That was what she had missed so much after leaving the WAAF, Margery realised – the camaraderie. By the end of the night, she and Barbara had paid up for a year’s membership of the RAF Association, and were looking forward to their next meeting in a month’s time.
With the regular get-togethers to look forward to, Margery found she didn’t mind living back home with her mother in North Wallington, and even going to work at the draper’s every day began to feel more bearable. Her friends and neighbours might not understand her, but it didn’t matter any more – she had found her people again.
In particular, the RAF Association meetings offered something that Margery had missed ever since leaving the WAAF: male company. Among the former airmen who were regulars at the monthly meetings was a group of blokes who enjoyed playing on the pub’s billiard tables and darts board, and increasingly she found herself joining them. Being the only woman in the gang didn’t faze her – in fact if anything it brought back happy memories of her time at Kasfareet, hanging out with Doug, Norman and the boys.
Margery wasn’t looking for anything more than friendship, but one evening Barbara asked her, ‘Do you fancy anyone here?’
She surveyed the room thoughtfully. At the bar was an athletic-looking man who had evidently just arrived from some kind of sporting activity, judging from the beads of sweat dripping from his brow. He had just ordered a pint at the bar, and she watched as he downed it in one.
‘I quite like the look of him,’ Margery admitted. The man looked tough, solid, secure – the kind of chap you could rely on.
‘Oh, a bloke like that’s bound to be married,’ Barbara told her with a sigh.
‘Do you think so?’ Margery asked her.
‘Absolutely,’ her friend replied confidently.
Just my luck, thought Margery – another married man! She put the man at the bar out of her head and went off for a game of billiards with the lads.
At the club’s annual general meeting that year, the discussion turned to sporting activities. Peggy wanted to set up a Saturday netball team for the former WAAFs, who were keen to get a bit of exercise now that regular PT sessions were a thing of the past. ‘But the only problem is, who would we play?’ one of the other women asked. ‘You’ve got to have two teams, haven’t you, and I don’t think we’ve got enough girls.’
‘What about tennis?’ Margery suggested. ‘You only need two people for that.’ At Kasfareet, she’d been given a few lessons by an airman who had played professionally in civilian life, and she quite fancied the idea of brushing up on her racket skills.
A tall, dark-haired chap in front of her turned around. ‘I’ll play tennis with you if you’ll be a dance partner for me,’ he said. ‘I’m learning ballroom dancing, and I’m told I need a lot of practice!’
Margery wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity like that. ‘All right then, you’re on,’ she told him.
After the meeting, the man came over and introduced himself as Jack Harley, suggesting that he and Margery should meet the following Saturday at the South Parade Pier Ballroom in Southsea. ‘You put me through my paces on the dance floor, and then next weekend I’ll put you through yours on the tennis court,’ he said, with a cheeky grin.
On Saturday evening, Margery caught the bus into town and she and Jack headed to the ballroom. It was a grand affair, with a stage at the front for the band to play on, and galleries around the sides so that people could get a good view of the dancers. As soon as Margery and Jack joined the couples on the dance floor, she saw his self-confidence begin to falter, and she realised that he hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he needed practice. Jack’s sense of rhythm was terrible and he was clumsy with his feet. Margery winced as he stepped on her toes over and over again.
‘Can we just go outside so I can remind myself of the steps?’ Jack asked after a while, clearly embarrassed.
They headed out onto the pier, with the music wafting after them, and practised the dance he had been struggling with. Somehow, outside in the semi-darkness, Jack’s feet always knew where to fall, and he seemed to have acquired a sense of rhythm. ‘I think you’re ready to go back in,’ Margery told him.
But once inside again, with spectators all around them, Jack was even more hopeless than before, stepping on Margery’s toes more than ever.
Apart from the bruises sustained by her feet, Margery’s arrangement with Jack worked pretty well though. One weekend he would come up to Fareham to play tennis, and the next they would go out dancing together. He was always the perfect gentleman, and generally bought her a nice meal afterwards.
At the next monthly meeting in the Cobden Arms, Margery arrived to find Jack at the bar, chatting to the athletic chap she’d noticed before. Once again, the man was dripping with sweat, as if he’d come from some kind of sporting event.
When Jack spotted Margery, he came over to greet her. ‘Who’s that man you were talking to?’ she asked him, trying her best to sound casual.
‘Oh, that’s my big brother, Alistair,’ Jack replied.
‘Your brother?’ Margery repeated, in disbelief.
‘That’s right,’ Jack said, proudly. ‘He’s a brilliant racing cyclist. He’s just come back from the track.’
Margery stared for a moment at the man by the bar. Barbara’s words floated back into her mind and she couldn’t resist asking, ‘Is he married?’
‘Oh, God no,’ said Jack with a laugh.
Margery’s face brightened. But then Jack added, ‘He won’t ever marry.’
Every year, the RAF Association held a dance at a place in Portsmouth called The Kimbles. Margery was looking forward to showing the other members of the club how much progress Jack had made with his dancing, but when she suggested they meet up beforehand and go in together, he told her he’d rather meet up with her inside.
Margery couldn’t help wondering what had prompted the change to their usual arrangement, but she shrugged it off. Perhaps he was just nervous about putting his new skills to the test in front of all their friends, and wanted a bit of time to compose himself.
On the day of the dance, Margery arrived at The Kimbles alone and headed straight for the cloakroom, but before she could get there Barbara came running up to her. ‘I think you’d better watch out around Jack,’ she said. ‘He’s got a girl on his arm, and she looks like she’s gunning for somebody!’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Margery told her. ‘I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.’
But moments later, after Barbara had headed back into the dance hall, a pretty young woman marched up to Margery in the corridor. ‘I’m Sheila,’ she announced. ‘Jack’s girlfriend.’
Barbara was right – the girl looked furious, as if she might throttle Margery then and there.
‘Oh – well – how do you do?’ said Margery, backing away and hurrying into the cloakroom. But to her dismay, the other girl proceeded to follow her, glaring angrily at Margery as she took off her coat and hat.
Margery rushed into the dance hall, with Sheila hot on her heels. The first familiar face she saw there was that of Jack’s brother, Alistair. ‘Can I talk to you?’ she asked in desperation.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, seeing the troubled look on her face.
‘It seems as though Jack’s got a girlfriend all of a sudden,’ Margery told him, ‘and apparently she’s gunning for me!’ From the corner of her eye she could see the girl approaching again. ‘Perhaps we could have a dance?’ she asked quickly.
‘Oh yes, of course,’ Alistair replied, whisking her onto the dance floor and out of Sheila’s reach. Within moments they were spinning across the room together.
Unlike his brother, Alistair was a wonderfully graceful dancer, and his sense of rhythm was impeccable. For the first time in ages Margery found she could enjoy being led, instead of having to shove her partner around the dance floor.
‘I’ve taken lessons,’ Alistair explained, when she complimented him on his footwork. ‘That’s why Jack starte
d going to classes – he tends to follow everything I do!’
After they had been dancing and chatting for a while, Margery asked Alistair about the sudden appearance of Jack’s ‘girlfriend’.
‘Oh, that’s Jack all over,’ he laughed.
Margery thought it was pretty poor of Jack not to have introduced her to Sheila, or even to have explained the situation when they’d first started going dancing together. But she certainly wasn’t going to worry about that now. Thanks to Jack’s ireful girlfriend she had found herself in the arms of the man she really wanted – his bigger and better older brother.
Margery and Alistair danced together all night, swapping stories of their time in the Air Force as they twirled around the room. He told her that he had been an electrician before the war, and in the RAF he had been put to work as a ‘ground grabber’, taking apart crashed German planes and trying to work out their strengths and weaknesses.
‘But what if something you touched exploded?’ Margery asked him, enthralled.
‘Well, it didn’t,’ Alistair replied with a laugh. ‘You tried to see what was connected to what, and if you couldn’t work it out you’d just have to push a button and see what happened!’
Margery’s opinion of Alistair was rising by the minute. He must have had nerves of steel, she told herself.
Towards the end of the evening, as the event began drawing to a close, Alistair turned to Margery and asked, ‘Do you cycle?’
She nodded, enthusiastically.
‘Only my club is going for a ride next Sunday,’ he continued. ‘We meet at 9 a.m. outside the bike shop down the road if you’d like to join us.’
‘I’d love to,’ Margery told him, privately wondering how she was ever going to keep up with someone as fit as Alistair. ‘I’ll see you then.’
On Sunday morning Margery rose early and made a packed lunch for herself before setting out on her bike. She was running a little late, so she pedalled as fast as she could, determined not to miss out on her chance to see Alistair again.
She arrived at the bike shop sweaty and out of breath, but the cycling club were nowhere to be seen. Anxiously, she ran inside and asked the man behind the counter if he had seen them.
‘Oh, they set off a while ago,’ he told her. ‘I think they were heading for Funtingdon.’
‘Thanks!’ Margery said breathlessly, rushing out of the shop. She jumped back on her bike and began pedalling harder than ever.
Margery knew the group would stop for a mid-morning pint somewhere along the way, so every time she passed a pub she slowed down to check whether they were inside. But again and again she saw no sign of them. She was beginning to worry that she would never be able to catch them up – after all, the club was made up of fit and experienced cyclists who were probably whizzing along at 100 miles an hour.
Just as she was on the point of giving up and turning back towards home, Margery spotted a pub with a row of racing bikes lined up outside. She threw her own tattered old bike on the ground and rushed through the door, doing her best to smooth down her windswept hair.
Inside, she spotted Alistair draining the end of a pint. ‘She made it!’ he called out to the rest of the group he was sitting with.
One of the other men clapped Margery on the back. ‘We didn’t expect to see you,’ he declared. ‘Alistair thought he’d been stood up!’
‘Well, I knew where you were heading, so it wasn’t too difficult to find you,’ Margery said shyly. If they only knew how frantically she had pedalled for the last two hours!
The group were all finishing up their drinks, and there wasn’t much time for Margery to catch her breath before they were back on the road again. The day’s ride was pretty tough for her and she struggled to keep up over the 50-mile course, but to her delight Alistair cycled next to her all the way. Margery was too breathless and exhausted to make much in the way of conversation, but the fact that he was there meant a lot to her.
When the group finally got back to Portsmouth, everyone went their separate ways, promising to meet up again the following week for what sounded like another epic outing. Margery’s legs and back were aching, but she wasn’t able to rest them just yet – she still had to cycle all the way back home to North Wallington.
‘I’ll ride with you, if you like,’ offered Alistair, when she told him she ought to be on her way.
Margery was touched. She knew he lived in Portsmouth, and accompanying her would mean a 15-mile round trip. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she told him. ‘I’d be delighted.’
Now that it was just the two of them, they rode at a more leisurely pace and were able to chat properly. The more Margery got to know Alistair, the more she liked him. He was more serious than his brother Jack, and had all the good qualities that she had imagined when she first clapped eyes on him at the Cobden Arms – steadiness, reliability and a manly bearing.
Despite her weariness, Margery felt the last leg of the journey fly by, and before she knew it they were pulling up outside the maltster’s house.
Alistair dismounted from his bike and leaned in to kiss her, and Margery didn’t pull away.
From then on, Margery became a regular at the cycling club. She didn’t mind being one of the few women in the group – in a way it was like being back in the Air Force, where girls were expected to keep up with boys, not treated as delicate little creatures who needed looking after. As her stamina grew, so too did her enjoyment of the long rides, and she found she was able to tackle even the toughest routes with ease.
Every week, after the group got back to Portsmouth, Alistair would escort Margery home to North Wallington. She would make him a hot drink before he cycled all the way back in the dark, taking a kiss with him for the journey.
After a couple of months, Alistair was standing on the doorstep one evening, about to hop back on his bike, when he suddenly turned to Margery. ‘You know, it would be a lot easier if I didn’t have to do this every week,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked anxiously. She had always felt guilty about him coming so far just for her sake. Was he about to put an end to their arrangement?
‘I mean,’ replied Alistair slowly, ‘do you think maybe we could get married?’
Margery looked into his eyes for a moment. Finally, she had found someone she truly trusted, and she wasn’t going to let him slip through her fingers.
‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘I think we could.’
21
Kathleen
With the war over, Kathleen had come to accept that the chance of an exotic overseas posting had passed her by – she might have joined the Navy, but she wasn’t going to see the world. She took the realisation in her stride, though, counting her many blessings. The terrifying uncertainty of six years of conflict had finally come to an end, and her beloved fiancé Arnold had survived it, ready to be reunited with her at last. Her four siblings, in their various armed services, had made it through in one piece as well, and Kathleen knew that many families were not so lucky. As a driver at HMS Sanderling one of her responsibilities was fetching mail for the camp, and she had brought back plenty of the dreaded War Office telegrams, and seen the blood drain from her colleagues’ faces as they opened them.
Right now, Kathleen’s priority was that she and Arnold should finally be married. She had waited so many years for the war to end so that they could be together at last, and she didn’t want to wait one minute longer.
First, though, she would have to get herself demobbed. As a rather late addition to the WRNS, Kathleen was liable to be kept in the service for a while, unless she could make a case to her superiors that she was needed elsewhere. She had given some thought to what she might like to do in civilian life, and had decided to try her hand at teaching. A new government scheme had been introduced to pay for trainee teachers’ accommodation and course fees, and she dutifully sent off her application forms. Since many young teachers had been killed in the war, there was a national shortage, and before long she was
accepted on a course in Warrington. In the circumstances, the Navy were more than willing to let her go.
Kathleen’s last day at Sanderling was a tearful one. In her short time at the camp she had already made firm friends, and as she went to pack up her kit for the last time she found her bed covered with cards and presents. Kitty Burns rode the bus with her to the local station. ‘I’ll noo ferget ye, Kath!’ she called, as Kathleen got off to catch the train down to London.
Once officially demobbed, and back in civilian clothes for the first time in years, Kathleen had a little free time before she was expected to begin her teacher training course, so she set off to her mother’s house in Cambridge. Mrs Skin was thrilled to see her, but it felt strange being back at home after so long away.
One day, Kathleen was coming back from a bike ride along the river when she saw a group of German prisoners of war walking into town. They had come from a POW camp in the nearby village of Trumpington, where they were still employed as farm labourers.
She gazed in fascination at the rows of young faces – men and boys who, up until recently, had been her mortal enemies. Now they looked entirely peaceful, friendly even, as they laughed and joked among themselves. Despite their country’s defeat, perhaps these young men shared the relief everyone in Britain felt that the war had finally come to an end.
As Kathleen watched the group of Germans go by, she was stunned to spot a familiar face in the crowd. It was Konrad, the boy whose family she had stayed with in Kiel, just weeks before war broke out in 1939.
Konrad had evidently recognised Kathleen too, because he immediately rushed over to speak to her. ‘You remember me, don’t you?’ he asked.
The Girls Who Went to War Page 29