by Janet Tanner
But it had been a shock, all the same, when he had actually applied for a five-year Short Service Commission. She had cried bitterly after they had waved him off for the first time to the Civilian EFTS where he was to undergo his first instruction in the art of learning to fly and the house had seemed empty without him.
‘For goodness sake, Barbara, buck your ideas up!’ Amy had instructed her when she could no longer stand the sight of her long face and the way she was mooning about the house. ‘Huw has only gone to Desford, not the moon.’
Barbara had said nothing. There was no way of making someone understand how desolate she felt, particularly when they were determined not to understand. Mum doesn’t seem to need anyone, she thought. Not Maureen and me, not Huw, not even Ralph. I don’t believe she knows what it feels like to really miss someone.
Of course, like most things in life, there were compensations and Barbara discovered them when Huw came home for a weekend kitted out as an Acting Pilot Officer RAF (On Probation). The uniform suited his dark good looks and he cut such a dashing figure that Barbara’s heart swelled with pride. She had insisted on being allowed to accompany him to the railway station when he left to do the fortnight’s square bashing and drill and discipline which would turn him into a real serviceman, and walking down the road, holding proudly onto his arm, she had been aware of all the admiring and envious glances he attracted. There were those, of course, who snorted and asked in loud whispers: ‘Who does he think he is, anyway? I can mind the time when …’ But there would always be people like that, especially in a small town, people who, having achieved nothing themselves, resented the fact that someone else might have done.
They did not bother Barbara any more than they had ever bothered Amy. But as the months slipped by and 1938 became 1939, Barbara realised that storm clouds were gathering on the horizon. At first, she took little notice of the talk of war, for war to her was not real, not something which actually happened in real life. It was a vague threat, no more, to be dismissed in favour of more interesting topics, like tennis and films and the latest music hits. Then one evening she had overheard Amy and Ralph discussing it – and how it could affect Huw.
‘He’s flying fighters now,’ Amy was saying. ‘That means he would be right in the thick of it, doesn’t it?’
Barbara stood stock still in the doorway.
‘Yes, I’m afraid it does,’ Ralph replied.
There was a silence, then she heard Amy sigh.
‘Oh well, let’s hope it won’t come to that.’
‘I’m afraid that’s a pretty vain hope,’ Ralph said. ‘If you want my opinion, Chamberlain did nothing but buy time when he went to see Herr Hitler and came back waving his piece of paper. It won’t last, Amy. It can’t. Hitler has his sights set on far wider fields than his own and sooner or later we’re going to have to use force to stop his little game.’
Another silence.
‘Let’s hope it’s later rather than sooner,’ Amy said after a moment. ‘The thought of another war makes me feel sick inside. I can still remember the last one too well. My brother Fred was killed in France and the boy Dolly was going to marry. And our Jack lost his leg when he was shot down and was lucky to get back alive. Oh no, I can’t believe we’ll go into all that again in a hurry.’
‘We shan’t have any choice,’ Ralph said and the matter-of-factness of his tone chilled Barbara. She knew about Uncle Jack’s leg, of course, and she had heard of an Uncle Fred and the others who had been killed, though it had meant nothing to her. Now, for the first time, she thought of them as young men, not so very different to Huw, and a sensation of prickly fear crept over her skin.
Throughout the months of spring and early summer her anxiety ebbed and flowed with each turn in the tide of news from Germany. Then familiarity began to breed contempt and by midsummer, when everyone said war was inevitable, Barbara was feeling quite bullish. If Adolf Hitler was the monster everyone made him out to be then he had to be put in his place – and who better to do it than Huw and the other young men like him? They would soon teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget! Barbara thought.
But as she ran towards him across the platform at Bristol Temple Meads railway station that June morning, laughing her welcome, all depressing thoughts of war were far from her mind.
Huw caught her by the arms, swinging her up and round, then holding her back to look at her. ‘Barbara! What on earth are you doing here?’
She laughed. ‘Surprised to see me?’
‘You can say that again!’ He hugged her. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’
‘Yes. I’m playing truant.’
‘Barbara! You don’t change.’
‘Nor do you,’ she said proudly.
‘I thought those nuns might knock some sense into you.’
‘No chance. Surely you didn’t think we’d let you come to Bristol and not make the effort to get in to see you?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m not going to be able to stay long, I’m afraid. But what do you say to grabbing a quick cup of coffee?’
‘Lovely,’ she said.
The station buffet was muggy, smoky and stale. Beneath a glass counter sandwiches curled sadly and at one end a tired looking woman was dispensing mud-coloured tea from an urn. Barbara followed Huw to an empty table and waited, wriggling her nose at the fumes from the overflowing ashtray, while he fetched two cups of coffee. The tired looking woman seemed to brighten considerably while serving Huw and Barbara, and smiled to herself. Trust Huw! But then, he did look so handsome, she would have defied any woman to keep a long face when he was around.
He came back carrying two cups of coffee and set them down on the table, pushing the overflowing ashtray aside.
‘Sugar?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Of course, I forgot. You’re watching your figure, I suppose.’ He stirred two spoonfuls of slightly tea-stained granules into his own cup. ‘So – what’s been happening at home?’
‘Not much. At least, nothing different. Mum is still busy with her businesses and Ralph is still busy with his. Maureen is an unbearable little swot and …’
‘You shouldn’t talk about your sister like that,’ he admonished teasingly.
‘Why not? That’s what she is. Oh, I know she’s clever and she’ll probably do very well, but I mean … She’s always got her nose in a book. And the nuns single her out as a model student. Yuk!’
He laughed. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me? I’m still at school because Mum and Ralph insist I get a good education. I don’t know why they won’t let me leave. They might just as well and then I can get on with what I want to do.’
‘And what’s that? The last I heard you were planning to seek the bright lights.’
‘Oh, that’s gone by the board.’ Barbara sipped her coffee; it was bitter and half cold but with Huw sitting opposite she scarcely noticed. ‘I think I’m going to join one of the women’s services. If there’s going to be a war I want to be in it.’
‘Barbara.’ Huw’s face grew serious and he leaned towards her across the table. ‘If there is a war – and I’m pretty certain there’s going to be – it’s not going to be any picnic.’
‘You’ll be in it.’
‘That’s different. I’m a man. Not that they’d let the women do anything dangerous, I suppose, but still …’ He felt in the pocket of his uniform jacket and got out a packet of Players and a cigarette lighter.
‘That’s new isn’t it?’ Barbara said curiously. ‘I haven’t seen that one before.’
He ignored her, lighting his cigarette and drawing on it deeply.
‘Can I have one?’ she asked, holding out her hand.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you are not old enough. You’re not old enough to join up, either.’
‘I’m sixteen!’ she protested. ‘I’ll be seventeen soon!’ He only smiled and she flared suddenly: ‘I wish you’d stop treating me
like a child! It’s because I’m wearing this stupid school dress, I suppose. I hate it. I absolutely hate it!’
He smiled at her, his eyes narrow behind the curling smoke.
‘When you talk like that you not only look like a child, you sound like one. But you are growing up, Barbara, I grant you that.’
She returned his gaze, uncertain whether to be flattered or annoyed. Then she decided this stolen episode was too precious to spoil with petty squabbling.
‘Tell me what you’re doing,’ she said. ‘If you’re allowed to, that is. It’s much more interesting.’
They sat chatting over the bitter coffee, Huw regaling her with tales of life in the mess at his RAF station and she listened intently, laughing at their escapades. Then Huw glanced at his watch again.
‘Barbara – I’m going to have to go.’
‘Oh Huw …’ There was a sudden catch in her throat. All this and over so soon …
‘You know I’d stay longer if I could. Though I’m not sure you shouldn’t be going yourself. How are you going to explain to the nuns?’
‘Oh, they won’t suspect a thing. They live in another world.’
‘That is more than can be said for Squadron Leaders,’ Huw said ruefully. He stood up. ‘Come on, Barbara. I’ll see you to your train.’
‘No, it’s all right. My platform is miles away. If you’ve got to go – go!’
‘I think perhaps I’d better.’ He chucked her under the chin. ‘Be good.’
‘And you.’ Tears were springing in her eyes; angrily she blinked them away.
‘When have I ever been anything else?’
‘Plenty of times if the stories Mum and Ralph tell are true.’
‘All right!’ He raised a hand in surrender. ‘No need to go into all that now. Bye-bye, love.’
‘Buy Huw. Come home soon.’
With a smile and a wave he was gone. She stood watching while his airforce blue uniform was swallowed up in the crowds, swallowing at the lump in her throat. Then, with a characteristic lift of her chin, she turned and went back down the steps looking for a porter who could tell her how long she would have to wait for a train back to Bath and which platform it would go from. Barbara had been back at school for only ten minutes when the summons came.
‘Sister Claude wants to see you in her office.’
Her heart sank. It could only mean one thing. She had been too long and suspicions had been aroused. On her way up the staircase between the wood panelled walls her imagination worked overtime on what excuses she could offer. She had seen someone taken ill, perhaps, and stopped to do what she could. Or rescued a kitten from a tree and become ledged herself. A bit unlikely, one had to admit, but it would also account for the bent brim of her boater – another sin that was going to need explaining.
And if I have to make up a story it might as well be one that shows me in a good light, Barbara reasoned.
She tapped at the headmistress’s door.
‘Come!’
A nun shouldn’t have a harsh voice like that, Barbara thought. It should be soft from praying and singing Aves, not sounding like a sergeant major. She opened the door and went in.
Sister Claude looked up and her expression told Barbara her worst fears had been realised. There was something very unholy about the tight set of her narrow lips and the way her eyes glared from behind her spectacles.
‘Well, Barbara,’ she said.
‘Sister.’
‘You know why you are here, I’m sure.’
Barbara opened her eyes very wide and attempted an innocent expression.
‘I’m sorry if I was a long time at the dentist’s, Sister, but on the way back I saw the most terrible accident. A poor woman stepped off the kerb and …’
‘Barbara!’ Sister Claude thundered.
‘Yes, Sister?’ She said it with less conviction.
‘Save yourself the trouble of lying. It only adds to your wickedness.’
‘But Sister …’
Sister Claude closed an exercise book she had been marking with a snap and laid it on a pile with the rest. ‘I happen to know, Barbara, that you have not been to the dentist at all. You have been to Bristol.’
Barbara’s jaw dropped. This she had not expected.
‘How …?’ It was out before she could stop it.
‘You may well ask that, Barbara. Suffice to say that very few movements of a girl in the uniform of our convent go unnoticed – and all are known to God.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, I hear you were in Bristol, Barbara. Bad enough, but that is not all, I fear. I understand you were on the station meeting some boy.’ She spoke the word with distaste, as if boys belonged to some strange alien race, Barbara thought.
‘Not some boy, Sister,’ she protested. ‘Huw.’
‘Huw?’
‘My … my brother.’
‘Don’t lie, Barbara. You do not have a brother.’
‘Well, he’s not my brother exactly …’ Barbara broke off. She had not realised Sister Claude did not know about Huw, though she supposed there was no reason why she should. Now she wondered just how she could explain him. My stepfather’s adopted son, sounded so far-fetched, even though it was the truth. In her present mood Sister Claude would never believe her. ‘He lives with us,’ she said lamely.
Sister Claude’s tight lips told her exactly how truthful she was being.
‘I had thought, Barbara, that a school such as ours would have set your feet on the right path for life. I don’t know where you met this boy, I don’t know what possessed you to lie to me and to miss your lessons to go cavorting with him. But one thing I do know. I shall not stand for it. This school has a reputation to maintain …’
Oh God, she’s going to expel me! Barbara thought in horror.
‘… and I shall do all that is necessary to maintain it. What will your mother have to say about this, Barbara?’
‘She … I …’ Useless to protest that Amy would have no objection to her being with Huw, She certainly would object to her missing lessons and telling lies to do it.
‘You realise she will have to know about this?’
Barbara swallowed. ‘Yes, Sister.’
Outside the door Barbara let out her breath in a long, sustained ‘Phew!’ So she hadn’t been expelled – more was the pity. In the end Sister Claude had cared more about her fees than the school’s much vaunted reputation. But she would certainly tell Amy – and Amy was going to be furious …
Barbara straightened her shoulders and tucked an irrepressible curl behind her ear.
Oh well – trouble in store.
But she knew it had been worth it and that given the same circumstances she would do the same thing again.
In her office at the yard which served as headquarters for both Roberts Haulage and Roberts Transport, Amy Porter signed the last of the day’s mail, replaced the cap of her Parker fountain pen and tucked it away in her bag.
As usual the depot had been a hive of activity and it seemed to Amy she had scarcely had time to draw breath since she had unlocked the office at 8 o’clock that morning. Never mind, she liked it that way, liked to see the lorries busy and the diary full. She would willingly have worked out estimates and costings until the figures sang in her head and written dockets till her fingers blistered if the need arose. She could remember all too clearly the days when things had been very different – the days when she had first inherited the tiny struggling business from her first husband, Llew Roberts, who had been killed in this very yard when he was crushed by a lorry he had been working on. Roberts Haulage had been a two-vehicle concern then, employing only one driver and two mates, and she had fought long and hard, not only against the day-to-day problems but also against the prejudice she encountered as a woman, to turn the business into the thriving I concern it was today – six lorries, two of them artics for working long hauls such as Llew could never have imagined when he brought his first small lorry home from Birmingham in 1922, a co
al haulage company and a charabanc business which was run from a separate depot in Purldown, some three miles away.
There had been times, and plenty of them, when Amy had wondered just what she had taken on, times when she had fought the seemingly endless battles with more desperation than fervour, times when she had not been able to see how she could pull the business out of a downward spiral of cancelled contracts and mounting expenses, but there had never been a moment when she had admitted defeat. At first, it had all been for Llew’s sake to make certain the dream for which he had lived – and died – did not die with him. But later she had to admit it had not only been for Llew but for herself too. They had thought she would fail, all of them. Charlotte, her mother, who disapproved of her stubborn stand whilst failing to realise Amy had inherited that very same stubbornness from her; Eddie Roberts, Llew’s brother, who had thought the business would automatically become his on his brother’s death; the whole town of Hillsbridge, standing by watching and waiting for her to fall flat on her pretty face because she was a woman dabbling in a man’s world, a woman daring to step outside the bounds of convention.
Only Ralph had believed in her – Ralph Porter, who was now her husband. ‘Oh I knew you could do it. Amy,’ he had once told her casually. ‘The day we first met, when you took that lorry for a drive and ran into my car, I told myself you were a woman to be reckoned with’, and his eyes had twinkled wickedly as he said it. But at the time she had believed even Ralph was against her, deeply involved in his own expanding timber empire, joining with the other men of the business clique to keep her out.
Amy signed the last letter, blotted it and pushed the pile across the desk.
It was the same desk that Llew had bought secondhand when he had started the business, scratched and inkstained but also large and comfortably solid, but there was another set at right angles to it now, a light modern desk topped with a typewriter and a stack of efficient looking wire trays – the desk which accommodated Violet Denning, her secretary.