd. The Queen in a pale green hat and matching coat and dress had followed him out onto the balcony and when she began to wave as well, the crowd opened its throat and roared. A sea of waving hands and cheering people in front of them, Connie and Eva were carried along with the thrill of it all. In a moment of sudden frustration, Connie stamped her foot. Damn it, Emmett! You should have been here with me, she thought.

  Two more figures had joined the King and Queen. Princess Elizabeth in her ATS uniform and Princess Margaret Rose, not yet fifteen and too young to join up, was in a pretty aqua-coloured dress. From where Connie and Eva stood, they were no more than tiny dolls behind the long red- and gold-covered balcony but it was enough. Connie and Eva cheered themselves hoarse.

  When eventually the royal family went back inside, the two girls looked at each other with satisfied smiles.

  ‘I’m starving,’ said Eva. ‘Fancy something to eat?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of fish paste sandwiches in my bag,’ said Connie taking it from her shoulder. ‘They’ll be a bit squashed but you’re welcome to share them with me.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer,’ laughed Eva, ‘but if you don’t mind, I think I can do a bit better than that.’

  ‘But where are we going to get anything around here?’ Connie cried.

  Eva tapped her nose and pulled Connie towards Green Park. When they reached the road, they turned into a side street. Connie hadn’t a clue where she was, but she didn’t feel the least bit nervous. Presently they came across a small crowd laughing and dancing outside a café.

  ‘Is this where we’re going?’

  Eva nodded.

  ‘How on earth did you know this was here?’

  ‘My husband’s family has been here for quite a while,’ she said matter-of-factly.

  Connie was taken by surprise. Eva had never mentioned a husband. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring either. She was about to mention it when she was swept up with hugs and kisses and handshakes as the family welcomed Eva’s new friend. Someone called out, ‘Queenie, Queenie luv, look who’s ’ere.’

  Queenie, a small woman, middle-aged, with a lined face, hair the colour of salt and pepper and wearing a wrap-around floral apron, came out of the kitchen. The two women looked at each other, unsmiling, then Queenie opened her arms and Eva went to her. Such was the difference in their height, Queenie had to stand on tip-toe and Eva had to lean over, but there was a moment of real tenderness and, Connie supposed, if Queenie was Eva’s mother-in-law, a sense of shared grief. For a moment, Connie felt like an intruder so she looked away. Eva and Queenie went into the kitchen and shut the door.

  Another woman sitting at one of the tables touched her arm. Connie looked down and smiled thinly.

  ‘Why don’t yer sit down, ducks,’ said the woman indicating a vacant chair opposite. ‘They’ll be back in a jiffy.’

  Connie nodded her thanks and sat down.

  ‘Been to the celebrations?’ asked the woman fingering a pearl necklace she had around her neck.

  ‘To the palace.’

  The woman lifted what looked like a glass of milk stout. ‘Here’s to His Majesty, Gowd bless ’im. Did you see him?’

  As they talked, Connie discovered that Eva’s mother-in-law, Queenie O’Hara, had lived in London all her life. She and her late husband, an Irishman, had taken over the small caf
é in 1941 after their dockland home had been bombed out of existence.

  ‘Queenie used to clean ’ouses for the nobs round ’ere,’ said the woman, ‘but when she saw this place was up for sale, it were an hoppertunity too good to miss. He died in ’44 just before her son got married.’ She pointed to a photograph over the counter of an Irish guardsman in his Home Service dress of scarlet tunic and bearskin. ‘That’s her Dermid. The light of her life.’

  So this was Eva’s husband. He was certainly a striking man.

  ‘How long have they been married?’ Connie asked.

  The woman shrugged. ‘No more than a couple of weeks.’

  Connie frowned. Only a couple of weeks and already Eva had taken off her wedding ring?

  ‘This damned war,’ muttered the woman. ‘The day he died the light went out of Queenie’s face.’

  Connie was appalled. Dead? She looked at the picture of the handsome young man in uniform again. How could it happen? Now she realised that she’d been so concerned to avoid talking about her own troubles that she hadn’t even asked Eva about herself. Losing touch with Kenneth was bad enough but to lose a husband so soon after marriage seemed grossly unfair. And yet coming down The Mall, Eva didn’t seem to be that upset. She was more like the life and soul of the party. Was she callous or was it bravado? But when she emerged from the kitchen and came over to join them at the table, Connie could see that Eva’s eyes were red and she’d obviously been crying. ‘Queenie’s going to rustle something up for us,’ she said matter-of-factly to Connie and then turning to the woman with the pearl beads and the stout, she said, ‘And how are you, Mrs Arkwright?’

  Connie’s table companion leaned over and squeezed Eva’s hand. ‘Mustn’t grumble, ducks. Mustn’t grumble.’

  Someone in the café had a piano accordion. He squeezed the box and one by one, the songs, especially the one penned during the war to end all wars, the same one which had meant so much to the country for the past five years, filled the air.

  ‘Pack up your troubles …’

  Yes, that’s what the whole world wanted but for the first time that day, Connie felt uncomfortable. The war might be over but people like Eva had to live with the consequences for the rest of their lives. Her mind was full of unanswered questions. How did Eva’s husband die? Was it really only a couple of weeks after they’d been married?

  ‘What’s the use of worrying?

  It never was worthwhile …’

  Of course, she couldn’t ask. She hardly knew the girl and it seemed far too intrusive.

  ‘Pack up your troubles in an old kit bag and

  Smile, smile, smile …’ they sang.

  Connie could hardly bear it.

  All at once, Queenie bustled in from the kitchen and put two plates of meat and veg pie, mash and gravy in front of them. Despite the fact that Connie had to search for a piece of meat in her pie, it was hot, delicious and very welcome.

  ‘I’m sorry about your husband,’ said Connie as Queenie went off to get them both a cup of tea. Her remark felt lame but she felt she had to say something.

  ‘You weren’t to know,’ said Eva.

  Connie smiled awkwardly and Eva looked away. ‘Not much to say really,’ Eva said, addressing the brick wall. ‘We met in Hyde Park, got married by special licence and he was killed six weeks later.’

  Connie stopped eating. ‘But I thought …’ She glanced sideways at Mrs Arkwright who was stubbing out a cigarette. Two weeks or six, it was still terrible. ‘God, Eva, that’s awful.’

  Eva ran her fingers through her shoulder-length blonde hair and shrugged her shoulders. ‘It happens.’

  She’d only known the girl for a few hours but Connie wasn’t fooled. She might be trying to sound tough but Connie could see that Eva’s eyes had misted over. Connie had obviously reopened an old wound and now she didn’t know what to say. Rescue came once more in the form of Eva’s mother-in-law who reappeared with the tea. Planting a kiss on the top of Eva’s head she said to Connie, ‘Isn’t she lovely? My Dermid picked a real gem. Like a daughter to me she is.’

  Connie nodded vigorously and embarrassed, Eva shooed her away with, ‘Get away with you, Queenie.’

  ‘Now that it’s all over, my gal,’ said Queenie earnestly, ‘you mind you keep in touch.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ said Eva, looking up and squeezing her hand.

  As they finished their meal the man with the accordion struck up ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’ and they all sang along. Or at least, Connie mouthed the words. Her throat was too tight with emotion to sing but the jolly songs had the others dancing and clapping and the more poignant ones brought a sentimental tear to the eye.

  ‘I presume you’ve got a SOP,’ said Eva. ‘If you need a place to sleep, I’m sure Queenie will put us up, won’t you Queenie?’

  ‘’Course I can,’ smiled Queenie.

  Mrs Arkwright frowned. ‘What’s a SOP?’

  ‘Sleeping Out Pass,’ laughed Eva.

  Connie’s jaw dropped and she gasped in horror. ‘Oh Lord, no! Since we started double summer time, these long light evenings make such a difference. Whatever’s the time?’

  ‘Eight forty-five.’

  ‘Oh hell,’ cried Connie grabbing her handbag from the floor. ‘I never gave it a thought. I haven’t even got a late pass and I’ve got to be in by ten.’

  ‘Where are you billeted?’ asked Eva.

  ‘Hendon. Can you tell me how to get to the nearest tube station? I shall be all right once I get there.’

  ‘Doug is going near there,’ said Queenie balancing the empty plates up her arm. ‘He’ll be here in a minute. He can take you in the pig van if you like.’

  Connie raised an eyebrow. ‘Pig van?’

  ‘He collects pig food from all the restaurants around here,’ said Queenie. ‘If you don’t mind the smell, I’m sure he’d give you a lift.’

  Connie looked at Eva and they laughed. It was hardly ideal but at least she had the chance to be back to the camp on time.

  Connie stood to go. ‘Thanks Eva,’ she said giving her an affectionate hug. ‘I’ve had a wonderful day.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Eva. ‘We must keep in touch.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Connie.

  Her new friend purloined two pieces of paper and gave one to Connie. ‘I’ve no idea where I’ll be when I get demobbed,’ she said, ‘so I’ll give you my mother’s address. She’ll always know where I am.’

  ‘That’ll be good,’ said Connie writing her own name and address down. ‘I guess it won’t be too hard to meet up. You started to tell me that we lived near each other.’

  ‘I come from Durrington,’ said Eva handing her details over to Connie. ‘It’s near Worthing.’

  ‘I know where that is,’ Connie smiled.

  Queenie leaned over the counter and interrupted them. ‘Doug’s here, darlin’.’

  ‘Thanks Queenie,’ said Eva.

  ‘I’ll tell him you’ll be out in a minute, shall I?’

  ‘Thanks Queenie,’ said Eva once more. Her mother-in-law went out through the kitchen door.

  ‘My folks live in Goring,’ Connie smiled. ‘That’s a small village the other side of Worthing.’ She handed Eva her slip of paper and glanced down at the name and address Eva had written down.

  Beside her, her new friend gasped. ‘Connie Dixon? You’re not one of the Dixons from Belvedere Nurseries, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Connie. She stared disbelievingly at the address Eva had just given her. Mrs Vi Maxwell, Durrington Hill. She couldn’t believe what had just happened. She’d spent the day with a girl her family heartily disapproved of. ‘When we met,’ she accused, ‘you said your name was O’Hara.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Eva, tossing her head defiantly. ‘That’s my married name. I was born a Maxwell, and I’m proud of it.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ said Connie quietly.

  ‘I can’t quite believe it either,’ said Eva. ‘And we’ve had such a
lovely day.’

  Connie nodded. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Tell you one thing,’ said Eva. ‘I don’t think my mother would be too happy if you turned up on the doorstep.’

  Connie’s heart began to bump but she wasn’t sure if she was angry or deeply offended. How could this girl be a Maxwell? She had been so nice. ‘After what your family did to mine …’ she began.

  ‘After what my family did?’ Eva retorted. ‘I think you’ll find the boot is on the other foot.’

  ‘Now hang on a minute,’ said Connie, her hand on her hip. ‘I don’t want to get into a fight but get your facts straight first.’

  They glared at each other, their jaws jutting.

  ‘What’s up with you two?’ said Queenie, reappearing in the café. ‘You both look as if you lost half a crown and found a tanner.’

  ‘She’s been buttering up to me all day and it turns out that she’s a bloody Dixon,’ spat Eva. She turned away and Connie thought she heard her mutter, ‘Cow.’

  Connie was livid. ‘It’s hardly surprising,’ she said to Eva’s receding back, ‘that the Dixons and the Maxwells have nothing to do with each other, especially when one of them is so bloomin’ rude.’

  Queenie O’Hara looked helplessly from one girl to the other. She seemed confused. ‘I don’t understand. A minute ago you two were best friends. How come things have changed so quickly?’

  Connie recovered herself. ‘Buttering up to you all day? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You know perfectly well what it means,’ Eva countered huffily. ‘My folks would have leathered me with a strap, if I’d have had anything to do with the Dixons.’

  ‘Would they really?’ said Connie putting her nose in the air. ‘Well, mine would do no such thing. I’m lucky enough to come from a loving family.’

  ‘If I had known you were a Dixon, I never would have invited you here,’ cried Eva.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Connie. ‘If I had known you were a Maxwell, I would never have come!’

  ‘Girls, girls,’ cried Queenie, ‘don’t let this spoil a lovely day. For Gowd’s sake, you’re like a couple of bickering schoolkids. Doug has to get going and you have to say your goodbyes.’