by Annie Murray
Safekeeping my eye, she thought. Does she really think someone’s going to come in and steal my post? She was just being nosy as usual, poor old thing. She’s not got much to liven her life up. But then – Molly laughed at herself – neither have I, come to think of it! Despite the perishing cold, she was feeling quite cheerful.
Her digs were on the first floor of a house in Camden Town. Above her lived a shy, mousy-haired, but sweet-natured typist called Sarah. Below were Mrs Hodgkins and the suffering Bert. Molly had heard him groaning once or twice. Mrs H was nosy and a bit miserable, but she wasn’t a bad cook, the rent was reasonable, at eighteen shillings, and the house bare, but clean.
The room was very cold and, without taking off her coat, Molly filled the kettle, set it on the single ring heater. She badly needed a cuppa and a smoke after that freezing wait for the bus and the miserable crawl home! She sat on the bed, lit a cigarette and looked at the card, across which, in blue-black ink, was strung Phoebe Morrison’s unmistakable bold, square hand.
‘Molly . . .’ it began. (It had taken the two of them a long time to get used to each other’s first names. Molly struggled with ‘Phoebe’, and she was sure her former Subaltern had to think twice to prevent herself barking ‘Fox!’ at her.)
Molly – can you meet me on Saturday morning – usual place, 10.30? I’ve news for you.
Phoebe.
Molly laid the card down with a sense of mild curiosity and went to make herself a much-needed cup of tea. Mug in both hands, sipping the hot liquid, she thought: Well, I wonder what the Gorg’s got to say?
The relationship of commander and subordinate had never vanished entirely from their friendship, but since Molly had been living in London more permanently she had seen Phoebe Morrison quite regularly and they had become more relaxed with one another. They almost never went to each other’s lodgings – Phoebe in any case lived some way away in Highbury. And she was rather awkward company. So they met to do something: usually to go to the pictures and for a drink afterwards to chat about the film, while Molly stuck to lemonade and Phoebe smoked like a chimneystack. That worked well. Though the two of them had never had a very close or confiding conversation, Molly really looked forward to their outings. It felt like something sure and stable in her life, and she could tell that Phoebe, in her stiff, repressed way, valued it too. She certainly went to pains to keep in touch.
After another summer of the holiday camps, Molly had decided to try and get a grip on things. She was getting sick of her life of shifting work and of brief, pointless affairs with men who just happened to be around.
‘I just don’t know what to do,’ she had confided to Ruth during their conversation on the beach when Ruth had encouraged her to make more of herself. ‘I don’t know how to go about things.’
‘Well,’ Ruth had said, considering the matter, ‘why don’t you move to somewhere where you can go to night school? If you’ve got a job – any job’ll do really – you can make a start like that. And it could lead to something better.’
‘But what?’ Molly had asked gloomily. She had truly felt in those days that nothing she did would ever lead to anything better.
‘Well . . .’ Ruth was beginning to sound just a bit exasperated. ‘The thing is, you can’t always tell where something might lead. But one thing’s for sure: if you don’t do anything, it can’t lead anywhere much, can it?’
Molly couldn’t argue with this logic.
‘What are the things you’re best at – I mean, when you were at school?’
‘I suppose . . . Sums. I always got along all right with those. And the Gorgon did tell me once that I’d come near the top in the tests we did when we joined up.’ Molly blushed with pleasure, recounting this.
‘Did you?’ Ruth turned to her in pleased surprise. ‘You’ve never told me that before!’
‘Yes – she said I’d not done much less well than you and Win.’ Molly was rather enjoying this.
‘Well, I’m blowed – that’s marvellous, Molly! All the more reason for you to get on and do something, instead of just drifting.’
When the last summer season ended Molly had returned to London, on a wave of confidence and determination. She found herself the digs with Mrs Hodgkins and a job in the Cottage Tea Rooms on the Strand. She swallowed her pride and went to see Phoebe Morrison, who helped her find a place where she could do evening classes, and she decided to sign up for shorthand and typing one evening, and a class to improve her arithmetic on another.
‘That’ll keep me busy Tuesdays and Thursdays,’ she said. ‘And I expect there’ll be homework.’ She found she was very nervous. Would she be able to keep up with it? Was she about to make a gigantic fool of herself? But she was also excited: this was a new beginning. Surely she could find some of her old army confidence and make it work? Having the support of some of her old friends helped, too. Ruth wrote and said she was delighted to hear what Molly was up to, and Phoebe Morrison, ever practical, was a great help. They also met up with Win, from time to time.
‘I’m so pleased!’ Win beamed, when Molly told of her plans. And Molly could see she meant it. In the old days she would have felt spoken down to, and foolish. Now she could just accept that Win was really glad for her.
To her surprise, the classes were more than just a means to an end. She loved them. Her mind, ravenously hungry for something to do after all the menial work she had taken on, soaked up lessons and information at high speed. She was very quick at Pitman. It took her time to get used to the typing – a mechanical matter, needing practice – and to get back into arithmetic. But she was so excited, so determined! She took her books home and pored over them. She drew herself a diagram of the typewriter keys and practised in her room at night. Her teachers were very pleased with her and she lapped up any crumb of praise or attention. Most of the others in the class were pleasant as well, though one or two seemed to resent her eagerness and muttered a bit behind her back. Molly didn’t give two hoots. She was taking off – she was going to fly! Who cared what that miserable lot thought – just because she was better at it than them! And the longer she stayed, growing more confident, the more her sense of humour came out and she was able to make the class laugh sometimes. She loved the classes more and more.
‘I suppose I’m getting too big for my boots,’ she wrote to Ruth. ‘But I’m enjoying it ever so much. Thanks for keeping on at me!’
Ruth, who was in the final year of her degree, was having to work very hard, and Molly did not see much of her, but she wrote a note now and then, always encouraging her.
‘Glad to hear it – keep it up!’ was her reply this time.
What with one thing and another, life was beginning to feel a good deal better. For the first time in months she wrote to Em and told her where she was and what she was doing, and had an enthusiastic reply almost by return of post. Having ATS friends she could hook up with in London felt very good. On one occasion when they met Win, Molly had also told them that she’d been out to visit Honor – one of the other girls in their basic training group.
‘Her husband’s a very nice fellow,’ Win said. ‘I suppose you’d call him a gentleman farmer. And now they’ve got their girls: twins! Not identical, Honor said, but very alike all the same – called Lucy and Miranda. They’re lovely. And you should see Honor – she’s looking rather plumper and sort of creamy! She seems very happy.’
‘She’s full of surprises, that one,’ Molly said. ‘I never thought she’d make it through basic training, did you?’
‘No,’ Win agreed. ‘But then we all thought the same about you – for completely different reasons!’
‘Ah well,’ Molly blushed. ‘Yes – let’s just forget about all that, shall we?’
The others laughed affectionately and Molly felt a glow of happiness.
The girl upstairs, Sarah, wasn’t bad company either, and sometimes they sat and had a chat together, usually up in Sarah’s attic, with the fire on, so that Mrs Hodgkins didn’t complain
about the noise. And Molly didn’t mind her work. It was in a nice part of London and, so far as she was concerned, it was a means to an end. What end she didn’t know – she just hoped there would be one and, as time passed, she became more sure there would.
Saturday was very cold and foggy, and Molly set out through the shrouded streets to meet Phoebe Morrison at their usual cafe. In the fog the blackened buildings, many of them bomb-damaged, loomed ghostly around her. Buses appeared suddenly out of the gloom. It was so cold it had been a struggle to get out of bed, stepping out onto the cold lino and quickly shoving coppers into the metre to get the gas fire on.
‘I’ve had enough of this winter,’ Molly murmured to herself, through her scarf. It was even colder and danker down in the Tube. Everyone looked pale and exhausted, and Molly supposed she must look worn-out as well. She could have done without having to go out today.
By the time she met Phoebe in the steamy atmosphere of the little greasy spoon where they liked to meet, Phoebe was already stubbing out her first cigarette.
‘Molly.’ She waved from a round table at the back. Molly couldn’t remember now why they had chosen this place. It was quite easy for them both to reach and, in its scruffy way, quite cosy with its stained tables and rickety chairs. It was hardly worth trying to put sugar in your tea, as there was scarcely ever any to be had, and it was a challenge even to find a teaspoon to do it with.
‘I got you a cup while I was at it,’ Phoebe said, indicating the white cup in front of Molly, full of sludgy-looking tea.
‘Thanks,’ Molly said. Phoebe was still bundled up in her green coat and Molly kept hers on too.
‘Had a good week?’ Phoebe tapped another cigarette out of the packet and put it in her mouth to light, leaning her head back slightly. Then she straightened her head and briskly breathed out a lungful of smoke.
‘Yes, not bad,’ Molly said. She was hugging herself. ‘Blooming freezing, though, isn’t it? I can’t seem to get warm.’
‘Try and relax. It helps.’
There was a silence, so Molly said. ‘How’s your week been?’
‘Oh – the usual. We’ve been pretty pushed actually.’ Molly knew that Phoebe worked in the government department dealing with roads and transport, though she had no real idea what she did there and Phoebe showed no enthusiasm for it.
Molly sipped her tea, wondering just why Phoebe had asked her to come. She didn’t seem to have anything to say, and yet, somewhere in the woman’s manner, she could sense something: a kind of excitement.
‘So,’ Phoebe said. ‘Have you heard?’
‘No. Heard what?’
‘About the army. Recruiting women again. Of course, a few ATS have been hanging on, scattered about the place. But now it’s serious – they’ve just got royal approval. They’re calling it the Women’s Royal Army Corps.’
Phoebe sat back with a what-d’you-think-of-that? look on her face.
Molly stared at her over her cup. Her mind was spinning. It had been over, for them – for all the women. Go back home, get on with another sort of life: we don’t need you now. We only need the men. That had been the message. But now . . .
‘D’you mean . . . ? There’s really going to be another army?’
‘There is indeed. I’ve had a good think and I’m already pretty set on joining up again. I know it’ll be different – after all, there’s no war on. It’ll take adjusting to, in its way. But I don’t find much joy in civilian life, to tell you the truth. Forces life is more my thing. And what about you, Fox?’
That Phoebe Morrison had already switched back into army parlance didn’t escape Molly.
‘Me?’ she felt giddy. ‘They wouldn’t want me – would they?’
Phoebe Morrison leaned forward and said sincerely, ‘My dear girl, whyever not?’
XIV
EM
Sixty
April 1949
‘Is that you, Em?’ Cynthia called as the front door banged shut.
‘Yep – only me,’ Em said, shedding her wet coat. Talk about April showers.
‘Hello, love!’ She heard Dot’s voice as well. She and Mom were obviously having one of their chinwags.
Cynthia and Dot were in chatting position at the table with the teacups, and Cynthia was already pouring a cup for Em. Dot, their old neighbour, smiled up at her.
‘All right, bab? You’re looking well.’
‘I’m all right – you OK, Dot? What about Lou: is he better?’
‘Oh, we’re not so bad. His Majesty has to take it a bit careful – they say his heart’s weak, but there’s no stopping that one, when he gets going.’ Dot spoke with fond exasperation. ‘I do worry – but what can you do?
Dot’s Italian husband, Lou Alberello, was a big-hearted, vigorous man, a life-and-soul-of-the-party type. It was hard to imagine him ever quietening or slowing down. ‘Norm all right?’ Dot asked.
‘Oh, he’s all right, yes,’ Em said. ‘Where’s Robbie?’
‘Young Jonny’s round,’ Cynthia said. Jonny was one of Robbie’s school pals. ‘They’re out the back. You sit down for a bit. Have a Rich Tea? Oh, I forgot . . .’ Cynthia got up and took an envelope from the shelf. ‘This came for you. Must be from Molly.’
‘Oh, good!’ Em took it, smiling at the address. Molly knew Em was living with Norm’s mom and dad, but she never remembered to address letters anywhere but Kenilworth Street.
‘How’s she getting on?’ Dot asked, before Em had even got the envelope open.
‘Oh!’ Em exclaimed. ‘Oh my goodness!’
WRAC Training Centre,
Guildford,
Surrey.
10th April 1949
Dear Em,
Well, surprise, surprise! I’ve joined up again!
I’ve been at this training centre for a week now and am loving every minute. D’you remember the Gorgon I talked to you about, who I trained under in the ATS? She told me they were forming a proper women’s army again, and she and I have both joined up. She’s gone to the officers’ training centre at Hindhead.
There are a couple of us who’ve rejoined after being in the ATS before, and they’ve talked to us about retraining and how we’d do it. I decided I wanted to start right from the beginning. I know I’m here for the duration, and I want to do it all properly this time. I want to make a real go of this, Em. They’re working us hard. We’ve already done some aptitude tests, and I reckon I did all right. I ant a decent trade – something that’s not cooking. I’ve had quite enough of that! It’s all going to be different from in the war, I know that. We’ve even got a different cap badge, for a start – some of them made a right fuss about that, and it’s a funny thing, but it does feel strange. But never mind, all I know is, I’m in the right place. The army feels like home to me – I can’t see myself as the marrying type.
When I get some leave, I’ll try and come and see you. I hope everyone’s OK and you are all getting on all right. Fancy Joycie being married – and Sid with three kids! Makes me feel very long in the tooth!
Give my regards to your mom and everyone else, and a kiss for Robbie, if he still lets anyone kiss him!
Love from,
Molly
‘Oh, Mom . . .’ Em, with tears in her eyes, handed Cynthia the letter. ‘Read that – oh, good for Molly. When I think of all the different things she’s done and all those places she’s been – and I’ve never even moved from here! Makes me feel a proper stick-in-the-mud!’
‘Never you mind, bab,’ Dot said. ‘Not everyone’s meant to be a rolling stone like Molly. You’re here, making a home for your lad, and you may not get any thanks for it, but that’s what matters – and don’t you forget it.’
‘Thanks, Dot – I s’pose you’re right,’ Em said, smiling. She leaned over and touched Dot’s hand. ‘I know you being around has always made all the difference to everything – hasn’t it, Mom?’
‘Oh, it certainly has that,’ Cynthia said.
Em drained her cup. ‘Anyro
ad, I’d better not dawdle. I need to get Robbie home for his tea.’
XV
KATIE
Sixty-One
May 1949
Katie had already been certain of how much she loved Marek, but from Christmas night – when they had sat up talking almost all night, holding each other, kissing by the dying fire – she knew she was even more deeply, tenderly immersed in her feelings for him. She had never felt so completely at home with another person, or experienced so much longing for them. Life without him was unimaginable. Even being apart from him for a few hours made her yearn for his presence, for the sight of his face and their endless talking and laughter.
When, in the New Year, they told Sybil that they were intending to marry, she was as pleased as if she was a mother to each of them. And in some ways it felt as if she was.
‘I couldn’t be more delighted,’ she said, smiling up at them. She was sitting by the fire in the dining room and they stood rather bashfully before her, close, so that the backs of their hands were touching. ‘You make a lovely couple, and I’m sure you’ll make a good go of it.’
Katie and Marek looked at each other, beaming with the miraculous sense of their love and happiness.
‘Though it is quite quick,’ she cautioned.
Katie, though rapturously in love, had thought about it carefully. More soberly now, she said, ‘We’re very sure. And Marek has lost such a lot. I don’t have anyone much, either. We both want family . . . I suppose we feel there’s no point in delaying.’
Sybil nodded. ‘I see.’ And they could see also that she did.
‘The thing I’d feel less delighted about,’ Sybil went on, ‘is the prospect of losing you both. Have you thought where you might live? There’s nothing much going, you know.’
