Girls on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  ‘Stop with your nagging. You sound like me mam.’

  Daniel grinned, then waggled his own cup at Davey. ‘I saw an article about reading tea leaves—’

  Davey laughed. ‘Of course you did, and you can quote it verbatim.’

  Daniel drained his own tea and peered into the cup. ‘Not quite, old duck,’ he joked, ‘and besides, the tea strainer has allowed no tea leaves to escape into my cup, so I seem to have no future.’ He shook his head. ‘Whereas you, my lad, have a broken line towards the handle, which means, allegedly, that you’ll return home.’ He held up a finger. ‘But the voyage will not be without effort, or perhaps hiccups.’

  Davey checked the clock. ‘Come on, you might have set the alarm wrong, giving us an extra twenty minutes, oh mighty brain, but time’s caught up with us. We’re going to be running for the bus again.’

  Daniel checked his watch, then shoved back his chair. Davey called to Colin and Morris, who as usual were deep in discussion at a small table by the fireplace. ‘Get your coats, bonny lads. Beer at the pub at seven?’

  In the hall, Davey took the mac that Daniel threw at him, then the hat, ramming it on. Daniel called down the hall, ‘Thanks for brekkie, Mrs Siddely. See you later.’

  Mrs Siddely called from the kitchen, ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, boys.’

  All four of them laughed as they hustled themselves out of the door, down the path and into the stream of bairns. If there was a smouldering slag heap and pitmen, it’d be like home, Davey thought, weaving through the youngsters, one of whom called, ‘Any spare change, gents?’

  Another ran up and leapt, his hand reaching for Davey’s hat and knocking it sideways. Davey laughed, catching it. Morris sniffed. ‘Ratbags, the lot of them.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but sometimes I feel like doing that, Morris. Not necessarily to you, but usually,’ Daniel said.

  All four of them burst out laughing, with Colin calling, as he hurried ahead, ‘There’s the damned bus. If he buggers off again just as we reach him, I’ll … Well …’

  They were running and Davey shouted across to Colin, ‘What, let his tyres down? Howay, man, just throw yourself in front of him and do us all a favour.’

  Colin flicked a rude sign, yelling, ‘In this coat, I rather think not. But your old mac shouldn’t stop you.’

  They clambered on the bus and clattered down the aisle, buying their tickets from the conductress, Sylvia, who pulled them out of her ticket holder. She’d come along later to clip them, which Davey thought was a ridiculous waste of energy, but which Daniel liked because he thought Sylvia a bit of a looker. There were others on the bus heading to Bletchley, but what they all did, Davey had no idea. What’s more, Colin and Morris had no more idea of what Davey and Daniel did than they knew about them.

  Daniel dragged The Times from under his arm, while Davey thought of Fran and how he’d give her his digs address, when he called, and tell her how much better his leg was getting, though not that he thought it might be because he wasn’t dragging himself on his belly along two-foot-high seams any more. He didn’t want her to think he was getting too posh to be a pitman, or to come home.

  But would he want to go back to it when his mind was expanding so much here? He stared out of the window, and knew that of course he would. It was what he knew, it was his world; his marrers, his family. He could start his magazine at last when he was off shift, and build it to give his noddle something to do, and what’s more, he could give Fran and their bairns a good life. Perhaps best of all, he wouldn’t have to speak slowly so people could understand.

  He stared out of the window at the school they were passing. How would the bairns fare when they returned to London? How were they faring here, in the country? Country? It was only fifty miles from London. When would they return? The Blitz might be done and dusted, but Hitler would have factories making more bombs, some of which were smashing Malta to smithereens right now.

  It made him think of Fran again. She would be—He stopped. No, he shouldn’t know, any more than she should know what he was doing.

  He laughed to himself, because he wasn’t sure he knew what he was doing either. Well, he did – he was decoding messages, and looking for signatures, which was a bit like his magazine readers trying to find the ‘key’ he had set in his crossword clues. As always when he was thinking about a key, the mine accident nagged at him. He’d been thinking then about a key to the crossword, but there had been another key … He shook his head. It couldn’t be important or he’d remember, but …

  They were driving alongside the camouflaged factory where Mrs Siddley’s husband worked and which used to make railway carriages and now made … But Davey was schooling his mind to turn away from knowledge – it was safer. It wasn’t until starting here that he’d understood just how little anyone knew about anything, and if you did know, how careful you had to be; how vital intelligence was, how precarious people’s safety. It wasn’t just the obvious enemy that threatened. He understood now that there were people in Britain whose allegiance was not to Britain. How could you turn against your own past and present to work for a different future, and do harm to all you knew?

  Davey pondered this conundrum and not for the first time, because it fascinated him. Of course those people felt that his enemy was where their ‘home’ was, and believed that they were working for the greater good, just as he did. But understanding a traitor didn’t mean he wouldn’t want to stop them, or even strangle them, for the very thought of it made his blood boil. This country was his, these people were his. He watched as the bus passed railway cottages that looked much like Massingham’s pit terraces.

  In one he could see paper chains looped across the window. Christmas? Lord above, he kept forgetting they were in December. Would there be leave? For some lucky few, he supposed, but not him. They arrived at the gates, showed their passes and trooped off, walking up the drive, the gravel crunching beneath their feet.

  Colin and Morris headed for their hut, while he and Daniel walked to theirs. There was the low hum of the shift changing, but soon the racket of the machines would begin again as they settled into work. He and Daniel hung up their coats, and took chairs that were still warm from the night shift. He smiled at Phil, who was grabbing up his pencils and could barely keep his eyes open. ‘Have fun,’ Phil grimaced.

  ‘Oh aye, always do,’ Davey muttered, as Phil laughed.

  Davey worked until he felt his eyes were hanging out of their sockets but he was getting used to sitting on his arse, fiddling about, as he thought of it. More and more intercepts arrived, which he decoded with the day’s setting and always he looked for any repetitive patterns. He’d picked up one which had apparently proved helpful. It was a basic mistake by the German operator, who started each and every message with the same phrase.

  On he worked, and his pile for the translation room grew, and his pile of intercepts for decoding too. With each day, as he decoded, his knowledge of German was growing so he had more of a sense of the war. He eased his shoulders, stretched out his legs, and the pain in his bad leg caught him. He winced, and then, for a moment he stopped breathing, because he could smell coal dust, the seam, the mine, and a key.

  Then it was gone and he was back at Bletchley, with some of the finest minds in Britain, not in an accident which had left the trace of a pattern. But only the merest trace. He sighed, shrugged, and worked on until half of them stopped for lunch and traipsed off to the catering hut, searching out their usual tables, while the other half covered the shift.

  Davey and Daniel sat with Daisy, with whom they had managed to establish some sort of friendship, even though she was difficult, oversensitive and neurotic. She worked in another hut, but they didn’t know which. They hadn’t asked, any more than she had asked them. She was eating her stew with one hand and with the other was distributing coloured strips to everyone who came past. ‘Take these home,’ she ordered. ‘Lick the ends, and we’ll have paper chains in this canteen if it damned
well kills me. I’m sick, sick of the blandness. It’ll be Christmas soon, and we’ll likely be stuck here.’

  Colin and Morris joined them. ‘Hello, the three Ds,’ Morris boomed. He loved food, and perked up no end at mealtimes, though would endlessly extoll the misery and measliness of rationing, in which reused tea leaves at breakfast loomed large and were the bane of his life.

  Daniel winked at Davey. ‘Oh, and who cast the final vote for reused tea leaves for brekkie?’

  Morris grumbled. ‘That’s as maybe, and I wasn’t listening. It was Colin’s fault, he shoved my arm up, but what a bloody war that even our tea is a pig’s ear.’ He stuffed the paper chains in his pocket.

  ‘Don’t crease them,’ shrieked Daisy.

  Morris continued cramming food into his mouth, speaking at the same time so that they could see it churning around. ‘I thought ironing was a girl’s job. If I lick and stick, you can iron them when I return them.’

  He was joking, but Daisy flushed with rage – or was it laughter? Davey never knew with her, but nor did he really care.

  That evening the staff bus took them home, which was better because they didn’t have to pay, but it also meant that Daniel missed seeing the bus conductress. The cold was biting, but Davey knew it was snowing up North, and would be ten times bleaker.

  ‘Morris, you’re coming to the pub?’

  ‘Most certainly, especially after working such overtime. What’s happened to our shifts, eh? It’s getting to be a habit, staying on hour after hour. One needs sustenance, and I do hope that lovely landlady might just have some of the batter scratchings she keeps in the kitchen.’

  ‘Do you think of anything other than your belly?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Should I, dear boy?’ drawled Morris, like some fat-arsed old politician, as Davey’s da, and Fran’s, would say.

  As they stood to return to work, Morris stopped, dug into his breast pocket. ‘Letter for you, Davey. It was in your pigeon hole, so I grabbed it for you.’

  They had their own keys to the Siddley house, but out of courtesy always rang the bell first. This time Mrs Siddley opened the door, taking off her headscarf as she did so. ‘I’ve just got in myself. It’s the WI today.’

  Davey smiled as Mrs Siddley dragged off her boots and said, ‘Oh, Daniel, if you are sharing a room you should put your socks in the linen basket provided. If I’d whistled they’d have joined me in the kitchen, and it can’t be pleasant for Davey. As a penance perhaps you’d bring in a few logs for the dining room fire?’

  Davey removed his shoes, winked at Daniel who followed Mrs Siddley, his shoulders slumped. Davey mounted the stairs two at a time, calling after him, ‘I don’t know, you with smelly socks, me sewing the waistband of my drawers up tight, because the elastic’s gone.’

  Daniel laughed up at him. ‘I know, I was wondering how you were going to get out of them tonight, or when needed.’

  ‘Ah, give ’em a good yank and the stitching’ll snap. I’ll have to get some elastic, but where from, that’s the problem? It’s in short supply, like everything else.’

  As he hurried along the landing he heard Mrs Siddley saying, ‘You lads, sewing up your drawers, whatever next. I’ll see what I can find in my sewing box.’

  Davey closed the bedroom door behind him, desperate to read his letter, for there was no privacy at the Park as they called it. By, his mam had been quick to reply, or was it Da? He crossed the linoleum-covered bedroom floor and sat on his bed. His night-time glass of water was still there on his bedside table, and he swallowed down a couple of aspirin for his leg which bothered him something chronic in the cold weather, and his headache which Norah had warned them all about. He tore open the buff envelope.

  The writing on the enclosed envelope was that of a stranger’s and ‘please forward’ in his mother’s hand had been written in the corner, and his P.O. Box address too, with her own crossed out. His disappointment was deep. Oh mam, he could have done to hear from her, and reminded himself to give his P.O. address to Fran when he phoned at— He checked his watch. He just had time to read this, though first he examined the envelope. No, he really didn’t recognise the looped writing. He opened the envelope and withdrew the letter, checking the signature. There was none.

  Davey,

  You should know that Fran seems to be accepting Ralph Massingham’s advances now that you have left, with every evidence of pleasure. They walk home together arm and arm and she has accepted lifts in his car. I don’t know where they go, but she seems very keen, quite swooning really and listens to no one’s advice.

  He read it again, then threw it into the empty grate as though it had burned his hand. Daniel entered at just that moment and asked, ‘What is it? Bad news?’

  Davey muttered, feeling sick, ‘You could say that.’ He checked his watch again. ‘I have to make my telephone call.’

  He ran down the stairs, ramming his feet into his boots, his heart hammering, his mouth dry because he must ask his Fran what was going on? Yes, he’d ask her for this was nonsense, it had to be. Fran wouldn’t.

  He started to run down the village street, but his legs were unsteady. He checked his watch again, and walked, his mind racing. There was someone in the phone box. He waited, smoked, waited. Finally the elderly woman replaced the receiver, pushed open the door, smiled. He couldn’t smile back. He just grabbed the door, and entered. He asked to be connected and could hardly breathe. Would she pick up? How late was he? He checked. He wasn’t late. He slotted in the money when she, Fran, his love, answered. ‘Hello, Fran, it’s me.’

  ‘Hello, me.’ She sounded tired.

  Usually his heart leapt when he heard her voice, but now he paused. So what on earth was he to say? He pictured the letter, blue ink on white paper, unsigned. Those words that must be absurd. ‘How’s work?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, you know, same as usual,’ she said. Then, after a moment’s pause, she went on, ‘Davey, I’m sorry, but I have something I need to tell you—’ She hesitated. He pictured the letter, and no. No. No. He wouldn’t listen. He would not listen to those words, for he knew now what she was going to say. What his Fran was going to say. His. Fran. He mustn’t actually know. If he didn’t know then there was time for her to change her mind.

  She started to say, ‘You see—’

  He said, ‘I have to go, Fran. I have a queue. I’ll phone next week.’ There was no queue. In a week things could change. In a week she might not need to tell him anything. If he didn’t know, it hadn’t happened, wasn’t happening. Whatever ‘it’ was. But why would anyone write that, if it wasn’t true? Why would Fran say she was sorry? Why would she want to tell him something she was sorry about? Why?

  He started to replace the receiver, but heard her say, ‘But Davey, I need you to know—’

  He slammed the receiver to his ear, then. ‘Well, I don’t bliddy want to know,’ he shouted. ‘I’m working my balls off here and I don’t … Oh never mind. I’m just tired. Tired, that’s all, Fran.’

  ‘But Davey, I have to tell you that Ralph has—’

  He slammed down the receiver, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He stared at the information board explaining how to call the police. How to keep mum, how to—

  He punched it, but then someone knocked on the glass. An elderly woman in a headscarf pressed against it. It made her look like a gargoyle and her breath smeared the pane. She shouted, ‘Bad news, lad? Sorry, but I need the telephone.’

  He dragged his arm over his eyes and then stamped out, not apologising as he normally would.

  Later that evening he downed yet another pint when Edward held a lock-in with beer that must have come off the back of a lorry. The pub was festooned with paper chains. He remembered the ones he had in his jacket pocket and drew them out. Daisy and Megan, who were sitting with them, looked aghast.

  ‘Don’t you tell me to iron them too,’ snapped Daisy. ‘I spent time on those.’

  For a moment she sounded and looked like Fran.
He reached for her hand, only to feel Daniel nudge him and whisper, ‘What the hell? Surely you know how she feels about you?’

  Davey shoved him away. He’d had enough. Of Daniel, Daisy, of bliddy paper chains, of Fran, of the letter, of bloody Ralph. Fran had wanted to tell him something, needed to …

  He slammed out of the pub, limping, his leg hurt so much, and suddenly he wished he’d brought his stick, which he hadn’t used all week. The rain began then, heavy, cold, soaking him. He felt sick. He’d sunk a few beers on very little food and breathed in everyone’s smoke, as well as puffing on a few fags himself. He laughed bitterly. Breathed in smoke? God, how could he moan about that when his da was breathing in coal dust? Just as he had, up there, at home.

  He leaned against a wall, sheltering under the eaves, and dragged out his Woodbines, flicking the packet open. He pressed one into his mouth, his pain growing as he recalled Fran’s voice, her words. She had sounded so different, so strange, and—He should never bloody well have left.

  Suddenly a match was struck and held at the end of his cigarette. He ducked, inhaled, the end glowed and the match died.

  ‘Oh, Davey, what’s the matter?’ said Daisy. ‘Come on, let’s get you back.’ She slipped her arm around his waist. ‘Come on, lad.’

  He inhaled again as they started walking and shook his head, then wished he hadn’t because he still felt sick and his head was swimming. ‘I don’t want to go back. Daniel, he’ll …’ He stopped.

  She said, ‘Snore? Yes I can imagine.’

  No, he’d ask what was the matter, and how could he tell anyone. He said, ‘I just need to think, to have some quiet. I’ll have a sit-down.’

  They were walking along the dark street. Of course there were no lights. Not with this war. Fran wouldn’t be walking, for Ralph took her for drives, and he’d give her more than David bliddy Bedley ever could. A nice house, a car, an easy life, and it would be a life where a bet over a football would just be a memory.