That night Jessie put Jim’s ring into a little box, and shut it away in a drawer. She knew that she would treasure it for the rest of her life, but it didn’t need to define her any more.
At her aunt’s house in Holbeach, Jessie stood in front of the mirror, carefully straightening her hat. It was a brilliant shade of blue, to match the dress, jacket and shoes that she had bought specially for the big occasion.
There was a knock at the door, and she opened it to find her father standing outside, offering his arm with a smile. Jessie took it, and they set off on the familiar journey to All Saints church.
The ancient building looked as magnificent as it had on the day she had married Jim there, and despite the sad memories associated with the place, Jessie’s heart was filled with joy rather than sorrow. She was a different person now, and ready to write a new history for herself.
Waiting outside the church was her best friend Elsie Acres, beaming in a pale blue bridesmaid’s dress. She had recently got married as well, and her new husband Jack had come along to serve as Mac’s best man.
As she walked up the aisle, Jessie smiled at a couple of familiar faces on her right – Mac’s father Willie and his youngest sister Betty, who had travelled down from Scotland for the wedding. They grinned back at her, with all the warmth and affection that she remembered from her visit to Grantown-on-Spey.
But no one in the church was smiling quite as much as Mac when she finally reached his side at the altar.
This time around, Mr and Mrs Ward insisted on hosting a reception after the ceremony. Back at the little house in Holbeach Bank, everyone joined in a toast to the happy couple and enjoyed a slice of their wedding cake – white, with a tartan band around it.
That evening, Jessie and Mac packed their bags and boarded the train to Scotland. They would be spending their first night as a married couple in a cramped sleeper cabin, but she didn’t mind one bit. A new beginning was waiting for her at the other end of the journey, and she intended to make the most of it.
20
Margery
Since the end of the war, the Air Force had been doing its best to equip servicemen and women for civilian life before they were demobbed. The Educational and Vocational Training scheme had been designed to prepare airmen for jobs in Civvy Street, while WAAFs were taught skills that might come in handy around the home, from cooking and cleaning to reupholstering armchairs and wiring plugs.
In Britain, these classes – which were offered by all three of the services – were taught in local schools and colleges, with a teaching staff of 10,000 civilian instructors. But for men and women serving abroad the options were more limited. So it was that Margery found herself attending a course in home management, taught in a specially equipped bungalow that had been built in the desert.
After her years in the military, the idea of being trained up as a perfect housewife seemed faintly ridiculous to Margery, and she struggled not to laugh at some of the tips the girls were given. Their instructor was a dumpy little sergeant from Devon who had worked as a cook before the war. ‘If you ever buy a packet of dates,’ the woman sombrely warned the girls one day, ‘make sure you shake them out on a plate before you eat them. That way you’ll give the maggots a chance to wriggle away.’
Margery was relieved when the course finally came to an end, but returning to Turah didn’t offer much in the way of excitement either. For months now she had been watching as men and women were sent back to England, wondering when her own time would come. She was growing tired of life in the strange limbo of the Egyptian desert.
When the news finally arrived, it was sudden and unexpected. Normally, dates of release were listed in the Air Ministry Orders posted on the camp noticeboard, but in Margery’s case there was just a quick tap on the shoulder and an order to pack her bags at once. A spare place had been found on one of the boats heading back to England, and her name had been plucked from the list.
There was no time for a proper boat party to say goodbye, just a quick, tearful farewell with her friends at the camp. Elspeth, in particular, was heartbroken. ‘I wish you weren’t leaving me here,’ she said, with tears rolling down her face.
‘Don’t worry,’ Margery told her, ‘you won’t have long to wait. And we’ll stay in touch back in England.’
She turned to the rest of the girls, determined not to give in to her own emotions. ‘You’re a rotten lot,’ she joked, ‘so I won’t be upset about leaving you. I’m just happy to be going home, and I know you will be too when the time comes.’
Margery was driven by lorry to Port Said, where a ship was already loaded and waiting for her. It was a far cry from the palatial ocean liner on which she’d made the outgoing journey – this time she was travelling on a small cargo vessel, and it was crammed almost to bursting with returning WAAFs and airmen.
It wasn’t until they hit open water that Margery really began to feel the difference. The ship was tossed about mercilessly, causing all its doors to swing wildly on their hinges. By the time they reached Malta, where they stopped to pick up some Wrens, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, and as the rain lashed at the little ship, the passengers were forced to remain below deck for days on end. Margery and the WAAFs she was bunking with kept themselves occupied with endless games of cards, but it was a pretty miserable journey for all concerned.
When they finally docked at Southampton, the girls were desperate to get off the boat, but they were told that they would have to wait another couple of days, until a train became available to take them up to RAF Wythall, an old barrage-balloon centre that was now being used for demobbing WAAFs.
Eventually Margery arrived at the dispersal centre, where a long queue of girls had already formed in the great hall. She worked her way from one table to the next, receiving her clothing coupons and ration card, her service and release book, and vouchers to spend on chocolate and cigarettes. She handed over the khaki drill uniform that she had worn out in Egypt, and in exchange she was given £12. 10s. for the purchase of civilian clothes.
The whole process only took about ten minutes – the demobbing machine was a well-oiled one by now, having already released almost 100,000 WAAFs. The final stage in the procedure was a quick handshake with a young officer, who thanked Margery for her service before sending her on her way.
When Margery left the great hall, it was as a civilian once more. After so many years in the service, it felt strange to be an individual again, and she felt a slight twinge of the old fears that had previously held her back in life. But she was far from the only former WAAF who was struggling with the sudden adjustment – back at Birmingham station more than a few of the women on the platform were quietly snuffling.
Margery took the first train heading south, but it was a long journey, and made longer by frequent delays. She spent the time gazing out of the window, contemplating the green fields and rolling hills of the English countryside. After her years in the desert it all looked alien to her now – there were too many trees, and not enough space between them. It didn’t really feel like home at all.
Finally Margery arrived in North Wallington, where she was surprised to see that everything looked just as it had before she’d left. As she walked up the drive to the little maltster’s house, the door flew open to reveal Mrs Pott. ‘Oh good, I’m glad you’re here,’ she said hurriedly, ‘because Peggy’s home on leave and Jessie’s booked us all tickets for High Time at the Palladium. The two of them are up in London already, but we should be able to catch them before the show starts.’
Margery couldn’t believe it. Here she was, having just returned from Egypt, and all her mother seemed to care about was a trip to the theatre. Right now the last thing Margery felt like doing was getting on another train, still less going to watch a variety show in London – all she really wanted to do was collapse on her old bed.
Nevertheless, a couple of hours later, the whole Pott family were settling into their seats at the grand Edwardian theatre. Margery
felt overwhelmed by the hyperactive performers in their colourful costumes, the blaring noise of the band, and the caterwauling of the audience as they tunelessly sang along. She blanched as ‘Two Ton’ Tessie O’Shea belted out ‘Money is the Root of All Evil’, with her blonde hair bouncing and her enormous mouth fixed in a gormless grin. Margery’s mum and her two sisters were evidently enjoying themselves, but more than ever she just wished she could go to bed and hide under her pillow.
When the Potts got back to North Wallington, Margery perked up a little at the sight of a letter on the doormat bearing Doug’s handwriting. She had written to tell him that she was on her way home, and reading his reply she learned that his friend Norman from Kasfareet was currently staying with him in Bishop’s Sutton. Doug asked if Margery would like to join them that weekend for a pub crawl.
Margery wrote back at once to say she would love to see them both, and when Saturday afternoon came around she brushed the cobwebs off her old bike, pumped up the tyres, and told her mother that she was going out for the evening.
The journey would normally have taken her an hour, but Margery managed it in 45 minutes, her legs propelled by the thought of recapturing a slice of her former life in Egypt. The address Doug had given her took her to a row of tiny farm-workers’ cottages, and in the window of one of them she spotted his familiar, boyish grin.
Doug came to the door and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. ‘So you made it back to Civvy Street!’ he said with a laugh.
Norman appeared behind him, looking as pleased to see Margery as Doug was. He was slightly less sun-kissed than she remembered – but then he was living in the Midlands now, she reminded herself, rather than in the desert.
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ Doug said, cheerful as ever. ‘Come on!’
They headed straight for his local, a cosy sixteenth-century pub called the Ship Inn. Doug bought the first round of drinks, and before long they were reminiscing about the old days in Kasfareet. As they talked about Egypt, Margery realised just how much they had crammed into their time there – the trips to the pictures, the dances, football matches and swimming parties, teas at the YWCA and the Tedder Club. It was a miracle they hadn’t all dropped dead from exhaustion.
After they drained their glasses at the Ship Inn, the three old friends moved on to a pub called the Chequers, followed by a couple more establishments that Margery didn’t catch the names of. She was just thrilled to be back together with Doug and Norman. She hadn’t had so much fun in months, and when the landlord rang the bell at the end of the night it felt far too soon.
Doug offered Margery a lift back to North Wallington, and they all piled into his little car. Along the way he was still chatting away light-heartedly, and Margery was enjoying the relaxed, carefree feeling of being a little tipsy. But she noticed that Norman was rather quiet, and at one point she overheard him mutter to Doug, ‘When are you going to tell her?’
‘In a minute,’ Doug replied, before quickly changing the subject. Margery wondered what on earth it was he was planning to say to her.
When they reached North Wallington, Norman pressed Doug again. ‘You really ought to let her know,’ he said, more firmly.
‘Let me know what?’ Margery asked, giggling. ‘What’s going on?’
Doug pulled up outside the maltster’s house and turned to look her in the eye. She could tell that he was feeling embarrassed. ‘I’m engaged, Margery,’ he said finally.
‘Engaged?’ Margery repeated, as the word cut through her fuzzy-headedness. She couldn’t quite believe she had heard him right. She and Doug had been writing to each other ever since he’d left Egypt, and he had never mentioned anyone else in his letters. Hadn’t he cycled over to her mother’s house when he first got back to England, telling her that he and Margery were going to get married?
But then Margery remembered the letter she had dashed off to her mother on VE Day, stating quite firmly that she had never made Doug any promises. Had her reply got back to him somehow?
‘I – I could still break it off,’ Doug offered, a little uncertainly.
Margery looked at his handsome, boyish face. For so long, she had kept him at arm’s length, her wariness stopping her from ever letting him get too close. In the end he must have given up hope that they would ever be more than just friends. And how could she blame him?
While Margery was still out in Egypt, Doug had obviously met someone else – someone who had said yes when he asked her. She knew in her heart that she had no right to make a claim on him now.
‘It’s all right, Doug,’ Margery said quietly, as she got out of the car.
After that evening, Margery knew she wouldn’t see Doug again. But soon she got a letter from her friend Brownie, the sergeant who had worked in the metal-plating cave at Turah. He had promised to keep in touch with her when she left Egypt, and she ripped open the envelope excitedly, hoping to hear the latest news about Cairo and life at the Kasr-el-Nil barracks.
Brownie told her that, now the war was over, his wife Minnie had come out to Egypt to join him. Unfortunately, though, she had overheard some of the men in the mess asking her husband about Margery and had got the wrong idea about their friendship. It had made things difficult between them, he explained, and he had come to the decision that the best thing was to stop writing to Margery altogether. He hoped she would understand why this was the last letter she would ever receive from him.
Having lost her two closest male friends, Margery decided to try catching up with some of the girls she had grown up with in North Wallington instead. But whenever she looked someone up it seemed that they had either moved away from the village or moved on with their life. Her school friend Daisy was now living in Scotland, and all the local girls who were still around were now married with children. When Margery went to visit them, they barely paid her any attention, breaking off from the conversation to occupy themselves with their babies, and glazing over whenever she started telling them about her adventures abroad. It seemed that nothing Margery said meant anything to them, as they had never been in the forces, and there was a gulf between her and them.
Margery wasn’t only feeling friendless but directionless as well. The Air Force had provided her with both a social life and a job, and now she had neither. Her sister Peggy, meanwhile, was having more luck adjusting to civilian life. She had trained as a health visitor as soon as she was demobbed from the Army and had recently moved to take up a position in Dorset, where by all accounts she was making a name for herself.
‘Why don’t you go back to old Dodge’s?’ Mrs Pott suggested one day, seeing Margery moping about the house. ‘I spoke to the manager last week, and he said he’s been keeping your job open ever since you left.’
Margery groaned. The last thing she wanted to do right now was step back into her old shoes. But then what other options did she have?
The following Monday found her seated once again behind the draper’s cash register – as if the war, the WAAF and Egypt had never happened.
One afternoon, Margery was in Fareham on an errand when she spotted a face from the past – a dark-haired girl called Barbara who had worked in the stores at Titchfield. She was heavily laden with shopping bags and looking rather downcast, but as soon as she saw Margery her face lit up.
‘Corporal Pott!’ Barbara exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I only live up the road in North Wallington,’ Margery replied. ‘How about you?’
‘Titchfield village,’ she told her.
‘How have you been?’ Margery asked Barbara, wondering if all the ex-WAAFs were having as tough a time adjusting to Civvy Street as she was.
The story the other woman told made her feel incredibly lucky in comparison. Barbara had married a sailor shortly before the war, and had spent every day of the conflict hoping and praying that he would come home to her in one piece. When the war finally ended she was overwhelmed with relief, and waited impatiently for him to be demobbed so they could
pick up their life together where they had left off six years earlier. At last she got word that he had been discharged from the Navy in Scotland, and was coming down to Titchfield. But Barbara’s husband never arrived – on the way back home he was killed in a car accident.
Margery felt awful for Barbara, and she realised that there were people coming out of the war with much tougher things to deal with than she had.
Before going on her way, Barbara told Margery that she’d recently heard about a branch of the RAF Association in Portsmouth, which held monthly gatherings of former Air Force personnel. ‘Maybe we could go together, since we’re both local,’ she suggested. ‘It would be good to get out of the house.’
The letters ‘RAF’ were like music to Margery’s ears, and she accepted without a second’s thought.
A couple of weeks later, the two girls met up on the bus to Portsmouth. As it trundled along, Margery felt a buzz of excitement, something she hadn’t experienced for a very long time.
The Air Force club was meeting in a room above a pub called the Cobden Arms, and as the two girls entered, Margery saw that there were around 30 people there already – mostly men but some women too – all standing around and chatting, with drinks in their hands. Everyone was wearing civilian clothes, but somehow she could tell at once that they were ex-service.
A jolly-looking former WAAF spotted the newcomers and headed over to them. She introduced herself as Peggy and had soon ushered them over to a mixed group who were reminiscing about their basic training when they first joined the Air Force. ‘You girls had it easy,’ Margery heard one of the men saying.
‘Oh no we didn’t!’ the women standing next to him protested. ‘We square-bashed just as hard as the boys. That’s why we were better than you at marching!’
Margery laughed along with the others. Just hearing people talk about life in the Air Force was comforting to her – it felt like coming home, far more than returning to North Wallington had done. There was none of the standoffishness that she would have found in a group of civilian strangers suddenly thrown together – here, as soon as people met, it was as if they’d been friends for years.
The Girls Who Went to War Page 28