Brave Faces

by Mary Arden

  As I was helping myself to the food, Anthony came up to me with a drink and insisted that I keep the last dance for him, as the saxophone wouldn’t be needed for the Last Waltz.

  ‘New Year’s Eve is going to be a bit rough for both of us this year, and so I thought that we could give each other a comforting hug at midnight,’ he suggested.

  ‘That would be lovely, Anthony, a hug is always welcome,’ I replied. I was so glad that he had asked me for a hug rather than a kiss, as it confirmed that he felt the same way about me as I did about him, and he just wanted to be friends.

  When midnight finally arrived and everyone else welcomed in the New Year, Anthony and I hugged each other tight. This time, it was his tears I felt on my cheek.

  CHAPTER 9

  1943

  Anne and I returned to work the day after New Year’s Day and were kept busy with two new squadrons that had just flown in. There were several French and Dutch pilots that required NVT tests but none of them spoke good enough English to understand our rather complicated lecture. Fortunately my schoolgirl French was adequate enough for the French pilots to understand me, but all I could do for the Dutch pilots was to try speaking in German while miming the content of the test at the same time, before turning out the lights, which caused much laughter. But somehow it worked, and after several attempts they all passed.

  Work carried on as usual for the next couple of months but at the end of February Anne caught a bad cold, so I had to do all the tests for the next few days. She wasn’t the only one who was ill. On the radio one evening, we heard that Winston Churchill had had pneumonia, but was now sitting up in bed and smoking a cigar, a sure sign that he was back on the road to recovery!

  In the spring, a substantial number of Fairey Barracuda three seat torpedo bombers arrived at the base, to replace the much loved Swordfish and Albacores, or ‘Applecores’, as some of the pilots affectionately called them.

  ‘The Barracuda is the first of its type used by the Fleet Air Arm to be fabricated entirely from metal,’ one of the pilots told me after taking his NV test.

  ‘Oh gosh! How on earth does it stay up?’ I asked him, meaning it as a joke.

  ‘That’s a good question,’ he replied seriously. I found out later that this replacement plane wasn’t proving to be very popular with some of the pilots.

  When the weather finally started to get warmer, I decided it was time to start using my bicycle more often. The hedgerows near my billet had started to come alive, and the banks were covered with primroses, so it was a joy to spend my weekends exploring the local area on my bike.

  One day I saw a lane running through a farm that I thought might be a shortcut to the airfield, so I decided to ask permission from the farmer. When I knocked on the farmhouse door, a middle-aged man opened it and looked me up and down. He was wearing a cloth cap, a well-worn waistcoat, and a pair of britches. He had a huge belly and very red cheeks covered in grey whiskers. There was a twinkle in his eye as he asked me what I wanted.

  I explained that I was a Wren billeted nearby, and that I was looking for a shortcut to get to the naval airbase, so wondered if he would mind me riding my bike though his farm. He looked at me for a moment without saying a word and then beckoned me to follow him though his yard and into a large orchard. We walked in silence until we got to some trees covered in blossom. The farmer then began talking to me in such a broad Somerset accent, that I had no idea what he was saying until I heard the word, ‘Zider’, and then guessed that he must be telling me all the names of the different apples in his orchard. I nodded and did my best to look interested, which must have done the trick, because when we returned to the farmhouse to collect my bicycle, he then pointed to the gate that led to the lane I had spotted earlier and said, ‘Make’e sure that you cloze yon gate behind thyself.’

  I promised him that I would, and thanking him, put out my hand to shake his. He looked at his hand to make sure it was clean and then decided that he needed to rub it on his britches before taking my hand in his. As I left he touched the brim of his hat and gave me a huge smile, which showed off his few remaining teeth to good effect.

  The following weekend I decided to look for some riding stables near my billet, so cycled around the local lanes and villages for the next two hours, but there didn’t seem to be any stables anywhere.

  However, on my way back to my billet, I noticed a woman teaching some young children to ride in one of the fields, so after propping my bike against the hedge, I walked over to her to ask if she knew of any local stables that might let me help at weekends in exchange for some free rides.

  ‘Well actually, my sister could do with some help, as she has a livery stable and is looking after several hunters for Services personnel on her own,’ the woman said in a very upper class accent. ‘She also runs a small riding stable for the pony club, so it might just solve both your problems.’ She then pointed to a farmhouse about a quarter of a mile across the fields, and explained how I could get there and that her sister’s name was Mrs Swallow.

  When I got to the farmhouse, I saw a lady mucking out the stables, so presuming it must be Mrs Swallow, went and introduced myself and then told her why I was there.

  ‘Well, I certainly do need some help with the hunters,’ Mrs Swallow said to my delight. ‘In fact, I’ve applied for a land girl to come and work for me, but at the moment there aren’t any available.’ She then suggested that I come again the following day, so that she could see me ride. ‘Do forgive me, I don’t want to appear rude,’ she said, ‘but I do need to be satisfied that you can ride well enough to exercise my horses.’

  As I made my way back to the Inn that afternoon, I made a point of looking carefully for landmarks and made a mental note of a gate with a broken bar, a tree with a missing branch, and a church steeple in the distance, so that I wouldn’t get lost trying to find my way back to the stables the following day.

  When I arrived at Mrs Swallow’s the next morning, she was still having her breakfast, so I joined her for a cup of tea until she had finished eating. She then took me out to see the horses, explaining which ones were livery horses, which ones she hired out to ride and the sort of things she’d like me to help her with like cleaning the tack, mucking out the stables and putting fresh hay in the feed boxes. She then let me select a pony and I chose a bay called Maize, which suited someone of my stature. After I had saddled up and mounted, I began to walk Maize towards the field and then broke into a canter. It felt wonderful to be riding again after so long and Maize was a dream to handle.

  ‘I can tell that you are an experienced rider Mary,’ Mrs Swallow said patting Maize affectionately, ‘Why don’t we go for a ride together next Sunday? Then you can familiarize yourself with the bridle paths and the fields that the farmers allow us to use.’ She then asked me to help her with the grooming for the next hour or so, which I was more than happy to do.

  Just before it was time for me to go, Mrs Swallow told me the terms for my free rides: ‘Two hours riding exercising the horses, one hour mucking out and another cleaning tack, and in exchange, I will make you a sandwich for lunch and if you stay late for any reason, an egg for tea!’ We shook hands on the deal and I then went back to my billet, happy but exhausted.

  For the next two months I rode nearly every Saturday afternoon and most Sundays. It didn’t take long before Mrs Swallow began to trust me with some of the lovely hunters she was looking after, and my relationship with her developed into a happy and relaxed one built on our mutual love of horses. I thoroughly enjoyed going there and, as the locals got used to seeing me ride to the stables on my bicycle or pass by on Maize or on one of the other horses, they would wave to me from their gardens as I went by.

  One Saturday after my ride, I decided to take a slightly different route back to the Inn and as I passed a house on the edge of a small village, I saw a woman tidying her garden, so I stopped for a chat. The woman introduced herself as Margaret Fuller and said that she hadn’t seen me around be
fore, so I explained that I was a Wren stationed at HMS Heron.

  ‘Oh, really! My husband is at Heron every day,’ Margaret said with a big smile. ‘What do you do?’ I explained my work to her and she seemed fascinated. She then told me a bit about her family and we were getting on so well that it was well past five o’clock by the time we’d finished chatting.

  ‘You must come and have tea with us tomorrow,’ Margaret said cheerfully. ‘I’ll bake a cake.’

  I was just getting on my bicycle when I turned round and called out ‘By the way, what does your husband do at the air station? It’s possible that I’ve met him.’

  ‘For his sins’ Margaret replied, smiling, ‘he’s the Air Station Captain.’

  Without thinking, I said, ‘Oh that lovely man; I met him on Christmas morning with the chaplain after the service.’

  Margaret laughed and said, ‘Yes, my husband is a lovely man, and he’d be delighted to hear that someone besides me thinks so too. Most of the time he has to be very strict with both his Senior and Junior Officers because they’re inclined to lark about too much when off duty.’

  ‘I think they ‘lark about’ as you say to cover up being homesick or missing their wives, and I know that many of them are worried that they won’t make it to the end of the war,’ I said quietly.

  ‘You’re a wise girl for one so young,’ Margaret said with a gentle smile.

  The following day it was pouring with rain, so I rang Margaret and asked if I could come the following weekend instead. When I turned up at the Fullers the following Sunday I was met by their youngest child, Anthea, who was playing with her guinea pig in the garden.

  ‘Are you an angel?’ she asked, staring at me with interest.

  ‘I used to be, but now I’m a stable girl!’ I replied laughing.

  Margaret then joined us and explained that they had told their daughter about me being an angel in the play, but when she had first seen me she had thought I was a real one. We both laughed and when we went indoors, Anthea asked me if I would play Monopoly with her, because she didn’t want to play with her two brothers anymore, as they cheated. I told her that my older brother was just as bad and sulked if he didn’t win.

  ‘Aren’t boys a bore?’ Anthea said, which made her mother and I laugh again.

  Margaret’s husband then came into the kitchen, ‘Oh Justin, this is Mary Arden, the girl I told you about.’

  ‘How do you do Sir?’

  ‘When you’re under my roof, there’s no need to call me Sir,’ Justin said with a grin, ‘so how’s our resident angel doing?’

  ‘She’s not an angel anymore, she’s a stable girl!’Anthea butted in, ‘And she’s going to play Monopoly with me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes I am,’ I told her.

  ‘Well, if you are willing to entertain our children, you’ll be more than welcome, as a regular visitor to this house,’ Justin chuckled.

  Suddenly there was a commotion at the door, as the Fuller’s two sons barged into the room to see what was going on. I was then introduced to David, aged fourteen and James, who was two years younger.

  When we were halfway through our game of Monopoly, Margaret called us all through to have a piece of homemade sponge cake and a cup of tea. I noticed that David had very nice manners, and I asked him where he went to school. He told me, and then asked me the same question. When I mentioned the name of my school Margaret told me that she knew one of the girls that I’d been friends with there, who had been a prefect when I was in my first year. Small world, I thought.

  Before I left, I asked Justin to not tell anyone at the airfield that I had visited his home. ‘I don’t mind the Wren Officers knowing because they’re friendly, but I do seem to have trouble with the Petty Officers,’ I explained. ‘They don’t seem to like the way I speak and they do their best to pull me down all the time.’

  ‘Yes they can be right cows at times!’ Justin said smiling and all three of his children giggled and made mooing sounds. I laughed too and promised them that I would teach them how to play Animal Snap next time I came to visit.

  As the weeks went by, every time I saw Captain Fuller at the airfield he was always friendly but very professional and didn’t let on that I knew his family socially. If we saw each other, we’d salute each other with a straight face, but Justin would often say quietly under his breath ‘moo’, as we passed one another, which always made me laugh.

  Although I was extremely busy working during the week, I still managed to find the time to ride at the weekends, and spent most Sunday afternoons with the Fullers. However, I knew that this lovely routine would have to come to an end eventually.

  ‘I can’t expect you to help me forever,’ Mrs Swallow said, ‘and I can’t get a land girl unless I have a proper farm, so there’s nothing for it but to advertise the ponies for sale,’ she told me sadly. I felt really upset, as I’d grown very fond of the little, fat ponies that I’d been grooming for the past few months, but I did understand her situation.

  The following Sunday morning I decided to cycle to church, so that I could say a special prayer for Peter’s safety. My father had told me that my brother was now in Burma and that he had been informed by the War Office things were ‘rather unpleasant’ over there, so we were all worried about him and I prayed for him every night. As many of the younger vicars were serving as chaplains to the armed services, it was not a surprise that a very old and doddery clergyman took our service. Afterwards, I decided to stop off in the next village for lunch. I found a lovely old pub with a garden and noticed a group of young naval Officers were sitting outside sipping mugs of beer, and to my delight, one of the young men was my friend Anthony Ross, the saxophonist.

  ‘Long time no see!’ I said.

  ‘That’s hardly my fault, you are always too busy riding, or so I’ve been told!’ he teased.

  Anthony offered to come into the pub with me to order a glass of cider, and insisted that I try one of the Devon pasties, which he assured me were delicious. We then returned to the garden to join the others, and I thought I recognised two of his friends, as I’d given them a Night Vision Test fairly recently. They asked me where I’d been, and I said that I’d just been exploring and looking for a church I could attend sometimes, instead of always going to the service at the airbase. We had our lunch and chatted for the next hour, and when it was time to leave, Anthony told me that his squadron was going on active service the following week, and that he would miss me while he was away.

  ‘I will miss you too, Anthony, and I would just like to thank you for your friendship. It has meant a great deal to me to have a male friend that is happy just being my friend rather than something more,’ I told him earnestly.

  ‘That certainly doesn’t mean that I didn’t think about wanting more,’ he said honestly, ‘but I can understand why you are not ready to allow someone special into your life again yet.’

  ‘Thanks, Anthony, you’re right. I’m not ready, but when I am, I hope I meet someone who is as kind and thoughtful as you are.’

  Just as I was about to get back on my bicycle to head home to Heron, I noticed a poster in the pub window, which advertised for volunteers to help the farmers bring in the harvest. Three telephone numbers were given, so I went back inside and asked the landlord if he knew which farm was the nearest to Queen Camel.

  ‘They all be quite close Miss,’ the landlord said, ‘but let me warn ye that it’s a job for men, not young girls, and it be very ‘ard work.’

  I then flexed my arm muscles and laughing, said that I was as strong as an ox, so surely I could do something useful? The landlord was so amused that he promised he’d have a word with his friend, Ted Bridges, when he next saw him. He then told me that Ted’s wife might like some help making meals for the farm-hands, cleaning out the hen-houses, and other jobs of a similar nature.

  That evening I wrote a postcard to William that I knew would make him laugh: ‘Volunteered to clean out hen houses on a farm… for free! Wish I had kept
my big mouth shut! Love Mary.’

  When I went to work the next day I asked Anne whether she’d be willing to do the re-tests on Saturday mornings, so that I could help with the harvest and then asked her if she would be interested in volunteering too. Her reply was emphatic.

  ‘You must be joking! I have no intention of breaking my nails or tearing my clothes on thorns, but I have no objection if you want to!’

  She then suggested that I ask the First Officer Wren and Surgeon Commander Lewis’s permission before doing anything more about it.

  Surgeon Commander Lewis said that he had no objection, so long as I did it in my free time.

  ‘Actually I think it will be good for you to be out in the sunshine a bit more,’ he said, ‘Working in that dark room for so long is not healthy. In fact, I think you should take some iron tablets as you are looking a bit anemic.’

  The First Officer had no objection either, so the following weekend I went back to the pub and the landlord said that he would telephone his farmer friend, Ted Bridges, while I waited. He returned a moment later and told me that Ted was interested to meet me, and then explained how to find the Bridges’ Farm, which was much farther away from Queen Camel than I’d hoped.

  By the time I arrived, I was a bit sweaty and more than ready for a drink of cold water. When I knocked on the door, a middle aged woman, who I presumed was Mrs Bridges, opened it and said in a broad Somerset accent, ‘Yes, Miss, can I help you?’

  I smiled and said, ‘I hope it will be the other way round!’ I explained that I was a Wren at HMS Heron and that I’d seen a poster in a pub asking for volunteers to help bring in the harvest, and that the pub landlord had already spoken to her husband, which is why I was there now. The farmer’s wife invited me in and guided me towards her kitchen. ‘You aren’t very big are you?’ she said, taking a tea towel and dusting a chair for me to sit on, ‘Farming is man’s work.’