by Pam Weaver
Dorcas Cooper was part of a hush-hush thing called Radar, based on High Salvington. She wasn’t allowed to talk about it (the Official Secrets Act and all that), but she spent her time up there counting aircraft. When Lillian registered, there was a chronic local shortage on the railway. No fewer than five local station staff had been called up to be part of the British Expeditionary Force, so Lillian was told to report to Worthing, where she began work as a railway porter. She had a uniform consisting of a jacket with the metal initials ‘SR’, for ‘Southern Railway’, on the lapel and a peaked cap, and for the first time in her life, she wore trousers.
It was hard going at first. She had to load heavy mailbags onto the station trolleys and wheel them to the train. There was usually someone inside the train to help, but there were occasions when she had to propel them through the doors of the waiting train by herself. She also had passenger luggage to stow on the train, and it was the porter’s job to make sure all the train doors were slammed shut before the guard could blow his whistle and wave his green flag. Only then could the train move off.
Another one of the porter’s jobs was to keep the platforms clean, so in between trains, Lillian swept the concourse and emptied the bins. It was an endless task because the soot got everywhere, but Lillian took a pride in her work. Not only were the platforms spotless but she even went to the trouble of wiping the enamel advertisements as well. The plaques extolling the virtues of Rinso washing powder, Cut Golden Bar tobacco and Camp coffee had never gleamed so brightly.
The trains were always busy. The Railway Executive Committee’s poster campaign ‘Is your journey really necessary?’ fell on many a deaf ear. If the trains weren’t packed with troops being moved all over the country, they reunited families or sent people to new places of work many miles from home. Despite the noise, the dirt and the hard work, Lillian loved being part of a giant moving machine. In fact, she often sang as she worked.
‘You’ve got a nice little voice there, Mrs Harris,’ Mr Rawlings, the stationmaster, said on one occasion. ‘You ought to be on the stage.’
Although she worked as hard as ever, Lillian didn’t feel like singing today. In spite of her resolve not to, she was still worrying about Flora. It was already afternoon and she had been separated from her daughter for almost twenty-four hours. Was she in pain? Lillian was willing to bet that all her lovely curls had gone on one side of her head, and even though it was bandaged, it was probably sore. The burns on her shoulder and body were covered in cream. They weren’t so serious. The burn on her head was much worse. Would Flora keep the bandage on? After all, she was only three. Lillian glanced up at the station clock. Twenty past three. Dorcas would be with her now.
The news that a plane had crashed in Lyndhurst Road was the talk of the day and rumours flew.
‘I heard that the Germans were machine-gunning people as it came down,’ said Iris Keegan, the woman who ran the station cafe.
The doors to the canteen were wide open on account of the heat, so Lillian, who was checking the level of sand in the fire buckets, couldn’t help overhearing.
‘They say a couple of Canadian soldiers were killed,’ said a passenger.
Lillian frowned and made a mental note to ask Woody when she met him at the dance on Saturday week if he had known any of the poor chaps.
‘One of them Germans was hanging in a tree by his parachute,’ someone else said.
‘And two girls who were working for the doctor,’ said Betty Shrimpton, who worked in the ticket office and was on her break, ‘jumped from the upstairs window.’
Iris poured her customer another cup of tea. ‘My neighbour told me that one of them Canadian soldiers put his hand up her knickers,’ the customer said.
‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Iris. ‘Always strike me as a bit gung-ho, that lot.’
Lillian suddenly saw red. ‘That’s not true,’ she said, coming into the cafe. ‘Those boys saved her life.’
Looking around at her audience, Iris laughed sardonically. ‘I bet he did.’
‘They jolly well did!’ Lillian said crossly. ‘Those girls would have burned to death if it wasn’t for those men.’
‘And what makes you the expert?’ Betty asked.
‘Because I live in the next street,’ Lillian retorted. ‘I was there. I saw what happened, and you’ve no right to cast such aspersions.’
Iris threw some empty plates into the sink with a clatter. ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. I was only repeating what I heard,’ she said haughtily.
‘Well, you should make sure of your facts first,’ Lillian retorted.
‘Mrs Harris.’ The stationmaster’s sharp tone right behind her made Lillian jump. ‘When you’ve finished with that, come to my office.’
Lillian stared after him as he strode back down the platform.
‘Sounds like you’re in for a rollicking,’ joked another passenger, coming out of the cafe.
Lillian tossed her head and cleared up her things. She wasn’t going to back down, but the passenger might be right. She shouldn’t have sounded off like that in front of them. Mr Rawlings certainly sounded very serious. Maybe she’d done something else that was wrong. Her mind raced over all the tasks she’d completed this morning, but she couldn’t think of anything out of the ordinary. In fact, she merited a gold star! It was only as she topped up the sand in the last fire bucket that it occurred to her that it might have something to do with Flora. Her heart went cold. But how would Mr Rawlings know that her daughter was in hospital? Apart from her set-to with Iris, she hadn’t even mentioned what had happened the previous day. She didn’t want to talk about it. It would only encourage endless questions, which was why she hadn’t bothered to correct Iris about the machine-gunning. Nobody had got shot. She caught her breath. Had the hospital rung the station? Were they trying to contact her? If they were, then something must be badly wrong. She virtually threw her cleaning box into the store cupboard; then locking the door with a trembling hand, she ran to the stationmaster’s office.
Back in the cafe, Iris wiped down the counter with her dishcloth. ‘Stuck-up little madam,’ she said as she watched Lillian hurrying down the platform. ‘She had no right to talk to me like that. I hope he gives her the ruddy sack.’
CHAPTER 7
Stella made her way towards the women’s ward of the hospital. Having spent her day starting and restarting snatches of music for Mrs Hurrup-Gregory’s little dancers in the ballet class, she was feeling rather tired. They had met in a hall along the Richmond Road, five different classes of girls ranging from three to fifteen years old. Mrs Hurrup-Gregory had a reputation for being a firm but fair woman and had a list of achievements and awards as long as her arm. Stella had been both impressed and full of admiration for her skill in getting twenty or more unruly children to behave so beautifully. Unfortunately, by the end of the morning, Stella had a backache from sitting in a constant draught, though that didn’t stop her wanting to visit Flora as she had promised.
When she reached the ward, the bed occupied by Flora the night before had another patient in it.
‘She’s gone to the kiddies’ ward,’ said a pale-faced staff nurse when Stella asked. ‘Straight down the corridor and to the right.’
Stella headed off, but just as she was passing the sluice room, the door burst open and Nurse Stokes came out. Looking around furtively, she pushed something into Stella’s hand and whispered out of the corner of her mouth, ‘I saw what Sister did. I found it in the bin.’
Leaving Stella slightly confused, she hurried away. Stella looked down. She had a paper bag in her hand. She was about to call out or open the sluice-room door when the thwump of the swing doors leading to the ward told her she was no longer alone in the corridor. She turned to see the ward sister coming towards her. Stella froze to the spot, but not before she had swung the bag behind her back.
‘Yes?’ said the sister accusingly. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Oh . . . er,’ Stella fumbled. ‘I came t
o see Flora Harris, but I was told she’d been moved.’
‘The children’s ward is straight down the corridor and you’ll find it on the right,’ said the sister, repeating what Stella had already been told. ‘We moved her there because she wouldn’t stop crying and it disturbed the other patients.’
Stella didn’t move.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Er . . . no. No. Thank you, Sister.’
Stella turned on her heel, doing her best to keep the paper bag out of sight.
The children’s ward was a fairly recent addition to Worthing Hospital. It had been opened in 1939 by the Princess Royal, Princess Mary, the only daughter of King George V and Queen Mary, but the event had been largely overshadowed by the outbreak of war. The Princess Royal was well respected and liked, and since that time had been commended for dedicating so much time to her war work in addition to her role as the controller commandant of the ATS.
The sound of little voices led Stella to the door, but when she peered through the glass, she could see Flora already had visitors. Dorcas and Pip sat either side of the child’s bed. Planning to leave them to it, Stella took a step back, but Dorcas had spotted her and stood up. A second later, the door opened.
‘How nice of you to come,’ said Dorcas.
‘I knew Lillian was working,’ Stella explained, ‘and that you intended to come, but I thought just in case . . .’
‘You go on in,’ said Dorcas. ‘I’ll wait outside for a bit.’
‘No, no,’ said Stella. ‘How is she?’
‘She’s all right, although she’s been a bit upset because they’ve lost her toy,’ said Dorcas. ‘They think they’ll take the bandage off tomorrow and then she can go home.’
‘Home tomorrow? That’s good, then.’ Stella turned to go. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. Give Lillian my regards, and I hope Flora makes a good recovery.’
‘Thanks for coming,’ Dorcas called after her, but Stella gave her a dismissive wave.
Outside in the hospital grounds, Stella opened the paper bag. Inside, she found a toy rabbit, all sooty and badly in need of a wash. One arm was virtually severed, and some of the stuffing had fallen out, but she recognized it at once. It was Mr Floppy. She knew he was being sorely missed by Flora, but Stella could hardly return him in his current state. He was covered in old tea leaves from the ward kitchen and he smelled awful.
What with everything that had happened, Stella had a sudden urge to visit her mother, so rather than bike straight home, she rode north of the town. Phyllis Bailey lived on Grove Road in Broadwater, where she was a music teacher. Before the war, her mother had rattled around her large house on her own, but now it was full of Canadian officers. Mrs Bailey kept two downstairs rooms and the kitchen for herself, while they had taken over the rest of the house. Although she welcomed the company, it had been a struggle for her to hear male voices again. There hadn’t been a man in Knightsbridge House since Stella’s father had died, in 1923, but now, at any given time, there were at least six of them, twelve or more when they invited others round.
Having so many people billeted there did, however, have its advantages. It seemed like the Canadians ditched far more food in their bases than Phyllis and Stella were given as a weekly ration. The men knew that people like Phyllis were proud, so nothing was said, but every now and then, a pound of butter or a bag of sugar would appear in her larder. The men ate at their base camp, so Phyllis understood that anything she found had been deliberately left as a gift. They were tactful – it was never too much so as to be embarrassing, but it was always welcome. Phyllis shared her bounty with her daughter and a few close friends, but she was careful. The authorities took a dim view of anything that smacked of black marketeering and the penalties were high.
Mrs Bailey was listening to the radio when her daughter walked in. ‘Stella, darling, what a lovely surprise!’
They made tea in the kitchen and Stella carried the tray back into her mother’s sitting room and sat down.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ said Phyllis. ‘You look a little pale.’
Her mother listened with a horrified expression on her face as Stella related the events of the night before.
‘Thank God you’re all right,’ she said. ‘Have you eaten?’
Stella shook her head.
‘Then you’re to sit there while I get something. The boys brought me a tin of salmon last week. I can’t remember the last time I ate real salmon. I was going to save it for a special occasion, but I think tonight we both need spoiling, don’t you?’
The stationmaster was sitting behind his desk. Lillian had entered the room at the behest of his gruff ‘Come,’ but he didn’t look up. She had butterflies in her stomach, and her anxiety had made her breathless, but she knew better than to interrupt what he was doing. She stood to attention while he finished writing a memo.
The room was one of ordered chaos. Neat piles of papers on the desk left only an area the size of a sheet of foolscap paper to work on. Mr Rawlings had a black Bakelite telephone at his left hand and a framed picture of his grandchildren at his right. She knew he missed seeing them now that he had been brought out of retirement to take the place of another man who had received his call-up papers. A row of pencils, pens and an inkwell separated him from the front of the desk. On the wall behind where he sat, several bulldog clips nailed to the wall held different sheets of paper, lists of various descriptions: staff rotas, details of railway shipments, memos from head office and a calendar. Even the filing cabinet squeezed in next to his chair groaned under the weight of files on the top.
Lillian shifted her feet awkwardly as she waited, but Mr Rawlings wasn’t a man to be hurried.
Eventually, he looked up, as if aware of her presence for the first time.
‘Ah, Mrs Harris,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘I’m glad of this opportunity to raise a few points with you.’
From his relaxed manner, she decided this was nothing to do with Flora, but Lillian’s mind still went into overdrive. She’d obviously done something he didn’t approve of.
‘There’s a matter we need to discuss.’
He wasn’t going to sack her, was he?
‘Please, sit down.’
There was a small chair by the wall. Lillian pulled it in front of the desk and lowered herself onto it. Mr Rawlings pressed his fingertips together. ‘I have been very impressed with your hard work and commitment,’ he began. ‘You have applied yourself well to your work, and you have certainly raised the standard.’ He smiled. ‘People are always complimenting me on the cleanliness and outward appearance of the station,’ he continued.
Lillian began to relax. Coming from him, this was high praise indeed.
‘You do your tasks with cheerfulness and dedication.’
The unease Lillian had felt when she’d walked into his office began to creep back. He was overloading her with compliments now. There was a ‘but’ coming. She could feel it in her bones.
‘However . . .’
Lillian held her breath.
‘. . . life never stands still,’ he continued, ‘and in these difficult days, we all have to embrace change.’
Lillian stared at him with a blank expression.
Mr Rawlings cleared his throat. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it,’ he went on, ‘I have been allocated another worker.’
Lillian’s heart sank. So it was the sack. What was she going to do now? Since Gordon had been incarcerated by the Germans, his army pay had decreased. The government deemed that since he was no longer a fighting man, they didn’t need to pay him a full wage, and subsequently, Lillian, along with all other wives of prisoners of war, was expected to manage on much less. It seemed grossly unfair. She was not only without a breadwinner but she had a child to support too. This job had been a godsend: close to home, with varied shift patterns, which meant that some days she could spend a lot of time with Flora, and a reasonable wage as well. Of course, she didn’t get as much as
a man, even though she was doing exactly the same job, but at least she got more than a shop girl.
‘Mr Knight, the new man,’ Mr Rawlings went on, ‘has lost the sight in one eye. War injury. He’s also subject to bad headaches, so he can’t do what he used to. I had to think carefully about what he could manage.’
‘But you think he can manage to do my job very well,’ said Lillian bitterly.
‘Precisely,’ said Mr Rawlings, clearly delighted by Lillian’s understanding attitude.
‘And I get the sack,’ said Lillian dully.
‘Oh no, no, Mrs Harris,’ cried Mr Rawlings. ‘Far from it.’
Puzzled, Lillian frowned.
‘The post that was offered to Mr Knight,’ Mr Rawlings continued, ‘was driving the railway goods van, and having seen his predicament, I can’t possibly ask him to do that.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Lillian.
‘It would be something completely different,’ said Mr Rawlings, ‘but I’m sure you could rise to the challenge.’
Lillian moved to the edge of her seat. ‘You’re asking me to drive the van?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Mr Rawlings. ‘As you know, there are two deliveries a day. Whatever is in the van goes out first thing in the morning. Then you should be back at lunchtime ready to collect the afternoon deliveries. Well, I don’t need to tell you, do I? You know the routine.’
Lillian was speechless.
‘As soon as the afternoon parcels are gone, you can go home,’ said Mr Rawlings. ‘So what do you think?’
‘I think it sounds like a fantastic job,’ Lillian blurted out. ‘When do I start?’
Mr Rawlings consulted his roster. ‘The present driver has a few weeks to go,’ he said. ‘He’s been called up. Mr Knight starts tomorrow, so I thought you might like to show him the ropes for the rest of this week and next, and start the following Monday with the current driver.’