Under a Wartime Sky

by Liz Trenow

  Twenty minutes later, both were splendidly coiffed. Marcia produced from her washbag a range of lipsticks, eyeshadows, mascara and face powders, which she chose with care and proceeded to apply to Kath’s face with the expertise of a qualified beautician.

  ‘My mother was a great society beauty,’ she explained. ‘I used to sit at her dressing table watching her every move, learning it by heart.’

  ‘That’s a lovely memory.’

  ‘Actually it isn’t, not really.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was always on edge, because I thought that if I was perfectly behaved and didn’t say a word, Mother would want to stay at home with me. But it never worked. She would put on her latest satin number, twirl in front of the mirror and ask me to tell her she was beautiful before leaving me with Nanny. For days, sometimes weeks on end. I haven’t been able to bear the smell of Chanel No. 5 ever since.’

  Kath felt suddenly grateful. She’d thought her own upbringing dull and unadventurous, her family boring. They would never be able to afford great luxuries; Ma would never wear silk dresses or posh perfumes. Her parents had gone out to work, but there had always been other family members nearby to look after the children. In her memory, everyone was kind to one another.

  ‘It got better once I was sent off to boarding school,’ Marcia said.

  ‘Weren’t you terribly homesick?’

  ‘At first, but then, everyone is. After a while you make friends and it’s a good laugh.’

  ‘I never spent a single night away from home, not until I signed up,’ Kath said. She recalled Vic’s astonishment when she’d told him.

  ‘You’re very fortunate,’ he’d said wistfully. ‘I’ve never really known what home is, or where it is. I’ve lived here longer than I ever lived in India, and my home there was sold when my mother died. My father calls England home, but Tunbridge Wells will never feel anything like home to me.’

  Marcia put away her make-up, zipped the bag and stashed it away in her trunk.

  ‘Isn’t it time for a tipple? I’m going to introduce you to the joys of Martini, and then we’re going to dance the night away.’

  ‘It’s a seven o’clock call in the morning.’

  ‘Who cares?’

  ‘I’m Donald,’ he shouted over the band. ‘Would you do me the honour?’

  It was perfectly thrilling, being whirled around the dance floor by a handsome blond-haired officer. He might not be very tall – about the same height as Kath – but he was a terrific dancer, and he held her so expertly that it hardly seemed to matter that she didn’t know the difference between a waltz and a quickstep. Two large Martinis had left her feeling more carefree than she had in months. This was more like it.

  As the dance ended, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  ‘Kath Motts?’

  As she turned and recognised the face, her stomach sank. ‘Nancy? What on earth?’

  ‘I could ask the same.’

  ‘But . . . it’s odd, meeting you so far from home.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Nancy leaned forward and whispered in her ear. ‘Which is why we should bury the hatchet, don’t you think?’

  ‘Is this young woman bothering you?’ Donald interjected.

  ‘Er . . . no, it’s fine. But thank you,’ Kath said, as the band struck up another number. ‘She’s an acquaintance from home. Can I come and find you in a few minutes?’

  In the bar Nancy took out a silver cigarette case, offered one to Kath, who refused, then lit her own with a matching silver lighter. Trophies from some poor besotted officer, Kath thought bitterly. Nancy looked different in uniform, and without her usual heavy make-up; her hair had darkened and lost its sheen, and grey shadows ringed her eyes.

  She took a long drag and exhaled, batting away the cloud of smoke. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  Kath hesitated, thinking of Donald, and then decided that he’d wait. ‘I’ve just been introduced to Martini.’

  ‘Two Martinis it is, then.’

  They took their drinks to a corner table and spent a few moments in small talk. Nancy lit a second cigarette and expertly exhaled a procession of smoke rings.

  ‘Look, Kath, what I said was inexcusable. Both times. You and your brother didn’t deserve it.’

  ‘Let’s forget it.’ It all seemed such a long time ago; it barely mattered any more.

  ‘I was feeling very sorry for myself and hitting out at everyone.’

  ‘That soldier?’

  ‘Oh, him. That was nothing.’ Nancy paused. ‘No, it was life at home. My parents, or rather my father. He was going off the rails.’

  Kath waited.

  ‘He’d been laid off because of his drinking, so he decided the remedy was to drink some more.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Nancy.’

  ‘Which is why I’m here. I just had to get away. The first couple of months were ruddy awful, but this is a bit better, isn’t it?’ She glanced around at the bar, filled with men in uniform. ‘Just my cup of tea.’

  They laughed.

  ‘Your brother is a brave man,’ Nancy said, draining her glass. ‘They all are, those pilots. We owe them our lives.’

  ‘We cross our fingers every day. No news is good news.’

  Neither spoke of Captain Burrows. It was probably best that way, Kath thought, as they finished their drinks and wandered back into the dancehall. Across the floor of whirling couples she could see Donald dancing with a rather glamorous woman several inches taller than himself, auburn hair swinging to her shoulders.

  She looked again. It was Marcia, but she didn’t honestly care – at that moment the world seemed a gilded place, her footsteps gliding along the path back to the barracks. But when she lay down, the room was spinning dangerously. She drank a glass of water and swallowed down an aspirin for the headache, which would soon turn into the worst hangover of her life.

  The eighteen girls of Course 82, undergoing intensive training in the theory and practice of radio direction finding, were constantly reminded that although they were allowed to let their hair down from time to time, their main task was to work hard and pass their exams.

  If you failed you would be declared FT – which meant that further training was needed – or, the greatest ignominy of all, CT, meaning ‘cease training’, in which case you would be sent off to become a driver or a batwoman instead. There was another incentive to pass: on completing the training they would be given a whole week’s leave before being posted, which could be anywhere around the country.

  At first, Kath feared that the other girls would all be cleverer than her. But the science was so far beyond anything taught in school that they were all, in effect, complete beginners, and she soon discovered that she could grasp the principles quite quickly. Even so, she was careful to revise each lesson at the end of the day to make sure she fully understood before they moved on to a new topic.

  Only now was she beginning to appreciate the scale and ambition of the operation in which they were to play a small part, with its vast network of transmitting and receiving masts that linked all along the south coast of England, and up the east coast as far as Hull. She was awed by the thought of the legions of men and women working to track the movements and co-ordinating the responses of fleets of ships and squadrons of fighter and bomber planes in the seas and airspace between the British Isles and the continent.

  Although the operators were mostly hidden away inside concrete bunkers in remote locations, watching signals on fuzzy screens and communicating their information down crackly telephone lines, Kath now felt very much ‘in the thick of it’. She began to understand properly, perhaps for the first time, some of the terrifying realities of war: how alone Britain was, with the Germans nipping at their heels from just across the Channel and thousands of men and women risking their lives each day to fight them off.

  The more she learned, the greater her respect grew for the inventions of Vic and his fellow boffins. She never tired of watching the radar echo from an ai
rcraft when it first appeared as a tiny blip in the noise on the cathode ray tube, and then grew slowly into a big deflection as the aircraft came nearer. This strange new ability to ‘see’ things at great distances, through clouds or darkness, seemed like a very special power – a magical extension of the usual human senses.

  But this ‘special power’ also brought with it heavy responsibility. Failing to decipher the dots and squiggles on the tube correctly could cost lives; not only the lives of British airmen, but also those civilians whose homes and factories lay beneath the path of the German bombers.

  The need for complete secrecy was impressed upon them at every turn. RDF developments were a ‘cat and mouse game’, they were told; the smallest leak of information would hand the advantage back to the enemy, with disastrous consequences. No one, however near or dear, was to be given any information about the stations or their operations – not by word of mouth and especially not in writing.

  Enemy agents were all around, they were told: in person, tapping telephones and intercepting letters. She shuddered to recall how naive she had been that day, snooping on the Manor with her binoculars. Little wonder they had treated her with such severity. Even whispers could cost lives. They were told that rumours had been designed and circulated, just as Mark had hinted, to lead the general public into believing RDF masts were actually transmitting some sort of ‘magic eye’ or death ray, and that the success of British attacks was due to the superiority of their planes and the skills of the pilots. Someone asked about carrots improving the eyesight of flyers. That, too, was propaganda, the instructor confirmed.

  Two days after the dance, Kath received a note from Donald:

  There’s a quiz night at the NAAFI this evening. We could do with some more brains on our team (as well as beauty)! Can you join us?

  She showed the letter to Marcia. ‘Has he invited you, too?’

  ‘Donald? Who’s he?’

  ‘The fellow you danced with the other night.’

  ‘Which fellow?’

  ‘Blond, good dancer. Shortish.’

  ‘Oh, him. Made me feel like a giant. No, I don’t think he was interested in me. Anyway, I’m such a dimbo at that sort of thing. You go, have fun.’

  To her surprise, Kath enjoyed the competitiveness of the quiz. She contributed correct answers to several questions that stumped the others and helped the team take second place, winning a free round of drinks from the bar.

  Donald invited her to the dance the following weekend. Dancing with him was like flying, she decided. Her footwork was improving, and she loved the exhilaration and freedom of allowing the music to transport her away from harsh reality. This time, as they walked home, he leaned in for a kiss, and she soon discovered that he was something of an expert at that too. Like Billy Bishop, his hands seemed to roam everywhere at the same time. It was flattering and thrilling to be the object of such passion, and she felt her own desire for him growing.

  One evening, after they had drunk more cocktails than usual, Donald said he had something special to tell her, in private. For a fleeting moment she wondered if he might produce a ring.

  In the shadows at the back of the NAAFI, he pulled her to him and kissed her. ‘You are the most delicious girl . . .’ he said, pressing the length of his body against her. ‘I wish we had more time to get to know each other.’

  ‘More time?’ Desire scrambled her brain.

  ‘I’m due to be posted next week,’ he said, nuzzling her ear. ‘Who knows when we’ll see each other again?’

  ‘Oh, Donald.’ This was a blow, she had to admit it. ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘This could be our last chance,’ he whispered. As he kissed her again, even more passionately, she felt herself weakening. ‘I’ve got the key to an empty hut. Come and spend the night with me.’

  She didn’t exactly say yes, but allowed herself to be steered along the darkened paths, past her own hut and on into the night. This is it, she said to herself, heart pounding. The big moment.

  They reached the empty hut, and Donald tried to turn the key in the lock.

  ‘Ruddy thing, I think it’s rusted,’ he said, shoving the door with his shoulder. He struggled some more with the key, took out his handkerchief for a better grip and, with two hands, gave it a strong wrench. The key broke, hitting the ground with a small clink. He cursed loudly and fell to his knees, scrabbling in the dark.

  By the time he looked up, Kath was already walking away. Sobered by the chill in the air, she had realised that what she felt for Donald was not love, nor anything like it.

  The following day, she replied to Vic’s letter. She’d been putting it off, wondering whether there was really any future in their friendship. She recalled their conversations with fondness, but it all felt so long ago. Their backgrounds could not be more different. He was older, more serious, shy and socially awkward. But was any of that an excuse not to meet him?

  Dear Vic,

  You guessed right, of course, about where I’m based.

  Four weeks into technical training, my head is crammed full of facts and figures but I’m enjoying the learning and managing to have fun too. The more I learn and understand, the more I respect what you and your colleagues have been so busy working on. My biggest fear now is that I won’t be up to it and will end up failing and having to resign myself to slogging away at some menial task for the duration – not what I signed up for!

  You are right about the buses, too. They go every two hours. It’d be lovely to explore the city with you. I get leave every other Sunday.

  Fondest regards,

  Kath

  Dear Kath,

  Great news. I’m so pleased we can meet. I can manage the Sunday after next (20th) if that works for you?

  We could meet for coffee at the White Hart, say around eleven o’clock, and then spend the day exploring the city. I’d like to buy you lunch and if your bus runs late enough we could end with high tea. What a wonderful English institution that is. For a long time I thought the ‘high’ meant it was for posh people, or perhaps only served in places like a roof terrace. It took me a while to work out that besides the cuppa you also get the full spread of sandwiches and cakes!

  Do let me know whether this is possible and I will make my arrangements around that. I am so looking forward to seeing you again. I miss our chats. I’m sure that the study won’t be as difficult as you fear and you’ll pass first time round.

  Your friend,

  Vic

  22

  As the bus approached and the three towers of Lincoln Cathedral came into view, white stone lit by the sunshine like sentinels against the flat countryside, Kath’s stomach fluttered with nerves.

  It had been nearly three years since they’d last seen each other on the day after war broke out, and so much had happened since then. She felt like a completely different person, had travelled the breadth of the country, befriended – or at least found ways to get along with – people from all walks of life, learned so much about the war and the way it was being fought. She’d grown physically strong and mentally confident. Somehow, her uniform actually fitted properly these days and she even felt quite smart in it. The studies were going well.

  Despite persistent questioning from Marcia, she’d admitted only to meeting ‘an old friend’; nevertheless, that morning Kath had been forced to submit to the full beauty treatment. Her hair had been rolled, dried and styled, her skin exfoliated and moisturised before the application of foundation, powder and eye make-up. She’d tried on three silk blouses before choosing the pale green – ‘matches your eyes’ – and she was wearing a pair of silk stockings and several dabs of Vol de Nuit perfume.

  ‘Well, look at you now, Kath, all grown up,’ she’d whispered to herself in the mirror. ‘I wonder if he’ll still like this new me?’ Then another, less welcome thought: three years had passed for Vic as well, three years of working with different people in different parts of the country. If I’m different, surely he’ll have change
d too?

  She need not have worried. As she entered the hotel lobby, she knew him instantly by the set of his shoulders and the shock of black hair. He turned, as though he’d known she was there even before she’d said a word, and smiled. It was awkward at first, and absurdly formal. They shook hands.

  ‘Kathleen Motts! Is it really you? You look wonderful.’

  She laughed. ‘Did I look so awful before?’

  Embarrassment clouded his face. ‘I’m sorry, I always seem to put my foot in it. It was meant as a compliment.’

  ‘I was only teasing,’ she said quickly. ‘Thank you for the compliment. I’ve got a friend who’s a whizz with hair and make-up.’

  ‘Then it’s my turn to be flattered. Now, what shall we have? Tea or coffee? Teacakes or biscuits?’

  After that, conversation flowed so readily that it was easy to forget they’d ever been parted. When they’d finished tea, Vic suggested they go for a walk. Away from prying ears, they could talk more freely. She amused him with stories of her initial training and the postings in Whitstable and then Devon, and he described, in guarded language, the developments his new team had been making, initially in Dundee and then in Stanmore, expanding and refining the applications of radio direction finding. It felt so good to learn more about his research at last, now that she was part of the RDF ‘club’ and could actually understand the language. Well, some of it.

  ‘I don’t want to embarrass you,’ she said, ‘but now that I know a bit more about what you and your colleagues were getting up to at Bawdsey, I just want to say that I think you have achieved the most extraordinary thing ever. If anything can protect us, your inventions will.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you, Kath. Although it’s Watson-Watt who should get the credit.’

  ‘But it’s personal for me. My brother’s been flying for nearly four years now, and although he rarely talks about it, he says what he calls the “magic eye” has saved him more than once. And that is thanks to you and your team, Vic.’