by Ellie Dean
Rita followed her down the stairs and went into the kitchen to fetch her coat and say goodbye to Peggy and Mrs Finch, who was still snoring fit to bust.
Peggy eyed the make-up and haircut. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I can see Cissy has been hard at work.’
‘What do you think?’
Peggy smiled. ‘You look just like your mother,’ she said softly, ‘and very lovely.’ She picked up three neatly wrapped parcels from the kitchen table. ‘This is for your birthday,’ she said, handing one over, ‘and these are for you and Louise on Christmas Day.’
‘Aunt Peg,’ Rita gasped. ‘You shouldn’t have – and I didn’t bring anything . . .’
‘It’s what aunts are for,’ said Peggy as she gave her a hug. ‘Now, we won’t disturb Mrs Finch, but you have a lovely Christmas and I’ll see you when I get back.’
Waving goodbye to Cissy and Peggy on the doorstep, Rita placed the packages alongside the gas mask box in the motorcycle pannier before carefully donning helmet and goggles and buttoning the jacket. She kicked the Norton into life and roared down Camden Road. The warmth of Peggy’s love and Cissy’s friendship and kindness stayed with her all the way to the recruitment office in the High Street.
It was an austere-looking place, wedged between two shops and almost hidden by the vast wall of sandbags in front of it. The only clue to its purpose was a large poster in the window exhorting all and sundry to do their bit by joining up.
Rita’s heart was pounding, the blood rushing in her ears as she took off the goggles and helmet, ran her fingers through her hair and pushed the door open.
The room was empty and stiflingly hot and smelly from the kerosene heater that stood in one corner. Rita could already feel the perspiration rolling down her back as she tried not to make too much noise with her heavy boots on the bare floorboards.
‘I hope you wiped those boots before you came in here.’ A stern-faced woman suddenly appeared from the doorway behind the scarred desk. Middle-aged and sturdy, she was dressed in blue serge and sensible laced-up shoes.
Rita hadn’t, but she wasn’t about to admit it. She gripped the helmet and goggles more firmly. ‘I’ve come to apply for the motorbike dispatch riders’ unit in the WAAFs,’ she said before her courage failed her.
The woman’s grey eyes trawled over her leather trousers, elderly flying jacket and sturdy boots. ‘You certainly look the part,’ she said grudgingly. ‘How old are you?’
‘I shall be eighteen in two days’ time.’
The woman puckered her lips thoughtfully, her gaze fixed on Rita’s face as she settled ponderously behind the desk. ‘Despite all the make-up, you don’t look much older than fourteen or fifteen. Do you have proof?’
Rita felt a rising tide of panic. She couldn’t fail now – not when she was so close to achieving her goal. ‘Not with me,’ she said. ‘But if I could just have a couple of forms for me and my friend May, we’ll fill them in and bring our birth certificates with us next time.’
The woman eyed her for another long, heart-stopping moment and then reached for something in her desk drawer. ‘These forms are highly confidential and must not leave this office. You will fill the form in here, and then return with proof of your age within twenty-four hours or your application will be scrapped.’ She pointed to the single metal chair in front of her desk. ‘Sit,’ she ordered.
Rita sat.
A pen was pushed towards her. ‘I assume you can read and write?’ At Rita’s dumbfounded nod, the woman slid the application form across the desk. ‘At least that’s a start, I suppose,’ she said on a sigh.
Rita’s hand was shaking as she picked up the pen. The words blurred as she quickly read through the form. This was worse than sitting any exam, and her nerves were threatening to let her down. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she filled in her name, address, date of birth, father’s name, mother’s name and all her qualifications. She’d been an able student and had sailed through her School Certificate with ease.
They seemed to want to know a great many things, including her height and weight, and her reasons for applying – but she supposed that was necessary security. The WAAFs wouldn’t want just anybody, and she could only hope and pray she was good enough for them.
She filled in every section and then signed the bottom of the last page with a flourish and pushed everything back across the desk. ‘How long before I know whether they’ll take me?’ she asked.
‘Once we have proof of your age the application takes only a matter of days.’ The pale grey eyes raced over the paperwork, widened when they reached the long list of qualifications and examination passes and moved swiftly on to the end. ‘Thank you, Miss Smith. That all seems in order.’
Rita realised she was being dismissed, but she still had questions to ask. ‘How long is the training?’
‘About three weeks.’
‘And will I have to leave Cliffehaven to do this training – and if so, where will I be sent?’
The grey eyes narrowed. ‘You certainly will, but that is classified information.’
Rita was about to ask something else when the woman stood and made it clear the interview was at an end. ‘Goodbye, Miss Smith. This office will be open tomorrow morning at ten. I look forward to seeing you then.’
Rita nodded, glanced up at the enormous clock on the wall, and backed away from the desk. Once outside, she rammed on her helmet and goggles, fired up the Norton and within minutes was racing for home. Her birth certificate was in a tin box under her father’s bed. There was still plenty of time to get back to the office before it closed this afternoon – and then she would go and see May and tell her all about it.
May lived in a narrow backstreet of terraced houses some distance from Rita. It was even more downtrodden than Barrow Lane, and May lived with her mother on the ground floor of a house which was shared with another family. The outside lav was also used by the two houses next door, and water had to be collected from a communal tap further down the street. The only good to come out of the heavy bombing was the disappearance of the rat population, which had fled after the first raid for easier pickings amongst the debris.
Rita could see May sitting on her front step, the BSA parked at the kerb as she sipped from a mug of tea. There was a smear of grease on her cheek and her hands were filthy, the oily rag poking from the pocket of her dungarees.
Rita steered the Norton along the rough cobbles and drew to a halt in front of the BSA. ‘Hello,’ she said once the engine had died. ‘Doing repairs?’
May grinned and stood to greet her. ‘Just been oiling and adjusting. Nothing too serious.’ She lifted the mug of tea. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’
Rita took off her helmet and goggles. ‘I certainly could,’ she said.
May’s blue eyes regarded her suspiciously. ‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself,’ she said. ‘And what’s with all that make-up? You got a bloke on the go?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Rita. ‘I’ve got something far more exciting than that to tell you.’
May grinned. ‘So have I, but let me make your tea first.’
Rita was intrigued as she followed her friend into the house, which was dark regardless of the time of day, and headed into the main room. It was shabby and cluttered with old newspapers and magazines and far too many cheap ornaments. Thankfully, there was no sign of May’s mother, although the smell of her cheap perfume permeated the room.
Rita perched on the arm of a sagging chair as May poured the tea. ‘I obviously have no idea what your news is – but it’s clearly exciting, ’cos you’re positively bursting with it. But I’ve found the perfect job for both of us, and if you’re quick, you can get down there today and sign on.’
May frowned as she handed over the mug of very weak tea. ‘You’d better start at the beginning, Rita, ’cos I’ve got no idea what you’re on about.’
Rita quickly told May about her visit to the recruitment office. ‘If you apply today, then we’ll be able to join together
,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Just think, May. It’s the perfect job for both of us.’
‘Um, yes . . .’
Now it was Rita’s turn to frown. ‘You don’t sound very keen,’ she murmured. ‘I thought . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Rita, I should have told you.’ May leaned against the rickety kitchen table, gazing at the mug in her hands. ‘But I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for sure.’
Rita’s own excitement ebbed. ‘What is it, May? What have you done?’
May took a deep breath and finally looked Rita in the eye. Her face was alight with excitement, and her words tumbled over each other in her eagerness. ‘I’ve been accepted into the Women’s Air Transport Auxiliary. They’re going to teach me to fly planes, Rita, and soon I’ll be ferrying supplies and troops all over the country.’
Rita stared at her, stunned into silence.
May perched beside her and took her hand. ‘I know I should have said something,’ she murmured. ‘But I didn’t have the nerve to tell you until I was sure I’d be taken on.’
‘But when did all this happen?’
‘About a week ago,’ May admitted. She squeezed Rita’s hand as if to emphasise her regret for not sharing her secret. ‘It’s something I never thought I could ever do,’ she said breathlessly. ‘When I saw all them posh women enlist, I thought I wouldn’t fit in, but it doesn’t seem to matter where I come from, or how I speak – and the woman at the base was ever so nice and encouraging. She even took me out to have a look at the planes and to meet some of the other women pilots.’
‘I never knew you wanted to fly planes,’ said Rita, still struggling to absorb her friend’s news – and the fact that she’d kept it to herself for a whole week.
May grinned. ‘Neither did I until I saw that poster outside the Town Hall. Then I got to thinking, why not? Other women are doing it, and it has to be about the most exciting thing any girl could do, don’t you think?’
Rita laughed. ‘I think you’re mad,’ she replied, giving her a hug. ‘But well done you. Who would have thought it? May Lynch flying planes.’
May’s enthusiasm was brimming over. ‘Why don’t you apply as well? They’re crying out for more crew and the pay is terrific. We’d be on the same wage as the RAF pilots, and that’s not to be sniffed at.’
Rita chuckled. ‘It’s two feet on the ground for me, May, so I’ll stick to motorbikes.’
May’s little face became solemn. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Rita, but I only got the confirmation this morning.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Rita replied. ‘We’ll probably see one another on the airfield – you in your plane and me on my bike. Cissy’s joined the WAAFs with her friend Amy, so it’ll be quite like old times.’
May giggled. ‘I hope not,’ she managed. ‘Cissy was always trying to dress us up in frocks and tiaras, and plastering us in powder and rouge.’ She eyed Rita’s make-up. ‘She’s still at it I see,’ she said dryly.
‘I quite like it,’ said Rita, not wanting to be disloyal to Cissy. ‘But when I’ll get the chance to wear it again, I don’t know.’ She eyed her friend with affection and sadness. This war was providing opportunities that none of them could have dreamed of, but those opportunities would change them, make them drift apart. ‘When will you start your training?’
‘In four days,’ May replied softly.
‘But that’s so soon,’ Rita gasped.
May took her hand. ‘At least we can celebrate your birthday together and have a bit of fun before I leave.’ Her expression was tearful. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, ‘but there’s nothing here for me – Mum couldn’t care less, and if I’m to make anything of my life then I have to get out. This is my chance to really do something, Rita – to make a difference.’
‘I know, but I’m going to miss you, May.’
‘Me too, but we must promise to keep in touch, no matter where we’re sent or what we do.’
Rita gave her friend a swift hug to reassure her, but the thought of another goodbye broke her heart. Plastering on a smile, she tried to dispel the gloom. ‘Let’s take the bikes out for a run and to hell with the petrol rationing.’
May grinned and reached for her jacket and helmet. ‘Race you to the old water tower up in the hills. Last one there pays for tickets to the flicks tonight.’
They raced out of the room and onto the pavement. Within moments the two motorbikes roared down the street and headed for the hills, leaving the echoes of the powerful engines ringing in the silence.
Chapter Six
PEGGY HAD FINISHED packing the day before, but there was still plenty to do before she left. It had been lovely to have Cissy home for a few hours, but having kissed her goodbye and waved her off as the young pilot officer drove her away, she felt the full impact of what she was about to do.
With Mrs Finch busy at the sink peeling the potatoes Ron had dug from the garden, she determinedly ignored the cavalier way the old lady was wielding that paring knife, and checked on the provisions in her larder.
There were still Christmas puddings, made long before the war, and an absolute godsend now the rationing was so severe. There would be no cake this year, and certainly no mince pies, but Ron had a couple of pheasants hanging downstairs, and Mrs Finch had assured her she knew how to cook them. Vegetables would be no problem, Ron’s garden was bountiful, and she knew for a fact there was enough whisky and rum to keep Jim and his father in a stupor for most of the Christmas holiday. But her larder was woefully understocked for this time of year, with only a few tins, half a bag of flour, and a few jars of preserves she’d made during the summer.
She closed the larder door and stood for a moment deep in thought. Was she doing the right thing? Could Jim and Ron really cope? Was she being selfish by leaving them for so long?’
‘It’s no good you standing there worrying,’ said Mrs Finch. She wiped her hands on the wrap-round apron she’d borrowed from Peggy and which swamped her. ‘You need to see your children, and I’m perfectly capable of keeping this house in order while you’re away. So stop fretting.’
Peggy gave her a warm smile. ‘I know you are,’ she said, ‘but it doesn’t feel right, leaving you all . . .’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ the old lady retorted, dropping the potatoes into the saucepan. ‘You’re a mother and it is Christmas.’
Peggy was about to reply when she heard two sets of footsteps crossing the hall.
The kitchen door creaked and a happy face peeked round it before it was flung open. ‘Hello, Mum. We thought we’d surprise you.’
‘Anne! Martin! Oh, my darlings, how wonderful.’ Peggy flew across the room and gathered her eldest daughter into her arms as she grinned a tearful hello to Martin over her shoulder.
‘Careful, Mum,’ laughed Anne. ‘You’re squashing the heir to the family dynasty.’
Peggy stepped back and admired the enormous bulge between them. ‘Goodness,’ she laughed shakily, ‘you have got big, haven’t you? Are you sure it’s not twins?’
Anne tossed back her lovely dark hair and giggled. ‘It feels like it at times, but the doctor says there’s only one in there.’
She grabbed their hands. ‘Come in, both of you, and sit down. This is such a lovely, lovely surprise, I feel quite giddy.’
She slammed the kettle on the hob as Anne and Martin kissed Mrs Finch and shed their heavy coats. Martin was in his RAF uniform, and Anne was wearing something that resembled a smocked tent beneath a thick cardigan Peggy remembered knitting some time ago. How lovely it was to see them, and how radiant Anne was.
‘You’re both looking very well,’ said Mrs Finch, twinkling up at Martin. ‘I do so like to see a handsome man in uniform.’
Martin twirled his magnificent moustache like a pantomime villain and twinkled back. ‘There’s nothing like a pretty girl to cheer a chap up,’ he said gallantly.
Mrs Finch collapsed into giggles and had to sit down.
Peggy made the tea and they settled by t
he fire to catch up on their news.
Half an hour later they were still talking and Mrs Finch had gone to sleep. ‘I brought presents for the boys,’ said Anne, her elegant hands folded on the top of her bump. ‘I hope you’ve got room for them in your case.’
Peggy pointed to the bulging string bag sitting on the dresser. ‘Their presents are all in there, and I’m sure I can find room for more.’ She took the gifts and, with a bit of judicious prodding and poking, managed to get them in. ‘By the way,’ she said, returning to her seat at the kitchen table, ‘have you given any thoughts to a name for this baby?’
Anne and Martin exchanged soft, loving smiles. ‘We thought Peter James Ronan Black if it’s a boy, and Rose Margaret if it’s a girl.’
‘Just like our sweet Princess Margaret Rose,’ Peggy sighed. ‘How lovely.’
‘Actually, Mum, the Margaret bit is after you.’
She hugged her happiness. ‘How darling of you, but only your Aunt Doris calls me Margaret, and she does that to wind me up.’ She saw the startled concern in their expressions and hurried to reassure them. ‘But Rose Margaret is a pretty name, so much nicer than plain old Peggy, and I’ll be very proud to know my name will live on in my granddaughter.’
She eyed the pair of them, looking so content and happy. ‘Have you told your parents yet, Martin?’
‘I went to visit them a few weeks ago. Thought it better face to face, don’t you know? They said all the right things, of course, but we’ve heard nothing from them since.’
Peggy thought grimly of Martin’s snooty family, and the way they had virtually cut their son off once he’d married her Anne. Well, they would live to regret it, she was sure of that, and she could only wish she had the chance to give them a good piece of her mind about their disgraceful behaviour. It was all very well being rich and well connected, but without your children and grandchildren about you, what good was any of it?
‘It’s all right, Mrs Reilly,’ said Martin. ‘Really it is. Anne and I are perfectly happy, and we know we’ll always have you – and that’s far more than any of us could hope for.’ His handsome face lit with a smile, making him seem so terribly young that it made Peggy’s heart ache.