The most difficult thing for me was not being able to talk about the interview with my family, which I was bursting to do, but it was made clear in no uncertain terms that this was forbidden. Yes, that was difficult.
Anyway, I passed my interview and was told I was going to be somewhere called Bletchley, a place I hadn’t heard of before then. They told me it wasn’t too far from London, about fifty miles, but I would have to reside there and that they would find me somewhere to live. They were pleased with my level of German, thanked me for my time and wished me luck, at which point, I must admit, I started feeling a little worried. Well, if I’m being totally honest, I panicked a bit and began to wonder if this place Bletchley was actually a code name for Berlin. My imagination started playing havoc with me and I was extremely restless until I received the long-awaited envelope from the FO. At last, I thought, when the letter dropped on the mat, but my relief was very short-lived because, when I opened it, I had instructions that quite definitely had something of the Agatha Christie about them as I was to go to Bletchley railway station, find a telephone kiosk there and then I was to ring this number – they provided a telephone number with the letter – and await further instructions. My goodness, I thought, I really am going to be parachuted into Europe, which, looking back, was ridiculous because I’d been given no training whatsoever for such a task.
My parents and sister had to be kept in the dark. This, as you might imagine, worried them quite considerably, exacerbated, of course, by the fact we were at war, but Joyce, my sister, apparently gathered some cachet amongst friends for having such a secretive sister. But it was really very odd for us as a family because, as I said, we weren’t the secretive sorts. My father took the view that teaching wasn’t a bad price to pay for getting a degree, and my mother said that if I was determined to leave university, there were some very fine prospects in the John Lewis Partnership. Celia’s daughter, Patricia, was doing nicely there and enjoying every minute.
Obviously, I could understand their grievances. They’d put an awful lot into my education and I had wittered on about going to university for an awfully long time, but I suppose I justified it to myself because we were in the middle of a very extraordinary time. I remember one Sunday afternoon when the arguments about me being a teacher reared their ugly head once again and I felt myself getting pretty cross with both my mother and father. I got up from the dinner table and said, quite sharply it has to be said, but they had tried my patience, “Well, I hope you’ll be jolly pleased with yourselves when I’m having to teach you German, because that’s what will happen if I don’t join the war effort!”
Gosh, to think I imagined I could win the war single-handedly! It’s quite funny, looking back. I remember running up to my bedroom, shaking, and not quite believing I’d dared to talk to my parents in that way. But it’s fair to say, they must have realised how passionate I was about not teaching because the subject was never brought up again.
So there I was at Bletchley railway station. I have to say I didn’t like it very much. It was a dull old place. My heart sank and I found myself thinking, Gosh, is this what I’ve given up university for? And I had a secret hope that maybe this wasn’t the journey’s end. You know that feeling when you go on holiday and you get to some God awful village and you’re fervently praying for another ten miles to somewhere a lot nicer.
Anyway, I found my way to the telephone kiosk and duly rang the number they’d given me. Someone on the other end asked me one or two questions about myself and then, when they were satisfied they were talking to the right person, told me to go to the main road and gave me further instructions – I can’t remember what these were now – until I came to some iron gates, where there would be three sentries. I was to present my letter to them and they would then give me instructions as to where I should proceed.
It was quite a lot to take in and I was particularly worried because they said could I repeat the instructions back to them as they didn’t want me asking the locals. I then put the telephone down and kept repeating what I’d just said over and over in my head. Fortunately, I didn’t lose my way and when I got to the sentries they directed me to a captain to whom I had to show my letter again. The captain nodded approval at my letter, gave me a brief smile, which meant a lot, I can tell you, and then from what seemed absolutely nowhere, two women appeared, not much older than me, who were asked by the captain to escort me to the house. It all felt very mysterious and I started to quite foolishly get it into my head that I was going to be asked to be a lady-in-waiting or some such thing because I wondered if members of the royal family were holed up here or something. And my head was whirling with their German connection, of course.
None of us spoke. The women didn’t seem to have an ounce of curiosity about me and, being the newcomer, it didn’t seem right for me to question them. We arrived at the house, which, on first sight, was impressive yet rather odd. It was a strange amalgamation of styles that didn’t seem to fit into any particular period, but I was quickly distracted from thoughts of architecture because of the countless number of people milling around. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, quite, but a small town hadn’t crossed my mind and I remember the first hour or so being a little overwhelmed.
They gave me a meal of some lumpy soup and a jam sponge, which I ate with what appeared to be hundreds of others in a large, oak-panelled hall. I was so grateful for something to eat, I think I was less critical of the food than if it had been of the university’s fare and I gobbled it all up very quickly.
It all felt tremendously odd and had I not been to university I think I would have felt quite homesick. But even with my experience, I suddenly yearned for a meal with just the four of us at home. A cosy intimacy was lost to me and I suppose I wanted it because it wasn’t mine anymore.
Shortly after I’d finished my last mouthful, I was escorted, along with a few others, who I presumed were also new, by another two women into an office, which had a great long table. I remember it was covered with what seemed like an old blanket. Three army officers sat bang in the middle and I had this horrid feeling I was about to be scolded. It felt a bit similar to being called into the headmistress’s office and I started to feel quite nervous and desperately wished I hadn’t had pudding. But it turned out they were perfectly nice, though extraordinarily serious. The whole thing felt very funereal.
Then the officer in the middle began by welcoming us. He ended this, I remember, with a little smile and I thought he seemed quite a decent sort of chap. But this bonhomie was short-lived and his tone transformed as he told us why we were at Bletchley, what would be the nature of our work and its huge importance to the war effort. I think I must have gone into a bit of a state of shock because I remember feeling very light headed and was terrified I was going to faint or something awful. I don’t know what I thought I was doing there exactly, but suddenly the gravity and expectation of the work took hold of me, and excitement and terror just sort of intermingled, making me feel pretty wobbly, I can tell you. Would I be up to the task in hand? It all felt very responsible.
Then the chap to the right of him read the Official Secrets Act to all of us, again not something to steady the nerves, and told us, in no uncertain terms, that we weren’t to breathe a word of what we were doing at Bletchley to a soul. They made us sign a promise to that effect and we were told there would be dire consequences, such as imprisonment, if we did. It all felt very peculiar. I suppose I didn’t feel important enough to be signing such papers. Was this a Tudor court? Certainly the word “traitor” was used. I think we all wanted to steal a glance at one another but were too intimidated. We left the room very quietly and then the women took us to one side individually and informed us about our sleeping arrangements. The woman who spoke to me – very trim, I remember, with tiny eyes and a mouth I couldn’t imagine smiling – told me I was to sleep at Bletchley that night, for which I was most grateful as I felt too we
ary to travel elsewhere, but the next day I was to be billeted out to Fenny Stratford, which, she explained, wasn’t far off and I would be taken there by a member of staff on one of the buses. This would then be my mode of transport for getting into and out of Bletchley. I was to be living with a family by the name of Johnson. She wasn’t someone to whom one responded or asked questions, so I just nodded and thanked her, then began to go over and over again in my mind what this family might be like. I think, looking back, I was quite shocked about being thrown into the lives of a family I didn’t know. How on earth were we going to rub along? I found it quite difficult to sleep, which wasn’t helped by the hard, most uncomfortable bed. I could only look forward to something better with the Johnsons.
“No mention whatsoever may be made either in conversation or correspondence regarding the nature of your work.” That’s what I thought as I got up the next morning and prepared for my first day at work. I hadn’t felt quite as nervous since my university interview, but this time I think I was, if anything, more tentative because it felt as if there was a very real sense of responsibility towards others. My thought was that I didn’t want to let anyone down and for the first time I remember I started to doubt my linguistic abilities. What passed for all right at university might be downright inadequate here and mistakes would be catastrophic. So, when I even think about it, I get the chills. It was awfully nerve-wracking.
After I dressed, I walked into the corridor outside and was soon met by yet another woman, about ten years older than me, who told me we were to breakfast together. She had a warm smile and I felt for the first time that working at Bletchley could turn out to be perfectly OK. Someone resembling a human being, at last, I thought. You know that way some people have of letting you know you’re the sort who’s going to fit in. I ate two pieces of hot buttered toast, munching it with a total relish, as Sylvia explained I was to be working somewhere called Hut 6. I began to ask exactly what I’d be doing, but she said firmly, without giving me the notion that I was being reprimanded in any way, that we would talk about that when we were in the hut. Where I was going to be was all she could say and she continued, instead, to ask me about university. Had I had a jolly time there and what was London like as a place to live? She’d always been enthralled by the idea of it but admitted to not being plucky enough to actually live there. Cambridge had suited her very well, which was stated as something merely factual.
We walked across to Hut 6. It was a bitter day and there was little, if any, relief when we got inside. It was extremely cold and most people were donning scarves, thick coats, and one or two chaps hadn’t removed their balaclavas.
When people say to me today that they’re chilled to the bone because they’ve escaped central heating for more than five minutes I think to myself, Well, you should jolly well have tried a Bletchley hut. I still have the mittens I wore whenever work would allow. I remember my mother popped them in my suitcase at the last moment. They were a particularly old pair and I said, “Mummy, I’m never going to use those!” I was quite cross with her for mollycoddling me, but how wrong I was and how thankful she’d had the common sense to pop them in. But I never let her know this, being far too young and too proud. The electric heaters barely did anything in terms of warming up the room. It was like asking a car heater to deliver in a mansion. Often, in the winter months, you found it troublesome trying to concentrate properly when all you could think of was whether or not your toes were still in place.
Anyway, I sat at a desk with Sylvia and quite a handsome man, Mr McIntyre, quiet-sounding and a little too tall for me, I thought, which was a bit cheeky, really, because I’m sure he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in me. This is all a bit difficult. Would you really like me to talk about my work? Excuse me a minute, I think I need a drop of water.
Mr McIntyre chewed on a pipe and throughout most of the conversation bore furrowed brows, leaving me feeling he was slightly puzzled as to the reason for my being in the same room. Not long into the conversation he started speaking in German, asking me all sorts of questions from family matters to what I thought about the progression of the war. He seemed particularly interested in talking to me about naval matters and, though I was slightly thrown when this questioning began, by the time he returned to English again, I thought I’d fared pretty well, even though much of what I said assumed a low level of knowledge of the navy. He must have thought I’d done all right too because he smiled, held out his hand and told me it was good to have me on board.
At four o’clock I was told to go to the main house, pick up my things and report to the main entrance by half-past. At precisely that time the woman who had spoken to me the day before about the family I was to stay with said, “Hello again, shall we?” and placed her right hand efficiently in front of her. Both she and I walked out of the front door and onto a bus where a driver greeted us in an over stern manner, almost as if he was acting a part in a play, the drama of Bletchley, as it were. He scowled a little, which felt perfectly in tune with the disposition of my escort, who had very little in the way of humour at her disposal. I remember hoping that I’d be able to get along a bit better with the family I’d be living with. We were in the middle of a ghastly war, but surely we didn’t have to be quite so dour with one another. Hopefully, my family would at least attempt the odd dance with frivolity.
I needn’t have worried. The Johnsons gave me a hearty welcome. Much had obviously been explained to them because Fred, Mr Johnson, began by saying he knew they weren’t supposed to know anything about me and they wouldn’t be asking any questions. Just as long as I was in by eleven, what I did was nothing to do with them. My escort, quite unnecessarily, I thought, told them I certainly wouldn’t be telling them why I was in Fenny Stratford, leaving an awkward waft in the air.
I introduced myself and thanked them for their hospitality. I said I would be in by eleven, if not quite a bit before and I would try as hard as possible not to be noisy or cause them any bother. Fred answered that he was sure I wouldn’t bother them and they were very happy to have me. We were then left by my escort, who said she had to go and she would leave to give us time to get to know one another. I think we were all heartily relieved when we’d said our goodbyes to her. I really can’t remember her name; I’m not sure she ever told me.
Then Fred said, “Look, I don’t know how much you know about these arrangements, but I want to make it clear that we’re getting quite enough from His Majesty’s government, so to speak, to have you here. We could charge you for things like hot water and whatnot, but Beryl and I have talked it over and we’re quite satisfied with what we’re getting, so you’re to use our home like it’s your own. Like family.”
It was a very sweet speech and I thanked him a great deal for his, and his wife’s, kindness. I didn’t know then how truly fortunate I was because I learnt only later that plenty of girls were getting stung for the slightest amenities. Some of them could barely walk upstairs to their bedrooms without incurring a fee. And stringency was another thing. One poor woman I spoke with once told me how her landlady was very mean with light bulbs and the poor woman spent a whole two weeks without any light in her bedroom. She said she didn’t mind the dressing and undressing so much, but it was the fact that she couldn’t read at bedtime that really got under her skin. You may think in a war this is all very trivial, Mr Donovan, but it was the only kind of chitchat that was at her disposal. As I said, work was never a subject of discussion.
I was very sensitive to the fact that my being in the Johnsons’ household was an extraordinary invasion of their privacy and I’m not sure my own family could have done the same. My mother, for instance, was so partial to her daily routines that I think the slightest change would have sent her quite loopy. I knew, absolutely in the first instant, they were a lovely family and I remember I felt terrible about the way Fred kept alluding to my family and my former life. “Bet this is smaller than what you’re used to,”
he would say. And I thought, Well, yes, it is an awful lot smaller, but of course I would never have said that. Often I didn’t reply, but once I answered, “But it’s not half as warm, Fred,” and he said he did seem to have a particularly good coal fire.
Beryl seemed a bit wary of me at first. She just used to answer my questions monosyllabically and a few weeks went by without me knowing much about her at all. It was Fred who did all the talking, though his son, Ken, asked a lot of questions of his father at mealtimes (I must say, some of them were quite near the bone and not ones that Joyce and I would ever have been allowed to ask, let alone get answers to; for instance, he once asked his father why he was out so late the evening before), until he had the confidence to turn his line of enquiry on me, to which Fred gently told him off with something like, “Now what did I tell you? No questions.”
I finally got to know Beryl a little more one evening when, for some reason, I think as a result of her having saved up a few rations, she was making an apple pie and I asked her if I could help. She was a tad reluctant at first and I thought, Oh, golly, I’ve probably ruined this woman’s enjoyment of what she’s doing by sticking my nose in it, but because I knew absolutely nothing about the making of apple pies – that was always my mother’s arena – she had to give me instructions and after a little while she started telling me how relieved she was that Ken was too young to join up. She knew what other women in Fenny were going through. She then told me to roll out the pastry and I said I’d never done this before. “Go on, give it a go,” she replied, so I pitched in and Beryl said she didn’t think I’d made half a bad job of it.
The Writing on the Wall and Other Stories Page 20