Fleur nodded and tried to smile. ‘Looks like it. I … I’ll see you around, then.’
‘You most certainly will even if I have to break into the Waafery at night.’
‘Don’t you dare …’ she began and then realized he was teasing. Instinctively, she knew he wouldn’t do anything that would get her into trouble, even if he didn’t mind for himself.
As she moved towards the WAAF buildings, Fleur glanced over her shoulder and waved as Robbie’s long strides took him along the road in the opposite direction further and further away from her. At the same moment, he turned and raised his arm in the air and then strode away, quickening his pace.
With a small sigh, Fleur shouldered her heavy kit-bag and walked towards the Waafery. As she did so, a WAAF came out of the nearest building, slamming the door behind her. As she drew nearer, Fleur could see that she was short and round, her uniform buttons straining to stay fastened across her ample bosom. She was a good few years older than Fleur and her plump cheeks were florid, her small eyes almost lost in the fatness of her face.
The woman – a Flight Sergeant – would have walked straight past without even glancing at her had not Fleur said, ‘Excuse me. I’ve just arrived. Could you tell me where I have to go?’
The WAAF stopped, looked Fleur up and down, and then snapped, ‘Name?’
Fleur reeled off her number, rank and name.
‘You’re late. Supper’s nearly finished, but you’d best go to the dining room.’ She nodded towards the building she had just left. ‘You might get something.’ She didn’t sound very hopeful and seemed to care even less. ‘Find Morrison. You’re billeted with her. In the village. And report to Flight Sergeant Watson in Control in the morning. They work a system of shifts in the watch office: a four-hour and then an eight-hour, times varying of course, so between all the operators, the twenty-four hours are covered, with always at least two on duty. More sometimes, when they’re flying. The rota’s posted on the board in the office. Because you work a twelve-hour day and often through the night, the time off is very generous.’ It sounded as if she heartily disapproved of the WAAFs being given any time off. No doubt she was a great believer in the ‘idle hands’ saying.
‘Thank you,’ Fleur said carefully.
The older woman eyed her critically. ‘Your hair’s too long. It’s touching your collar. Either mind it’s tied up properly under your cap or get it cut.’ Then she turned and marched away.
‘Well,’ Fleur murmured as she watched her go. ‘I hope the other girls are a little friendlier than you!’
Seven
As Fleur entered the dining room, the noise of chatter and laughter hit her. She stood, blinking in the bright light, and looked around her, not sure what to do.
Catching sight of her, a plump, merry-faced girl with unruly fair curls rose from her seat at one of the long tables and came bouncing towards her. ‘Hello there. Come and sit with us and I’ll get you something to eat. Leave your gear there. We’ll sort it out in a mo.’
She caught hold of Fleur’s arm and pulled her towards the place where she’d been sitting. ‘Budge up, you lot. Room for a little ’un. Sorry about the squash. We’re having to make do with trestle tables at the mo, though they keep telling us that proper dining tables and chairs are on order.’ Then she rushed away towards the counter where the food was being served.
As they shuffled along the bench seat to make room for her, the other girls smiled at her. ‘Just arrived, have you?’
Fleur nodded. ‘Yes. Thanks,’ she added, as she squeezed into the space they’d made for her. The girl who’d greeted her arrived back carrying a plate of cheese on toast and a mug of tea. ‘There. Get that down you. Bet you’re hungry. Come far, have you?’ She hardly paused for breath as she sat down again. ‘I’m Ruth Morrison, by the way, and you’ll be with me. We’re billeted in the village. Most of the girls are.’ She nudged Fleur and winked. ‘Don’t reckon they trust us to stay on the camp with the fellers.’
‘It’s nothing of the sort,’ a fair-haired girl sitting opposite retorted. ‘Don’t listen to her. I’m Peggy Marshall.’ She held out her hand across the table and Fleur took it.
‘Fleur Bosley. Hello.’
‘And don’t believe a word our Ruth tells you. Truth is, they haven’t got the sleeping quarters finished yet, so most of us are billeted out …’
‘Not all of us.’ A dark-haired girl further down the table remarked. There was a distinct note of resentment in her tone, though, as Fleur glanced at her, the girl winked. ‘Some of us,’ she went on dryly, ‘have to put up with sleeping in a draughty hut on hard biscuit beds and eat forces’ fare whilst the rest of you languish in feather beds and are plied with delicious home cooking by the locals.’
There were cries of derision and someone threw a dry biscuit at her, but the girl just smiled, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief.
‘That’s Kay Fullerton, by the way. As you can see, she’s a corporal,’ Ruth said. ‘The rest of us are just lowly ACWs.’
Fleur nodded. ‘Me too.’
Ruth nodded towards Kay as she added, ‘She doesn’t mean it – about the sleeping arrangements, I mean.’
‘Oh yes I do. Why should all the newcomers get the best billets, I’d like to know?’
Fleur looked up and met the girl’s belligerent expression. ‘Well, I don’t mind sleeping here if you want to swap,’ she offered.
Kay stared at her for a moment until someone else put in, ‘Kay’s all talk. She’ll not leave camp – she’s already got her eye on one of the new pilots that’s just arrived.’
The remark was greeted by loud guffaws and even Kay smiled sheepishly. ‘No, you’re OK, but – thanks for the offer.’
As there was a general movement to get up from the table, Kay came up to Fleur and held out her hand. ‘You’re the first one to do that.’
Closer now, Fleur could see that the girl had the most unusual dark blue eyes – so dark they were almost violet. Her skin was smooth and flawless, and her black hair was so shiny it seemed to glint in the light as she moved. She was really very pretty.
‘She gives all the new ones a hard time over it,’ Ruth explained, ‘just to see how they react.’
Kay laughed. ‘Most of them go all red and embarrassed, but none of them have ever offered to swap. You’re all right, Fleur Bosley. In my book anyway.’
Now it was Fleur’s turn to look a little embarrassed at the unexpected compliment.
‘Not one to hold back is our Kay. You’ll get it straight John Bull from her,’ Ruth said. ‘If she likes you, she’ll tell you so. And if she doesn’t – well, she’ll tell you that an’ all.’
‘What job will you be doing? Do you know?’ Kay asked.
‘R/T operator.’
Kay’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, then you’ll be with me in Control. That’s good. Welcome aboard, Fleur.’ Then she spun on her heel, adding, ‘Must go. Things to do, people to see. See you tomorrow.’ And before Fleur could say a word, she had marched down the long room and out of the door.
Ruth spluttered with laughter. ‘She’s a caution, that one, as my mother would say.’
Fleur smiled. She was feeling very much at home already. She liked Ruth and had taken to the girl she now knew would be working with her. She wondered if she’d be working with Ruth too. ‘What do you do, Ruth?’
‘I’m in intelligence. I help at briefings and then debrief the crews when they come back from a raid.’
‘That must be tough,’ Fleur murmured sympathetically.
Ruth’s hazel eyes clouded for a moment. ‘It is a bit. An RAF intelligence officer usually asks the questions and I write down their answers. But if it’s been a rough one and the crews are dog tired, sometimes their stories take a lot of unravelling. Still, it’s an interesting and – I think – worthwhile job. Though you’re right, it’s harrowing at times.’
Fearing she had touched on something sensitive, Fleur changed the subject swiftly. ‘So – how do I find this billet we’re
sharing?’
Ruth’s expression lightened at once. ‘I’ll take you. I’m not on duty for a couple of hours or so when the first planes start coming back.’
‘There’s a raid on tonight then?’
‘Mmm. Not a very big one, just a gardening run …’ She grinned. ‘Mine-laying, you know, but we still have to go through the routine, of course. Come on. Let’s get your gear. We’re only a few yards down the road on the outskirts of the village. With a widow. She’s a nice old dear. Fusses a bit, but then I think she’s lonely. Her husband died a few years ago and all her chicks have left home. Oh, you’ll get the full family history within the space of ten minutes, believe me.’
As they walked out of the main gate and along the road, following the pencil-thin beam from Ruth’s torch, she chattered. ‘I’m from Lincoln. I live with me mam and dad and two sisters. They’re younger than me and keeping their fingers crossed that the war’s going to last long enough for them to join up.’ She pulled a face. ‘Selfish little devils – fancy anyone wishing such a thing!’ But Fleur heard Ruth’s soft chuckle through the darkness. The girl linked her arm through Fleur’s as she confided, ‘Mind you, it could be my fault. I’m always telling them what a great time we have and how we’re surrounded by all these handsome chaps.’ Then her voice faltered as she added sadly, ‘I can’t bring myself to tell them the truth, see. Of course, we do have fun, but … but it’s no fun, is it, when you wave all the bombers off at night and know what they’re going to face? And then, when they come back, counting them all. One by one. Only they’re never all there, are they? They never all come back, do they?’
Fleur shook her head. ‘Not very often.’
Ruth squeezed her arm and forced jollity back into her tone. ‘Hark at me, getting all serious. As if I need to tell you. You’ve worked on another operational bomber station, haven’t you?’
Fleur nodded. ‘Yes, down south, but I applied to remuster as an R/T operator and hoped I’d get a posting a bit nearer home and here I am.’
‘Me too. I was up north for a while straight after training and I’ve been very lucky to get a posting so near home. What about you? Did you manage it?’
‘What?’
‘To get a posting nearer home?’
‘Oh yes. I live at South Monkford. Do you know it?’
‘Near Newark, isn’t it? Well, you should be able to get home on leave easily enough. Even on a forty-eight-hour pass. You might have to hitch, but we’re really lucky. Some of the girls are hundreds of miles from home. Peggy’s from Newcastle. And Kay’s from London. They can really only get home about once every three months.’
At the mention of Kay, Fleur remembered what had been said at the table. ‘Has … has Kay got a boyfriend here then?’
‘Yes, she has,’ Ruth said with a snort that sounded very much like disapproval. ‘Silly mare!’
‘Why do you say that? Haven’t you got one?’
‘Me? Oh no. Fancy free, me. And I mean to stay that way.’ Again there was a sniff. ‘It doesn’t do.’
Alarmed, Fleur said, ‘What do you mean? Isn’t it allowed?’
‘Well, you have to be careful, but they can’t stop it, even if they’d like to. No, what I mean is, you’re stacking up a load of heartache for yourself if you let yourself get close to anyone.’
Fleur thought she detected a note of real pain in the girl’s tone and she was about to ask gently if she had lost someone close to her, but before she could form the words, Ruth said brightly, ‘Here we are. Rose Cottage. “Home, Sweet Home”.’
She pushed open the wooden gate and they crunched up the narrow cinder path.
‘Watch yourself. The garden’s so overgrown the long grass falls onto the path. When it’s wet, your ankles are soaking by the time you reach the door.’
In the wavering torchlight, Fleur caught glimpses of the neglected front garden. The grass looked so long it would need a scythe to cut it now, she mused. As if answering her unspoken question, Ruth said softly, ‘Poor old dear loves her garden. Her old man used to keep it immaculate, she says, but since he’s gone it’s got topside of her. She’s got a huge back garden with an orchard at the end of it. Used to grow veg and all sorts. But she’s got arthritis, see, and can’t cope with it. But she won’t move. Says she came to this cottage as a young bride and she’ll die here.’
Briefly, Ruth flashed the torch over the low, oblong shape of the cottage. ‘Typical “roses-round-the-door cottage” we all dream of, eh? But she really got it.’
‘Mm,’ Fleur murmured. ‘No wonder she doesn’t want to leave it.’ Even before she had met Mrs Jackson, she knew she was going to be a sweet old lady who’d lived a lifetime of love in her little cottage. Fleur had a sudden mental picture of a young bride being carried over the threshold to start a long and happy life with her groom in the idyllic little house. However, the image in her mind’s eye was not of the unknown Mrs Jackson but of herself and Robbie.
‘I’m surprised the authorities haven’t been on to her about her garden,’ Fleur said, dragging herself back to the present.’ ”Dig for Victory” and all that.’
‘I think they did try. Got some local boy scouts to come and dig the back garden, but they made a right pig’s ear of it.’ She giggled in the darkness. ‘There was even talk of them building her an Anderson shelter, but after a couple of spadefuls, they gave up, so she says.’
‘Not got a shelter and living so close to an airfield!’ Fleur was shocked. ‘Well, we’ll have to see about that.’
‘Come on, then,’ Ruth urged. ‘We’ll go round the back. Tell you the truth, the front door’s stuck and she can’t open it.’
They followed the narrow path round to the back, brushing through long wet grass so that by the time they arrived in the unevenly paved back yard their ankles were quite damp, just as Ruth had predicted. She shone the torch and nodded towards a brick building a few steps across the yard from the back door. ‘That’s the lav.’ She leant closer and whispered, ‘It’s a bit basic. No indoor facilities, but the old dear cooks like a dream.’ Ruth patted her stomach. ‘Makes up for a bit of discomfort in other areas. ‘Sides, she provides us with a potty under the bed so we don’t have to come tripping out into the back yard in the dark.’ Ruth giggled again as she added, ‘She calls it a “jerry”. I always imagine I’m piddling on Adolf’s head if I use it in the night.’
Fleur laughed softly. ‘Home from home, Ruth. It’s what I’m used to. We’ve no inside lav either.’
Ruth’s eyes widened. ‘But I thought you said you lived in South Monkford? It’s a town, isn’t it?’
‘A small one. But I live on a farm about five miles from the town itself. Right out in the wilds.’
‘You’re a country girl, then?’
‘Born and bred.’ Fleur moved carefully across the cobbled yard towards the rickety little gate leading into the back garden. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she could see the shapes of trees silhouetted against the night sky. Ruth came to stand beside her and shone the torch and now Fleur could see that the whole area was as overgrown and choked with weeds as the front one.
‘There’s raspberry and gooseberry bushes and all sorts down the bottom there. The old dear said they even had a strawberry patch once. And you can see the fruit trees. There’s a lovely old apple tree with a little bench seat under it. It’s where her and her Arthur used to sit on a summer’s evening, she said.’
‘You know,’ Fleur suggested, ‘we could help her in our spare time.’
‘Hey, hang on a minute. I’m a city girl. Born and bred in Lincoln. That’s why I chose the WAAFs instead of the Land Army. You’re welcome to go grubbing about in Mother Earth but don’t ask me to join you.’ The words could have been tart and dismissive, but they were spoken with such a warm humour that Fleur laughed.
‘We’ll see,’ she teased, as Ruth grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the back door. As she pushed it open, it scraped and shuddered on the uneven floor.
They moved through the back scullery, which housed a deep white sink and wooden draining board with shelves of pots and pans above. There was also a cooker to augment the range that Fleur knew would be in the kitchen. Ruth flung open the door into the kitchen-cum-living-room where an elderly lady was struggling to lever herself up out of her armchair in the far corner of the room beside the black-leaded range that Fleur had expected to see. A fire burned in the grate and a kettle stood on the hob. It really was just like home, Fleur thought.
‘Don’t get up, Mrs Jackson,’ Ruth was saying. ‘I’ve brought another lodger for you. This is Fleur Bosley. She’s just come to work in the watch office.’
The old lady sank back thankfully into her chair, but she beamed up at Fleur with such a wide smile that her rounded cheeks lifted her spectacles. She was a plump little woman, with her white hair pulled back and wound into a roll at the nape of her neck. She wore low-heeled lace-up shoes and lisle stockings, and her striped blouse and navy skirt were almost hidden by a paisley overall. Fleur smiled. It was identical to the one her mother wore. This woman could be Betsy in thirty years’ time, she thought, though she couldn’t imagine her mother welcoming complete strangers into her home the way this woman was doing. Her mother wouldn’t even make someone she knew welcome, Fleur thought wryly, thinking of the uncomfortable last few hours she had spent at home. It was a sad fact – and it hurt even to think it – but she’d been glad to get away.
Fleur quickly scanned the room, taking in the other armchair on the opposite side of the range and the table with its white lace runner and two chairs set against the wall. On a small table beside the old lady sat a wireless with a polished oak cabinet, silk front and black Bakelité controls. It seemed out of place in the old-fashioned cottage, yet Fleur knew that the wireless had become almost a necessity in the homes of those anxious for news of the war.
Wish Me Luck Page 5