The canteen facilities from where they were expected to produce all these meals were two Nissen huts joined together. There was electric lighting fixed up temporarily with a generator, but the cooking was on a huge range with a fire in the middle and ovens at both sides. They were told they had been registered as three cooks.
‘I can’t cook, I signed up as a counter hand,’ Kate said anxiously.
‘You’d have to learn some time, so learning here would be better than trying out your skills on your husband when you get wed,’ Ethel said.
‘I won’t be doing much cooking. I intend to marry someone rich.’
‘No one is that rich!’
‘What are you worrying about, everyone can cook,’ Rosie laughed.
‘Everyone except me,’ Kate groaned.
They were shown to their billet, which was a long narrow Nissen hut that they would share with nine others. The usual bedside lockers had been removed to make room for more beds. Here there was no electricity. Storm lamps and candles provided light; the heater, which the girls called a donkey, was in the centre of the room. The other occupants had pulled their beds around so their feet were towards the heat.
Ethel threw herself on her bed as soon as Kate and Rosie had made it up from the bedding provided, and, leaving her there to rest, Kate and Rosie went to explore.
The sound of singing coming from the back of the canteen led them to investigate and, to their amusement, they saw a huge container full of peeled potatoes, surrounded by seven girls, all singing as they peeled the pile each one had resting on their laps.
‘You the new arrivals?’ one called and they went in and introduced themselves.
‘Ethel Twomey is resting, she got travel sick,’ Rosie explained.
‘She should have got some travel pills from the MO,’ another criticized loudly. ‘No time for idle excuses here.’
‘Tomorrow she’ll work, today she rests, got it?’ Kate said. The smile was still present but the warning was clear.
The girls moved up and allowed Kate and Rosie to squeeze in, and in the growing silence Kate began to sing, ‘Sing a song of sunbeams, let the notes fall where they may…’ The others joined in, the angry-looking girl walked away, and the brief threat of a confrontation faded. As usual, Rosie mouthed the words but little sound emerged.
‘That’s Frances, you’ll have to watch out for her,’ one of the girls whispered.
‘She’ll have to look out for us, more like!’ Kate replied firmly.
‘I’m starving,’ Rosie complained. ‘When do we get to eat?’ On being told there was more than an hour to wait, she tucked into a raw potato and others followed her lead, chomping, and singing when they could, as the choruses continued.
The task finished, Rosie and Kate stood up to leave but the pugnacious girl, Frances, heavily built with short boyishly-cut hair, and red, powerful hands, stopped them. ‘Where d’you think you’re going? You’d better get this lot cleared before you go back to your hut. Or are you going to leave it for your so-called sick friend to do as her share?’
‘We’re doing neither!’ Kate snapped fiercely. ‘Tomorrow we start and we’ll all do more than our share. But there’s one thing we’ve learnt already and that’s never to volunteer to help out when you’re around!’
The girl slowly walked towards Kate and Rosie while the others looked on, but both girls stood their ground. The girl leaned towards them appearing enormous. Rosie, quaking in her shoes, said in a surprisingly firm voice, ‘You heard. Now get out of our way.’
‘Just watch it, that’s all,’ Frances warned as she turned away.
Several of the other girls silently mimed clapping and others showed a thumbs-up gesture, but none of them dared to show their approval of the newcomers aloud.
When they returned and told Ethel about their first encounter with the other girls, she whispered, ‘If you can’t join ’em, fight ’em, eh?’
The canteen was large, and so full of chairs and tables they knew the cleaning was going to be a problem. During their first lunchtime session the tables were full and people sat on tables, windowsills, the steps and crowded into corners squatting on the floor. The staff were falling over themselves as they served the large number of men and women. There were many hands to help clear up and as Ethel was far from well she was sent back to their hut to rest.
Their first attempts at providing a full meal were shared with some of the other staff who were very friendly and helpful. Fortunately Frances kept well out of their way and there was no confrontation between her and Ethel.
After a week, during which they were given more and more freedom to deal with the menu, they were facing their first lunch for fifty men, and with a pile of potatoes ready to boil and some sausages to fry, they began to prepare. The amount used was stipulated firmly in their instructions, three portions from every pound of potatoes. Two sausages and, when available, onions to add to the gravy.
‘What have I done?’ Kate, who had always left the cooking to Rosie or Ethel, wailed loudly as the sausages began to spit angrily in the huge frying pan.
Rosie turned the heat down and Kate continued to look at them doubtfully, turning them frequently, anxious to get them cooked and start on another batch. Baked beans were emptied into a large saucepan and onions were browning in a second pan, to which Ethel planned to add the gravy being made by Rosie. With a constant glance at the clock, the food continued to cook and the minutes passed.
‘How do I know when they’re cooked?’ wailed Kate.
‘When they’re brown they’re done and when they’re black they’re buggered!’ a young airman shouted.
‘Oh dear,’ Kate sighed, ‘I think these are buggered.’
After a week of dealing with the meals as well as the refreshments on the counter and on trolleys, they all felt more relaxed. It was Ethel who sorted out their problems and guided them through the intricacies of preparing main course meals in quantity, and Rosie who did most of the clearing up. Kate and Ethel dealt with the accounts, orders and menu lists.
‘I’ve never been much for writing and arithmetic,’ Rosie explained. ‘Action rather than administration, that’s me.’
‘You, Rosie Dreen,’ Ethel told her several times, ‘are wonderful!’
On this large camp there was no trolley to push. An open-sided van went around to the various workshops and hangars each morning and Kate volunteered to drive it, after being promised a few refresher driving lessons. During the period when there was no cookhouse, this service was out of action, and all the men had to collect their needs, usually sending one person to collect snacks for a group. Grubby pencilled lists were handed over, and orders shouted, and how they made sense of it all was a wonder to everyone concerned. The day went on without a break and all the staff were exhausted by the time the place closed at eleven o’clock.
One of their jobs, when others dealt with the main meals, was making cakes, biscuits and sandwiches for the snacks counter. One standby were cakes called Nelsons. These consisted of any left-over cakes, mixed together and reheated in large trays and, when cooked, cut into slices. Although the ingredients varied, they turned out so similar that they were recognizable on sight. Called Nelsons, so they were told, because if a man ate more than one, he’d sink. They were popular nevertheless and every Naafi girl learned the secret of making them.
One evening when the weather was unseasonably chill and the men were coming into the canteen complaining about it, Ethel found some brandy in the depth of a cupboard, probably hidden by some secret tippler. She sprinkled a dash of it over the huge trays of Nelsons and served slices hot with custard. The normally mundane offerings had never been more welcomed. Any superstitions about eating two were quickly forgotten.
It was never certain, but Ethel and Kate suspected that the secret bottle had been the property of the obnoxious Frances.
* * *
When the damaged ship on which Wesley Daniels served had reached the south of England port and was
awaiting repairs, he was sent to a shore base for a few weeks, waiting for a new posting. As always, he asked the girls in the Naafi whether they had met Ethel Twomey. He showed a battered photograph around but had no luck.
It was the only photograph he had of her, a dog-eared snapshot taken in her garden with Glenys and Sid and her mother. Ethel was in the centre of the picture sitting at the garden table, offering a bowl of apples. It was certain to be one of the times when her father was either working away or in prison for his latest demonstration of unacceptable behaviour. He knew that, because Ethel and her family were all smiling, and eating their tea in the garden, a picture of a happy family, something they could never imitate when Dai Twomey was around.
Pinning the picture on the wall beside his bunk, he stared at it every night as he drifted into sleep. What would he say to her when they did meet? Would she forgive him, or allow him a chance to explain? How could he excuse his cowardice? Should he even try? Why hadn’t he made her leave with him that day? Why hadn’t he gone with her before she reached the decision to go alone? The same thoughts danced around in his mind every time he sat to relax, or settled down to sleep. Questions with no answers.
* * *
Walter Phillips had not left the Naafi service, although his attempts at stealing from the organization had meant he had lost his position. Instead of being a superintendent, he worked as a cleaner and occasional counter hand with no authority to handle money or stores. With manpower so short, he had to be used, but in such a way he could never again succumb to his dishonesty.
He was constantly moved. He was used for temporary positions when someone was sick or taking leave. No one wanted him to stay. He seethed with fury at the way he had been relegated from an important position to the most menial. Like many immature personalities he had to blame someone. He had stolen from the stores but Ethel, Kate and Rosie were responsible for him being caught. So his present situation was their fault, his illogical mind decided. His attraction to Ethel and her humiliating indifference made him place more blame on her than the others.
Convinced that his downfall was due mainly to Ethel’s interference, and also aware that for some reason she was afraid of her father, he had set out to revenge himself by looking for Dai Twomey. Enquiries at the guard room, purporting to be a trusted friend of Ethel, resulted in failure. He had fortunately memorized the number plate of the motorbike the man was riding, and chanted it regularly as a sort of mantra of hope. But apart from learning that it had been issued in Hereford, it hadn’t taken him any further. It could have been sold and resold half a dozen times since being issued and probably meant nothing. Unless he were fortunate enough to see it one day.
He chanted the numbers and letters again, checking them from the piece of paper in his pocket, committing them to memory and keeping them in the forefront of his mind. One day he’d see that motorbike. It was an expensive one, a Vincent, there weren’t too many of those around. Although, he thought with growing irritation, having been moved to the south coast, for him to find it was extremely unlikely. For the moment, the chances of finding Dai Twomey and telling him where to find his daughter were remote. Having just learned that the three girls had been moved from the RAF airfield to another, ‘Somewhere in England’, just made it more improbable, but he resolved to keep the number plate in mind.
One of the Naafi assistants had left a jacket in the store room and Walter was asked to return it to its owner who was off duty for the following two days. It was as he entered the Nissen hut that he saw the photograph. Such a scruffy old photograph, he was curious.
Most of the men had either good, clear photographs of their loved ones or, in the case of the young and carefree, posters of glamour girls or film stars. Others pinned up drawings of the popular strip cartoon character Jane. None had such a poor effort as this gazing down at him.
Pulling out the pin, he turned to the occupants of the room, preparing to jeer and make fun of the tatty object. Then he stopped and stared at the girl in the centre of the picture. It was Ethel Twomey. Younger and with shorter hair but there was no doubt about it. Smiling, he replaced the photograph and asked casually, ‘Who’s bunk is this? I’ve got a coat to return to a chap called Daniels. Wesley Daniels, anyone know him?’
* * *
Ethel wrote to Duggie’s family after a few weeks had passed. She described herself as Duggie’s friend, avoiding mention of being more than that. There was no point creating a close attachment to his family, not any more. If the baby had survived it would have been different and she could have met them, allowed them to share the baby’s life. She parcelled up some of his possessions but kept the scarf.
She was pleased to learn that they were still in the area covered by Albert Pugh. He turned up one day and stood at the back of the canteen watching as Ethel served, supported by the flirty Kate and the shy, but efficient Rosie. It had been difficult but he had managed to keep them together, knowing how close they were and guessing that they would have been unhappy to be separated.
Next time they moved they might not be so lucky, experienced staff were spread widely to help new arrivals to settle in and they were all very useful members of the service. With Naafi requirements it was more common sense than elaborate training and Ethel, Kate and Rosie were the kind to deal with whatever life threw at them with a minimum of fuss. He smiled as he decided to reward them by inviting them to go to the camp concert. The camp cookhouse was back in action and the Naafi canteen had reverted to its normal functions.
‘Officially you’re on duty this evening,’ he told them when the doors were closed after lunch and the girls were starting to clear up. ‘But, as it’s a special night and there’s a concert of famous performers, I’ll turn a blind eye if you want to go.’
The ebullient Kate jumped up and kissed his cheek and Rosie squealed, her cheeks reddening with pleasure. Ethel looked at him, caught his gaze and said, ‘Thanks, Albert, we’d love to go.’ She walked with him to the door and added, ‘I know it’s against the rules and you’re sticking your neck out for us, again. We’re lucky to have you as a friend. Thanks.’
‘Sorry to hear about Duggie. I understand you and he were close friends.’
‘Close, loving friends.’
‘If ever you want to talk about him, I’m here.’
‘I’m glad you’re there. Thanks.’ She reached for his hand and squeezed it before returning to the counter and gathering up the last of the cups.
‘You’ll be back here with the counter stocked, tea and coffee ready to serve when it finishes, mind,’ he said, trying to sound stern but glowing in Ethel’s appreciation.
The concert was a touring company who were about to leave for North Africa, their small truck an Aladdin’s cave from which they pulled out an assortment of drapes and costumes, stage sets and lighting systems that would hopefully work off a car battery. Plus a wind-up gramophone with a supply of records. The famous performed alongside talented beginners, and there was also a comedy act in which animal puppets, worked by rods, mimed to records played too fast or too slow, distorting the words and music to the audience’s amusement.
True to their promise, the three girls left as the final sing-song began and hurried across the parade ground to open the canteen for their late-night customers, singing as they went. Albert was there before them and had the urn heating and the bars set out.
As they did the finishing touches to their display, Ethel asked him what had happened to Walter.
‘He was given a menial job as cleaner cum odd-job hand with a promise of having the worse jobs given to him. Why, you aren’t sorry for him, are you?’ Albert asked.
‘Me, sorry for him? The creep!’
‘I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again. The last I heard he was—’ There was no time to tell her more as, chattering cheerfully, laughing as they remembered their favourite acts in the evening’s entertainment, the men charged in for their late-night hot drinks and other purchases.
* *
*
In October the canteen had been returned to its normal business for a few weeks and Ethel and the others guessed that their time there would be short. There was no longer need for the extra staff. They would be sent to another emergency and the probability of being separated was worrying. The following day was their day off and the three girls had planned a walk, hoping to find somewhere to eat lunch that didn’t include chips. Ethel was surprised and pleased when Albert invited her to go with him into town. At once she prepared to refuse, the arrangements to go out with Kate and Rosie had been made.
‘It’s mainly business I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘I have to see a farmer about getting a regular supply of potatoes and anything else I can scrounge. We’ll be going in the lorry, hardly luxurious travel, but we should find a pub somewhere and get a bit of lunch. What d’you say?’
‘She says yes!’ Kate answered for her.
Rosie nodded enthusiastically. ‘Just what she needs, a couple of hours away from this place.’ There was no chance to refuse and she smiled her thanks for their willingness to change their plans for her.
Albert quickly made arrangements for deliveries of the vegetables he needed, leaving them the rest of the day to themselves. The cold snap was a reminder that winter was not far away and as there was no heating in the lorry, Ethel wished she had dressed more comfortably. So as soon as opening time came, they stopped and went into a small village pub, where a newly lit fire crackled and spat, and the brass and copper around the fireplace glowed with the reflection of the leaping flames.
Pie and mash was hardly an exciting meal, but it allowed them to warm their cold legs near the fire and to talk in private.
‘Privacy is one of the things I miss since being in the Naafi,’ Albert said as they exchanged anecdotes and their laughter rang out and rose to the smoke-stained rafters. ‘What do you miss most?’
An Army of Smiles Page 13
