The Girls Who Went to War

by Duncan Barrett

  For her part, May took Margery very much under her wing, requesting special permission for her to take the spare bunk in her room at the end of the hut, which was normally reserved for non-commissioned officers. Margery wasn’t sorry to leave the cramped 30-bed dorm for somewhere a little more private, nor for the chance to spend more time chatting to May. They got hold of a little electric stove and made cocoa on it in their enamel mugs. As they sat up late into the cold winter nights, Margery told May all about her friendship with James Preston, and showed her the beautiful letters he had written her.

  What Margery really wanted was to see James in person again, but, to her disappointment, whenever he got leave he always seemed to rush back home to Lancashire rather than suggesting they spend it together. It was now many months since they’d first met, but Margery had been forced to make do with nothing more than his letters.

  Then one day, James wrote and suggested that Margery come and visit for the weekend. He had made friends with a family in Poplar, in the East End of London, not far from where he was posted on the Isle of Dogs, and they had offered to put her up for the night.

  Margery was thrilled at the thought of seeing James again, and the weekend proved as wonderful as she could have hoped. The two of them spent hours just walking and talking, until it felt like they must have trekked around the entire city. But whether they were sharing tea and buns at St Martin in the Fields, or chatting on a bench in one of the beautiful Royal parks, James always seemed to have something witty and interesting to say. There was no one whose company Margery enjoyed more, and as he waved her off at Waterloo Station, she wondered how long it would be before she saw him again.

  Back at Titchfield, the exchange of letters continued, but again whenever James was granted leave, he always seemed to rush straight back to Lancashire. Eventually, Margery decided to take matters into her own hands, writing to James and asking if he would like to come and spend an evening with her family in North Wallington. A few days later, she received a reply in his usual perfect handwriting, saying that he would be delighted to come and visit.

  They fixed a date for the following weekend. James would get the first train down on Friday afternoon when his shift in the kitchens was over, and Margery would meet him at her parents’ house once she had finished in the office. Her sister Peggy was also planning to be home for the weekend, so it was a chance for James to meet the whole family.

  On Friday evening, Margery rushed home from Titchfield as fast as she could, but when she got there James was nowhere to be seen. ‘Did he miss the train?’ she asked her mother anxiously.

  ‘No, he arrived bang on time,’ Mrs Pott told her. ‘He’s just taken Peggy down the pub.’ Then, seeing the look of disappointment on Margery’s face, she added, ‘They said they’d be back in time for dinner.’

  Margery waited patiently for James and her sister to return. When they finally did, it was clear that they’d been getting on famously – there was an easy rapport between them, as if they’d known each other for years. ‘Don’t worry, I was just looking after him for you,’ Peggy told Margery with a little laugh, as she led James into the house.

  James had clearly made a good impression on Peggy, and as the Potts sat down to dinner he began to work his magic on the rest of the family as well. Once again, Margery was struck by his gift of the gab – as he regaled the family with tales from his Army camp in London, he soon had Mr and Mrs Pott as rapt as both their daughters had been. By the time everyone retired to bed that evening, Margery felt satisfied that James had charmed the whole family.

  But the following morning, when Margery was alone with her mother in the kitchen, Mrs Pott said something that shocked her. ‘I don’t think you should bring James back here again,’ she announced gravely.

  Margery was stunned. She was sure that James had been the perfect house guest – courteous, charming and friendly. Only the night before, her mother had been hanging on his every word. How could she have changed her mind so quickly?

  ‘I’ve just got a feeling about him,’ Mrs Pott told her daughter, lowering her voice a little. ‘I think that he’s a married man.’

  Margery couldn’t believe it. ‘What makes you say that?’ she asked her mother in astonishment.

  ‘Trust me, love,’ Mrs Pott replied. ‘I just know.’

  That morning, Margery and James went out for another long walk together. He was as witty and blithe as ever, but with her mother’s words playing on her mind, she found it hard to relax in his company. She couldn’t believe that her mum’s intuition was correct, but when she thought about it she realised that she had never asked James about his family back in Lancashire. In all their long conversations together, when he had seemed to discourse on every topic under the sun, the subject of his home life had somehow never come up.

  Several times that morning, Margery almost asked James the question that had burned itself into her consciousness, but again and again she couldn’t quite bring herself to do so. When the time came for her to see him off at the railway station, however, the anxious look in her eyes was impossible to miss. ‘What’s wrong, Margery?’ he asked her, as he stepped up onto the train.

  Margery hesitated, looking down at the platform. ‘It’s – it’s just my mum,’ she said, falteringly. ‘She told me she thinks that you’re married.’ She looked up at James, half expecting him to laugh in her face.

  But instead he held her gaze. ‘Does she?’ he asked.

  ‘You could show me your pay book,’ Margery suggested. ‘That way I can tell her I’ve seen it and I know that you’re not.’

  ‘No,’ James replied slowly, ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’ Margery stared at him. ‘You see, it does say I’m married,’ he told her.

  As the train’s giant wheels slowly started to turn, Margery felt as if the air had been sucked out of her lungs. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

  The train began to pull out of the station. ‘I’ll write to you, Margery!’ James called.

  Margery stood and watched, dumbstruck, as he disappeared from view. She had never felt so stupid in her life. How could her mother have realised in one evening what she had failed to pick up on in all these months? Now she finally understood why James had been so reluctant to spend his leave with her, why he had always rushed back to Lancashire at the first opportunity. For all she knew, there was a whole family up there that he had never told her about.

  By the time Margery arrived back at Titchfield, the shock was beginning to subside a little, but as soon as May Strong clapped eyes on her she could tell that something was wrong, and she insisted that Margery tell her the whole sorry story.

  Margery talked her friend through everything that had happened, before concluding, ‘Well that’s it then, I suppose. There’ll be no more of his lovely letters to look forward to.’

  May put an arm around Margery and hugged her tight. ‘Oh, I think there will be,’ she replied wisely. ‘And the best thing you can do is keep on reading them. Then you’ll see how easy it is for men to write pretty letters, when what they say doesn’t mean a thing.’

  Sure enough, May turned out to be right. James continued writing to Margery, almost as if nothing had happened. She forced herself to read every beautifully written word, although the task no longer brought her any pleasure. But she didn’t respond, and after a handful of ever shorter missives, he finally gave up the correspondence altogether.

  Although she felt hurt by the way James had treated her, and humiliated at the thought that she had been so keen to introduce him to her family, Margery was convinced that she had learned another valuable lesson. From now on, she told herself, she would take anything a man told her with a heavy pinch of salt. As far as she was concerned, all men were to be considered married until proven otherwise. She had no intention of feeling like such a fool ever again.

  6

  Kathleen

  Being rejected by the WRNS had been a bitter disappointment for Kathleen, but she wasn’t going t
o let it stop her doing her bit for the war effort. If the Navy wouldn’t take her now, she reasoned, she would just have to find something else to do until it was ready for her.

  She had seen posters in town calling on women to join the Land Army – ‘for a healthy, happy job’ as they put it. The pictures showed girls standing in golden fields of corn, tilling the soil, gathering hay and tending to cute farm animals. The life of a land girl looked distinctly appealing, and even if the work was hard, the camaraderie would surely make up for that.

  Kathleen handed in her notice with the family she was nannying for in Wales, telling them she was going back home to Cambridge. She was sorry to say goodbye to the little girl she had been looking after, but she felt it was for the best. The child was beginning to grow so attached to her that many people seeing them out together assumed she was her mother.

  Once she got home, Kathleen lost no time in presenting herself at a recruiting centre, where she was interviewed by a rather superior woman who wanted to know if she had a farming background.

  ‘Well, I used to help my father grow vegetables in the garden,’ she replied, hopefully.

  ‘Horticulture for you then,’ the woman declared. ‘You’ll get your call-up soon, so be ready.’

  A week later, Kathleen was on the train to Bury St Edmunds, ready to take up her first posting. She arrived at the station to find a rather luxurious-looking car waiting for her, along with a chauffeur who introduced himself as Bradley. ‘I’ve been sent to collect you,’ he explained.

  Kathleen got in, wondering what kind of farm had its own chauffeur. They headed out into the countryside for a while, before turning up the gravel drive of a grand mansion, whose once carefully manicured gardens had been given over to food production.

  A dumpy woman with rosy cheeks and white hair met Kathleen at the door. She looked awkwardly at her, as if she didn’t quite know how to address her. ‘I’m Mrs Jones, the cook,’ she said, shaking Kathleen’s hand and half-curtseying at the same time. ‘I’ll take you up to yer room.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Kathleen replied, following the other woman into the house. She admired the magnificent entrance hall and the broad, sweeping staircase carpeted in red velvet. Kathleen had imagined the land girls would all bunk together in a barn, sleeping on bundles of hay, yet it sounded as if she was to have her own bedroom, right inside the grand house itself.

  Kathleen’s room turned out to be at the very top of the building, and it was small but tastefully decorated. ‘You’ve got a lovely bathroom along here,’ Mrs Jones said, showing her into a large room with decorative tiles around the walls and the deepest bathtub she had ever seen. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to get settled,’ she told her.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Kathleen. ‘Just one thing – where are all the other land girls?’

  ‘There ain’t none,’ the cook replied. ‘You’re the first we’ve had.’

  Kathleen couldn’t help feeling disappointed. She had imagined herself making friends in the Land Army, going to dances with the other girls in the evenings and sharing confidences late into the night. Yet here she was, entirely on her own. It didn’t help that the servants seemed unsure how to treat her, since her status was somewhat unclear. She certainly wasn’t on the same level as the aristocratic family of the house, yet she wasn’t really one of the staff either.

  That evening Kathleen’s dinner was sent up to her on a tray and she ate it alone in her room. But after she had finished, she decided to head downstairs and try to break the ice. In the basement she found the servants’ sitting room, where some of the maids were drinking tea. As she entered, they instinctively jumped to attention.

  ‘Oh, please don’t get up,’ Kathleen insisted. ‘I thought maybe I could join you for a while.’

  The maids looked at her a little uncertainly, but one of them, a pretty ginger-haired girl a few years younger than Kathleen, gestured her towards a chair. ‘Course you can,’ she said. ‘I’m Minnie. How d’you do.’

  Kathleen introduced herself and sat down opposite Minnie. ‘Do you play cards?’ the girl asked her.

  Kathleen nodded.

  ‘How about Beat your Neighbour out of Doors?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of that one!’ Kathleen laughed.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll teach you,’ Minnie said, doling out the cards to Kathleen and the other girls. Soon they were all engrossed in the game, their former awkwardness forgotten.

  Kathleen liked Minnie, and she soon discovered that the two of them had a lot in common. Minnie’s father had been stationed with the Army in India, just like Kathleen’s dad, and she had spent her early years living abroad.

  As they played, Kathleen couldn’t help noticing that one of the other kitchen maids’ hands were badly disfigured, the fingers stuck together and the thumbs missing. ‘My mum fell off her bike when she were pregnant with me,’ the girl said, seeing her staring.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Kathleen replied. ‘How awful.’

  The girl shrugged. ‘Stopped me bein’ called up, though, so that’s somethin’.’

  Mrs Jones wandered in from the kitchen. ‘You lot better let Miss Skin ’ere get to bed,’ she told the other girls. ‘She’s got to be up at ’alf five to help Mr Shaw, you know.’

  Kathleen was shocked – that was even earlier than in her old job as a nanny. But there was no time to protest, as Mrs Jones gave her a candle to take up with her.

  ‘Oh, this arrived in the post for you,’ the cook added, handing her a parcel. ‘I reckon it must be your uniform.’

  The next morning Kathleen was awoken by a knock on her door, and one of the maids came in with a cup of tea for her. It was still dark outside as she struggled into her new uniform – a fawn shirt, green V-neck pullover, brown corduroy breeches and long socks up to her knees. It was hardly a glamorous combination, but worst of all were the shoes – brown leather so hard that it felt like she was putting her feet into clods of iron.

  Down in the kitchens Kathleen found Mrs Jones, who showed her the way to the gardens. Dawn was just beginning to break, and as Kathleen stepped outside she spotted a tiny old man with a bald head motioning to her to follow him. She guessed that the gnome-like figure must be Mr Shaw, the gardener.

  The old man led Kathleen into an orchard of apple trees, where every spare inch of ground had been planted with vegetables. ‘Shu’ geh,’ he called back over his shoulder.

  Kathleen looked at him blankly.

  ‘Shu’ geh,’ he repeated, more emphatically.

  ‘I’m sorry, what does that mean exactly?’ Kathleen asked, confused.

  The little man walked slowly back over to the gate and pulled it shut behind her. ‘Shu’ geh,’ he repeated for a third time, clearly exasperated.

  Mr Shaw hailed from Yorkshire and made no concessions to Southern ears like Kathleen’s. But as he showed her around the gardens, she realised he was a kind soul really. He had a daughter her age in the ATS, he told her, and he and his wife worried about her terribly.

  Mr Shaw explained that thanks to the war he now grew everything from potatoes and turnips to broccoli, cabbages, kale, sprouts, carrots and mangold wurzels, all of which were sold at market in town. There were also apple, pear and plum trees, as well as bushes of gooseberries, raspberries and redcurrants. ‘Now, you jus’ do what ye can,’ he told Kathleen, handing her a spade and looking at her skinny frame uncertainly. ‘I don’t expect too much of ye.’

  At Mr Shaw’s instruction, Kathleen set to work digging and planting, determined to prove to him that she was more than capable of the job she had been sent to do. But after an hour or so her brow was dripping with sweat and she felt ravenous.

  She was relieved when, at eight o’clock, they stopped for a breakfast of porridge. ‘When do we finish for the day?’ she asked Mr Shaw.

  ‘Why, when t’sun goes down!’ the old man said, with a chuckle.

  Soon they were back at work again, digging and hoeing away until at last Mrs Jones rang the bell for lunch
. Kathleen took her meal on her own, while Mr Shaw headed back to the gardener’s cottage to eat with his wife.

  By mid-afternoon Kathleen was utterly exhausted, but as Mr Shaw had promised there was no stopping until dusk fell. The vegetables had to be got ready for market on Monday, he told her, and with only a tiny old man and a skinny young girl to get it all done, it was going to be quite a task.

  By the time Kathleen went up to her room that evening she was barely able to stand from the physical exertions of the day, and she woke the following morning feeling as if every muscle in her body had been pulled. It hurt just to walk down the stairs, but there was nothing for it except to head out to the gardens and start digging all over again.

  The days at the grand estate passed excruciatingly slowly, and for Kathleen, who loved to talk and laugh, it was a lonely time. She was often left on her own for hours while Mr Shaw worked elsewhere in the grounds. Much of the time her only company was an old Suffolk horse called Patsy who, like the gardener, had seen better days.

  One evening, Kathleen had just returned to her room to change out of her muddy clothes when there was a knock on her door. ‘Come in,’ she called, sitting down on the side of her bed.

  Minnie came tumbling in excitedly. ‘You’ve been asked to go to dinner,’ she announced.

  ‘Where?’ Kathleen asked her, confused.

  ‘Here, with the family,’ the girl explained, grinning. ‘They want you to join them in the drawing room first – for sherry!’

  ‘Oh, right!’ Kathleen exclaimed. She hastily put on her only decent-looking dress and followed Minnie downstairs into the grand drawing room.

  There, the lady of the house, Mrs Ashbourne, and her youngest daughter were waiting to receive her. The mother was a tall and elegant woman and her daughter was pretty, although Kathleen thought she looked rather tired.