Somewhere in France

by Jennifer Robson

  “Of course you must. But first take off your coat and hat and change out of your uniform. I’ll make you some sardines on toast and a cup of tea, and then you can get started.”

  “You’re right, you’re right. I won’t be a moment. Do you have any stamps? I think I’ve run out.”

  “I have plenty of stamps,” Charlotte assured her. “Now stop marching around my room in those muddy boots or Mrs. Collins will have both our heads!”

  A WEEK LATER, Lilly arrived home from work to find a packet of papers waiting for her. Standing in the front hall, rain dripping from her sodden coat and hat, she tore open the envelope, which contained an application form as well as a letter.

  Devonshire House

  Piccadilly

  London W1

  Monday, 5 March

  Dear Miss Ashford,

  Thank you for your letter of 28 February. You are requested to present yourself for an interview with Dr. Chalmers-Watson, our chief controller, on Monday, 26 March, at ten o’clock in the morning. The interview will take place at the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps headquarters at Devonshire House, Piccadilly.

  Please complete the enclosed forms and return them to my attention at your earliest convenience. As well, please note that if you are successful in your application, you will be required to pass a medical examination.

  Yours faithfully,

  Miss Annabelle Hopkinson

  Assistant Administrator

  Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps

  The application form didn’t seem especially alarming, although she was required to state her father’s occupation—how should she answer? member of the House of Lords?—as well as details of her education, scant as it had been. It asked her to specify what sort of work she sought, and also to provide the name and details of people who could act as character references.

  Charlotte could certainly provide one of the references, but a second was sure to be difficult. The problem, of course, was that she’d led such a sheltered life. She’d only ever worked at the LGOC, had never gone to a proper school, had never really moved beyond her parents’ circle of friends and acquaintances. She read the form again: one reference was required from “a lady,” while the second had to come from a “mayor, magistrate, justice of the peace, minister of religion, barrister, physician, solicitor, or notary public.” She had no personal physician, hadn’t established any kind of relationship with the vicar at St. Michael’s Church, where she and Charlotte went to Sunday services, and she’d never consulted a lawyer of any description.

  But she did know a surgeon.

  SURELY IT WASN’T possible that most of the night had passed by while he attended to his patients’ charts, filled in forms, wrote letters to the bereaved, and filled in yet more forms. Robbie stole a look at the clock on the far wall: nearly four o’clock in the morning. He decided to admit defeat for now and leave off the final pile of papers that awaited his attention.

  While he’d been working, another delivery of post had come in from home. He went over to the bank of pigeonholes by Matron’s desk, extracted a wodge of papers from his compartment, and sorted through them rapidly. Asinine directives and demands from higher-ups went straight into the rubbish. There was a notice from his bank, probably to confirm the additional funds he’d asked them to send to his mother. And, last of all, a small, thin envelope, addressed in handwriting so familiar he didn’t need to turn it over to confirm the sender.

  He hurried back to his quarters, hoping against hope to find them empty, and was rewarded by the sight of an empty tent; Tom must still be working away on the compound fracture that had come in earlier. Only then did he tear open the envelope.

  21, Georgiana Street

  London NW1

  Monday, 5 March

  Dear Robbie,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I have some exciting news: this morning I received an application form from the new women’s corps. They’ve asked me to come for an interview on March 26. The one difficulty is that I require two letters of reference, one from a lady (I shall ask Charlotte) and the other from some sort of official. I apologize in advance for the imposition, but could I prevail upon you to provide the second reference? I will leave off now as I want to send this out with the evening post.

  Lilly

  P.S. The reference should be sent to Dr. Chalmers-Watson, Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps, Devonshire House, Piccadilly, London.

  P.P.S. Thank you!

  So the women’s corps Edward had told her about at Christmas hadn’t just been talk, after all. He told himself he was glad, for Lilly’s sake, that it had come to pass. As for how he felt about it? That was a thousand times more difficult to gauge.

  He was delighted for her, of course; this was exactly the sort of work she had been hoping to do all along. And it was doubtful that the War Office would knowingly expose women to danger, so he didn’t have to fret about her safety as such.

  He had to admit he was nervous about her joining the motor corps, for driving was filthy, backbreaking, dangerous work. The few friends he had with automobiles, Edward among them, seemed to spend half their time fiddling around with engines that had blown a gasket, or mending punctured tires at the side of the road. As for accidents, he’d had to patch up victims of motorcar crashes when he’d been at the London, and it had been grisly work.

  Might she be posted to France? Just the possibility was enough to overcome his reticence about her choice of occupation. She wouldn’t be sent anywhere nearby, of course, but he might dare to visit her on his next leave, if only to see that she was well, and happy, and not too homesick.

  Altogether, it was the best news he’d had in a long, long while.

  He heaved himself up, rummaged in his locker for a pencil, writing paper, and envelopes, and sat at the tent’s lone table, a rickety affair with one leg distinctly shorter than the rest. A few minutes of work to write the reference and his reply to Lilly, another minute or two to drop off the envelopes with Matron, who’d see they went out with the next post, and then he could sleep.

  March 16

  51st CCS

  France

  Dear Lilly,

  Your letter of the fifth arrived with the post today and I am about to write a letter of reference to Dr. Chalmers-Watson as requested. I have every hope that it will arrive in London before your interview. Before long you will be writing to me from Boulogne or Calais—I am certain of it. I must go, as I have been working for many hours now and need to get some rest. I promise to write again soon.

  Robbie

  LESS THAN A week after receiving Robbie’s reply, Lilly found herself seated on a hard chair in a gloomy corridor, one of more than a dozen young women who were waiting for their interview with Dr. Chalmers-Watson.

  Every ten minutes or so, a terrifyingly efficient-looking aide would open one of the double doors at the end of the corridor, call out a name, then close the door behind the candidate. None of the women called in had, thus far, reappeared in the hallway. Lilly found this disconcerting, mainly because there was no way to judge what the interview was like by the demeanor of the departing applicants.

  “Miss Ashford? Miss Lilly Ashford?”

  Lilly stood hurriedly, smoothed her coat and skirt, and marched down the hall. The aide, who seemed perfectly friendly at closer range, directed her to a seat in front of a long oak table. On the other side of the table were three women, with Dr. Chalmers-Watson, whom Lilly recognized from a photograph in the newspaper, at the center.

  “Miss Ashford, I believe?” The doctor had a lovely voice, clear and warm, with a hint of a Scottish burr.

  Lilly found she had to clear her throat before answering. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I see that you wish to join our motor transport service. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But I also see from your application that you have been employed by the LGOC as a conductress for the past year. Where were you before that?”

 
“I worked as a painter at the LGOC. Before that I was at home with my parents, ma’am.”

  “Very good. Now, your references. Miss Brown was, I believe, your governess?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She taught me for almost five years. I’m afraid I have no formal education as such.”

  “Quite a number of our applicants have little in the way of formal education, Miss Ashford. That is not an immediate concern, to my mind. As for the other reference: how do you know Captain Fraser?”

  “He is a close friend of my eldest brother. I’ve known him for ten years.”

  “He writes most compellingly of your capabilities and your very real desire to aid in the war effort.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Both these references do you great credit. But I do have my doubts, Miss Ashford. Or should I more properly call you Lady Elizabeth?”

  Lilly squirmed in her seat, feeling like a butterfly at the end of a botanist’s pin. At last she found her voice again. “I do not seek, or expect, any kind of preferential treatment, Dr. Chalmers-Watson. I only want to work, and do what I can to help us in the war effort. I promise I will not be a burden. I’m a good driver and I’m not afraid of hard work.”

  “But this work will be harder than anything you can imagine, Miss Ashford. Even harder than your work as a bus conductress. You can expect long hours, difficult conditions, plain food, and even plainer living arrangements. You will be working with women from exceedingly modest backgrounds. Women who, if I may be quite frank, will be rough in their habits and their talk. Are you prepared for all of that?”

  “I am,” Lilly insisted. “I truly am. And it doesn’t matter to me. You see, my brother has been in a frontline unit since almost the beginning of the war. I know he has endured terrible hardships. I know my work will help him, and that will make everything worthwhile. I beg you, please let me help.”

  Silence fell over the room, and Lilly sank back in her chair, feeling more than a little mortified at her outburst. Turning to one another, the officials spoke quietly, then Dr. Chalmers-Watson finally turned to look at Lilly. “Thank you very much for your time, Miss Ashford. We will contact you in due course with our decision. Miss Hopkinson will show you out.”

  “Thank you.” Lilly considered making a further plea, but the doctor had turned her attention to the next applicant, who was already being shown in. Instead, she meekly followed Miss Hopkinson to a door at the far end of the chamber.

  “Turn right as you exit, and follow the stairs to the bottom floor. That will return you to the entrance hall. Thank you very much for your time, Miss Ashford.”

  Chapter 15

  Devonshire House

  Piccadilly

  London W1

  Monday, 26 March

  Dear Miss Ashford,

  Further to your interview with Dr. Chalmers-Watson, I am pleased to offer you a position with the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps. You have been assigned the grade of Worker and will be attached to the motor transport division in France after you complete your training at our facility in Shorncliffe, Kent. Your pay will be 35 s. a week, including accommodation, with a weekly charge of 12/6 deducted for food.

  Before you commence your service with the WAAC, you must pass a medical examination. I have scheduled your examination for Thursday, 29 March, at 2:00 P.M. It will take place at our offices in Devonshire House; please ask the official on duty at the front desk for directions.

  You are requested to report for duty on Monday, 2 April, at WAAC headquarters, the Connaught Club, near Marble Arch. From there you will be provided with transportation to Kent.

  Enclosed is a list of required clothing and personal items, as well as details of the uniform provided by the corps.

  Kindly respond by return post to advise me if you intend to accept this position with the WAAC.

  Yours faithfully,

  Miss Annabelle Hopkinson

  Assistant Administrator

  Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps

  THE GRAND ENTRANCE hall of the Connaught Club, stripped of its finery for the duration, was a hive of activity, with queues of young women, some in uniform, some in civilian clothing, crisscrossing the chamber. Lilly had just stepped forward, looking for someone whom she could approach for advice, when she felt a brisk tap on her shoulder. Turning, she felt a twinge of anxiety as she took in the severely tailored uniform and no-nonsense coiffure of the woman who now faced her.

  “I believe you are one of the new girls. May I help you?” The woman’s voice was friendly, however, and she had a reassuring smile.

  “Yes, please. Yes, ma’am, I mean. I was told to report here for duty today, but I’m afraid I don’t know where to go next.”

  “That’s simple enough, my dear. See the queue at the far right-hand side of the hall? That’s where you belong.”

  Lilly thanked the woman, silently praying that everyone she encountered that morning would be as helpful, and joined the end of the queue. The other women were happily chatting with one another, sharing names and hometowns, and after a minute or so one of them grinned and held out her hand for Lilly to shake.

  “Hello there. My name is Constance Evans.”

  “Oh, yes, hello. My name is Lilly. Elizabeth, really, but everyone calls me Lilly. Lilly Ashford.”

  Constance didn’t seem to notice Lilly’s nervousness. “Where are you from?”

  “Cumbria, near Penrith.”

  “You don’t sound like a northerner,” Constance observed.

  “I suppose I don’t, do I? I’ve been in London for a while now, working at the LGOC.” Better to gloss over the truth of her upbringing, at least for now. “Where are you from?”

  “Peterborough. My father works in the head office of London Brick. I worked there, too, after I left school. As a typist. But I was never very good at it, so I’ve asked them to let me join the motor corps.”

  “That’s where I’m assigned, too. When did you learn to drive?”

  “Ages ago. My father taught me. We’d motor out into the countryside, switch seats, and I’d drive us back. At first I kept veering into the hedgerows, but I got better in time.”

  By the time the queue reached the back office, Lilly had learned a great deal more about Constance. She was twenty-one, an only child, a Methodist and teetotaler, an enthusiastic walker, a cat lover, and a passionate devotee of Gilbert and Sullivan. It was impossible not to like Constance, with her round, freckled face, bright ginger hair, and warm but direct manner.

  Of her own background Lilly said as little as possible, just as she’d done with her fellow clippies in London. She did intend to tell the truth to her friends, one day, but it could wait. For now, she simply wanted to fit in, share the same experiences, share the same stories. And the only way she could do so was as plain Lilly Ashford.

  Lilly also met some of the other women in the queue, most of them destined for jobs in the catering and clerical corps. They’d come from every corner of Britain, looking for work and adventure. They talked of the homes they’d left behind and their families. They talked of the work they had done since leaving school: long days in biscuit factories, weaving sheds, offices, potteries, and the parlors and kitchens of grand homes. Most movingly, they shared the names of their beaux and husbands, gone for many months, some gone forever.

  At last they reached the front of the queue and it was Lilly’s turn. A WAAC official took her name, disappeared into the back of the office, and emerged with a fat file. She then gave Lilly a sheaf of vouchers, as well as a timetable that told her where she ought to be, and when, for the remainder of the week.

  Her next stop was at the quartermaster’s office. Some of the other women complained loudly as they received their uniforms, but Lilly rather liked hers. The wool khaki coat had enormous pockets and smelled strongly of damp sheep, but it fit well, as did its matching skirt. She was also given a gabardine blouse and matching tie, and a small, tight-fitting khaki cap, which apparently was standard issue for drivers. The
official on duty gave her a further voucher that entitled her to goggles and a thick sheepskin coat, explaining they would be issued once she was posted to France.

  After dinner in the mess hall, Lilly and the other new recruits, about sixty altogether, piled into buses for the journey to Charing Cross Station and from there were ushered onto a train for Kent. Although they’d be spending their days at the training facility at Shorncliffe Camp, they would be lodged in rooms at several hotels in Folkestone.

  Her quarters in the Burlington Hotel came as a shock to Lilly, though she tried hard to conceal her surprise. Her roommates were happy enough, however, and seemed not to care that the room was furnished only with six metal beds, six thin mattress rolls, and one lone electric sconce on the wall by the door. Her mattress, unrolled, had more lumps than actual mattress, but it looked clean. Disappointingly, Constance was not one of Lilly’s roommates, although her room was on the same floor of the hotel.

  The next morning began with roll call at Shorncliffe Camp, then the women were divided into their respective trades for training. Lilly and her fellows from the motor transport division were taken out to a large, open field, which had a track of sorts, gravel in some places, tarmac in others, laid out rather haphazardly around its perimeter. After queuing up, each woman, one after the other, had to take the wheel of the one vehicle available for training, an elderly Daimler that was wonderfully easy to drive.

  The remainder of the day was taken up with drill, which Lilly quickly learned to dread, lectures, dinner, more driver training, more drill, and an early supper at camp. After their return to the hotel, roll call was completed and the women were given two hours before lights-out.

  The next day was the same, and the next and the next. The only variation to this routine came on Sunday, their day off, when the WAACs were shepherded to church in the morning and then had the afternoon to themselves.

  Late one evening, a fortnight after they’d all arrived in Folkestone, Lilly’s roommates initiated a whispered discussion on the subject of beaux. Ada was the first to submit to the interrogation, which was led by Annie and Bridget, tough-as-nails millworkers from Birmingham. She happily answered a series of questions that rapidly escalated from the mundane to the intimate: “What’s his name? Where’d you meet him? Has he kissed you? Have you let him take any liberties?”