by Katie Flynn
‘She won’t come back for you, not if you were nasty to her,’ Mo said sullenly. She turned to her brother. ‘Make Daddy go now. Oh, I’d rather go meself!’
Nain stepped in at this point. ‘You’ve not heard the whole letter,’ she said reprovingly. ‘Glenys says she has found a clue to her mother’s whereabouts so she will no longer be alone in the world. Then she says: I wish you nothing but good and shall never forget your kindness to me. I’ll write regularly, and when this wretched war is over I’ll come back to see you.’
Sam, by this time, had scraped his porridge bowl clean and left the table, and was heading for the back door. ‘I shan’t be long,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Daft girl. The Min of Ag will know that Taid is quite capable of running the farm, just as Nain is equally capable of running the house, so neither I nor Glenys is necessary. I’m going to re-muster whether she comes back or not.’
Jimmy abandoned his own half-eaten breakfast and followed his father out of the kitchen. ‘I knew you’d go, Dad, and so you should, ’cos it’s your duty,’ he said importantly. ‘I’m thirteen, nearly old enough to do a man’s work. So don’t you worry, but go off on your ship and come home when you’re on leave. Taid and me can cope.’
Nain sent Mo off to make the beds whilst she and Taid had their own breakfast, but Mo, halfway to the stairs, turned abruptly. ‘Nain, shall I make Glenys’s bed? Do you think Daddy will catch up with her and bring her back?’
‘No, I don’t think he will; even if he catches up with her she isn’t going to want to come back,’ Nain said gently. ‘I think we have to accept that we may not see her for some time. So you must be a brave little girl and help in the war effort, as Jimmy will.’
Mo turned to peer down into the kitchen. ‘But shall I make her bed?’ she enquired patiently. ‘You didn’t answer that part of me question.’
Nain sighed. Oh, dear; how literal children were. But an honest question deserved an honest answer. ‘No, dear,’ she said decidedly. ‘Leave that room until last. We’ll fold up the bedding – apart from the sheets, which I will launder – and put it into the chest at the end of the bed to await her return.’
She waited until the child was out of sight, waited in fact until she heard Mo open her own bedroom door and slam it casually behind her, then turned to Taid. He was smiling. ‘You knew she’d gone before you even opened the envelope,’ he said, his tone neither accusatory nor surprised. ‘Has she been planning this for days? Did you know?’
Nain shook her head. ‘Not exactly; all that nonsense about Sam being allowed to remain if she left was probably only put into her head by the Prime Minister yesterday, and as for having found a clue to her mother’s identity, how, pray, could she have done that? No, it’s nothing so simple; I think she’s on a quest, though not to find her mother. What Glenys is searching for, and hoping to find, is herself. Poor child. Just think of our Grace and compare her childhood – and young womanhood too for that matter – with Glenys’s. Brought up in an orphanage, never knowing the love of a parent or the attention of relatives, and then pushed out into college because she was so clever. She was always expected to take her own decisions and make her own way. Even friendships must have come hard for her, because I expect that when she was in the orphanage she was cleverer than the other girls, and folk don’t like feeling inferior. And even though she would have been surrounded by a great many clever young women when she went on to college, she would have found it difficult to integrate; they would have had relatives, school friends, even boyfriends. Glenys knew herself to be alone, knew herself to be different, so she seized on the children’s desire to find their mother’s relatives and pretended that she, too, was looking for the woman who had abandoned her. It was probably the first time she ever felt needed. So it’s not surprising that when Sam’s attitude towards her softened, she believed herself to be in love with him . . .’
‘Perhaps she was,’ Taid said thoughtfully. ‘The mind of a young woman is a closed book to me, but I imagine she must have felt herself rejected when they quarrelled yesterday, which you tell me they did, though I saw no sign of it. She’s had so much rejection that more would have been hard to bear.’ He frowned. ‘But if you suspected that she was going to run away, why did you not try to stop her? I know she isn’t a young girl – she’s twenty-six isn’t she – but she’s young in experience.’ He looked reproachfully at his wife. ‘You should have stopped her, Myfanwy.’
Nain, however, shook her head. ‘No, I thought it was the most sensible thing she could have done. She needs to mix with men and women of her own age. You see, Gethin, here on the farm she only meets folk like ourselves. The services need bright, clever girls and Glenys is very bright and very clever. She will begin to see that she is appreciated and admired, no longer in the background but a valued member of whichever discipline she chooses. Her self-confidence, which is nil at the moment, will grow and flower. Leaving us will be the best thing she’s ever done.’
Taid reached across the table for the butter and began to spread it on his toast. ‘You’re a wise old woman, Myfanwy Griffiths,’ he said. ‘I always knew you had the brains and I had the brawn. Unfortunately, brawn lessens with age, but wisdom increases.’
Nain laughed and tapped him affectionately on the cheek. ‘Nonsense; it was just women’s intuition,’ she assured her husband. ‘And now let’s get on with our chores; Sam will be wondering what’s happened to you, leaving him with all the milking to do when he gets back from his unsuccessful search.’
Taid got stiffly to his feet. ‘So you don’t think Sam will find her?’ he asked, and was not surprised when Nain shook her head.
‘No, I don’t, and a good thing too. Sam’s had months to make her love him if he had wanted her to do so; as I said, she’s gone in search of herself, and woe betide anyone, even Sam, who gets in her path.’
Chapter 17
March 1941
GLENYS SWUNG HER heavy lorry into the parking space, cut the engine, switched off the lights and sat for a moment, arms crossed on the wheel, staring dully ahead. The trouble with driving, she reminded herself, was that it left you a great deal of time for thinking, and in her case, hard though she tried to prevent them, her thoughts tended to go straight back to Weathercock Farm.
It was all very well to tell herself that she was living a different life, owed allegiance to the ATS and to her work: she still could not banish the ache which crept into her mind the moment she let down her guard. She told herself that she had chosen to leave the family who had been good to her, that she had done the sensible thing, and when she was actively engaged she could control the impulse to send them her address, beg them to write, perhaps arrange a visit.
The worst times came in the wee small hours, when misery and despair engulfed her, and would not be denied. She would lie in her bed in the hut, willing the hours to pass, even wishing that the alarm would sound, that raiders would cross the coast, so that she would have something other than regrets to think about.
Other girls, she knew, were also probably lying awake in the dark, fighting their own particular demons: a boyfriend who had not returned from a raid on Germany; a relative seriously ill, perhaps needing her; or even something as trivial as a kit inspection next day when she had laddered her last pair of lisle stockings and would be in for a wigging from the section leader.
And I have no right to torture myself by imagining Sam’s ship being torpedoed, Sam sinking into the black waters, reaching for a spar, too proud to call for help . . . by now he probably has some natty little Wren to worry over him. But the children . . .
She was sure they would be mixing with evacuated kids from a dozen different backgrounds; she had no fear for Mo, who made friends easily, but she was worried about Jimmy. Suppose he did something foolish? She knew the merchant navy recruited young boys, and ever since arriving at the farm Jimmy had flourished, gaining not only height but also muscular development. He could easily pass for fifteen, and immediately the p
icture in her mind of Sam struggling in a dark sea was replaced by one of Jimmy, in that same dark sea, frightened and alone, trying to swim to safety when there was no safety to be had.
For the thousandth time, Glenys choked back tears. What nonsense this was! For all she knew, Sam and Jimmy were still both working on the farm and probably enjoying every minute. If they thought about her at all, it would probably only be when one of her letters arrived, and she could not deny that the weekly epistles to Weathercock Farm were a thing of the past. In fact, she was lucky if she managed to find time to scrawl a couple of pages every other month.
The trouble was, of course, that because she did not want them to know where she was or what she was doing, her correspondence lacked a certain sparkle. She never once admitted that she was a driver, but when she mentioned a journey let it appear that she was travelling as a passenger. She had not even told them to which service she belonged, because if Sam knew and did not come looking for her, then she would really feel that her cup of unhappiness overflowed. At least this way she saved herself from the ultimate humiliation of not even getting a reply, however brief, from Sam, or Nain, or even Taid. After all, it had been eighteen months since she saw them last; why should they think twice about her?
A sharp rap on the window interrupted her reverie and Glenys wrenched her mind back to the present. It was Driver Bennett, who had parked her own lorry in the space alongside, and the two girls smiled at one another as Glenys opened her door and dropped to the ground. They both walked round their vehicles, checking that all was well, then set off towards their hut. ‘Better clean up before we go to the cookhouse or Sarge will have our guts for garters,’ Jane Bennett remarked. ‘I’m oil to the eyebrows; good thing we wear overalls, because service dress isn’t designed for dirty work.’
Glenys nodded. ‘When I joined – which seems a lifetime ago – they couldn’t find me a uniform of any description. If you remember, the sergeant issuing clothing was quite rude; he called me a giraffe.’
Jane laughed. ‘And we did our basic training in service dress because some high-up thought we were all destined to be clerks, cooks or waitresses . . .’
Glenys blew out her cheeks, crossed her eyes and made a fanning motion with one hand. ‘Can you imagine what our lives would have been like if we hadn’t kept insisting that we could drive! Even now I meet members of the public who simply assume that men drive lorries and women make sandwiches . . .’
‘I know; doesn’t it make you cross?’ Jane agreed. ‘And there are still people who refer to us as “officers’ groundsheets”. It’s bloody unfair, but comments like that just have to be dismissed as ignorant. I gave a Waaf a lift a few weeks ago, and she told me the men on her station referred to her as the station bicycle because she’s been out with more than one fellow.’
Glenys pulled a face. ‘Some men are always quick to judge women, though they seem to think that they can carry on regardless,’ she said. ‘They never seem to take into account that it takes two to have an affair.’
‘True,’ Jane said, as they began to wash off the grime of the day. ‘But it’s just jealousy and ignorance . . . is my cap straight? My hair needs a wash, but a comb through will have to suffice for now. I’m starving, so do hurry.’
‘Got your irons?’ Glenys queried as they reached the cookhouse. ‘I asked Katie what they were making for supper and she said stew, which could mean anything.’
Jane plunged a hand into her gas mask case and produced knife, fork and spoon, and flourished them triumphantly under her friend’s nose. ‘It’s the first thing I check when I get up each morning,’ she observed. ‘No irons, no supper. Though if it’s the sort of stew which is mainly turnips, I think I’ll go to the Naafi instead.’
As they entered the long building and joined the queue waiting at the counter, someone dug Glenys in the back. She turned and saw Dotty Ward, grinning from ear to ear. ‘You two are late; Sarge has been searching for both of you. Where have you been?’
‘Oh, on a secret mission up north,’ Glenys said airily. ‘But where did you spring from, Dotty? I’ve not seen you since last week!’
Dotty tutted as the queue shuffled forward. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know!’ She picked up a tin plate and held it out in the prescribed manner. Behind the counter, the staff were sloshing mashed potato, overcooked cabbage and watery stew on to the outstretched plates, regardless of the fact that a carelessly aimed ladle might deliver half its contents either on to the floor or across someone’s jealously guarded uniform. ‘It’s probably a posting; you know how the brass hats like to disrupt our lives, and you’ve been here for months.’
Glenys extended her own plate, frowning thoughtfully. It was true that the girls were frequently moved around, though this did not often apply to drivers, who might be sent to any part of the country at any time. Sometimes they stayed away for several nights, only returning to Liverpool when they had a load for the docks. But it was possible the powers that be had decided she was too happy with her lot; they might even have thought she knew her trade too well and needed to do something different.
The stew that was presently sloshed on to her plate seemed to contain at least some meat, and her portion had carrot and onion as well as a surfeit of turnip, so she thanked the girl in the big wraparound apron and hair tidy, and followed Jane to one of the square wooden tables against the wall.
Glenys and Jane had joined at the same time and done their basic training together, becoming fast friends in the process. At first the other Ats had made rude remarks about the long and the short of it, because Glenys stood five foot seven in her stockinged feet and Jane barely managed to make five foot, but the ribbing soon stopped when it became clear that neither girl was going to rise to the bait.
They thought themselves very fortunate that they were both posted to the same depot when their basic training had been completed. They had gone straight to Newcastle upon Tyne, and since neither of them had ever been so far north before they enjoyed exploring their new territory, especially when their journeys took them over the border into Scotland and into wild and deserted countryside where they sometimes thought that the very language was foreign. But that had been almost a year ago and now, if Dotty’s guess was right, they might well find themselves posted to different parts of the country; which, Glenys thought, might call for some pretty nifty footwork. She remembered an old sergeant once telling her that if you were prepared to put yourself out you could control the service instead of it controlling you, and indeed, had she not borne his words in mind, she might not have attained the rank of driver quite so quickly.
‘Hey, dreamy, come down to earth and tell me what sort of a day you’ve had,’ Jane said. ‘I heard Dotty say that Sarge had been chasing round looking for the pair of us.’ She put down her knife and fork in order to smite her forehead dramatically. ‘Oh, woe, don’t say it’s a posting.’
Glenys laughed. ‘Why does everyone’s mind immediately fly to a posting?’ she enquired. ‘I believe you know what it’s about . . . c’mon, spit it out, and I don’t mean the stew!’
‘If you do mean the stew I’ve half a mind to obey your command,’ Jane said, pulling a face. ‘I don’t know anything.’ She glanced at her companion’s plate. ‘It’s not fair. Who’s Cooky’s favourite, then? You’ve got a lump of meat and some carrots! Then it’s true what they say about tall people having an advantage over shorter ones. I shall complain to the next promotion board I attend.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Glenys said, applying herself to her plate. ‘Tell you what, Janie, this stew isn’t half bad! And there’s treacle duff for afters, my favourite.’ She looked hopefully at her friend. ‘You keep telling everyone you’re trying to slim, so why not let me have your portion of duff?’
Jane began to speak but was cut short. ‘Private Trent, I’ve been a-searchin’ for you, and Bennett here, this hour an’ more.’ The sergeant’s voice was plaintive. ‘Come to my room as soon as you’ve finished guzzlin’, and no delayi
n’ tactics, if you please!’
‘Yes, sarge,’ Glenys said obediently, ‘as soon as we’ve finished our treacle duff.’ She looked at Sergeant Reeves’s large, brick-red face and bristling grey eyebrows, half expecting a reproof for even mentioning it, but instead he nodded.
‘Oh, awright, finish the pud.’ He looked with disfavour at their battle dress blouse and trousers, which was the uniform drivers usually wore except on special occasions. ‘Better change them trousers for skirts, though, if you want to make a good impression . . . but enough said. Get a move on or the officer will put me on a charge for keepin’ him waitin’. And furthermore, he’ll think I’ve shot my mouth off which I were told particular not to do.’ He put a finger the size of a pork sausage across his lips. ‘Very hush-hush; walls have ears,’ he muttered.
Glenys was about to remind him that they had both signed the Official Secrets Act when he turned and fought his way past the queue of incoming service men and women. Once he was well out of earshot, she raised her brows at her friend. ‘If there’s one thing which makes me curiouser and curiouser, as Lewis Carroll would say, it’s a sergeant with a secret,’ she observed. ‘And now let me concentrate on finishing this stew.’
Jane got to her feet. ‘I’ll go and fetch the duffs for you, and then I’m going to change. Meet me in the hut in twenty minutes.’
Glenys thought of saying she would skip the pudding and go with her friend, but changed her mind when Jane plonked two helpings of duff before her and whisked away her empty tin plate. Treacle duff was Glenys’s favourite of all the cookhouse’s rather uninspired puddings, so she seized her spoon and began to wield it with all possible speed. The sergeant was a kindly man, who got on well with all his drivers; it would not be fair to keep him waiting. She scraped the second plate clean, and hurried to the hut where Jane awaited her. At lightning speed, she changed into her skirt, rubbed a duster across her neat brown boots, gave her hair in its curly bob a couple of taps with her hairbrush and then raised her eyebrows at her friend. ‘Ready?’ she said. ‘Do you know, I’ve been giving the matter some thought and I believe it might be a very good thing if we changed our trade. I enjoyed driving at first, but it’s become pretty humdrum, wouldn’t you say?’