Virginia toyed with her roast chicken. She had always dreaded Christmas Day. Mother fussed so much about the preparations for the lunch that it tired her out and put her in a bad mood. It was the same every year. The mood could last for several days and somehow she had to find the courage to tell her about the letter that had come from the Air Ministry, instructing her to report for training on 3 January.
She set down her knife and fork and they clattered noisily against her plate.
‘Mother, I –’
Her mother was frowning. ‘I do wish you’d try to eat more quietly, Virginia. There’s no need to bang your knife and fork down like that.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Table manners are so important. I’ve always told you that. People are judged by the way they eat. Were you going to say something?’
‘No, Mother.’
‘If you’ve finished then we may as well clear away.’
When they had washed up in the small kitchen and put everything away in its place, they sat down to listen to the King’s speech on the wireless. His voice sounded quite firm, with little trace of the stutter.
And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown. And he replied: Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.
After the National Anthem her mother switched off the wireless and took out her knitting. Virginia found some darning to do. The rest of Christmas Day stretched emptily and bleakly ahead.
‘Do the blackout, please, Virginia. I need to switch on the lamp. This bad light is hurting my eyes.’
Virginia rose to pull down the blinds and draw the curtains across the windows. She stood for a moment with one hand still holding the curtain edge.
‘What are you doing standing there, Virginia? Come and sit down.’
She let go of the curtain, squared her shoulders and turned round.
‘Mother, please listen. I have something important to tell you.’
On New Year’s Eve there was a talent concert on the station. Volunteers went up onto the big hangar stage to entertain the audience. A flight sergeant did amazing conjuring tricks with playing cards, handkerchiefs and lengths of rope, three of the new WAAFS imitated the Andrews sisters, singing together in close harmony, and another WAAF tap-danced. After her, and when the whistles had died down, an airman from one of the cookhouses juggled with spoons and forks, and balanced china plates on the end of a broom handle. Then a spry little cockney corporal stood up and told a string of jokes that few of the WAAFS understood but had all the men laughing uproariously.
Anne’s was the final turn. She sang ‘We’ll Meet Again’ – a Vera Lynn record that was played over and over again on the gramophone in their recreation hut. Afterwards, she led them all in Auld Lang Syne and they roared their way through it, arms crossed and linked in long, heaving lines.
The sound carried outside the big hangar where it had started to snow silently and heavily. Soon, the buildings, roads and pathways, hangars, vehicles, aircraft and the great expanse of grass out on the ’drome were all covered in a thick white camouflage. An icy wind began to blow.
It was 1940.
PART 2
PROGRESS
Five
THE SNOW HAD drifted three foot deep against the north sides of station buildings. Rows of icicles hung like long glass daggers from the eaves, windows were whitely opaque with frost and water pipes everywhere had frozen hard. Leaving one building for another meant braving a razor sharp wind and slipping and sliding over icy ground. There was a ’flu epidemic and the sick quarters were overflowing. RAF and WAAF coughed and sneezed and snuffled. A large party of new WAAFS arrived and one of them developed chicken pox, starting a whole new epidemic. No flying was possible and the station echoed to the ring of picks and shovels instead of to the roar of aircraft engines.
The WAAFS, detailed to help clear the snow, wielded shovels and brooms and were mercilessly snowballed by the men. Ambushes lay in wait for them round every corner as they went about their daily business and they arrived at their destinations with their berets and raincoats plastered with snow and, frequently, a whole lot more of it down the backs of their necks. Anne, in furious retaliation, stockpiled snowballs at secret, strategic points and even carried some round with her to unleash on attackers. It was some consolation to see the pained astonishment on their faces, especially when the snowballs had frozen.
In the evenings the WAAFS huddled round the stoves, taking it in turns to sit nearest the warmest spot in front. At night the hut windows had to be opened in spite of the cold.
‘For our health, would you believe it?’ Pearl said bitterly. ‘If we don’t get ’flu we’ll die of pneumonia.’
They piled every available blanket, rug and coat onto their beds. Susan’s mother had sent her some angora bedsocks, a soft mohair rug and a pair of navy, fur-lined leather gloves to go with her uniform. Predictably, Sergeant Beaty tried to stop her wearing them.
‘Only officers are supposed to wear leather gloves, Courtney-Bennet. All other ranks wear knitted ones, unless they’re MT drivers.’
‘But there aren’t any knitted ones available, Sergeant. And I get terrible chilblains. The Medical Officer told me I must keep my hands warm.’
When they ran out of their ration of coke for the hut stoves Anne and Pearl were caught pinching some from the station compound and confined to barracks for a week. Gloria, more prudently and more successfully, sweet-talked one of the airmen into getting a big bucketful for her. Maureen, sniffing her disapproval, warmed her hands with the rest.
Once a week, on Fridays, they had Domestic Night when they stayed in their hut to clean their own space, to sew and mend, wash their hair, write letters, polish their shoes and do any other necessary chores. It was also the night when the hut was inspected by their officer. Sergeant Beaty would fling open the door with a crash.
‘Attention!’
They stood beside their beds as Assistant Section Officer Newman walked up one side of the hut and down the other. Their meagre assembly of uniform was laid out neatly for her inspection.
‘There’s a button missing off your raincoat, Briggs.’
Winnie stammered. ‘It got lost, ma’am.’
‘See that you get it replaced. And try to make sure they don’t come loose, Briggs. Keep them sewn on tightly so it can’t happen again.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She moved on, pausing at each bed.
‘You should have six collars, Cunningham, not five. What has happened to the other one?’
‘Someone took it, ma’am.’
‘That’s a serious accusation. Do you know who?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘So, it may equally well have got lost, like Briggs’s button.’
‘I suppose so, ma’am.’
‘It’s not good enough, you know, Cunningham. Mislaying uniform is a grave matter. You are responsible for every item issued to you. Please make every effort to find that missing collar and report to Corporal White when you do.’
‘What if I don’t, ma’am?’
‘I hope you don’t mean to be as insubordinate as you sound, Cunningham. If you don’t find the collar then the cost of replacing it will be deducted from your pay.’
She stopped next in front of Pearl. ‘You haven’t swept under your bed properly, Carter. There’s still a lot of dust there. See that it’s done immediately.’
There were more lectures: First Aid, RAF Customs and Procedures, King’s Regulations, Personal Hygiene and, for some curious reason, Anatomy. An RAF MO delivered this talk with the aid of a human skeleton hanging from a hook. He took it to pieces, bone by bone, laying them out casually on a table, and then re-assembled them equally off-handedly as though he were doing a jigsaw.
‘Sorry, wrong way up there. This little fellow should go the other way up and then it fits like a glove, s
ee.’ He waggled the hand bones at them cheerfully and picked up the skull. ‘A skeleton will tell us quite a lot about its owner – height, race, age and so forth, and the skull can give us quite a good picture of what the person looked like. See the shape of the brow over the eye sockets . . . the position of the cheek bones . . . I’d say this chap was somewhere in his mid-forties. If you look at the teeth here –’
There was a crash from the back of the room as Enid slid off her chair in a dead faint.
One evening Pearl told their fortunes in the tea leaves. They had brewed up, as usual, boiling the kettle over the open lid of the hut stove. Pearl picked up Anne’s mug when she had finished, swished the dregs round, turned it upside down to drain over her own, and then peered into it.
‘I see a dark stranger.’
‘What?’
‘A dark stranger, love. There, in your tea leaves. Plain as the nose on your face.’
Anne laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, Pearl. You’re just making it up.’
Pearl looked injured. ‘I’m bloody well not. I always used to read the leaves for people when I worked in the caff. An old gypsy woman taught me. She came in once out of the cold with that lucky white heather they sell, and I gave her a cup of char and a wad for nothing. She was a smelly old thing but I hadn’t the heart to turf her out. She read my leaves and then showed me how it’s done. As a sort of thank you.’ Pearl tilted the mug a bit more and squinted at it. ‘He’s definitely dark, duckie. And he’ll come from across the seas. Fancy that! P’raps he’s a Frenchman . . . all Latin passion and lovely manners.’
Sandra had been listening, intrigued. She held out her mug. ‘Gosh, Pearl, will you read mine too?’
They all crowded round. Pearl took her time. She swished the dregs in Sandra’s mug round three times, drained them over her own and then stared solemnly at the leaves. Sandra hopped from one foot to the other.
‘What can you see, Pearl? Do tell me.’
‘I see money.’
Maureen snorted.
‘Golly! How much?’
‘Don’t know, but you’ll be getting some very soon.’
‘How super! I’ve only got sixpence left. Anything else, Pearl?’
‘And you’ll be getting some good news too. Something that’ll make you happy.’
‘Gosh . . .’
Others queued up with their mugs. Pearl read each one in turn, intoning gravely.
‘I see a journey, Vera.’
‘D-do you, Pearl? Where’ll I be going?’
‘Somewhere in England. And I see a reunion with loved ones soon.’
‘That’ll be when we get leave. Is there a dark stranger, like Anne’s?’
Pearl shook her head. ‘Sorry, love . . . wait a mo, though, what’s this here? There is someone . . . I can see him now. He’s not dark, though. More a sort of middling brown . . . That’s all I can tell you.’
To Susan she said wickedly, ‘I see a pilot.’
‘A pilot?’
‘A sergeant pilot, Duchess, not an officer. I can see the three stripes. He’ll come from the north –’
Susan leaned forward and snatched her mug away.
Pearl took a long time with Winnie’s mug. She tipped it this way and that, frowning. ‘It’s all a bit murky, this one. Bit of a muddle. I think I can see two blokes – one’s dark – like your Ken is, isn’t he, but there’s this other one that I can’t quite make out. Looks like he’s a long way away . . . overseas, I s’pose . . . don’t really know, but he’s there all right . . . Hang on, this bit here’s clearer. Yes . . . I can see long life and happiness for you, Winnie, love. There’s a journey – a long one – and I think that’s four kids there, or maybe even five . . .’
Winnie blushed.
Enid was last. ‘Hurry up, Pearl. You’re taking ever so long with mine. What can you see?’
Pearl said slowly: ‘I see someone on the high seas.’
‘Oh, that’s just Terry. What else?’
‘I’m not sure . . . it’s not clear at all. I don’t think I can see anything else.’
Enid looked disappointed. ‘There must be something. Everyone else had things.’
But Pearl held out her mug, unsmiling. ‘Sorry, love, that’s all. It’s like that sometimes. I’ll have another go one day.’
Two days later Sandra had a letter from her mother, enclosing a ten shilling note with the news that her pet dog had had six puppies. Pearl looked modest.
‘It was in the leaves, just like I said.’
Anne tackled her later on when they were alone. ‘Come on, Pearl, tell the truth. You made it all up, didn’t you? The whole jolly lot.’
‘How did I get Sandra’s so right, then?’
‘Her mother’s always sending her money and she’s been talking about that dog of hers having puppies for weeks. And Vera’s journey was a pretty safe bet considering we’ll be due for leave eventually and she’ll be reunited with loved ones because she’ll be going home.’
‘I told Gloria she’d be having some good news too and she got a letter from her mum today telling her that her dad’s gone and walked out. She says it’s the best news she’s had for years.’
Anne laughed. ‘Well, what about Susan’s sergeant pilot? Don’t tell me you didn’t invent him.’
‘I’ve got to admit I made that one up. Just to annoy her ladyship. Pity it won’t come true. It’d do her a lot of good.’
‘Couldn’t you have made up something nice for poor old Enid? She looked so disappointed.’
‘I couldn’t think of anything quick enough – not when I’d seen what I did in her leaves. Never seen it before and it gave me a bit of a turn.’
‘Seen what? What’re you talking about, Pearl?’
‘Death. I saw death in Enid’s leaves, that’s what. I wish I hadn’t, but I did. That old gypsy woman showed me and I tell you, I saw it.’
Anne fell silent for a moment as they walked along, making their way across the station to the new WAAF Mess. Since the fresh intake of WAAFS had arrived, they now had their own cookhouse, with a larger mess, as well as a much bigger recreation hut. In addition to the piano, the gramophone and the wireless, there were more easy chairs and a brand new ping pong table.
‘I don’t really believe in it, Pearl. Sorry. I mean, I’m sure you do see things . . . shapes in the leaves, or whatever, but I don’t believe there’s any truth in it.’
‘Well, I hope you’re right for Enid’s sake. Hope it’s not Terry. I don’t think I’ll do it again.’
A lorry passed by, tyres making a crackling sound on the icy road. Two airmen, elbows stuck on the tailgate, whistled and yelled at them. The WAAFS ignored them. They turned into the mess hut and queued up at the counter. Pearl picked up a plate.
‘I never finished reading your mug, did I? You watch out for that dark stranger of yours. I saw him as clear as anything. He’s real all right. Oh, my God, rissoles again!’
There was a mock gas attack. The station siren went suddenly with its frightening banshee wailing, accompanied by warning rattles that sounded like machine-gun fire. They put on their respirators dutifully and carried on working, as ordered, feeling acutely uncomfortable and looking ridiculous. Anne discovered one bonus – it made peeling onions a lot easier. She still spent most of her time in the dark little scullery, with the vegetables and the stacks of washing up, but sometimes Corporal Fowler singled her out for a new task.
‘’ere you – Lady Muck! Want to learn somethin’? You can come’n make the batter for the toad. Flour, eggs, milk ’n salt. There you are. Mix all that lot up in that thing.’
She looked at the bucket. ‘Where do I find a whisk?’
‘Whisk? You use yer bleedin’ arms.’
She made a face behind his back, rolled up her sleeves and plunged them into the sloppy mess in the bucket.
One of the Hurricanes crash-landed out on the grass and burst into flames. The pilot, trapped in the cockpit, died before anyone could reach him. A pall of b
lack smoke from the wreckage reached high into the air and could be seen and smelled all over the station.
Anne remembered him. He was new to his squadron and had come into the kitchens for a cup of tea early one morning with other pilots from a dawn patrol. They had stood around in their thick fleece-lined jackets, stamping their cold feet in their flying boots and warming their hands round mugs of steaming tea. Like a new boy in school, he had been quieter than the rest – speaking only when spoken to, not pushing himself forward. He had thanked her for the tea very politely, handing her his empty mug with a smile. The thing she remembered most about him, though, was his hair. It had been the colour of ripe corn and was ruffled from wearing his flying helmet, like a small boy’s. He had looked about nineteen or twenty – about the same as Jimmy and rather like him. She tried not to think about that corn-coloured hair being burned black like the stubble she had once seen that had caught light in a field. Jimmy had once told her that most pilots dreaded fire above all else. They had been sitting in the bus on their way into town to go to the cinema just before Christmas and he had talked about someone he’d known when he was learning to fly.
‘We were doing circuits and bumps one day and he got it wrong. I don’t know what happened exactly but he cartwheeled and burst into flames . . . I went to see him in hospital and I didn’t recognize him. I went up and down the beds in the ward, looking for him, and one of the nurses had to point him out. He was just a mass of bandages. I sat there and I didn’t know what to say . . . The awful thing was that he could speak perfectly well, under all the bandages, and kept asking me what he looked like, and was it very bad? Of course, I said it was fine . . . nothing to worry about. He was there for months. I used to visit him quite often. They wouldn’t let him have a mirror to see himself, but one time I went he’d somehow got to one and he was crying and crying . . . he said he just wanted to die. I didn’t blame him. I think I’d’ve felt that way myself. He’d really got no proper features left . . .’
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