In the corridor outside the two WAAFS passed a small group of RAF officers who turned round to stare at them, their faces registering a variety of emotions – astonishment, amusement, disapproval, even downright dismay.
Sergeant Beaty sniffed. ‘They don’t seem to know what to make of us, do they, ma’am?’
Felicity, badly shaken by the interview with Wing Commander Palmer, did not reply. She had naïvely expected that the RAF would welcome them with open arms. The Wing Officer at her training course had talked enthusiastically during her lectures. You will be living under the same conditions, sharing the same dangers and carrying out the same duties as the members of the Royal Air Force. You will form an integral and vital part of that great Service.
There was a burst of laughter from the group of officers. It was a fair guess that it was directed at them.
The lorry swept in through the main gates of RAF Colston, waved on by the guard. It jerked to a halt and the two airmen came round from the front cabin to lower the tailgate. They were grinning broadly.
‘Jump to it, girls! Everyone out.’
They clambered down awkwardly, unfamiliar with the knack and hampered by tight skirts, high heels, hats and handbags, exposing thighs and suspenders to the delight of the two airmen. It had stopped raining and they stood on the kerbside with their luggage strewn about them. Other airmen had appeared and grinned from a distance. A window in a nearby building was flung open and more faces gawped and leered. There was a piercing chorus of wolf whistles.
Anne went and sat on her suitcase. She found a cigarette in her shoulder bag and lit up. Pearl, the redhead, squatted on a canvas holdall beside her. Her hat, perched precariously on a mass of curls, had a jaunty yellow feather stuck through its brim.
‘Posh place this . . . nice buildings, flower beds, all this grass and trees . . . Doesn’t look much like the Air Force, except for them.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the grinning and gawping airmen. ‘What makes all men think they’re God’s gift to women? I don’t fancy any of that lot. Where’re all the pilots, that’s what I want to know. Fancy a swig?’
She proffered the whisky flask taken from the depths of a large rexine handbag.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Bit too strong for you, eh? Good for the nerves, though.’ Pearl took a swallow and replaced the cap. ‘How did you get into this lark, anyhow, a nice young lady like you?’
‘I just tagged onto the end of a recruiting queue. Spur of the moment really. Quite honestly I was bored at home.’
Pearl’s eyebrows shot up towards her hat brim. ‘Blimey! I’ve never been bored, dear. Never had the time, see. Been working my guts out for six years since I left home. I thought if I joined up it might make a bit of a change.’
Anne said politely: ‘Really? What were you working as?’
‘Barmaid. Pub called the Red Lion in Fulham. Don’t suppose you’d know it. I’d been there two years. Before that I was a waitress in a caff in Tooting. That was hell on earth. Run off your feet all day and treated like dirt. At least in a pub you’ve got the bar between you and the customers. You wouldn’t believe how some of them can behave.’ More windows had opened and there was more whistling and yelling. Pearl sighed. ‘Doesn’t look as though this is going to be much different.’
As Felicity approached the group of recruits, her heart sank. They looked distinctly unpromising. She could see unsuitable frocks and shoes, fur coats, frivolous hats, jewellery, elaborate hair styles . . . all the sort of things of which Wing Commander Palmer would most disapprove. And none of the girls appeared remotely orderly or disciplined. One was sitting slouched on her suitcase, smoking a cigarette, while a blowsy-looking redhead beside her was stowing something away in her handbag that looked suspiciously like a spirits’ flask. A small, thin girl was weeping unrestrainedly into her handkerchief and a peroxide blond was twisting to examine a ladder at the back of her stocking, her short skirt hitched even higher. The amount of luggage was alarming, all probably containing even more unsuitable clothing. She hoped her eyes were deceiving her, but surely that was a birdcage among all the rest.
None of her misgivings showed in her face or voice, however, as she addressed the motley little band for the first time.
‘You must be tired after your journey. Sergeant Beaty here will show you to your quarters in a moment and you can get settled in . . .’ Felicity paused. The blond had turned her attention from her laddered stocking to her painted fingernails which she was studying intently. The rest of them were listening, so far as she could tell, though the thin one was still crying, her sobs and sniffs clearly audible. Felicity raised her voice a little.
‘You have been members of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force only for a very short time and it will all seem rather strange to you at first. However, it’s not too early to ask you to be sure to conduct yourselves at all times in a quiet and orderly fashion on this Station. You will be closely observed by the RAF –’ Someone at the back of the group sniggered and there was a ripple of tittering. Felicity flushed, realizing the literal truth of her words. The number of airmen in the vicinity had grown considerably as she had been speaking. She went on firmly. ‘They are waiting to be convinced that we in the WAAF are capable of playing a serious and responsible part alongside them in this war. Please don’t give them any grounds for doubting this.’
She paused again. To her own ears she was sounding horribly pompous . . . like some priggish old school marm. A sudden loud squawking from beneath the birdcage cover caused more giggles. It sounded like a parrot, but whatever kind of bird it was it certainly couldn’t be allowed to stay. She must deal with that as soon as possible. The blond girl was now turning round towards the nearest barrack block window where a row of male heads watched the proceedings with interest. One of them shouted something and the blond waved. This was too much. Felicity raised her voice still further.
‘What is your name, please?’
The girl’s neighbour nudged her. ‘She’s talking to you. Wants to know your name.’
The blond removed her gaze reluctantly from the window. ‘Gloria Gibbs.’
‘Well, Gibbs, in future when I’m speaking to you, you will please pay proper attention. And when you answer me, you must call me ma’am.’
Gloria looked sulky. ‘Ma’am? I’ve never called nobody that.’
‘All WAAF officers are to be addressed as ma’am. You’ll soon get used to it. And you call Sergeant Beaty here, Sergeant. It’s quite simple, but please be sure to remember it.’
‘Wot about that lot, then?’ the blond asked cheekily, with a jerk of her head in the direction of the airmen. ‘Wot’re we supposed to call ’em?’
There were more giggles, less subdued, and a whooping whistle from the window. Felicity felt her flush deepening.
‘That will do, Gibbs. We’ll come to that later.’
She handed them over to Sergeant Beaty who had been glaring ferociously at both the recruits and the men. She found that she was shaking and hoped that it didn’t show. In training they had been taught that it was vital for an officer to have control and respect from the start and she was afraid that she had not handled her first encounter with her airwomen very well. She had sensed Beaty’s fuming impatience behind her left shoulder and the sergeant had leaped forward to take charge, barking orders like a savage sheepdog released to round up a wayward flock of sheep. The recruits were herded into an untidy crocodile and, as they moved off, there was an enthusiastic chorus of appreciation from all the airmen. Gibbs, Felicity noted, was not the only one, this time, who waved back.
They straggled along behind the sergeant, past more buildings and three huge hangars. Without warning, an aeroplane roared low over their heads. They ducked and Enid fell to her knees, clasping her hands over her ears. Winnie, alone of them, stood stock still, gazing upwards. As the ’plane turned she could see the cockpit and the shape of the pilot’s head, and the coloured rings on its side that showed it belonged to th
e Royal Air Force. She put down her suitcase and shielded her eyes with her hand to watch it fly off into the distance.
‘Don’t dawdle, you at the back there! Keep up with the rest!’
The sergeant was bellowing at her angrily, the other girls all staring. Winnie blushed. She picked up her suitcase and hurried after them.
At the far side of the station, away from other buildings, lay a small group of wooden huts with corrugated roofs and stovepipe chimneys. The sergeant marched to the nearest hut and they trooped inside and stood staring in dismayed silence. Two rows of iron bedsteads lined the walls, a spartan-looking pile of bedding at each head, and battered metal lockers in between. The windows had no curtains and were criss-crossed with strips of anti-blast brown paper. Unshaded bulbs hung from the ceiling. There was an unlit stove at each end of the hut and water lay in pools on the wood floor where the roof had evidently leaked. It was cold, damp and cheerless, and there was a lingering, unpleasant smell of stale cigarette smoke, sweat and something that might have been old socks.
It was Pearl who broke the hush.
‘Holy mackerel!’ she said. ‘Welcome to the Ritz.’
Anne lay awake on her narrow iron bed. Pearl, next to her, had already gone to sleep and was snoring softly. Nothing, she reckoned, would ever keep Pearl awake for long, unlike poor old Enid who was crying yet again over on the opposite side of the hut, making whimpering sounds in between the sobs, like an animal in pain. She put her arms behind her head against the hard bolster and stared into the darkness.
It had all been a bit of a let-down so far, she considered, starting with their sleeping quarters and getting even worse. The ablutions hut nearby was a grim, carbolicky place with cracked basins, rust-streaked baths and slimy duckboards. One of the lavatory chains was missing and so were most of the plugs. The graffiti scrawled large and clear over the walls had brought a blush to some cheeks.
‘No use standing on the seat, the crabs in here can jump six feet,’ Pearl had chanted, peering into one of the lavatory cubicles. ‘Well, I never.’
‘Crabs?’ Sandra had asked, her baby-face puzzled. ‘In here?’
‘Not the seaside kind, dearie. Nasty little things that a well-brought up girl like you wouldn’t know about.’
‘Mummy told me to be sure never to sit on the lavatory seats in case I caught something horrid.’
‘Mummy was quite right.’
Anne smiled, remembering. She had never heard of those sort of crabs either but Pearl had explained later. Pearl was going to be rather useful for things like that.
They had been given an evening meal in another hut – a sort of combined tea and supper of bread and butter, sausages, egg and chips, with strong, sweetened tea dispensed from a big urn. The food had all been transported from the airmen’s cookhouse and by the time it had reached them it had been only lukewarm, the grease congealing. They had sat at benches at a long trestle table covered with an oilcloth and had each been given an enamel mug, and a knife, fork and spoon and had been told to keep these for their own use and to rinse them in the tub of tepid water by the door as they left. Later, they had been taken over to the NAAFI.
‘What’s a NAAFI?’ Sandra had asked in her high voice. She was always asking questions.
The Navy, Army and Air Force Institute had turned out to be a large brick building beside the parade ground and was, apparently, a place for recreation and refreshment. Their officer, Company Assistant Newman, who had explained this, had said that there was a shop there too, where they would be able to buy all sorts of things like cigarettes, chocolate, soap and so on. It had all seemed quite promising until they had discovered that they were to go in through a side entrance and be shut away in a poky back room. They had sat around on hard chairs, drank more stewed tea and eaten dry buns, served to them through a hatchway in the wall, as though they were lepers. The sound of airmen ‘recreating’ noisily had reached them from beyond the hatch – loud talk and male laughter, and a piano being strummed energetically. The smell of beer and strong cigarettes had wafted through and Pearl had talked wistfully of the Red Lion in Fulham.
The bedding stacked at the head of each bed in their hut had proved quite as awful as it looked. There were no sheets, the RAF blankets were miserably thin and the bolsters, instead of pillows, appeared to be stuffed with straw. There were no proper mattresses either, only three square pads that were well-named biscuits. Gloria had prodded hers disdainfully with a long, red fingernail.
‘Cripes, I’m not sleepin’ on them things. They’ve got stains on.’
Anne turned over restlessly and the biscuits shifted beneath her like ice floes. She tugged them back into place and pummelled at the bolster. Kit hadn’t warned her about any of these things, but maybe it was different if you were training as an officer in the Army. She thought about Kit and about the summer’s night in June, only a few months ago, when they had sat out on the terrace at home and talked. The dance given for their eighteenth birthday had ended, the last guest gone, and when their parents had gone to bed they had both stayed up to watch the dawn. They had drunk the left-over champagne and she had kicked off her new silver party shoes and lounged in the swing-seat, the skirts of her blue tulle frock billowing softly as she pushed the seat backwards and forwards with one stockinged foot. Kit had been a bit squiffy. He had perched on the edge of the stone balustrade, legs dangling, white tie undone, a glass in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. They had talked about lots of things, including the future, which had seemed quite different then.
‘Lucky you,’ she had told him. ‘Going up to Oxford. I’ve gone and messed things up as usual.’
‘You were a chump to get sacked from school. You’ve got a perfectly good brain, if only you’d use it – to stay out of trouble, for one thing. You could easily have got to Oxford if you’d tried.’
‘Don’t give me a lecture. I couldn’t stick that ghastly school . . . all those stupid rules and bitchy girls. It was loathsome.’
‘You’re still a chump. Well, what’re you going to do now?’
She had stretched and yawned. It hadn’t seemed to matter much then. ‘Don’t know really. Life’s a bit of a bore at the moment. Mummy keeps going on about me going to some finishing school in Switzerland. Honestly, I can’t imagine anything more deadly, can you? Flower arranging and French cooking and all that sort of stuff. And girls just like the ones at St Mary’s, probably worse. Luckily, Daddy says “No,” because of all this scare about there being a war. I’d’ve refused to go anyway. I’ve had enough of school. She’s still trying to make me do the Season next year, though.’
‘So you can bag a husband?’
‘That’s her idea, anyway. Preferably one with a title.’
‘And frightfully rich.’
‘And frightfully boring. That’s why you’re so lucky to be going up to Oxford. You’ll meet all sorts of interesting people. Bound to.’
‘Matter of fact, I doubt if I’ll ever get there.’
‘Don’t talk rot. You’ll get in easily. You’ll probably be utterly sickening and get a scholarship.’
He had shaken his head. ‘Didn’t mean that. The thing is, we’re bound to declare war on Germany soon. There won’t be any Season next year, so you needn’t worry about it.’
‘I don’t believe there’s going to be a war. Chamberlain signed that thing to stop it.’
‘A piece of paper! What’s the use of that? Hitler will just tear it up whenever it suits him. He took over Czechoslovakia and Austria. Now he’s got his nasty little eye on Poland. And we’ve given Poland our guarantee to go to her aid, so that’ll be that. War! Ipso facto. No getting out of it. Most of the beaks at school say so.’
Anne had been silent for a moment, pushing the swing seat to and fro with her foot. Talk of a war had spoiled all the fun of the evening. She was sick of people going on all about it. Sick of all the talk of trenches and shelters and gasmasks. It was all such a drag. And what had Poland got to do wit
h England, anyway? It was miles and miles away, somewhere in the middle of Europe – she wasn’t sure exactly where – and even if it was invaded then surely it was up to the Poles to look after themselves. It was their country. Why should England have to be involved?
She had said impatiently: ‘But you could still go up to Oxford, even if there was a stupid war.’
‘Not so, old girl.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because I’m going to join up, fathead. Dad’s old regiment, if they’ll have me. A lot of the chaps at school are going to . . . they’re just waiting for the show to start.’
He had spoken as casually as if he were talking about an end-of-term play. She had suddenly felt frightened.
‘But Kit, you might get killed!’
He had laughed. ‘Not likely. But don’t you dare say a word to Ma. She’d flap like anything.’
‘She’d try to stop you.’
‘Wouldn’t be able to. They’ll call us up and she won’t be able to do a thing about it.’ He had waved the bottle at her cheerfully. ‘More champers?’
She had watched her twin brother pouring himself another glass of champagne, and she had been very afraid for him. He was the person she cared most about in the world. He was her other half. Her better half. All the things she had somehow never managed to be. He was Captain of Boats and in Pop and almost certain to get a scholarship to Oxford. To think of him being in danger of being killed made her feel sick.
‘Kit, do you honestly believe there’s going to be a war?’
“Fraid so. And to tell the truth, I rather hope there is. Dreadful thing to say, I s’pose . . . Anyway, we can’t possibly let old Adolf go on doing just as he likes – marching into other people’s countries, shoving them away in camps, all that sort of thing . . . That’s what he’s doing, you know. S’posing he tries to come and do the same here?’
‘Here? In England? Don’t be daft.’
‘It’s not so daft. Wouldn’t put it past him to have a shot at it. And we couldn’t allow that, could we? Just not on.’ Kit had taken another gulp of champagne. ‘I think it’ll all be pretty exciting. A real scrap against an evil little tyrant who’s jolly well asking for it.’
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