Wartime with the Cornish Girls

by Betty Walker

  ‘It all counts,’ she said firmly.

  ‘You’ll be given a uniform. White blouse, buff skirt and matching jacket. It will be your responsibility to keep them in good condition, and make any necessary repairs. You can see Mr Frobisher about that tomorrow; he has the keys to the staff wardrobe.’ He handed across a few sheets of paper. ‘Could you read and sign these? Then pass them back to me. I can’t proceed until that’s done.’

  ‘Sorry?’ She glanced down at the sheets, confused. ‘Wh-what are these?’

  ‘You’ve heard of the Official Secrets Act, I suppose?’ When she nodded, George passed her a pen and then sat back in his chair, watching her. ‘That’s what you need to sign if you want to work here. You have to swear never to reveal anything you see, hear, or do at Porthcurno Station, for the rest of your life.’ He paused, holding her startled gaze. ‘Not even to your husband.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The train gave a tremendous jolt and braked, finally coming to a halt. The unexpected stop threw her forwards, almost off the shiny old fabric of her seat, and Violet’s eyes flew open in surprise. She grabbed at the heavy bag on her lap before it could fall, and checked its contents for the umpteenth time since leaving home: purse, ration books, identity papers, a creased old photo of Mum and Dad on their wedding day, and all her other knick-knacks. Nothing seemed to be missing.

  She peered at the photo before putting it carefully away, no longer able to see her mum’s face properly. It was nearly dusk outside and the carriage was gloomy.

  ‘What the bloomin’ hell was that?’ she demanded.

  Opposite, Lily turned to stare out of the window at the passing countryside. ‘I dunno, Aunty Vi. Maybe we hit a cow.’

  Her eldest niece was flushed and wide-eyed, as she had been ever since they left Paddington, her face glowing with excitement. Lily had never been out of London in her life. Her long fair hair was braided in pigtails and tied with red ribbons, topped with a tartan beret that had belonged to her late mother.

  Alice, looking up from her book at last, gave a snort of disbelief.

  ‘What was that noise for?’ Lily turned to her little sister with an impatient expression. ‘Honestly, cows are everywhere down here. Sheep too, fields and fields of them. I must have seen more than a hundred sheep since we left London.’ She paused, raising an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps if you took your nose out of that book, you’d see a few animals too.’

  ‘I’m not interested in cows and sheep,’ Alice said disdainfully, finally releasing the end of her own fair pigtail, which she’d been sucking for miles. ‘The only animals that interest me are the ones that live wild on the savannah. Like rhinos and springboks.’ She held up her book, an adventure story set in Africa. ‘Now those are worth seeing.’

  Lily shook her head in disbelief, but didn’t bother to argue. She was too used to her younger sister’s strange reading habits.

  Curious herself, Violet got up and tried to peer out towards the front of the train. If they had hit something, they might be stranded here all night, she worried. But they couldn’t have hit a cow, because a moment later, with a few jerks and noisy creaks, the train started to move again. They all peered out of the carriage, and saw a level crossing in the twilight, with a car pulling away, its headlight beams picking out hedgerows and the white roll of steam across the fields.

  They were sharing the carriage with several other people, including an important-looking man in a suit and bowler hat, squeezed up beside Alice with obvious distaste. When the man checked his watch, as he had been doing most of the way, Violet asked quickly, ‘Scuse me, what’s the time?’

  He hesitated, then said reluctantly in a posh accent, ‘Nearly half past ten.’ Then added, ‘We’re running late. Should have been in Penzance an hour ago.’

  She thanked the man politely, but could see from his contemptuous shrug that he didn’t think much of her and the two girls.

  Yawning, she stretched out as best she could in the cramped space, and rubbed her tired eyes. It had been such a long, dreary journey. She’d been trying to catch some much-needed sleep before their arrival in Cornwall, and had only just managed to doze off when the train driver had braked so suddenly. Now she felt worse than ever.

  Less than ten minutes later, the train slowed again for a station, and the faint sound of a whistle was heard above the noise of the engine.

  Everyone piled out of the train, grumbling at its late arrival. The three of them were a little slower than most, weighed down with so much luggage. Violet slipped her bag strap about her wrist, then glanced up and down the platform; but there were no porters in sight.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Grab your bags and let’s see if we can find your Great-Aunt Margaret.’

  The three of them struggled down the platform with their heavy bags. Violet was also lugging a second suitcase containing shoes and coats for the winter, just in case their stay in Cornwall turned out to be a lengthy one. She’d told her mother they would probably be back before winter set in. But she had been saying for months that the war must surely be over soon, and the longer it went on, the more hollow those words sounded …

  Most people had left by the time they reached the station entrance and peered out into the dark and lonely evening. There were no cars waiting, only cars pulling away. There was not even a bus, as it was so late.

  Violet again felt a stirring of alarm. What if her aunt had forgotten to pick them up?

  Lily looked nervous too. ‘Where’s Great-Aunt Margaret?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know?’ Violet snapped, and saw Lily’s face fall. Hurriedly, she added, ‘She’s probably just late, love. I sent that letter nearly two weeks ago. I know there’s a war on, but she’ll have got it by now.’

  ‘Maybe she’s changed her mind,’ Alice said gloomily, sitting down on her bag.

  ‘I hope not.’ Lily’s voice was faint. ‘We’ve got nowhere else to stay.’

  ‘Oh, don’t fret,’ Alice told her sister. There was the ghost of a smile on her lips as she rummaged in her pocket, eventually pulling out a dusty-looking ginger biscuit. She took a bite and seemed satisfied. ‘It’s nearly summer. The weather’s perfect for sleeping out-of-doors, especially here in southernmost Cornwall. All we need to be comfortable is a sturdy hedge and a couple of blankets.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping under a hedge!’ Lily exclaimed, and burst into tears. ‘Aunty Vi, you’re not going to make us sleep under a hedge, are you?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Your sister’s only pulling your leg.’

  ‘I am not,’ Alice protested through a mouthful of crumbly biscuit. She held up the adventure novel she had been reading on the train. ‘It’s not a big deal. Big game hunters sleep outside all the time.’

  ‘This isn’t Africa and we’re not big game hunters,’ Lily pointed out.

  Alice shrugged and said nothing in reply. Instead, she put away the book and finished her mouthful of biscuit before getting up and peering out into the dusk again.

  With a sense of relief, Violet heard the roar of an engine in the quiet evening. Was it a car coming towards the station?

  Seconds later, she pointed up the road. ‘Look, girls, I can see headlights. Maybe that’s your great-aunt now.’

  Sure enough, a vehicle pulled up beside the station entrance a moment later, and someone leant out of the driver’s side. Only it was not a car, but an open-backed truck, and not Aunty Margaret, but a man Violet had never seen before in her life.

  The driver looked to be in his sixties, with a heavy beard flecked with grey, and sharp, narrowed eyes under bushy eyebrows. He looked Violet up and down in a way she found uncomfortable, then gestured to the back of the truck.

  ‘I’m Stan Chellew. You must be Violet and the girls.’ His thick Cornish accent growled out of the dark at them. ‘Hop in quick, then. We’re not supposed to be out on the roads this late. Not after dark.’

  Dimly, she recalled that her aunt had remarried after her uncle�
��s death five years ago. They had been invited to the wedding, but Dad had been too ill to travel and Mum had not wanted to leave him alone. Violet and Betsy could have taken the girls down on their own, of course, but the train fare all the way to Cornwall had been so steep, it had not seemed worth it just for a weekend. So they had declined and posted off a wedding present of some lace instead. Enough to make a nice tablecloth and some napkins besides. Not the finest, but all they could afford.

  ‘You’re me Uncle Stanley?’

  ‘That’s right. Your aunt sent me to pick you up but I had some jobs to do first.’ He banged the side of the truck, his face impatient. ‘Come on, tick tock. Violet, you sit up front with me. The girls can ride in the back with the bags. Just unhook the back flap and climb up.’

  Violet helped the girls load the bags while Stan sat unmoving at the wheel, the engine running noisily, then she checked they both got aboard safely.

  ‘Aunty Vi, this truck smells ’orrible,’ Lily whispered.

  ‘Hush,’ she whispered back urgently, unwilling to offend their benefactors. ‘Find somewhere clean to sit and hang on, there’s a good girl.’

  Alice had already found a corner to anchor herself in, but Lily was peering about in obvious distress.

  ‘I don’t think there is anywhere clean to sit,’ Lily was saying, a hint of tears still in her voice. ‘There’s … muck … everywhere.’

  Unfortunately, it seemed that Stanley had good hearing for a man in his sixties. ‘It’s been used for carting sheep, is all. Sit on your luggage if you’re that bothered by the shit.’ Again, he banged his fist on the door panel. ‘That’s it, let’s go. I’m missing my bed for this nonsense.’

  Hurriedly, Violet gave Lily a reassuring smile, then closed up the rusty back flap of the truck and checked it was secure. She climbed into the passenger seat beside Stanley and closed the door, though it did not seem to hang right on its hinges.

  Violet clutched her bag tightly in her lap. It was dark and stuffy in the cab interior. Stanley himself was huge, taking up most of the space, and stank of whisky and tobacco besides.

  She caught the gleam of his eyes as he studied her, and quickly turned her head, looking ahead at the road and refusing to show any nerves.

  ‘It was very kind of you to come out and collect us,’ she said, recalling her manners rather late. Not that her uncle cared much about manners, she thought; he had none himself, that was bleedin’ obvious. ‘We’ve very grateful.’

  ‘Huh’ was his only reply, then he revved his engine and pulled violently away, the truck shuddering as he engaged gear.

  Violet braced herself against the dashboard with a quick hand, hoping to goodness that the rickety passenger door, which was rattling and banging with every jolt, would not suddenly open and throw her out onto the road.

  Uncle Stanley drove fast, tearing along narrow lanes and through gloomy crossroads without braking and seemingly with little regard for the possibility that he might meet another vehicle. But she supposed it was unlikely anyone else would be out after dark on these roads, and if they were, there would be the warning of headlights. All the same, she could not help wondering what might happen if any livestock had got loose, or if someone was on foot, heaven help them …

  The girls gave a series of squeaks and squeals as they were thrown about in the open back, and Violet bit her lip, glancing at Stanley in amazement that he did not slow down. She hoped her nieces would not be hurt or, worse, tossed out onto the road at this mad pace.

  But after a few miles, their cries died down to only the occasional moan, presumably as both girls accustomed themselves to their predicament.

  ‘How is Aunty Margaret?’ she asked at last, loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the truck engine. ‘Well, I hope?’

  ‘A touch of rheumatism,’ he shouted back, and again she caught the gleam of his eyes looking her over. ‘She could do with a hand about the house.’

  ‘Well, I’m happy to help.’

  ‘And on the farm too,’ he added gruffly as though she had not spoken, and changed gear again as the truck began to labour up another steep hill. Cornwall seemed to be mostly hills, she thought grimly, used to the relative flatness of the East End. They would soon develop new muscles just walking about the place. ‘Everyone works here in the summer. Yon two girls can pull their weight too.’ He paused. ‘They look strong young things with a bit of meat on them. Just right for land work.’

  Violet said nothing, glad he could not see her expression in the dark. But she’d begun to wonder if she had done the right thing by dragging the girls down to Cornwall. They might all be safer here from bombs than they were in London. But she had a feeling Uncle Stanley was not to be trusted with her two young nieces.

  Aunt Margaret was waiting up for them at the farmhouse, standing in the doorway with a lamp. Stanley finally helped with the bags, only to dump them in the hall for them to carry upstairs later. But Margaret was welcoming at least. She had even warmed a chicken and vegetable pie for them to eat, despite the late hour. After all the hugging and crying, the three of them sat down to eat, ravenous after the long journey.

  ‘How’s Sheila?’ her aunt asked, watching them eat. ‘I’ve not seen your mum in years. Is she still running the café?’

  Violet caught her up with all the family news, only briefly touching on the girls’ father, still missing in action, before talking about her work in the café for a while.

  ‘And you’ve brought your ration books?’ Aunt Margaret asked as they washed up their plates afterwards. ‘Because I’ll be needing them if I’m to feed three extra mouths. You’d better let me have them tomorrow morning.’

  Violet felt uneasy about parting with the ration books. What if they needed to go back to London later? Without those books, she and the girls would be in deep trouble. But what choice did she have? And she was sure her aunt could be trusted.

  ‘Of course, Aunty Margaret.’

  After dinner, Uncle Stanley had disappeared, so they had to drag their heavy cases upstairs to the back bedroom on their own, thumping noisily up the stairs.

  It was too late to unpack, and Violet was far too exhausted to hunt for everyone’s night clothes, so all three of them simply kicked off their shoes and dived into the large double bed, still fully clothed, and drew the cool eiderdown up to their chins.

  The room was chilly, to say the least.

  ‘Move over, Alice,’ Lily groaned from the middle, ‘you’re taking up all the room.’

  ‘I’m taking up just as much room as I need.’

  ‘Then you need to stop eating so many biscuits, you great lump.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to be a problem here, do you? That pie was gorgeous, but did you notice the cupboards were bare?’ Alice paused significantly. ‘I checked. Not a biscuit barrel in sight.’

  ‘Button it, girls,’ Violet hissed at them, only too aware of how quiet the house was and how easily their voices might carry. The last thing she wanted was to get thrown out almost as soon as they’d arrived. ‘There’s a war on, and I’m sure your great-aunt does her best with rationing. Anyway, she’ll have our ration books next time she goes shopping.’ She was horribly uncomfortable, perched on the lumpy edge nearest the door. ‘Alice, pet, are you sure you can’t squeeze up a little?’

  There was a faint rustling of the eiderdown as Alice moved up about half an inch, protesting, ‘Fine, but that’s as far as I can go, honest. If I fall out of bed in the night …’

  ‘Then I’ll chuck a pillow down after you,’ her sister told her, remorseless, ‘and we’ll all have more room to breathe.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘But what exactly happens at Eastern House?’ Charlie asked again, persistent in his curiosity.

  ‘I can’t say,’ Hazel said, tight-lipped.

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t say?’ Charlie stared at her, nonplussed. ‘I thought you were offered a cleaning job, Mum? How can a cleaning job be a secret?’

 
‘If I could tell you, it wouldn’t be much of a secret, would it?’ Flustered by her son’s endless questions, Hazel continued pushing her bike along the lane in stubborn silence. But it was clear from his glare that he was never going to give up asking. ‘Look, I’m not supposed to tell you anything about what goes on up there. I know you’re my son, but them’s the rules. “Not your husband or even young Charlie,” that’s what I was told.’

  ‘But everyone knows about the works up at Eastern House.’

  ‘Yes, but knowing and talking are two separate things, aren’t they?’

  ‘I can hardly talk about what goes on up there,’ her son pointed out crossly, ‘since you won’t tell me anything about the place except that it’s top secret.’

  Hazel wished she could be more open with him. But George Cotterill had been so stern. Besides, the realisation that she – Hazel Baxter of Number 3, Sea View Cottages Terrace – had signed the Official Secrets Act was enough to make her quake in her boots. She could be arrested just for saying the wrong thing to the wrong person. And that included Charlie.

  The locals knew something was going on up at Eastern House. They’d seen and heard the works for themselves over the winter, all the noisy blasting and digging into the cliffs.

  What they didn’t know was why it was necessary.

  Yes, everyone knew that telegraph cables came ashore at Porthcurno, because they’d been there since the Victorians laid the first transatlantic cables. What they didn’t know was that the Home Office had established one of their main listening stations behind Eastern House, all safely hidden underground, with messages vital to the war effort passing through there every day between Britain and its Allies.

  And she wasn’t going to blab any of that to her son.

  ‘Sorry, Charlie. Just keep in mind what the posters say,’ she reminded him gently. ‘Mum’s the word. There’s a war on!’

  They stopped at the crossroads, and she kissed him goodbye, seeing the frustration in his face. ‘Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell you about it. But not now. Now off you go to school.’