The Girls in Blue

by Lily Baxter

  Raif held the car door open. ‘I’m sorry about tonight. You didn’t see us at our best.’

  For a brief moment Miranda thought about making a grand gesture and telling him to go to hell, but she really did not relish the long walk home. It had been a long and exhausting day and she got into the car without saying a word, but she was still seething with anger at the way Raif had spoken about her uncle. She waited until he had taken his seat behind the wheel. ‘What you said about Jack was unfair and unforgiveable. No wonder Izzie got drunk. I think I would too if I had a brother like you.’

  He started the engine, staring straight ahead. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’

  There was nothing left to say. Miranda sat in stony silence during the drive to Highcliffe, thanking him politely but coolly when he dropped her off at the door. She stood for a moment in the gathering gloom, listening to the gentle swish of the waves on the shore and the accompanying rattle of the pebbles as they moved with the incoming tide. She was still furious with Raif, but she could not find it in her heart to hate him. Just being in his company did strange things to her sense of equilibrium. Why, she wondered, did life have to be so complicated? Whatever had gone wrong in the past could not simply have been due to the fact that Max Carstairs had accidentally run over Granny’s dog, however upsetting that must have been at the time. There must be something else, and whatever it was cast a long shadow, just like the beech trees that surrounded the grounds of Thornleigh Court. She went indoors, and having let her grandmother know that she was home, she made her way upstairs to her room.

  It was blissfully quiet and peaceful now that Rita had moved into one of the spare bedrooms recently vacated by the evacuees. Miranda took a long time preparing for bed, but she found it hard to put the quarrelling Carstairs family out of her mind. It would be for the best, she decided, to have as little to do with them as possible. Jack might be better off with someone less rich and beautiful than Isabel. Maybe he would fall for Rita when she blossomed into a pin-up girl. Miranda was smiling as she finally drifted off to sleep.

  In the days and weeks that followed it seemed to Miranda that Rita had become an integral part of the Beddoes household. They ate their meals together and caught the same bus to work every morning, returning on the same route in the evening. Rita borrowed her clothes, helped herself to Miranda’s makeup, and was constantly begging for a loan to get her through until payday. She had repaid her original debt when she received her first week’s wages, but she had spent the remainder on stockings and a Tangee lipstick. It had become obvious to Miranda that despite having her pay packet on Friday, Rita would always be broke again by Monday. As time went by Miranda felt that she had suddenly acquired a sister, and a rather bothersome one, but without her life at Highcliffe would have been incredibly dull.

  The weeks stretched into months and they slipped into a routine, except that Rita seemed to attract trouble, especially at work. She had a habit of speaking her mind and challenging authority, and this did not go down well with Mr Wallace or Joe Hoskins, who had at long last met his match. His wandering hands and suggestive remarks had apparently gone unchallenged for years as most of the females who worked in the shop were too scared to make a fuss. Rita was not. She had slapped his face on her first day but that had not deterred him, and after putting up with constant harassment she made an official complaint. Joe was let off with a mild reproof.

  ‘That bloke gets away with murder,’ she grumbled as she took her seat next to Miranda on the bus that evening. ‘If any of us girls does anything wrong we get our pay docked or the sack. He gets a slap on the wrist and told not to be a naughty boy, but I bet they’re in the pub now laughing about it and thinking they’ve won.’ She opened her purse and handed the money to the conductor. ‘The usual, please, love,’ she said, winking at him.

  Miranda paid for her ticket, waiting until the conductor had moved along before nudging Rita. ‘Do you have to flirt with everything in trousers?’

  ‘He’s old enough to be me dad. Anyway, all the best ones have joined up.’

  ‘There’s always Tommy.’

  ‘He’s no Clark Gable, but he treats me to the flicks and buys me sweets and the occasional drink, so although he’s no angel I’ll string along with him, as the song says; or something like that.’

  ‘You’re heartless, Rita,’ Miranda said, chuckling.

  ‘Not me, I’m all heart.’

  Miranda stood up to ring the bell. ‘I doubt if Joe Hoskins thinks that. You’ve hurt his male pride. He thinks he’s the original ladykiller.’ Even as the words left her lips she realised that she had repeated Isabel’s description of her father, and the memories of the fateful evening at Thornleigh Court came flooding back. She had not heard anything from Isabel since then, but after what Raif had said about Jack she had not really expected her to maintain contact. As to Raif, she had almost given up hope of ever seeing him again – but not quite.

  ‘Stop daydreaming and move along,’ Rita said, giving her a push towards the exit.

  ‘Sorry.’ Miranda staggered along the aisle between the seats as the vehicle lurched to a halt at the bottom of the road leading up to Highcliffe.

  ‘Penny for ’em,’ Rita said as they walked up the hill towards the house. ‘You was miles away. I know you was dreaming about Bertie. You really fancy him, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Miranda said, taking the easy way out. She could hardly explain her feelings for Raif to anyone when she did not understand them herself. She hated him for his attitude towards her family, but he had a habit of creeping into her thoughts when she least expected it. She quickened her pace. ‘I hope Annie has left something for supper. I can’t face another plateful of Granny’s bubble and squeak.’

  ‘It’s all bubble and no squeak if you ask me,’ Rita said, quickening her pace in order to keep up. ‘I’d sell me soul for a proper fry-up with bacon, sausages and a couple of slices of black pudding. Mum used to do that on special occasions and we’d have fried bread with loads of tomato ketchup.’

  ‘You can’t get it now,’ Miranda said, pausing by the garden gate. ‘I haven’t seen any in the shops for ages.’

  ‘Bloody war. You ought to tell your grandad to start making tomato sauce instead of that rot-gut. Tommy keeps on at me to half-inch a bottle, but I says not on your life, Tommy, mate. Grandad George has been good to me and I ain’t no tea leaf.’

  ‘You haven’t told anyone else about Grandpa’s invention, have you, Rita?’

  ‘What d’you take me for? I may be a bit common, but I’m not an idiot.’

  Miranda breathed a sigh of relief and she smiled. ‘You’re not common, Rita. I’d say you were colourful.’

  ‘You wait until I’m the cover girl on one of them glossy magazines. I’ll be colourful then, all right.’

  Miranda started down the path towards the house. ‘I wonder whose car that is parked outside? There can’t be many people who’ve got enough petrol coupons to make social calls.’

  Rita edged past her. ‘Looks like she’s wearing a WVS uniform. It’s probably something your gran’s doing for the war effort. She’s quite a girl is our Maggie.’

  ‘I’m sure she’d be flattered to hear you say so, but I’m curious.’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out.’ Rita hurried on as fast as she could on the high-heeled sandals that Miranda had given up hope of ever wearing again.

  The visitor was just saying her goodbyes when they reached the front steps. She acknowledged them with a nod and a smile as she climbed into her car.

  Miranda took the steps two at a time. ‘Who was that, Granny? I didn’t recognise her.’

  ‘Come inside, both of you,’ Maggie ushered them into the house. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some rather bad news for you, Rita.’

  ‘What’s up, Mrs B?’

  ‘That was Adele Linklater, who does voluntary work at the hospital. We’ve known each other for years, which is why she came in person.’

 
; Miranda had only registered the words ‘bad news’. ‘Has something happened to Mummy?’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘No, dear. As I said, it concerns Rita.’

  ‘Spit it out, Mrs B. It can’t be that bad because I got nothing left to lose.’

  ‘That’s so sad.’ Miranda gave her a hug. ‘You’ve got us, Rita.

  ‘Of course she has.’ Maggie took a deep breath. ‘There’s no easy way to say this so I’ll be blunt. I’m afraid that Mrs Proffitt passed away last night after suffering a second stroke.’

  Rita shrugged her shoulders. ‘So the old girl’s gone. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry too, my dear. I realise you didn’t know her, but you were pinning your hopes on staying with her for the duration.’

  ‘Not me, Mrs B. It’s sad that she died, but like you said, I never met her and I wasn’t too keen on staying with a complete stranger in the first place.’ Rita made a move towards the staircase.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Maggie asked anxiously. ‘Perhaps I should have broken it more gently.’

  ‘I’m fine, ta, Mrs B. I’m going upstairs to pack.’

  ‘Why?’ Miranda followed her to the foot of the stairs. ‘Where would you go?’

  Rita sniffed and swallowed hard. ‘I’ll do what I always intended to do, ducks. Go back to London and get a room somewhere and start me career as a pin-up girl. Only, I’m a bit skint at the moment.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You couldn’t lend me a fiver, could you? I’ll pay you back out of me first wage packet when I’m a starlet.’

  Miranda opened her mouth to argue but Maggie shook her head. ‘You won’t lend her a penny, Miranda. And Rita, you can stop being silly. You’ve got a home here for as long as you need it. I won’t hear of you going back to London until you’re at least twenty-one and legally able to take care of yourself.’ She made a move towards the kitchen. ‘Who’s for bubble and squeak? We’ll eat first and then we’ll sit round the wireless and listen to the BBC news.’

  The news never seemed to be good. London had been bombed ruthlessly and now the Luftwaffe had attacked Coventry and cities in the north. Christmas was coming and Miranda had no idea where her mother and father were. She tried not to think about the dangers they must be facing daily, but sometimes it all became too much and she needed time to be alone with her thoughts.

  After the news ended, she took refuge in Jack’s room at the top of the house. She opened the window and stepped out onto the widow’s walk. There was a halo round the moon and the sea gleamed like liquid silver. Smoke from chimneys hung in a misty veil over the town and it was bitterly cold. She thought about the men at sea risking their lives daily in the convoys bringing vital supplies and the Navy which was there to protect them. There had been several air raids that week, but she could never forget that men like Jack and Raif were also in desperate danger as they took on the enemy in their fighter planes. She felt small and insignificant under the dark canopy of star-studded sky, and her life seemed trivial and of little use. Sorting ribbons, buttons and packets of pins would not help to win the war; there must be something she could do other than measuring out dress lengths of material under the disapproving gaze of Mrs Dowsett.

  Suddenly it all became clear. She went downstairs to find her grandmother and Rita who were in the kitchen making cocoa. ‘Granny, I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to join the WAAF.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Maggie said vehemently. ‘Miranda, this is utter nonsense.’

  Rita clapped her hands. ‘Good for you, Manda. I think it’s a blooming good idea. I might even join up with you.’

  Maggie gave her a deprecating look. ‘I can’t stop you doing such a foolish thing, Rita, but I can put a stop to Miranda’s wild scheme as she’s under age and in my care.’

  ‘If my mother can risk her life for her country then so can I,’ Miranda said firmly. ‘You’re not my legal guardian, Granny, and much as I love you, I’m going to do this.’

  Maggie’s face blanched and her lips trembled. ‘But what would your parents say if I allowed you to rush off and enlist?’

  ‘They can’t expect me to sit the war out here. Anyway, if it goes on much longer they’ll probably conscript young women as well as the boys and men.’

  Rita nodded in agreement. ‘That’s right, Manda. We’ll be there first with all those blokes. We’ll have our pick.’

  ‘You might,’ Maggie said firmly. ‘But Miranda most certainly will not. Just wait until your grandfather hears about this mad scheme. He’ll hit the roof.’

  Chapter Nine

  RAF Fighter Command, Henlow Priory, January 1942

  AFTER AN EIGHT-HOUR shift in the ops room working as a plotter, Miranda needed something to calm her nerves. It had been a particularly busy eight hours with little time to stop even for a cup of tea as the information flowed in from the filter room. She could not begin to imagine how the girls doing that particular job had stood up to such pressure. It was highly specialised work as they had to correlate information received from the radar stations regarding imminent enemy raids and pass it on to the operations room. Being at the sharp end had sounded exciting and glamorous when Miranda was undergoing her basic training, but now she was glad that she had not been picked for the filter room.

  Her breath curled around her in the frosty night air as she lit a cigarette, taking a puff which made her cough and she pulled a face. Smoking was something that almost all the other girls did with apparent enjoyment, but somehow she had not managed to acquire the habit. All it did for her was give her a sore throat and left a nasty smell clinging to her hair and clothes, but Rita could puff away with the best of them. She could even blow smoke rings, which had been her party piece when they did their initial training together. Miranda sighed. She would never have thought it possible but she actually missed Rita. They had hoped to share the same posting, but the powers that be apparently had other ideas and Rita was now somewhere in rural Dorset, and probably having the time of her life. She might not be pursuing a glittering career on the covers of magazines, but Miranda was certain that she would be the most popular pin-up at the aerodrome.

  After another tentative drag on the cigarette she decided that it was time to give up, and she ground the butt beneath the heel of her serviceable black lace-up shoe. She shivered and walked on towards the WAAF quarters situated in a Nissen hut on the far side of the main building, but she had to steel herself to cross the wide sweep of gravel outside the façade of Henlow Priory. The officers, male and female, were billeted there, but it was a creepy ancient pile dating back to the eleventh century, and the rumour that it was haunted had encouraged the telling of ghoulish ghost stories after lights out. Even now Miranda could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She knew that the tales of unhappy spirits roaming the house and grounds were likely to be based on folklore, but on a crystal clear night, with the priory silhouetted against a black velvet sky by a bomber’s moon, it was possible to believe almost anything.

  Being stationed in the depths of the countryside was a far cry from growing up in suburban London or living in a bustling seaside town. Now the only sound she could hear was the crunch of her leather soles on the frozen gravel, and the occasional eerie hoot of a hunting barn owl. She quickened her pace, telling herself that an over-active imagination was playing havoc with her senses, and as she drew nearer to the hut she heard the welcome sounds of everyday life.

  Audrey was belting out a Vera Lynn song, but her tinny soprano was at odds with the loud swing music being played on the portable gramophone owned by the irrepressible Janice Goodman, who lived for Saturday night dances in the local village hall. It was in the hot, sweaty atmosphere where the only refreshments were tea and digestive biscuits that the girls had the opportunity to mix with the air and ground crews from the aerodrome a few miles east of the priory. There were a few local men as well, but they were either exempt because of age, unfit for active service or in reserved occupations.

  Even as she
reached the door Miranda knew that the fug from the cast-iron stove, mingled with the scent of Lifebuoy soap, cigarette smoke and nail polish remover would hit her like a slap in the face. She knocked, tapping out the code they used to confound Flight Sergeant Frances Fosdyke, whose habitual pout and proptotic grey eyes had earned her the nickname of Fishface. Her habit of descending upon them unannounced in order to catch someone flouting the rules had incurred the dislike of all the girls. The punishments were severe, and unless someone had a penchant for cleaning latrines and the ablutions block they soon realised that it was best not to get on the wrong side of the sergeant. With this in mind, Miranda knocked a little harder as she was beginning to lose all feeling in her fingers and toes. She stamped her feet while she waited for someone to unlock the door. Eventually, during a lull as the record came to an end and Audrey stopped singing, the door opened and Miranda hurried inside. As she had anticipated, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, which rose to form a nimbus cloud below the curved ceiling. Janice and her friend Valerie were practising their version of the jitterbug to the strains of a Glenn Miller record, while others sat about chatting and keeping their hands busy with knitting or darning their laddered stockings.

  Gloria, the girl who had let Miranda in, adjusted the blackout curtain over the door. ‘Don’t want old Fishface catching us breaking the rules,’ she said, taking the cigarette from her lips and exhaling smoke through her nostrils. ‘That woman can arm-wrestle the blokes and win. Got any fags, love? This is my last one.’

  Miranda rummaged in her handbag and produced a packet of Woodbines. There was only one missing and it was no sacrifice to give them to Gloria who had a twenty a day habit. ‘Here, you have them, Glo. I’m trying to give up.’ She handed them to her with a smile.