by Liz Trenow
He tried to speak, but she held up her hand. ‘No, let me finish. What I wanted to say is . . .’ The words came out in a rush. ‘I am so proud of you.’ She looked into his eyes, disconcerted to see them welling with tears, and reached out to take his hand. ‘I really mean it. I don’t think any of us would still be here without you.’
‘It wasn’t only me.’
‘But what you achieved, you and your team . . .’
He went quiet, and she feared she’d said too much.
‘Vic?’
‘Oh, sorry. I was in a dream.’
‘A good one?’
‘Good and bad. I was remembering my friend Johnnie. The one who died in the flying boat accident. You met me on the Cliff Walk that terrible day.’
‘I remember. You were in quite a state.’
Vic sighed. ‘We’d worked so well together, and I almost gave up after that. Couldn’t see the point. But at the funeral I talked to his son, a lovely young lad, who said his father had told him we were doing our best to make the world safe for the next generation, and that I must to carry on, even without him.’
‘What wise words. I’m so very glad you did.’
He squeezed her fingers and they walked on in silence, hand in hand.
Vic had booked lunch in the hotel dining room, and a table in the window. Dear Vic – nothing left to chance. The room, comfortably old-fashioned with faded furnishings and carpets that had seen better days, reminded them both of Bawdsey Manor.
They ate well – surprisingly well, considering the restrictions on supplies: omelette and chips for him, roast chicken for her. They even ordered glasses of wine. Vic seemed to know which colour went best with which food, and ordered a different, sweeter version to go with their dessert of apple crumble with custard. It was fun being with someone so confident around such sophisticated matters. She began to relax and enjoy herself properly. She’d almost forgotten: this was what normal life was like.
Kath was entirely unprepared for the astonishing size of the Cathedral. From the outside it was impressive enough, but the interior, with its vast columns reaching upwards supporting a ceiling criss-crossed with what Vic called vaulting, took her breath away.
‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ he whispered into the silence.
‘I’ve never been very religious, but I can see how a place like this could make you believe in God,’ she whispered.
‘Hindu temples are so different,’ he said. ‘Dark and smoky from all the incense and candles, and noisy with people chattering and children playing.’ He pointed to a carving at the top of a column. ‘That’s more the sort of thing you’d see in an Indian temple.’
She could see the carved face of a grinning imp, oddly out of place in the otherwise respectful piety of the place.
‘He’s quite famous,’ Vic said. ‘Apparently he was causing so much trouble, the other angels decided to make an example of him and turned him into stone.’
‘What a mean lot.’
A little further on, Vic went to speak to one of the clerics, and returned looking disappointed.
‘What’s wrong, Vic?’
‘Ruddy war spoils everything,’ he muttered. ‘I wanted to show you the copy of the Magna Carta, but he says it’s been removed for safekeeping along with all their other valuables.’
‘Why’s it so important?’
‘It’s one of only two known copies in the country, and it’s seven hundred years old. All our laws are based on it: the rights of individuals, the right to justice and the right to a fair trial. It’s one of the best things the English brought to India. That and trains.’
‘Crikey. I never knew all of that.’
‘And it’s those freedoms we’re fighting to protect,’ he said, with a small sigh.
‘We’ll just have to come back after the war to see it.’
‘Together, I hope. Now, are you feeling strong?’
‘Strong?’
‘Three hundred steps kind of strong?’
‘After all that square-bashing I could climb a mountain.’
Once they’d gathered their breath at the top of the tower, they could see for miles in every direction. The sun’s rays sliced between gaps in the gathering clouds, illuminating the patchwork of flat fenland fields below.
‘It reminds me of those religious paintings,’ Kath said. ‘When they’re trying to paint God’s divine light.’
‘I don’t think God’s got much to do with it,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it’s just science: the rain falls, the sun comes out and evaporates it, clouds form and grow so they can’t hold the moisture any more, so it rains. And that lot over there,’ he said, pointing to the tallest clouds of all, lined up to the horizon like a fleet of ships, ‘are the ones our flyers fear the most.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘They bring thunderstorms.’ Even now, they could see stripes of rain falling from the dark underbelly of the clouds to the earth below. At that moment, they both noticed a rumbling noise. A deep vibration at first, and then louder.
‘Is that thunder?’
‘Doesn’t sound right.’
The sound was constant and growing.
‘Look.’ A shadow beneath the clouds grew larger until they could see that it was actually made out of dozens of individual dots. They were planes, squadron upon squadron of them, too far away to identify at first.
‘It’s our boys,’ Vic said. ‘Bombers setting off on a raid.’
As they watched the deadly machinery of war gathering in the sky, the magic of that golden afternoon evaporated. In four hours it would be night-time over Germany, and the planes would unleash their cargo of high explosives onto enemy factories, army bases and airfields. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds or thousands of civilians, including women and children, would die, and some of those crews would not come home.
What if Mark was piloting one of those planes, even now disappearing into the haze? Kath shivered. Vic took off his jacket and placed it round her shoulders. She snuggled into it, enjoying its weight and warmth, the smell of him.
‘Come on, let’s go and have a cup of tea,’ he said.
‘Thank you for a lovely day, Vic,’ she said, as they walked back to the bus station. Holding hands somehow seemed to have become natural now. She’d noticed some of the townspeople giving second glances, and wondered why. It was only much later she realised that it would have been unusual to see a brown man hand in hand with a white girl. But what did she care? It was none of their business.
‘Would you like to do it again?’
‘Depends where I’m posted. I’ll know in two weeks.’
‘Any idea?’
‘Could be anywhere. But I hope there’s a bit of life to the place, at least.’
‘I suppose you’ve been enjoying Cranwell? Their dances are the stuff of RAF legend.’
‘I thought you hated dancing.’
‘I do, but I just can’t bear the thought of you having fun without me.’
‘Shall I lock myself into a nunnery, then?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, please. If you don’t mind.’
‘But I have my work to do.’
‘You can watch a diode screen in a habit and veil, surely?’
As they reached the bus station the bus rumbled into view, pulling to a halt with a sharp squeal of its brakes and a cloud of oily smoke.
He turned to her, putting a warm hand to her cheek. ‘It’s been wonderful to see you, Kath,’ he said. ‘You really are the best thing that’s happened to me in a very, very long time, you know. I hope we can meet again soon.’
‘I’ll write when I know where,’ she said. Other passengers were already getting on board.
This time it was a real kiss, combined sweetness and sorrow almost frightening in its intensity. This might be their last chance for a very long time.
As she climbed onto the bus she felt the loss of him already. Marcia crept along the gangway and took a seat next to her.
‘What are you do
ing here? I didn’t know you were coming to Lincoln today?’
‘Buying these.’ Marcia pulled from a carrier bag a smart woollen scarf and leather gloves. ‘Ready for winter. How was your date, by the way?’
‘Date?’
‘Spies are everywhere, don’t you know? You didn’t let on that your beau was an Indian prince. How terribly exotic.’
‘He’s not a prince, idiot. He’s just got an Indian mother, that’s all,’ Kath whispered. ‘He’s English as they come otherwise. And he’s not my beau. He’s just a friend.’
‘Sorry, doesn’t wash, sweetie. You were definitely kissing.’
‘A peck, that was all.’
It wasn’t really all, though, as she was beginning to admit to herself. She was beginning to fall for him.
It was the last week of their course, consumed by frantic revision, practical tests and written examinations. There were papers on the theory of radio direction finding and the practice of its operation, with simulated exercises to test their nerves in ‘real-life’ situations, which were of course entirely silly and made Kath and Marcia giggle.
All too soon they found themselves sitting in the anteroom to the officers’ quarters, once more awaiting results that would decide their fate for the foreseeable future. Although she’d acquitted herself reasonably well in the practical tests, Kath was still nervous and not entirely certain of her performance in the theory papers. So when she learned that she had passed with flying colours, it was all she could do to stop herself whooping out loud.
She stood and saluted, before shaking hands with each of the officers.
‘Well done, ACW2 Motts,’ they said. ‘And good luck. You will take a week’s leave from next Monday. This envelope contains details of where and when you are to report on Monday week, and a travel warrant as necessary.’
Back in the barracks, Marcia had already opened hers.
‘So . . .?’
‘Just my ruddy luck,’ she said. ‘I’m being shunted to the back of beyond. Never heard of the place.’
‘Where?’
‘They call it RAF Bawdsey.’ She pronounced it ‘bowd-sey’.
‘Heavens! Bawdsey Manor? In Suffolk? They must be letting the WAAFs back. I live near there. I actually worked there, before the war.’
‘Worked? What as?’
‘Assistant chef. Oh goodness, Marcia. I’m so jealous. I so want to be posted there, to be close to my family, see my friends. There’s not a lot of social life. But it’s such a beautiful place.’
‘Where are you going, then?’
‘Here, you do it.’ As she passed the envelope over, Kath’s hands were shaking.
Marcia ripped it open and looked up with a smile. ‘Someone up there’s looking after you, you lucky blighter.’
The words slowly came into focus. ‘Where the hell is RAF Bentley Priory?’
‘It’s Stanmore, you ninny. Headquarters of Fighter Command.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘Dowding wants you as his batwoman.’ Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding was a legend, the feared and respected Commander-in-Chief of RAF Fighter Command, the man who had co-ordinated the Battle of Britain. He had also been one of the earliest exponents of RDF, making sure that Robert Watson-Watt got the funding for the first experimental work.
‘No, seriously, whatever would they want with a rookie operator?’
‘I guess you’ll just have to find out.’
Bomber Command was housed in a stately home that must once have been rather grand, but was now covered in ghastly green and brown camouflage paint. The WAAFs were accommodated in forty-bed wooden huts and the shift system meant the place was never free of comings and goings, day and night.
Kath and five other WAAF newcomers were told they were here ‘to observe and learn’, although what this was in preparation for was never made clear. On their first day they were led in pouring rain to a newly constructed concrete bunker called the Operations Block. Entry was through several doors in blast-proof metal and down a rough concrete stairway to a long underground corridor that smelled oppressively of stale sweat and cigarette smoke.
The map in the huge Filter Room was unlike any other Kath had seen. The North Sea, the Channel and areas of Holland, Belgium and France were filled with a spider’s web of wide arcs in a rainbow of colours, showing the coverage of RDF stations and the location of planes and ships, friendly and hostile. Here, WAAFs received reports by telephone from dozens of stations around the coast ready to be ‘filtered’ and verified against other reports before forwarding them to the Operations Rooms down the corridor. There, senior officers decided on RAF and US air force deployments, air-raid warnings, states of readiness at ack-ack gun sites, Observer Corps and barrage balloon stations.
After a couple of hours there was a change of shift, and one of the operators was asked if she could spare a few moments to speak to the new recruits.
‘Any questions?’ she asked.
‘Do you enjoy your work?’
‘Frankly, we’re too tired to think about it much. I’ve been on shift eleven hours and it’s been non-stop. Sometimes we’re following fifty tracks every minute. But I suppose it’s satisfying, knowing we’ve done our bit to help.’ She was very young, possibly only nineteen, Kath estimated, and her face was grey with exhaustion, her hair falling lankly from its bun.
‘Fifty tracks?’
‘There are hundreds, sometimes thousands, of planes and ships out there, as you’ve seen.’
‘Why aren’t there any men doing the plotting?’
She grinned. ‘They’re not quick enough. So we’ve been told.’
‘What do you do when you’re off shift?’
That mirthless laugh again. ‘Eat, wash, try to sleep.’
‘Try?’
‘Often we’re so wound up it’s almost impossible to sleep, wondering what’s happening to the planes we’ve been tracking. Especially when we know people who’re out there.’ Kath’s thoughts turned to Mark. Perhaps that was why he never told them when he was going to be ‘out there’.
‘What’s the social life like?’
‘No such thing,’ she said, shaking her head.
After ten days of ‘observation’, the new recruits were becoming restless.
‘Have I missed something? I’m still confused about why we’re here,’ one asked, after lights out.
‘Training to be filter room operators?’ someone suggested.
‘Then when does our training actually start?’
‘Does anyone actually want to work here?’ A general murmur, with some voices of dissent.
‘Who’s going to ask her?’
‘Ask what?’
‘Why we’re here. Kath, you’re good at asking questions.’
‘And get my head chopped off?’ Their leader was an older WAAF with impeccable uniform and hair stiff as a wig, who never seemed to smile.
A chorus of voices: ‘Go on, Kath. We’re depending on you.’
In the end, there was no need for Kath to put her head on the block. After breakfast the following Monday they were invited to a meeting with a new officer who seemed altogether friendlier.
‘Well, my friends. You are halfway through your familiarisation visit. I hope you are finding it useful?’
‘Very interesting,’ Kath ventured. ‘Although it would have been helpful if we’d been told why we were here in the first place.’
The officer looked surprised. ‘I’m sorry if that wasn’t made clear. The six of you were chosen because you showed exceptional promise in your RDF examinations, and we expect you to rise quickly through the ranks,’ she said.
‘Can you explain how that works, please, ma’am?’
‘In return for your time here, we are now charging you with the responsibility to spread that knowledge. We want you to take what you have learned back to your new postings and explain to your colleagues how their reports are used and why their work is so vitally important. Will you do that for us?�
�
Someone else had a hand up.
‘Yes?’
‘How do you recruit filter room operators, please?’
‘Is it something you would like to apply for?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I’d be interested.’
‘May I enquire how old you are?’
‘Twenty-two, ma’am.’
‘Then I’m sorry, but you are too old. They only recruit girls under twenty, who’re believed to have faster brains and greater stamina.’
A gasp of astonishment. Someone said, ‘We’re over the hill, ladies,’ which was met with a burst of giggles.
‘Anyway, it’s been a pleasure meeting you all, over the hill or not,’ the officer said. She took up a sheaf of buff envelopes and began handing them out. ‘Here are your new posting details. The bus will be waiting for you on Friday at eleven hours, sharp.’
This time Kath did not hesitate. She ripped open her envelope and gave a little whoop of joy.
‘Bawdsey! At last!’
23
It was raining that first day, a chill sleety rain coming in off the sea, but Kath didn’t care. She’d had a wonderfully relaxing few days on leave, eating home-cooked food and going for long walks with Joan, who had also managed to get a forty-eight-hour pass.
They hadn’t seen each other for more than two years and had much to catch up on. Joan was now married to Sam, who had eventually decided to sign up but had soon been injured – his hand badly shattered – and shipped home. He was recovering in a convalescent home in south London, just two bus rides from her own billet, so that Joan could visit him quite easily on her days off.
‘At least he’s safe there,’ she said. ‘I just hope he doesn’t recover too quickly and they send him back again.’
Without going into specifics, Kath talked about the highs and lows of her WAAF training, about Donald, and how she’d met up with Vic in Lincoln and thought it might be growing into something.
‘Whatever would your parents think, you dating an Indian?’ Joan asked.
‘He’s only half Indian,’ Kath retorted, more sharply than she’d intended. ‘Anyway, I don’t care what anyone thinks.’