by Pam Weaver
She felt nothing for a couple of nights but then an increasingly heavy feeling developed in her chest and it was hard to keep the tears at bay. Distant memories and feelings kept creeping back uninvited. The smell of her mother’s hair after she’d washed it, the silkiness of her best blouse, the comfort of her arms when she pulled Frankie into a cuddle, the sound of her laughter, her silly jokes, ‘What do elves learn at school? The elfa-bet’. For the first time in ages, Frankie was forced to admit that she still missed her mother dreadfully.
At the end of November, Alan came home on forty-eight hours leave before being sent to Hilsea Barracks, Portsmouth, and from there to the British Expeditionary Force in France. Uncle Lorry met him at the station and the family decided to make the most of their time with him. He spent the first day tinkering with his beloved bikes and then he went for a long ride.
The next day, even though it was still four weeks away, they ate Christmas dinner with all the trimmings and put on paper hats. Uncle Lorry carved the joint and afterwards everyone searched their Christmas pudding for the lucky sixpence. Doreen had joined them. She seemed in awe of the whole event.
‘I’ve never had a Christmas like this before,’ she whispered as she and Frankie were doing the washing up.
Aunt Bet was ensconced by the fireside, putting her feet up for a well-earned rest. Uncle Lorry and Alan had gone out for a walk while, surprisingly, Ronald had offered to do the drying up. He didn’t say much but Frankie couldn’t help noticing that he spent a long time looking at Doreen.
‘Didn’t you and your mum celebrate Christmas then?’ As Frankie asked the question she could already guess the answer. What a miserable childhood poor Doreen had had. Although Frankie’s had been marred by the loss of her mother at a much earlier age, there had been plenty of love and laughter along the way.
The family didn’t exchange presents but they sent Alan on his way with some extras in his kitbag: some shaving soap from Frankie, a book from Ronald, a few quid from Uncle Lorry and a fruit cake from Aunt Bet. Then they all piled into Uncle Lorry’s truck and set off for Worthing station.
‘It’ll all be over before Easter,’ Alan assured his mother as he boarded the train but nobody really believed that, least of all Alan himself. When the war had started, everybody had said it would be all over by Christmas. Well, here they were with Christmas less than a month away and from what they’d heard, the Germans still posed a threat to the free world even though there had been relatively little fighting. Pathé News reels reported the sinking of British ships including the carrier HMS Courageous. The soldiers in France might only have to contend with minor skirmishes but they were patrolling two hundred miles of the border, a formidable task even for such highly regarded military men.
‘Bye, son,’ Aunt Bet said as Alan leaned out of the door to kiss her on the cheek. Her voice was thick with emotion. ‘God keep you safe.’
The guard blew his whistle and everybody waved handkerchiefs until the train was out of sight. ‘I’ll write,’ Frankie called after it.
*
During the next few weeks, things remained very quiet. The assassination attempt on Hitler at the beginning of November had given everybody hope that his regime wouldn’t last long but sadly it wasn’t to be.
Newspapers reported the arrival of thousands of Canadian troops, including a large number to be based all along the South coast including Worthing. They were put to work building the sea defences and preparing even more gun placements. Barrage balloons floated over important buildings such as the gas works. Sandbags surrounded the town hall steps and the pillar boxes were changed from red to yellow as they were spruced up with a gas-sensitive paint. Everywhere had the feel of war but nothing much was happening. Everyone else called it the Phoney War. Uncle Lorry called it the Boring War.
*
Christmas 1939 came and went. As they sang carols in church on Christmas morning, ‘all glory be to God on high and to the earth be peace’ took on a resonance of its own. Never before had the country been more fervent in its prayers.
Frankie continued with her Red Cross activities and now that two of the older girls in the florist had joined the Wrens, she took on greater responsibility. People were still getting married or having funerals so although floral arrangements had suffered through lack of supply, the demand was still there. To help things along they now specialised in silk flowers as well.
Now that Doreen had somewhere to live, Frankie set about introducing her to a life outside the strict confines of her mother’s diktat. While she was careful not to expose her friend to danger (in Frankie’s opinion Doreen was so naive about some things), she wanted her to enjoy life. As a consequence they went to shows and the pictures, or they jumped on a bus and went to Brighton or Chichester, and sometimes they went to dances put on for the Canadian soldiers by the WI in villages including Tarring, Ferring and Lancing.
Doreen’s wardrobe needed to be updated. All of her clothes were hopelessly old-fashioned and she only had dowdy colours such as muddy brown or washed-out blues. There was little money so the girls had to resort to making their own clothes. Once Aunt Bet had taught them both how to use the treadle sewing machine, they were away. As Doreen had dark hair, when they went to jumble sales they picked up anything in cobalt blue, turquoise, bottle green or a rich gold to turn it into something else. On the other hand, Frankie looked for mint greens or baby blues. She discovered that tomato red was far more flattering than a plum red on her and they had such fun choosing together that they became more like sisters.
As winter turned to spring, Ronald finally plucked up the courage to ask Doreen out. Frankie was pleased for them both. Ronald was such a caring chap, Frankie felt she didn’t have to worry about Doreen being out of her depth when she was with him but of course that left Frankie, herself, on her own. She had been asked out a few times. They were nice people but that was as far as it went.
She still wrote to Alan every week. He didn’t often send a reply and when he did, it was short and to the point. Easter was early, March 24th. On a postcard she received at the beginning of April he had written, ‘Marched to church. Afterwards the French women gave us chocolate. Weather cold.’
Then, in the spring of 1940, the Germans invaded Norway.
Fifteen
Broadwater, Sussex, March 1940
Doreen had decided to join up. She was almost eighteen and she badly wanted to ‘do her bit’ but she found it difficult trying to decide which of the uniformed services to go for.
‘I saw something in a magazine,’ Frankie said. ‘Stay here and I’ll get it.’
She couldn’t afford to buy magazines herself but one of the girls at work used to pass on the odd one. The article in the magazine turned out to be most helpful. Frankie and Doreen pored over it very carefully. Out of all the pictures, the girl in the Wrens uniform looked the most attractive. Navy blue, smart and with a straight jacket, it gave the wearer a nice shape. By contrast, the ATS girl looked frumpy.
‘The WAAF uniform is a better colour,’ Frankie remarked.
‘Yes, but look at those huge pockets,’ Doreen protested. ‘My hips will look a mile wide in that.’
Ronald who was sitting at the table mending a watch, snorted. ‘Does the future of this country really depend on you girls liking a uniform?’
Frankie and Doreen grinned at each other. ‘Absolutely,’ Frankie said teasingly. ‘These things are really important.’
*
The invasion of Norway had precipitated a domino effect. France, Belgium and Luxemburg quickly followed. Aunt Bet was frantic with worry about Alan, who was now trapped in a rearguard action with the expeditionary forces. The government dithered and Chamberlain, although he had been warned for months that this would happen, behaved as if he was caught on the back foot. Everything looked very bleak until Churchill took over the reins of power. He didn’t promise much but he was refreshingly honest. His speech to the Commons was widely reported in the newspapers and Uncle
Lorry read it out at the dinner table.
‘You ask, what is our policy? … it is to wage war by sea, land and air … against a monstrous tyranny … I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, sweat and tears …’
‘So that’s that then,’ said Aunt Bet. ‘Looks like we’re in for the long haul.’
Things were looking grim but to celebrate Doreen’s birthday, Ronald had promised to take them both out for tea. He had booked a table for three thirty in the Arcade Café. He glanced up at the clock. ‘Better get ready, girls,’ he said putting the watch workings on the tray and covering it with a cloth. ‘The bus will be here any minute.’
Rationing had already begun to dominate their lives so all three of them were looking forward to an afternoon of indulgence. Bacon, butter and sugar had been rationed since January and meat had been rationed since March. The egg allowance was down to one a week per person so Aunt Bet had to sell most of her supply but the café had a reputation for delicious teas which, as yet, hadn’t changed.
It was obvious that Ronald liked being with Doreen. They were fairly alike in many ways. Doreen enjoyed simple things, things which had been denied her for so long. She enjoyed swimming in the sea, going for long walks and to the pictures. Since Aunt Bet had taught her how to use the treadle machine, she enjoyed dressmaking. Ronald was a quiet man. He found conversation a struggle. At one time it used to irritate Frankie, but now she realised that it was because he couldn’t really hear what was being said. Doreen made him feel relaxed.
When they got to the Arcade Café, they all sat near the window. It was fun watching people walking by and it also meant that they didn’t have to keep conversation going all the time. All at once, Doreen leaned back in her chair and pressed her head against the wall anxiously. Nothing was said, but they all noticed that across the road, the wife of the leader from her mother’s church had just got off the bus. Frankie knew she was still desperate to persuade Doreen to stay with her and her husband, and just lately they had redoubled their efforts to get her back. The leader had only stopped coming to the farm when Uncle Lorry threatened him with the police. Then, as soon as Doreen moved out and went to live with Margery, they started going round there, even offering her the security of marriage with a widower in the congregation.
Frankie had laughed when Doreen told her. ‘You’re joking! It sounds like something out of a Victorian novel.’
But it had frightened Doreen. ‘He’s really old, Frankie,’ she complained. ‘He must be thirty-eight if he’s a day, and he’s got four children. I don’t want to be tied to a man like that.’
In the end, Frankie went with her friend and they explained everything to Margery. The next time the leader turned up at the house, she threatened to set the dog on him. The dog was a daft old thing, half blind and with about as much energy as a limp lettuce, but that was enough to finally persuade the man to leave Doreen alone.
‘It’s all right,’ said Frankie looking out of the window again. ‘She’s gone.’
Their tea came and Doreen elected to pour. They were about half way through their meal when an old lady right at the back of the room stood up and shuffled her way towards them. She didn’t say anything but she laid two white feathers on Ronald’s plate. As she returned to her table, he pushed them aside in disgust and carried on eating.
‘What did she do that for?’ Frankie hissed. Doreen had gone bright pink. ‘Ronald?’ Frankie insisted.
‘Forget it, Frankie,’ Ronald said dismissively.
But Frankie continued to frown.
‘They used to do that in the last war,’ said Doreen, ‘for people who hadn’t joined up.’
Frankie could feel her temper rising. ‘What right has she …?’
‘Frankie,’ said Ronald, ‘just forget it.’
Doreen continued eating her cake but by now Frankie was so cross hers tasted no better than sawdust. She rose quickly to her feet, scraping her chair noisily across the floor as she went.
‘Frankie, don’t,’ Ronald said helplessly.
The waiter, who must have seen what had happened, came hurrying over. ‘Please, Miss,’ he began, his hand held up in a defensive position. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’
But Frankie sailed past him and reaching the old woman’s table she stuffed the feathers so hard into the sandwich on her plate that it was reduced to bits. ‘How dare you,’ she snarled. ‘What right have you to judge him?’
‘This country is fighting for the survival of France,’ the woman retorted. ‘We need every able-bodied man in uniform.’
Every eye in the cafe was on them as Frankie bent down and whispered right in the woman’s ear. ‘And he would go if he could, but the army doctor has refused him. So why don’t you mind your own damned business?’
The woman’s face was scarlet. ‘Well, really!’ And as she gathered her things to leave, Frankie swept back to her own table.
Doreen was staring at her, wide-eyed.
‘What?’ Frankie challenged.
‘That’s quite a temper you have,’ Doreen remarked.
‘I hate injustice and unfairness,’ said Frankie, throwing herself back into her chair.
Ronald looked hurt and embarrassed. ‘I know you mean well, Frankie,’ he said quietly, ‘but I don’t need you to fight my battles.’
Sixteen
Somewhere in France, April 1940
The French countryside looked a lot like home. Until he’d joined up, Alan had never been further than East Sussex one way and Hampshire the other, and that was only for a motorbike scramble, so he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings. His mind would have been totally focussed on the course and coming first.
At one of their camps he’d remarked as much to his new pal, Ginger. ‘This place reminds me of Arundel.’
‘Hardly surprising, boi,’ Ginger said sagely in his heavy Suffolk accent. ‘We were invaded by the French back in 1066, remember?’
Alan vaguely remembered being told that although the castle at Arundel was a Victorian reproduction, the original building had been started quite soon after William the Conqueror won the Battle of Hastings. It stuck in his mind because construction began on Christmas Day a year later, but he couldn’t recall the name of the first Earl of Arundel … Roger something, wasn’t it? He grinned at his mate, ‘Ah, 1066; the only date in history I remember.’
Their first few weeks in France were a doddle. Alan and Ginger had been thrown together as soon as they’d arrived. They were about the same age, the only difference being that Ginger was already a married man. His wife was expecting a baby. Both men had grown up in the country; Alan in Sussex and Ginger in Suffolk. Both liked motorbikes and Ginger was impressed to hear of Alan’s successes. ‘I never met a champion afore,’ he said admiringly.
They went back to the ports, unloaded supplies and equipment and relocated them to army dumps further up country. There was little or no action and strategically they were only there to reinforce and hold the lines.
Apart from being away from his family, Alan was enjoying his experience. Frankie wrote as often as twice a week sometimes, so he was up-to-date with all that was going on at home. When he wrote back, he wasn’t allowed to say where he was or exactly what he was doing and some of his off-duty antics weren’t the sort of thing he would share with close family. As a result, his replies were short and sweet and confined to the back of a postcard.
He’d been surprised to hear that Barbara Vickers had moved to Lewisham. Shame. She’d been a real hot tomato, the little minx, and he had some fond memories of fumbles and more in the barn or out in the open countryside on warm summer nights. Her mother had probably sent her away to protect her from the Canadian soldiers billeted all around the town. He grinned to himself. Perhaps it should be the other way around – that she’d been sent away to protect the soldiers. She was a bit of a goer, that one.
When the Germans broke through, Alan was reconnaissance rider for a large convoy of a hundred and fifty heavy-duty lorries and
Ginger was one of the lead drivers. They were in the process of delivering a hundred tons of petrol and a hundred and thirty tons of rations from the railway to forward dumps. They had only just arrived at their destination when all hell broke loose.
They didn’t engage and there were no casualties among them, although the Germans bombed the nearest town several times. After a couple of days, they were ordered to fall back. With Alan up front and Ginger in the first of thirteen lorries, they headed back towards the coast. It turned out to be a nightmare scenario. The roads were choked with terrified civilians fleeing the fighting and German planes machine-gunned anything that moved. It was imperative to keep going to reach the port signposted Dunkerque, so they travelled through the night without lights but eventually everybody was in need of rest.
Hiding the lorries was no easy task but they found a place where the road dipped between high banks, deep in the French countryside, surrounded by trees. They drove the lorries into the dark shadows under the trees and apart from a couple of chaps on guard, everyone had a bit of shut-eye. The next afternoon, with strict orders to keep his eyes peeled, Alan was sent to spy out the lie of the land. He hadn’t gone far before he had to report back.
‘There’s a couple of Jerry tanks in the woods,’ he said, willing his voice to sound calm and in control. ‘The men are out of the vehicles and apart from one man on guard, they’re all having a smoke or a kip on the grass.’
The sergeant gave the order to take the Lewis gun in a light lorry to try and flush them out. The rest of the men, rifles at the ready, advanced by the side of the road, using the high banks and the trees as cover. They soon spotted the Germans and opened fire, killing two of them. The rest hurried back to their tanks and went deeper into the woods. The men were just about to move into the wood after them when an enemy plane came along the road, flying low, its machine gun blazing. As it passed, everybody, soldiers and civilians, dived for cover and then they heard the sound of heavy gunfire coming from a position about half a mile up the road. They could smell smoke and, above the sound of the bullets and return fire, they could hear the cries of men. The corporal ran ahead and reported back that another convoy had been hit and was ablaze. Alan felt sick. This was nothing like what he’d seen at the pictures. His stomach heaved when he saw men covered in blood or with limbs blown off and still alive. A bit further up the road, the machine guns had mowed down fleeing women and children. He retched as he saw an hysterical mother trying to put the bits of her shattered child back together again. This was terrifying. It was hell on earth.
