by Lizzie Lane
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
The policeman winked. ‘No. Of course you don’t.’
Stanley did not welcome the news that he’d have to stay at his father’s more or less permanently.
‘It won’t be for long,’ she told him.
‘He’ll get drunk,’ he said. His sour expression left her in no doubt as to how he felt about moving back in.
‘No he won’t, Stanley. Our Daw reckons he doesn’t drink now. You heard her.’ He shook his head, his eyes big and round as they looked up at her. His mother did her best to reassure him. ‘It’s true. Didn’t you hear our Daw say so?’
‘That don’t mean it’s true!’
‘Just for a while, Stanley. Just until I can find us somewhere,’ she said, walking on but not daring to look into his face and see his uncertainty.
The boy fell silent, dragging the carrier bag behind him now.
Mary Anne made an effort to be cheerful. ‘At least we’ve still got the Christmas cake,’ she said brightly. ‘We’ll all have a piece on Christmas Day.’
Stanley was unmoved.
Wishing the war was over, wishing the shop hadn’t caught fire, she took Stanley around to his father’s and then headed for Daw’s.
If only Lizzie was here, she thought. But Lizzie, her second daughter, had left to join the Royal Army Service Corps. Somehow Mary Anne would let her daughter know what had happened. Somehow.
Chapter Three
Lizzie held up a large pair of khaki-coloured bloomers in disgust. ‘I knew I should have joined the Wrens. Surely their knickers can’t be anything like these! Just look at them. They’re big enough to fit Nellie the elephant!’
Her friend Margot, an ebony cigarette holder delicately balanced between rich red lips, gave the offending articles a quick glance.
‘Darling girl, you’ll appreciate those bloomers in the depth of winter. Cut some arms just below the elastic and you can wear them over your vest.’
The suggestion wasn’t without merit. Lizzie nodded approvingly. ‘You’ve got a point.’
Folding the bloomers, she turned her attention to the other items, extras to those issued when she’d first joined up. Supply of army-issue female items was spasmodic to say the least. When a rumour did the rounds that extras had arrived, the girls swooped on the quartermaster’s stores like a flock of hungry starlings.
‘Any suggestions as to what I can do with these?’ said Lizzie, her eyes popping at the stiffly starched canvas brassiere she held stretched between both hands.
Margot looked aghast and almost spat her cigarette from her mouth. ‘My goodness! There are limits, my darling girl.’
Lizzie paddled one hand in a massive cup. ‘Emergency shopping bags?’
‘They’d make a pretty good horse blanket,’ said Margot in her off-hand fashion. She immediately dropped her eyes back to the magazine she had spread on the bed in front of her. ‘Big enough to fit this one here,’ she said. ‘Listen to this. Irish Hunter, seventeen hands. Suit experienced rider.’
Bessie Fitzpatrick, a red-headed girl from Tottenham in London, peered over her shoulder and shook her head. ‘Nah! I got the experience, but he ain’t my type. And seventeen ’ands? I get enough trouble with Irish blokes with two ’ands, let alone seventeen!’
It was obvious that Bessie was having a go at Margot, not that Margot appeared to notice or care. Lizzie had liked Margot straightaway, even though Bessie had called her stuck up.
‘I thought you’d be friends, seeing as you both come from London,’ Lizzie had said to Bessie when they’d first met.
Bessie had jerked her chin and tossed her head. ‘Blimey, no! She’s from Chelsea. That ain’t London. Not real London. It’s full of toffs. Just like ’er in fact.’
Lizzie had shrugged. ‘I’m from Bristol. I wouldn’t know about that, though we do have something like Chelsea. It’s called Clifton and it’s perched high above the Avon Gorge looking down on the city.’
‘Nob Hill,’ sniffed Bessie.
Bessie had been referring to a film of that name where the rich lived on the hill and the poor in the valley. She’d never viewed Bristol quite like that before, and despite Bessie she regarded Margot as a friend. Her accent and where she came from didn’t matter. They got on well together.
The first thing they’d done when arriving at their training camp ‘somewhere near Ipswich’ was marching. Marching, marching and more marching – but that was after being issued with their initial items of ill-fitting uniforms. The girls did their best with what they were given, sorting things out among themselves. Big skirts were swapped for smaller ones, sleeves were altered and seams let out. Shoes were a problem; everyone acquired blistered feet.
Proper training meant learning about the vehicles they might end up driving. Some would end up driving trucks, some motorcycles, some cars and some might even get to drive ambulances. It very much depended on demand.
This morning, even though the girls were being flippant about uniforms, was a very important day. Today was assignment day when they were to be appointed to various transport pools around the country.
With nervous fingers, Lizzie buttoned and re-buttoned her jacket, polishing at an imagined speck on one of her bright, shiny buttons.
Margot closed her magazine, put out her cigarette and got to her feet. She began straightening her jacket, flattening it over her hips.
Lizzie caught her eye. ‘You’re nervous too.’
Margot hunched her shoulders in a huge sigh. ‘Silly, I know, but I can’t help it. I’m reminded of boarding school and being called to the headmistress’s study for punishment.’
‘Were you called there very often?’
A huge grin divided Margot’s peaches-and-cream complexion. ‘Quite a bit, actually.’
Lizzie nodded at Margot’s wrinkled coverlet. ‘Better smooth your bed before the Welsh dragon sees it.’
The Welsh dragon had tightly permed hair and protruding teeth. Lizzie couldn’t help getting the impression that the imperfection was exaggerated, especially when Lieutenant Morgan snapped an order. ‘Like they’re going to bite you if you don’t move fast enough,’ she’d said to Margot.
Everyone stood to attention at the end of their beds, waiting nervously to hear what she had to say. She’d keep them waiting of course, drawing out the agony like the innards of a dead duck.
She went through the usual spiel, did the customary check of their beds, their lockers and even ran her fingers along the picture rail. Even when she rubbed her thumb and ringer together, Lizzie knew she would feel no dust or grime. Everyone had made sure of that, polishing and dusting until their arms ached.
‘Right!’ she said at last.
The eyes of her charges glittered. Their breathing quickened. Their cheeks turned pink with anticipation.
The lieutenant’s voice rang like an alarm bell. ‘The notice giving details of your postings has been pinned up on the board. You will file there in an orderly manner. Orderly, mark you. You will not run to the notice board. Neither will you shout, scream, laugh or cry when you see where you are to be posted. Now …’
The Welsh dragon glanced at her wristwatch, scrutinizing the second hand, intent on prolonging the agony. Lizzie held her breath.
‘Fall OUT!’
Stiffly, because they were trying so hard not to rush en masse, the girls filed down the avenue between the beds. Lizzie joined them.
‘Randall! Fitzpatrick! Ponsonby-Lyle! Attention!’
The three did as ordered, snapping to attention, yet each wishing for their feet to be following everyone else.
Lieutenant Morgan stood before them, her thick legs braced to better support her stocky – tending towards fat – frame.
As was her nature, she yet again made them wait. Her neat grey eyes surveyed each of them in turn. She heaved her shoulders and took in a deep breath before she spoke.
‘Well, ladies. You three have hit the jackpot. Not for you the rigours and responsibil
ities of keeping a truck or an ambulance on the road. Not for you the wearing of overalls for the riding of motorcycles. You three have been selected as drivers for important personnel. You will become part of the Lavenham pool. Each of you will be allotted to whoever needs you. Sometimes you will be seconded for only a day. Other times for longer. Now, collect your things. No need for travel warrants. A truck will take you to your new home.’ She saluted. ‘Good luck in all you do, ladies.’
‘Somebody up there loves us,’ said Margot, raising her eyes to heaven.
‘Thank ’im for me,’ said Bessie, whose impatience was obvious. Everything she owned was being pressed into her kitbag in double-quick time.
Lizzie was excited. ‘I’ve heard you can end up as driver to some really important people. Imagine! One of us might end up driving Winston Churchill around.’
‘I don’t care who it is,’ said Bessie, finally drawing her kitbag shut. ‘Driving suits me a lot better than square bashing.’
Margot was more measured in her packing. Everything about her was methodical and calmly thought out. Even her complexion looked cool and smooth. Her hair was dark brown and permed into thick curls that never looked untidy.
Lizzie tucked her own tresses back around the length of old stocking she used as a base for the ‘looped bun’ lying at the nape of her neck.
At least it’s not as unruly as Bessie’s red mop, she thought to herself. Because she’d been rushing, wisps of redness burst like horsehair stuffing around Bessie’s cap.
‘Right. I’m off!’
Lizzie exchanged a quick smile with Margot before they followed speedily behind.
‘We’re moving like ballerinas,’ Lizzie laughed.
Margot chuckled. ‘What, with these shoes?’
They were each issued with cars that were roughly the same colour as their uniforms. Accordingly they set off for the transport pool on the other side of Lavenham. The weather was holding up well and it was daylight when they set out, following the route at a cracking pace despite the lack of signposts.
They trundled through the main street of a village where most of the houses were half-timbered and leaning against each other for support. All three pulled in outside a pub.
‘I think this is Lavenham,’ said Margot.
‘It is Lavenham,’ said Lizzie. ‘I know it is,’ she repeated, about to get back in her car.
‘Really? How do you know that?’ asked Margot, looking suitably impressed.
Lizzie pointed at a shop across the road. ‘It says Lavenham Butchers above that shop.’
The other two looked over.
‘Clever clogs,’ said Bessie and got back into her car. Margot got back into hers and the three drove off.
The transport pool was on the other side of the town, based in what had been a series of stables set around a central courtyard. They were housed above the present-day garages in what had been the hayloft. A long, beamed room had been sectioned off into three small but separate rooms.
‘Super,’ said Margot when they first entered.
‘Spiffing,’ said Bessie in a mocking tone. ‘It’ll soon seem like home.’
‘First things first,’ said Lizzie. The other two watched as she sat down on her bed and eased off her shoes. ‘It is home,’ she pronounced, sighing as she lay full stretch on her bed.
Just two weeks after settling in and ferrying pretty ordinary army personnel from base to base and from one meeting to another, Lizzie was called into the office. The transport convenor was a hefty man of advancing years. He’d been brought out of retirement purely to run the unit.
‘By some toff who thought we weren’t up to it,’ Bessie had snapped when they’d heard.
‘You’re to go and pick up a wing commander from the railway station,’ the convenor said now. He gave Lizzie the basic details.
The day was bright for late autumn, all orange trees and blue sky. The sun shone but the air was fresh, not humid and heavy with dust raised from beneath the heel of the plough as it had been in the summer.
He gave her details of how to recognize him and told her that his name was Guy Hunter. ‘You’re to take him to his billet at Ainsley Hall. Your duties will be to drive him to airfields and suchlike. You’re to make sure that he sees everything he wants. Is that clear?’
Reggie Stratfield was usually quite clear in his instructions, and never curmudgeonly. Today he was.
Lizzie thought about asking him what was wrong. Poor old chap. He was always being teased about his age, asked whether he’d ever fought beside King Arthur or Henry the Fifth. He’d always taken it in good spirits. Today he was not himself. Lizzie took the plunge.
‘Is anything wrong, sir?’
One watery eye peered up at her from beneath a snowy eyebrow.
Before replying, he made a low, guttural sound, similar to a sleeping dog’s growl.
‘I just don’t like foreigners!’
She didn’t press the matter, presuming one of the Polish contingent had upset him in some way, but she brought it up that night at the local pub.
Bessie made a similar comment as before about seventeen hands when Lizzie mentioned the name Hunter.
‘She’s jealous,’ said Margot, eyeing Bessie as she joined in with the group of soldiers having a singsong around the old piano.
‘I can’t think why,’ said Lizzie. Bessie was fun, extremely popular with the rank and file.
‘She’s been ferrying local bigwigs around – or at least they’re bigwigs during the week. The rest of the time they command the Home Guard.’
It still didn’t explain anything. ‘So?’
Margot rested her arm on Lizzie’s shoulder. Lizzie smelled her expensive perfume. Everything about Margot was expensive. It got her noticed. That was how she knew the secret she was just about to impart.
‘This wing commander is Canadian. Not too old either. Fingers crossed, my dear, and he could be Prince Charming.’
The wing commander’s train was not on time. After waiting outside for over an hour, Lizzie got out of the car to stretch her legs. The sound of tinkling water led her to a small pond just opposite the railway station. The sound was made by a small brook tumbling over upright stones and into the pond. Some thoughtful soul – or perhaps everyone in the village – had provided a wooden bench on the grassy bank. At present it was bathed in some unseasonal sunshine.
Lizzie looked down at her feet. As usual, thanks to the heavy dumpers the army provided, her feet were killing her. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to sit here a while in the fresh air? She checked the time on the station clock and strained her ears. The train was overdue and the track leading off into the distance was totally deserted. No, it wouldn’t hurt to sit down.
Sighing with contentment, she sank on to the warm wood, undid her laces and slid her feet out of her shoes.
The sun was warm – too warm. The grass was cool and tickled her stockinged feet. All the early mornings and last night’s visit to the pub had taken their toll. Her eyes closed and she drifted off.
Way off in the distance a wooden toy train was chuffing up a cardboard hill, its little whistle tooting just like a real one. Funny, she thought, how dreams can mirror reality, and somehow the two can fuse together as the sleeper begins to wake up …
The sun had gone in. At least, it seemed that way. A shadow had definitely fallen over her.
Drat! She’d fallen asleep. The train! The wing commander! He was looking down at her, his eyes veiled as he scrutinized her feet.
‘I’m sorry …’ she began, all of a fluster. Suddenly she remembered to salute. Couldn’t she be put on a charge if she didn’t? she wondered absently. She shot up, saluted – and hit her toe on a stone.
‘Ouch! Sir,’ she said, wobbling slightly as she fought to carry out the formality while standing on one leg.
His expression remained implacable. No hint of a smile or any sign of amusement in his eyes. His voice was as emotionless as his eyes. ‘Put your shoes on and tidy yourself up
. I’ll wait in the car.’
Red faced she slid her aching feet back into their torture chambers, tidied her hair and straightened her tie and jacket. She noticed grass stains around her ankles, but there was nothing she could do about them now. Appropriate apologies ran through her mind. She opened her mouth to utter them the moment she got back to the car.
‘I’m sorry—’ she began.
‘Never mind that,’ he snapped, turning round to face her. ‘Drive me to where I have to go.’
‘Ainsley Hall?’
‘Whatever.’ He turned his face away to look out of the window.
Lizzie melted into her seat behind the steering wheel, her face red and her embarrassment total.
On the way to Ainsley Hall, the sun went in and the rain started. It pattered on the windscreen, pooled in ditches at the side of the road and leaked from thatched eaves.
She glanced in the rear-view mirror. Silent and still, her passenger gazed relentlessly out of the window. He’d said nothing to her and so far she’d said nothing to him. Would he report her for being improperly dressed? She bit her lip. It had been her plan to join up and see a bit of life, have a little adventure. And she’d been quite prepared to serve for the duration, but if he reported her …
What would be so wrong if I attempted to break the ice? she thought to herself. Here goes!
‘Well. This is England. Raining again.’
She saw his head jerk round to face her. His expression was unchanged. His eyes were steely blue and his face was … She almost held her breath. He was handsome. No doubt about it.
She decided to try again, presuming he hadn’t heard her properly the first time. ‘I said about the rain, sir, and it being England …’
‘Never mind the weather. Keep your eyes forward. Drive, don’t talk.’
Her spirits nose-dived. Stratfield had told her that she was to ferry Hunter around for at least the next two weeks. She’d told herself she would still have plenty of spare time, that he’d tell her to take a half a day now and then while he did what he had to do. Now she wasn’t so sure. He’d come across as demanding and, worse still, humourless.