by Jules Wake
Betty wasn’t sure that Jane thought of anything much these days but her favourite layer, Baby Face, a very feisty young hen, who took exception to every human except Jane. She didn’t relish getting pecked on the legs when she patched that door.
‘The ATS doesn’t work like that, Mam. I can’t just up and transfer.’
Her ma pursed her thin lips and folded her arms. ‘Anyone would think you didn’t want to be with your family. Too good for us now, are we? I think you spent too much time up at the big house.’
Betty, who’d heard this a hundred times before, whenever she wouldn’t do what her ma wanted, ignored the comment. Pushing her cup of tea aside, she stood up. ‘I’d best put on my boiler suit.’ Although it was a bright spring day, her bare legs weren’t ready to spend an hour freezing out in the garden. She hadn’t been prepared to waste her one precious pair of nylons on a trip home and she refused to wear those hideous khaki lisle stockings when she was on leave. It was bad enough that she had to put up with the darned hideous things bagging round her knees and ankles when she was on duty. With a grin, she held out her arm to admire the sleeves of the bright-red boiler suit. It wasn’t half bad and even better, she hadn’t had to use any clothing coupons because it was classed as working clothes. A win–win if ever there was one.
Her dad’s old stock of wood and nails hadn’t been touched nor his tools, which she kept wrapped in cloths so that they wouldn’t rust. She sorted through the yellowing boxes and took a handful of pinhead nails, shoving them into her pockets before grabbing one of the hammers. Carefully she tucked the immaculate toolbox back into the corner of the shed under a large piece of sacking. No knowing what some people might help themselves to if they knew it was there. Her ma certainly didn’t venture out here and Jane wouldn’t be interested in poking about in a dusty corner.
Half an hour later she was examining the new piece of wood tacked into place to patch the rotten section which had given way. It would do for now until she could replace the whole door on a subsequent visit. Squatting on her haunches, she leant forward to tap in the final tack.
‘Well, what do we have ’ere?’
‘Bert.’ She swung round, bringing an automatic smile to her face. She didn’t want to give him any excuse to find fault with her. His moods were so uncertain these days and as Bert’s family owned the whole row of cottages and the rent was extremely low, she needed to keep him onside for her ma and Jane’s sake so they didn’t find themselves slung out of their home.
‘Look at you, regular little miss carpenter.’ His mocking tone made her tighten her grip on the hammer. ‘Don’t you think you should leave man’s work to the men?’
‘I would if I thought it would get done,’ she retorted, feeling a little put out that she’d had to do it when he’d been here earlier in the week. ‘I thought you were going to do it.’
‘Being in the services ain’t doing you no good, my girl. When did you start speaking to me like that? Come and give me a kiss.’ He held out a hand and none too gently yanked her to her feet.
‘Sorry. I’m cross that it’s not been done. I’m worried about the foxes.’
‘Not been done,’ he mimicked. ‘You’re getting a few too many airs and graces about you. You’re not going to turn into one of those nagging women, are you? It might put me right off you.’ He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘And we wouldn’t want that, would we? Now give us a kiss.’
‘Sorry, Bert.’ She tried to smile, thinking of poor Barbara Clarke, who would probably never have anyone look at her again. Sometimes she didn’t like the way he spoke to her but like her mum said, men like Bert expected and deserved respect. He was what her ma called ‘a man’s man’ and also considered quite a catch. His dad owned Home Farm and its one hundred and thirty acres of prime sheep grazing. The family wasn’t short of a bob or two thanks to the wool from the flock which garnered high prices each year and, of course, the rents from the cottages. Marriage to him would secure her future and her ma and Jane’s.
‘What are you wearing?’ After claiming his kiss, Bert stepped back. ‘I don’t like my women wearing trousers. Next thing we know you’ll be thinking you can do stuff like we can.’
It was pointless trying to explain that her boiler suit was more practical when you were lying on the chicken-poop-covered floor. He didn’t like her answering him back either. Bert didn’t like anyone answering him back. He’d definitely become more irritable in recent months, like a powder keg that could blow at any moment. Or maybe seeing more of the world, away from the village, had opened her eyes? Either way, she knew she ought to keep on the right side of him, as much for her family’s sake as anything.
With a flirtatious smile, she stuck out a leg. ‘Don’t it suit me?’
Betty tried to tell herself that his bad-tempered spats came from the deeply felt frustration that he’d failed an Army medical, not that he would ever admit as much. As far as everyone round here was concerned, Bert was in a reserved occupation and, being over twenty-five, couldn’t be conscripted. The truth, however, was he’d been rejected because of flat feet. A fact Betty only knew because his mother had inadvertently let it slip.
‘I prefer you in a skirt. You’ve a cracking pair of legs.’ He pulled her to him and kissed her again. ‘My Betty Grable. Your hair looks good like that. Fixed it up for me, did you?’
She smiled. ‘Do you like it?’
‘You’re still the best-looking girl in the village even in those bloody things.’ He sighed. ‘Let’s have a look what you’ve done. I tell you, you should have waited for me to fix it for you.’
She bit back the thought that she might have waited a long time.
As Bert inspected the coop, Betty couldn’t help but remember that there was a time she’d have put up with things the way they were because she didn’t know any different, but being in the ATS had shown her that she could do things for herself. That she didn’t have to rely on a man.
He bent down and shook his head. ‘This is man’s work,’ he said with a sudden derisory kick at the panel. ‘What’s the world coming to when a woman thinks she can do man’s work? Look at that.’ He kicked again, this time putting his weight into it, and the wood beneath the panel, holding it in place, disintegrated. He shook his head again. ‘Looks like I’ll have to do it. Shame I haven’t got time now.’
Betty eyed him steadily. She wasn’t going to apologise. The panel would have held. It would have done.
‘Want me to walk you back to the station?’
She looked at the hole in the door and thought of the foxes. There was an air of triumph on his face.
‘I’ve got another half hour,’ she said.
‘That’s OK. Time for a cuppa and I reckon your mam’s got a bit of cake tucked away.’
Giving the wooden door one last glance, she slipped the hammer into her pocket. She didn’t want to leave it out or bring it to his attention. It would be the last she’d see of it.
‘Bye, Ma. See you in a couple of weeks’ time.’ She turned at the bottom of the garden path to give her a last wave.
‘Bye, love, and think about seeing about that job. Want me to speak to Daisy about it?’
‘No, Ma. I’ll go and see her next time I’m home.’ Now she heartily wished she had gone to see her aunt Daisy. She could have avoided Bert altogether. She stepped out into the lane and Bert took a possessive hold of her arm.
‘What’s this about a job?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Didn’t sound like nothing.’ Bert’s tone was laced with that touch of menace that always accompanied his voice when he thought he wasn’t being told the whole story.
‘Ma’s got this idea that I can get a transfer to a job at this distribution centre.’
‘And what’s wrong with that? I’d see more of you.’
‘Nothing, but I’ve no idea if it’s possible.’
‘I think it’s a good idea. You could keep an eye on your mum and sister. You wouldn’t want anything to h
appen to them, especially Jane.’
She looked up at him, startled by a sudden chill that slithered down her spine.
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged, a too-innocent air on his face. ‘Well, Jane’s growing up. She’s got a fine figure. Men have…’ He leered for a moment before lifting his shoulders again and then slung an arm around her, anchoring her to his side. ‘I miss you. She reminds me of you.’
Nausea surged in her throat. Jane, a gentle soul, was only fifteen and young for her age. Some might say she wasn’t all there but Betty preferred to say that she took a while to think things through. She was the sort that was eager to please and scared by loud noises and shouting. All she was interested in was her beloved chickens and the lambs that occasionally had to be hand reared in the Davenports’ kitchen. Mrs Davenport was a good sort, hard-working and stern, but she ran a busy farmhouse. Jane was not her responsibility. Bert’s words worried Betty, especially as she wasn’t sure she could trust him to keep an eye on her little sister.
As she got on the train, she wondered if perhaps she should think about applying for a transfer but it wasn’t really what she wanted. She liked having her independence, being able to do her own thing and away from the watchful eyes of the village where she was as good as engaged to Bert. But what about Jane? Her vulnerability was a constant worry and Bert’s words had alarmed Betty. He could be a bit of a bully sometimes but surely he wasn’t threatening her little sister. Was he?
Chapter Four
Evelyn – Falmouth
‘You need to keep your strength up, dearie.’ Mrs Rankin shook her head at the half-eaten breakfast as Evelyn pushed the food around her plate the following morning. Knowing that there was a war on, even before her landlady could remind her, she forced herself to eat the unappetising grey slice of national loaf bread with its thin smear of gooseberry jam. ‘You’re looking peaky this morning. Little ’un didn’t wake you up, did he?’
‘No, Mrs Rankin. I just didn’t sleep very well.’
The kindly landlady settled her thin frame in the chair opposite the tiny table. Everything in the terraced house was small compared to what Evelyn was used to. ‘Is everything all right? Have you heard from your brother, your ma?’
Evelyn dredged up her best attempt at a smile. Mrs Rankin wanted to look after everyone, along with her three spindly-legged children, her tiny, elderly mother and the entire ragamuffin street. ‘It’s a worry. My mother is quite anxious that there’s been no word from David for three months now.’
‘He’ll be right. The post from France is bound to be a bit disrupted with all them U-boats patrolling. Another one sank in the Atlantic, they’re saying down the harbour. Someone saw them bringing Jerries in.’
As far as Mrs Rankin was concerned, Evelyn worked in an office, as Evelyn had found to her cost that any discussion of POWs invariably brought forth strong views. She therefore avoided telling people outside the military exactly what she did and even then, there were still people like Williamson that believed prisoners should be ill-treated, if not shot on sight. Having a brother at the mercy of the Germans tempered one’s view somewhat, as well as the fact that she had German relatives and had, before the rise of the National Socialists, spent many a happy summer in Heidelberg. For her, Germans were people just like anyone else, but she knew that this view placed her firmly in the minority. After all, so many had lost so much to this war already. Most people viewed foreigners with deep suspicion and not everyone sympathised with the plight of the Jews in Europe either.
Evelyn swallowed down the last bit of bread and let Mrs Rankin pour her more tea, which had now steeped enough to give it a bit of flavour. ‘I’d best be off,’ she said, rising to her feet, swallowing down the lukewarm tea, tugging at her uniform, glancing at the stripes on her sleeves.
She’d been so proud of those stripes, of being able to make a real contribution to the war. Her uncle was a Vice-Admiral, her grandmother had been a lady-in-waiting to the current Queen and her father a royal equerry, having been awarded a Distinguished Service Order medal during his Army combat years in the Great War. The Brooke-Edwards family had been doing their duty to King and country for generations.
Time to face the music. Williamson would take his revenge to the absolute letter of military law. Striking a superior officer was insubordination. There’d be a court martial. Offering violence to an officer rated prison and removal of rank. She could be detained for up to three months. She closed her eyes. It would bring such shame to her family, particularly her uncle.
With leaden feet she walked down the cobbled street, skirting the harbour and up to Forte 1 where she was stationed. As the Navy had taken over much of Falmouth, now HMS Forte, they’d commandeered a number of large buildings and renamed them Forte 1, Forte 2, Forte 3 and Forte 4, which suggested they were surrounded by barbed wire and gun towers. In fact, Forte 1 was situated in the rather attractive Membley Hall Hotel, although this didn’t offer Evelyn any solace this morning as she walked through the grand entrance and mounted the stairs to the offices on the first floor.
Dismay warred with relief at the sight of Captain Jennings sitting behind Williamson’s desk. At least she wouldn’t have Williamson gloating at her.
She saluted and waited for Jennings to speak as her heart plunged to her feet. Schooling her face, she tried to look penitent although inside fury bubbled that a senior officer could get away with this.
‘Good morning, Lieutenant Brooke-Edwards. I have good news and bad.’
Her legs wobbled but she managed to keep her face impassive.
‘I’m afraid you’re being transferred to a new unit.’
She blinked at him, unsure if this was good news or bad news and then waited for the guillotine to fall.
‘And their need is greater than ours. You’re to take a week’s leave and you’ll be sent details of where to report.’
Waiting, she studied his face, while behind her back she gripped her right wrist with an iron fist.
‘I’m sorry you have to leave us,’ he paused and for a moment she could have sworn he looked a little apologetic before a mask slid back in place, ‘but I think it’s for the best.’
Not daring to speak and still unable to believe his words, she nodded.
‘You should receive your orders in the next few days. In the meantime, enjoy your leave. Where’s home? Henley upon Thames, is it?’
She paused for a moment before answering. That was it? No court martial?
‘Yes, Sir. Just outside. Binfield Heath.’
‘Ah, you must know the Everlys then?’
‘Yes, Sir. In the next village. Mummy plays bridge with Lady Everly.’
‘Excellent. Well, do give her my regards when you next see her. She’s my mother’s sister.’
‘I will, Sir,’ said Evelyn with a rush of relief, still not daring to believe in her reprieve. Perhaps Williamson hadn’t told him what had happened, but that was too much to hope.
‘Right-ho. That’s all. I suggest you get back to your billet and pack your things. Pick up your travel warrant and pass from the registry.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good luck, Lieutenant. I hope your next posting is to your liking.’
He eyed her gravely and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she’d had an extremely lucky escape and that for some reason Captain Jennings had intervened on her behalf. She had no doubt that her new posting would be a lower rank but she’d been spared the shame of everyone in this unit knowing of her demotion.
‘Thank you, Sir.’ With that she backed out of the room, still on wobbly legs, and virtually ran out of the building in case he changed his mind or she bumped into Williamson.
The journey northwards gave her far too much time to think and worry about what she was going to tell her mother, and as she neared the station at Twyford she gathered her kitbag, still none the wiser as to what to say.
As soon she stepped from the train she was swept into the fur-lin
ed embrace and the familiar scent of ‘Evening in Paris’ filled her nose.
‘Darling, what a glorious surprise.’
Evelyn hugged her mother back, grateful that she was so much more demonstrative than many of her friends’ parents. Both Mummy and Daddy were still, after twenty-eight years, very much in love and were quite happy to show the world. Her school friend Cynthia had grown up in an austere atmosphere where her parents barely tolerated each other’s presence.
‘Hello, Mummy. Thank you for coming.’
‘Don’t be silly, what else would I do? Come on.’ She led the way to the car, trotting along in her smart peep-toe heeled pumps with her pale-blue and lilac floral patterned tea dress flapping in the light spring breeze. ‘Besides, I needed to pop out to collect a few things. We’ve been knitting jumpers and socks for the Merchant Navy. I must say Mrs Dawtry is a marvel.’ Her mother sighed rather tragically. ‘She quite often has to sort me out. I do have a terrible habit of dropping stitches.’
Evelyn laughed at the idea of her mother, who wasn’t remotely practical, and the redoubtable Mrs Dawtry, their housekeeper and cook, with heads bent over knitting. Through her mother’s letters she’d learned with considerable amusement that in the last six months, with the absence of her son, daughter and husband weighing heavy on her, her delicate, ladylike mother had become a leading light in the Women’s Voluntary Services and had co-opted virtually every female in the village into joining.
‘To be honest, I’m a terrible knitter. Mrs Dawtry quite despairs. However, one must do one’s part and I’m sure if you’re cold and in the middle of the Atlantic you’re not too fussed about whether the rows on your jumper are straight or have the odd hole.’
Evelyn laughed. It was so lovely to be home for a few days. She would enjoy her mother’s company while she awaited her orders.
Her mother drove home in the middle of the road, turning her face towards Evelyn as she told her all about the goings-on in the village. Thankfully they didn’t meet anyone coming the other way along the narrow country lanes.