Suddenly, she was aware of a palpable silence in the room. She looked up slowly, and realised that everyone was watching her with concern. ‘Excuse me a minute,’ she muttered. ‘I have to be on my own.’ Then she walked out of the office and back to the rest-room, collapsing back down at the little desk where only minutes before she had been happily writing to her husband. She looked again at the words on the bit of paper in her hand, blinking at them in disbelief.
After a while, Jessie became aware of a grey-haired female officer entering the room. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Winkworth,’ the older woman said as she approached. ‘I can’t help, but here’s a cup of tea for you.’
Wordlessly, Jessie took the cup and the officer went away again, shutting the door gently behind her.
When Jessie had drunk the tea, barely registering the taste of the hot liquid as it went down her throat, she wandered in a daze to her Nissen hut. It was empty when she got there, and she sat on her bed in complete silence.
After a while, the other girls began to shuffle in. From the looks on their faces it was obvious that they had heard Jessie’s news. They took her with them to the canteen, but they couldn’t persuade her to eat anything, so instead the little group just sat in silence. Many of the girls had lost loved ones to the war already, and they knew there was nothing they could say that would make any difference, but Jessie found it helped a little just having them around her.
Before long, the Army administration had kicked in, and Jessie was granted a week’s compassionate leave. She set off on the next train to Holbeach Bank.
When Mrs Ward opened the door, there was a look on her face that her daughter had never seen before. ‘I’m sorry, Jessie,’ she said, as she ushered her into the house.
But as far as Jessie was concerned, it was too little, and far, far too late. ‘Don’t give me your sympathy,’ she replied coldly. ‘I don’t want to know what you think, or whether you’re sorry or not.’
Although her mother had warned her not to marry in wartime, Jessie was determined that she would never give her the satisfaction of thinking that she had been right. Marrying Jim had been the best decision of her life, even if they had only shared a couple of precious weeks together as husband and wife.
The next morning Jessie left her parents’ house and went to stay with her aunt instead, until her week’s leave was up and it was time to return to the battery.
8
Margery
After a few months, the shock Margery felt at discovering that James Preston was married had subsided. She still felt bruised by the whole experience, but her friend May Strong, who had been there for her at the time, was determined to distract her from ruminating on what had happened.
May was in her mid-thirties, which at the time was considered old for a single woman, but she didn’t appear to have any concerns about not being married herself. Her main aim in life was to have fun, and to make sure that everyone around her was as happy as she was. One evening, when she saw Margery looking over one of James’s old letters, she announced, ‘Come on – there’s a dance down in Portsmouth tonight, and I’m ordering you to go!’
The two of them got the bus into town together and spent the night dancing their socks off. Margery couldn’t help laughing at the sight of her superior burning up the dance floor without a care in the world, and she enjoyed letting her hair down for a change too. But each time she danced with a man she made it very clear that she wasn’t interested in anything further. After her experience with James, she had decided to treat all men she met as if they were married, whatever they told her.
The two WAAFs were having such a good night that they lost track of time completely, and when they arrived back at the bus stop they discovered, to Margery’s horror, that they’d missed the last bus home to Titchfield.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll hitch-hike!’ May told her. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that cars always stop for a girl in uniform.’
Margery just hoped that her friend was right. It was getting later and later, and she didn’t want to be put on a charge for missing the curfew.
May stuck her thumb out confidently, but a good ten minutes went by without anything stopping. Finally, a motorbike came roaring round the corner and screeched to a halt next to the two women. ‘Hop on!’ the driver told them.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said May, eagerly clambering up behind the rider. ‘Come on, Margery.’
Margery stared at the bike doubtfully. It looked terrifying, and neither of them had helmets. ‘Have you ever done this before?’ she asked May.
‘No, but there’s a first time for everything!’ her friend replied. ‘Come on!’
Gingerly, Margery followed her example and they sped off to Titchfield, making it back just in time to beat the curfew.
Gradually, May Strong’s carefree attitude to life began to rub off on Margery. Breaking the rules didn’t come naturally to her – not for nothing had her sister Peggy branded her a ‘Goody Two-Shoes’ – but she was beginning to realise that, if she didn’t mind bending them a little, her job in Equipment Accounts offered certain perks. Everyone in the office was used to her leaving her desk several times a day to check up on some item in the stores, so she could easily disappear for half an hour or so without anyone batting an eyelid. She began making the most of her little excursions, dropping in on the lads in the Armoury, who were always willing to brew up a nice pot of tea, and then taking an illegal short cut back across the grass when no one was looking.
To her surprise, Margery found that she rather enjoyed the feeling of doing things she wasn’t supposed to, and before long she began committing more minor offences. One night, when she wanted to go out but didn’t have a pass, she decided to break camp, sure that with her wits about her she could get past the guard at the entrance without being noticed.
Margery wandered casually down towards the gate. As she approached the blast wall that ran alongside the guardhouse, she cast a furtive look around her, before kneeling down, as nonchalantly as she could, and pretending to tie her shoelace. She was pretty sure that no one had seen her duck down, and as she scuttled along behind the improvised air-raid barrier and out of the camp, she felt flushed with excitement. All that remained was to repeat the trick on her way back in and she would be home and dry.
Margery’s scheme worked like a dream, giving her the freedom to come and go whenever she wanted, and over the ensuing weeks she repeated it many times. But one night, as she was striding purposefully towards her dormitory hut, having successfully sneaked back into camp, she heard a stern female voice call out, ‘Pott!’
Margery stopped dead in her tracks and slowly turned around, meeting the stare of an intimidating-looking WAAF officer. ‘You haven’t booked in,’ the woman told her accusingly.
‘I haven’t booked out either!’ Margery replied, flustered. This at least had the merit of being true, although it didn’t exactly help the situation.
The WAAF officer narrowed her eyes, but before she could say anything, Margery announced confidently, ‘I’m on a 48-hour pass, you see, so I didn’t think I needed to.’ She felt rather pleased with herself for coming up with such a convincing lie on the spur of the moment.
The WAAF officer continued to stare at Margery, who somehow managed to hold her gaze. ‘On your way then,’ she said eventually, turning on her heel and marching off.
Margery breathed a sigh of relief, and rushed back to the dormitory hut as fast as she could.
With Christmas approaching, Margery was disappointed to learn that she was expected to remain at Titchfield over the holiday rather than spend the time at home with her family. Throughout her childhood, the Potts had always attended midnight mass on Christmas Eve – and although she couldn’t be with them this year, she was determined to keep the tradition alive. With a little cajoling, she managed to convince a couple of girls from her hut to accompany her to the church in the local village.
The service was as magical as
any Margery remembered, and as the girls came out afterwards, they were met by a scene so beautiful it could have been printed on a picture postcard. While they had been inside the church, it had begun to snow, and the little village was now frosted in white. The sky was dotted with a thousand bright stars, and a brilliant moon lit up the landscape in defiance of the blackout. Margery was struck by an overwhelming feeling that everything was right in the world.
‘I think I know a short cut back to the camp,’ she told the other girls. ‘If we cut across these fields we’ll be home in half the time.’
The others peered anxiously at the terrain in front of them. ‘I don’t know, Margery,’ one of them said. ‘What if we get lost out there?’ The girl was a Londoner, and not used to being out in the countryside at night.
‘Don’t worry,’ Margery told her. ‘We’ll be all right. Just follow me.’
As she strode out across the field, she was struck by how far she had come since the day she first put on her WAAF uniform. She had joined up as a timid young woman who followed where others led, fearful of what lurked around every corner. The old Margery would never have suggested walking home after midnight, with no more than the moon to light her way – but tonight it hadn’t even crossed her mind to be scared.
When one of the WAAF corporals was transferred away from Titchfield, Margery decided to put in for a promotion. She knew the extra money would come in handy for her parents, since her father was now retired and they were living off his small pension. She had seen the way May Strong looked out for her girls and gained their respect without the need for harsh discipline, and she had found it inspiring. Perhaps that was something she could do, she thought.
The wing commander was sympathetic to Margery’s family situation and agreed to send her off for training. As long as she passed the ‘discip’ course, he told her, the job was hers.
Margery was sent to RAF Cardington in Bedfordshire, the main training centre of RAF Balloon Command. The three-week course there included lectures every day, as well as practical demonstrations on subjects such as how to make a field kitchen. Margery doubted whether such skills would ever come in handy at Titchfield, but she applied herself conscientiously, determined to make the most of the opportunity she had been given.
The girls on the course drilled every morning, and took turns in leading the parade. For Margery this was the hardest part of the training, since she found it almost impossible to time her commands correctly – an order had to be issued just as the left foot was passing the right, so that everyone moved together on the next step. One day, when she was commanding the rest of her cohort, the instructor told her to give the order, ‘About turn.’ But as she stared at the dozens of feet marching in unison, Margery felt herself become transfixed, and she kept missing her chance to issue the order.
Before she knew it, her troops had marched off the parade ground altogether, and were progressing through a giant aircraft hangar, past a group of bemused engineers who had been hard at work repairing a damaged plane. The instructor was forced to go running after them, frantically shouting out the order himself to prevent them from marching into a wall. Margery stood and watched sheepishly as the group of girls emerged from the hangar, several of them stifling giggles.
But despite such a humiliating setback, Margery struggled through the rest of the course, and at the end of the three weeks she felt reasonably confident she had done all that could be expected of her. She and her friend May were both due some leave, and they had decided to spend it with May’s family up in Haltwhistle, so together they took the train up to Newcastle.
When the call came confirming that Margery’s promotion had gone through, the whole Strong family cheered as if she were one of their own. ‘Here, why don’t you take these, Margery,’ said May’s brother, who was also in the Air Force, handing over an old set of corporal’s stripes. ‘If you wear new ones, everyone’ll know you’ve only just been promoted,’ he explained, ‘and you don’t want that!’
Margery took off her jacket, whipped out her ‘hussif’ – the little pouch containing needle and thread which was part of every servicewoman’s standard kit – and carefully sewed the stripes onto her sleeve. Then she put the jacket back on, and headed down to the local pub to celebrate with the Strongs.
‘Well, that’s it, then,’ May announced, as she set a drink down on the table in front of Margery. ‘I don’t outrank you any more!’ From the broad smile on her face it was clear that she was happy for her. When they had first met, Margery had very much looked up to May, but as her own confidence had grown, their friendship had matured into one between equals.
Unfortunately, though, fostering friendships wasn’t one of the Air Force’s priorities, and much to the two girls’ disappointment May was soon transferred to a new posting. Margery had finally earned the right to her place in the NCO’s room at the end of her hut, but from now on she would be occupying it on her own.
As a newly minted corporal, Margery had a whole new set of responsibilities at RAF Titchfield. In the dormitory hut, it was her job to ensure that everything was spick and span, ready for regular inspections, and to lead the flight of girls to breakfast each morning. She was also called on to patrol the camp at night, looking out for any naughty WAAFs who were out canoodling with their male colleagues, and at exactly 10.30 p.m. every evening she was the one who now turned out the lights.
In her time off, Margery generally went home to North Wallington to see her parents. Despite the fact that he had recently retired, Mr Pott’s emphysema seemed to be getting worse, and Margery was now the only one of his three daughters who was living close by. Not to be outdone by her younger sibling in the Air Force, Peggy had joined the Army as a Queen Alexandra Nursing Sister, and had almost immediately been sent to the Middle East.
When Mr and Mrs Pott first saw the corporal’s stripes on Margery’s arm, the pride they felt was plain to see. ‘You know, you look an inch taller these days,’ her mother told her. Then she added, with a laugh, ‘I suppose next you’ll be wanting to go abroad like your sister.’
Margery wasn’t sure if her mother had been joking, but as chance would have it, a few days later a notice went up on the board at RAF Titchfield calling for volunteers for overseas service. The list of trades required included Equipment Accounts.
Margery thought for a moment. Would it really be such a joke for her to go overseas like her sister, she wondered. After all, she was the one who had enlisted first, not Peggy – and she had been promoted to corporal. Already she had achieved so much more than anyone in her family had thought her capable of, and the decision to join the WAAF was one of the best she had ever taken in her life. Who was to say that this might not be an equally great opportunity?
Before she could talk herself out of it, Margery had put her name down.
A few days later, she was called into the Admin Office for an interview about her application. Before she went in, she read over the rules and regulations on overseas service, and was horrified to discover that WAAFs with elderly parents were not eligible to go abroad. Margery’s father was well into his seventies, and scarcely in the best of health – if the Air Force discovered that fact she felt sure that they would strike her off the list.
As she walked to the office, Margery wrestled with her conscience. In her time at Titchfield she had grown more comfortable with bending the rules now and then, but out-and-out lying still didn’t come easily to her. Eventually, she made a pact with herself: if they asked her directly, she wouldn’t deny her father’s age or his illness, but neither would she volunteer the information unprompted.
The interview turned out to be very straightforward, and to Margery’s relief no questions were asked about her parents. She walked out of the Admin Office safe in the knowledge that she had made it through – Margery Pott was going to see the world.
She knew just how fortunate she was to have been accepted for overseas service. Although the Air Force was gradually beginning to send wo
men to postings all over the globe, their numbers were small, and less than five per cent of WAAFs ever ventured beyond the British Isles.
While she waited for her orders to depart, Margery continued to see her parents as often as she could. But each time she returned to the maltster’s house in North Wallington, her father seemed to have deteriorated a little more. Now every breath was accompanied by a low rattling noise and, unable to walk unaided, Mr Pott was confined to a wheelchair. Whenever Margery visited, she would wheel him out of the house and he would stare sadly out over the fields. One day, while they were admiring the view, he reached out to grab her arm and pleaded with her not to go abroad.
Margery was beginning to have serious doubts herself about leaving, but her mother did her best to reassure her. ‘Don’t you take a blind bit of notice of your father,’ she declared. ‘He’s just worried about who’s going to push his chair around.’
As the days and weeks wore on, and Margery waited patiently for her embarkation orders, Mr Pott got sicker and sicker. She was heading home to see him most nights after work now, cycling through the blacked-out lanes of North Wallington on Peggy’s old pushbike. But by this stage he was too sick even to be wheeled along the road, so she just sat by his bedside playing cribbage with him.
Mr Pott’s bed had been moved downstairs, and he was surviving almost entirely on a diet of raw eggs and whisky, which his wife was convinced was the only thing keeping him alive. She was determined not to let him go into hospital, convinced that he would die if he was taken away from home. But sitting by his side for hour after hour, Margery could see that her father was in terrible pain, and it was beginning to take a toll on his mind. Sometimes when she visited he seemed barely aware of who she was, and he would talk to her about things that weren’t really there.
The Girls Who Went to War Page 12