Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘So were some of the new WAAFS.’

  ‘Good heavens, were they really? Whatever sort of girls are they recruiting now? I do worry about you sometimes, Anne . . . I didn’t really want you to join up, you know. It would have been so much better if you could have done something from home.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . VAD work. Something like that.’

  ‘Bedpans and blanket baths? No, thanks. I’d sooner be peeling potatoes.’

  She had forgotten all about the two evacuees from somewhere in the East End of London, packed off with thousands of other kids to escape the bombing that had never happened.

  ‘What room are they in?’

  ‘I put them in the old sewing room. They can’t do much damage in there. I’m afraid I’ve let them play with some of your old things in the nursery, darling. I didn’t think you and Kit would mind too much. Poor little wretches, I don’t think they’ve ever had any real toys to play with.’

  She did mind, in fact, but she didn’t say so. Just now the old things in the nursery seemed rather important. She didn’t want other children touching them, even though that might be mean-spirited.

  The house was waiting for her – solid and unchanged and like a faithful friend. On all her home-comings she had always felt this deep satisfaction at the sight of it standing there at the end of the drive, mellow, beautiful and unchanging.

  She went up to her bedroom. That, too, was just the same and very little changed from her childhood. She had insisted on keeping the Three Little Pigs curtains and the Miss Muffet rug and the nursery rhyme picture on the wall. Her collection of china animals still stood on the chest-of-drawers, together with the photographs of Barley’s predecessor, Honey, and of her old pony, Rocket. The faded rosettes that she and Rocket had won together at local gymkhanas hung from ribbons on the wall. Her old books were on the shelves: Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, The Wind in The Willows, Little Women, What Katy Did at School, The Water Babies, The Secret Garden . . . Everything was in its usual place. Except Eliza. Where was Eliza? She should have been sitting, propped against the cushion, in her corner of the window-seat.

  Anne went along to the nursery. She could hear noises coming from behind the closed door – heavy thuds and a whacking sound. She opened the door. A boy of about seven sat astride Poppy, the rocking horse. He had short dark hair that stuck up in an untidy crest and his thin legs dangled from baggy grey shorts. He was jerking at the reins and making Poppy rock so violently that she was jolting across the floor on her wooden stand. And all the time he whacked at her with a stick.

  ‘Stop that this minute!’

  He turned his head towards her, startled at first and then defiant. And he went on faster and harder. Thud, thud, thud. Whack, whack, Whack! Anne could see the weals he had made on poor Poppy’s hindquarters. She went over and grabbed hold of the rocking horse’s ears, bringing it to such an abrupt stop that the boy fell forward onto its neck.

  ‘Wot yer do that fer?’ His small, sharp face was aggrieved and indignant.

  ‘Don’t you dare treat my rocking horse like that! Just look at the damage you’re doing!’

  She snatched the stick from his hand, opened the window and threw it out into the garden.

  He looked at her sulkily. ‘It’s not yer ’orse. It belongs ter the lidy.’

  ‘This is my nursery. Mine and my brother’s. I live here.’

  ‘No, yer don’t,’ he scoffed triumphantly. ‘I never seen yer before. There’s only the lidy and the toff lives ’ere. That’s right, ain’t it, Betty?’

  ‘That’s right, Fred.’

  A small girl, thin and pale as the boy, but a little younger, was sitting on the floor by the nursery fireguard. Her legs were stuck straight out in front of her and on her lap she held a helpless Eliza who was having the clothes wrenched from her cloth body. Her plaits had already been undone and her black hair straggled wildly about her painted face.

  ‘And that,’ said Anne, fuming, ‘is my doll.’

  She rescued Eliza from the child’s grasp and gathered up the scattered clothes and the red hair ribbons. Betty began to wail loudly, screwing up her face and drumming her heels on the linoleum.

  ‘She took my dolly! That lidy took my dolly, Fred, and I never done nuffink!’

  Anne ignored her and looked, appalled, round the nursery. Nothing, so far as she could see, was in its proper place. Every cupboard door hung open and toys and games had been dragged out and left higgledy-piggledy all over the floor. Kit’s precious lead soldiers lay about like battlefield casualties, some with limbs or heads missing. Engines and carriages, railway track and clockwork cars were all jumbled up together. The old Snakes and Ladders board was upside down in a corner with its spine split, and counters, jacks, bricks, pick-up-sticks, playing cards and marbles were scattered all over the room. The front of her doll’s house stood open, its contents a shambles. Only the books in the bookcase were undisturbed.

  As she stood looking at it all in silence, tears came into her eyes. The girl had stopped wailing and was staring at her, her mouth still open wide, her nose running. The boy watched slyly from the horse. Anne turned and left the room, holding Eliza in her arms. As she closed the door behind her she heard the thud, thud of Poppy being ridden hard once more.

  She went into Kit’s bedroom and stood by the window, trying to stop the tears. Through them, with watery vision, she saw that the snowdrops were out round the beech trees at the far end of the lawn, showing bravely through the snow. The terrace where she and Kit had sat and talked that night of their dance was just below the window. It was hard to imagine that now . . . that warm summer evening before the war had started, before any of it had begun.

  She found a handkerchief, blew her nose hard and wiped her cheeks. She did not know why she minded so very much about the things in the nursery. After all, they were only toys and games that she had not touched for years. Kit would probably not have minded at all. Come on, you chump, don’t make such a fuss . . . Let the little beggars have some fun in their lives for once. We’ll never play with any of those things again. She could hear him saying it as clearly as if he were standing beside her, and maybe he would have been right. She should have felt sorry for Fred and Betty – underprivileged, deprived, torn from their mother and sent to a strange place far away – but instead she hated them for what they had done. They had wrecked something magical that she and Kit had shared. Even if everything were sorted out and mended and restored to its rightful place, the nursery could never be the same again.

  She sat down on the window-seat and re-dressed Eliza in her torn clothes and re-plaited her hair carefully, making bows with the red ribbons.

  Kit’s room, at least, seemed unplundered. His balsa wood aeroplanes were still safely suspended on their strings from the ceiling . . . the Lockheed, the Ryan, the Fokker, the Ford Tri-Motor, the Junkers JU52, the Tiger Moth, which she supposed must be like the one Johnnie Somerville had bragged about owning, and others in perpetual flight whose names she had forgotten. She looked round the room, making an inventory. The model cars were still ranged in their places along the shelves, the blue-bladed Eton Eight oar was on the wall, together with all the Wet Bob trophies: the winning pennants, the boat lists, the calendar with his name as Captain of Boats. She got up and went over to look at them again. Stuck against the wall at the back of the chest-of-drawers, where he had left them, were the leavers’ photographs given by Kit’s friends at the end of last summer term. She looked along the row of smiling faces – Villiers, Atkinson, Stewart, Latimer and Parker-Smiley. Villiers, Kit’s best Mend, was in the same regiment and must be in France with him. Atkinson and Stewart were in the army too. Maybe they were in France as well. Latimer was probably in the RAF now – in bombers, Kit had said. She had no idea which of the services little Charlie Parker-Smiley had joined. He was grinning away at her. Funny how good he had been at the waltz.

  She could hear her mother calling from
downstairs. Tea was ready. As she left she locked the door and took the key with her. Whether Kit would mind or not, while he was away she was going to see to it that his room was safe from Fred and Betty.

  When she returned to RAF Colston at the end of her leave, she found that Croesus Squadron had been sent to France. The station was full of strange faces belonging to the replacement squadron and with their new type of fighters. As well as the Hurricanes roaring overhead there were now Spitfires too.

  Pearl was mournful. ‘Upped and flew away, just like that. All those lovely millionaires gone! Here, your Johnnie left you this note. Gave it to me in the Mess when I was serving his mulligatawny. I went all weak at the knees when he spoke to me.’

  ‘He’s not my Johnnie, Pearl.’

  ‘More’s the pity, dear. You must have a screw loose.’

  Anne opened the envelope. The writing paper inside was headed Officers’ Mess, RAF Colston. Beneath that Johnnie had scrawled one line: Dinner when I get back? Johnnie. She tore the paper up and threw the pieces away.

  Seven

  THE SNOW MELTED away at last leaving a messy legacy of slush and mud. It was still cold but the days gradually grew longer and brighter and the sun shone with a forgotten warmth. Buds began to show on the branches and new grass to spring up on the station lawns.

  The remainder of the WAAF uniform and equipment arrived – with the exception of greatcoats, but with spring so near this seemed less important. Far more disappointing was the fact that so few of the garments seemed to fit properly. The airforce blue tunics and skirts were either large, medium or small and their felt-like material wasn’t a patch on Susan’s privately-tailored uniform. The clumping black lace-up shoes did not come in half sizes and produced blisters, and other clothing issued – more blackout bloomers, knicker linings, thick grey stockings, vests, bright pink brassieres and suspender belts and striped pyjamas – were greeted with wails of horror. The kitbags, intended to hold it all, were so heavy when loaded up that they could scarcely lift them off the floor let alone swing them over their shoulders as the men did. Vera succeeded after several tries but fell clean over backwards as she did so and lay on the floor, giggling helplessly. As for the caps with their over-risen piecrust crowns and shiny black visors that jutted out like a bird’s beak, hardly anybody liked them.

  Winnie, though, felt thrilled when she first put on her uniform. She adjusted the tunic belt by its brass buckle, fingered the four patch pockets and the shiny buttons and patted the puffy crown of her cap. Gloria was standing on a chair, trying to see herself in the mirror hanging on the inside of her locker door. Winnie had no idea what she herself looked like but she didn’t care all that much. It was enough to have a proper uniform at last. She twisted her head to see the patch she had sewn onto her left shoulder – the RAF eagle with wings outstretched and the A for Auxiliary beneath.

  Corporal White inspected them. ‘Caps on straight, buttons and shoes shining, ties well tied, stockings straight . . . that’s how it should always be. I said caps on straight, Gibbs, not on the back of your head like that. Potter, your hair must be off your collar at the back. Carter, there’s no need to pull your belt in as tight as that.’

  They paraded for the station commander. Palmer found this irksome in the extreme. He should have been pleased that the WAAFS had uniform at last but he still could not rid himself of the idea that it was unwomanly and the sight of them lined up before him in their new blue offended his eyes. The airwomen’s version, he saw morosely, was even uglier than their officer’s. God, what a horrible hat . . . and those shoes . . . He inspected them grimly, striding along the rows with his newly-promoted WAAF officer a pace or two behind him. It was Section Officer Newman now. She had been away on some administration course and, from the brief look he had given her, he thought she seemed a lot more confident. Rather different from the nervous girl who had stood in front of him on the day she had arrived.

  He went down another row. Their numbers had swelled alarmingly since that time. More and more of them kept arriving and he had long ago resigned himself to the fact that they were here to stay. Another row. Christ, they were all shapes and sizes, sticking out here and there . . . it must be impossible to dress ranks . . . From time to time he paused, merciless in his fault-finding.

  ‘Those buttons aren’t up to scratch, airwoman. That tie is badly tied. Those shoes won’t do.’

  Some of them quailed visibly at his approach and he was not displeased. He wanted them to be frightened of him, or at least, have a very healthy respect. That way, they’d behave themselves. He stopped in front of a peroxide blond who eyed him back boldly.

  ‘Am I supposed to be inspecting you, airwoman, or are you inspecting me?’

  She still returned his stare. ‘You’re inspecting us, sir.’

  ‘Then keep your eyes straight ahead. And put your cap on properly in future. And don’t belt that tunic so tightly. You’re supposed to be wearing a service uniform, not a fashion garment.’ He moved on briskly.

  ‘Those SD clerks seem to think they’re a cut above the rest of us,’ Maureen said with a sniff. She looked down the Mess table at the small group of WAAFS sitting together at the far end. ‘Anyone would think we’d got some sort of infectious disease, the way they keep to themselves. I don’t see why they should be in quarters while the rest of us are out in huts. What’s so special about them, I’d like to know.’

  ‘They’re Special Duties, aren’t they?’ Pearl snapped. ‘It’s all hush-hush. No use your looking sour about it, Maureen. It’s not their fault.’

  ‘Well, why should they get off drill? I don’t see what’s to stop them doing that – like all of us have to do.’

  ‘Same reason as they’ve been put in separate quarters – they work in watches round the clock. They can’t fit in with us and if they put us all in the same huts we’d be waking each other up all the time. You’re just jealous, that’s your trouble.’

  ‘They plot things on a big map in the Ops Room,’ Sandra said brightly. ‘That’s what I’ve heard, anyhow.’

  Maureen cast another resentful glance down the table. ‘If that’s all they do, it’s nothing so wonderful. It doesn’t make them any better than us and there’s no call for them to be so snooty.’

  Vera sighed. ‘But it s-sounds ever so exciting. I wish I could do something like that. All secret and important.’

  Susan said: ‘Actually, I’m thinking of asking to be re-mustered to Special Duties myself.’

  ‘You would. Duchess.’

  ‘There’s no need to be offensive, Pearl. I happen to believe that I’m capable of doing more than just cut up cabbages.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  Anne only half heard the bickering. She was reading a letter from Kit under the table.

  We’ve been on the move again recently and are billeted in the local cinema at the moment. It’s full of bugs and stinks of garlic. Bit of a come-down from the last place where we lived like kings. We seem to exist on a diet of corned beef, tinned salmon and sardines here, though Villiers and I, and some of the other chaps, managed to have a pretty good meal in a café the other night – steak and chips and masses of vin ordinaire, which cheered us up no end. The weather’s foul! The snow’s all gone but it’s wet and bloody cold. And the countryside round here’s the dullest I’ve ever seen. Not a patch on dear old Bucks. No sign of any Jerries yet. Altogether, life’s a bit grim and dull at the mo. I hope we’ll be on the move again soon – out of this hellish place. Villiers sends his best. Have you come across old Latimer yet? Hope you’re behaving yourself. Love, Kit.

  She folded the letter up and put it away in her skirt pocket. Susan was leaving the table huffily and Maureen was still glaring at the SD clerks, or plotters, or whatever they were. For once she rather agreed with Maureen. Some of them did behave pretty snootily and Susan would get on like a house on fire with them. But not all. That tall, gawky girl, for instance – the one who had asked her the way the oth
er day – seemed quite the opposite. She was sitting there now with the rest of them, eating her meal quietly, and looking rather out of things. As Anne watched, she somehow managed to knock her fork off her plate onto the floor. She bent down to retrieve it, red in the face, and went even redder when she caught Anne’s eye. Anne smiled and waved.

  Virginia gave an embarrassed little wave in return. She recognized the girl at the other end of the table as the one who had come to her rescue when she had got herself thoroughly lost. She looked friendly – unlike the dark-haired one next to her who had been staring in such an angry way. She was uncomfortably aware that a lot of the other WAAFS thought they were a stand-offish group. The trouble was that they had been separated from the moment they had arrived at RAF Colston. The ten of them had been put into former sergeants’ married quarters, away from the rest, and it had made for some bad feeling. Only two shared a bedroom and they had their own sitting-room, kitchen and bathroom. Pamela, who shared a room with her, came from London and her family lived in Kensington. She had been a debutante and talked a lot about the dances she had been to and of places like Ascot and Henley that Virginia had only read about. It was obvious after a few days that Pamela would much sooner have been sharing with one of the others who did know all about such things.

  Her first encounter with a real Ops Room had been a bit of a disappointment. She had expected a tense atmosphere, a sense of drama, or, at the very least, some feeling of importance and urgency. Instead, it had all been very casual. The Controller up on the dais had been smoking and chatting with Ops B beside him, and the airmen standing round the plotting table had been doing nothing much at all. Some of them were looking bored. She had actually seen one yawning.

  And nobody had been particularly pleased to see them. A few of the men had seemed amused by the novelty, but the majority had reacted coolly.