Wartime with the Cornish Girls

by Betty Walker

  He hesitated. ‘I wish I didn’t have to go.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, not this again. You have to finish your schooling before you get a job. Qualifications, that’s what you need. And that’s final.’

  ‘But that’s so unfair!’

  ‘Life is unfair, love. But if you put your head down and work hard, and always do what you’re told, you should end up with a steady job … and never have to worry about money like your dad and me.’

  He made a face. ‘You only have to worry because Dad can’t stay off the sauce,’ he said flippantly.

  ‘Charlie!’

  The boy clammed up then, and headed off down the road towards town without another word.

  Fretting about the time, Hazel watched her son until he was out of sight, then got on her bike and pedalled as quickly as possible towards her new job. It wouldn’t do to be late. Not on her first day.

  Soon she reached the menacing barbed wire fence that separated the St Levan valley from the rest of the coastline, and flashed her ID at the guard with more confidence than the day before. Once through the checkpoint, she got off her bike, wheeling it slowly past the guardhouse, and walked the rest of the way uphill to the looming edifice of the communications station. It was steep but she was used to the hilly lanes around Porthcurno, so was barely out of puff by the time she reached the top.

  Close up, Eastern House was a large white rectangular building with huge windows and an imposing façade that looked over the valley. But she supposed it must be hard for an enemy bomber to spot from above, and that was what counted. From any distance, it would be hard to distinguish the camouflage-draped building from the surrounding rocky cliff and shrubs. Especially at night.

  ‘A cleaning job’ was how she had described her role here to Charlie.

  But she had kept quiet about the dangers involved, not wanting to worry the boy. Because it would be dangerous, wouldn’t it? She was working at a top-secret site that would be high on the enemy’s list of bombing targets if they ever found out about it.

  All the more reason not to talk about what the government was really doing at Eastern House, she thought grimly.

  Once through the gate, she leant her bicycle against the wall, straightened her crumpled skirt, and headed for the back door.

  The guard gave her a sharp look. ‘New staff?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He turned, holding the heavy door open for her. ‘There you go, Miss.’

  ‘Mrs,’ she corrected him.

  He grinned. ‘Right you are, Missus.’

  She hesitated in the doorway, feeling a little overawed by the large building and the uniformed soldiers wherever she turned. The war had always felt so far away in this remote spot, right in the heart of the Cornish countryside. But now, seeing barbed wire everywhere and having to sign the Official Secrets Act just to take this job …

  It brought the war in Europe much closer to home.

  ‘I was told to report to Mr Frobisher,’ she said, suppressing a shiver. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find him?’

  ‘Beats me, Missus. Try the mess.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  The soldier grinned again, and pointed down the narrow corridor that lay ahead. ‘That way, all right? Follow the smell of bacon and sausage.’

  Hazel thanked him, and hurried down the corridor. The place did indeed smell of fried food, making her suddenly quite ravenous. They must feed their soldiers and trainees well here, she thought enviously, remembering the doorstep slice of toast with a scraping of butter and marmalade she had managed to grab before heading out this morning.

  At the end of the corridor was an empty room set with several benches and tables. The benches had been pushed back, and the tables were piled with dirty plates and cups. It looked as though a small army had just left the room.

  Halting on the threshold, she caught her reflection in an adjacent windowpane and nearly shrieked at the unruly mess that was her hair. Embarrassed, Hazel tutted loudly and smoothed her hair back down until it lay flat again. The wind must have caught it while she was cycling here.

  ‘Mrs Baxter?’ An elderly man with a stoop had appeared out of a small side room. This had to be Mr Frobisher, she decided. He had silver hair and a pronounced chin, and deep-set glaring eyes. He did not sound very friendly. Quite the opposite, in fact. ‘About time too. I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Hazel lurched forward and shook hands with him, which left him looking even more horrified. Perhaps she wasn’t supposed to have done that. ‘George … That is, Mr Cotterill didn’t say what time I was to be here. Just morning.’

  ‘You’ve missed breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, I already ate at home.’

  His glare became more pronounced. ‘I didn’t mean your breakfast, Mrs Baxter. I was talking about the personnel’s meal. I was expecting an assistant to help with cooking and laying out. But you never arrived.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again, mortified now.

  ‘Never mind, you’re here now. You can help clear the tables first. Then I’ll show you your other duties.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Uniform first.’ Frobisher gestured to her to follow him to the staff wardrobe. There, he handed over a buff skirt and jacket, roughly her size, and a grim-looking white blouse so large it would probably swamp her. ‘You can change in the staff lavatory. You’ll find that outside the back door.’ He pointed her in that direction, adding, ‘You’ll need to wear an apron over your uniform for some jobs. They’re kept in the second pantry. And put your hair up tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Frobisher.’

  He shook his head. ‘I told Mr Cotterill I didn’t want a woman. Always fussing with their hair, I said, instead of doing their job. But he didn’t pay any attention. And look at all the make-up you’re wearing!’

  She said nothing, but glared at him over her armful of clothes.

  ‘I’d better show you around first.’ They entered the small, high-ceilinged kitchen, the air moist and rich with cooking smells, all the windows steamed up. ‘I suppose I ought to be grateful you’re a Mrs, not a Miss.’ He looked round at her with narrowed eyes. ‘You are married, I hope? Not widowed? Because I won’t stand for any nonsense.’

  By which he must mean flirting with the soldiers, she guessed, still blushing from the comment about her made-up face. He wasn’t to know she’d put on more powder than usual today to conceal the fading marks above her eye. She didn’t want people knowing that Bertie knocked her about and pitying her. That was her business, nobody else’s.

  ‘I’m married. My husband’s gone to war.’

  She didn’t know why she had added that. It was surely more information than this grim-faced antique needed to hear. But Frobisher merely shrugged and handed her a stiff white apron from the pantry.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Once you’ve changed into your uniform, take a tray and load it with plates and cutlery from the mess hall. Bring them back to the kitchen. Once all the tables have been cleared, wipe them down with soda and hot water. Cleaning cloths are by the sink. Then wash all the dirties, dry and put them away in the second pantry, and re-lay the mess hall for luncheon at noon. Eight men to a table.’ He paused, peering at her with rheumy eyes. ‘Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Frobisher.’

  ‘I’ll be preparing luncheon in here. Once the tables are laid, you can come and help me. Learn where everything is kept. And no helping yourself to any food. Domestic staff only eat after personnel have left the hall. Not before.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ he snapped. ‘Look lively! Whole bloody country’s gone to the dogs since this war began.’ He shook his head, looking her up and down with obvious distaste. ‘Did you bring a headscarf?’

  She bit her lip. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good God.’ Frobisher waved her away impatiently. ‘I want your hair properly covered tomorrow. With a net or a scarf. Is t
hat understood?’

  Hazel nodded and scurried away with a mumbled apology, red-cheeked and feeling like an idiot schoolgirl after that telling-off.

  And she hadn’t even started work yet!

  She got changed in the unpleasant-smelling outside lav, tucking in the over-large shirt as best she could, and then headed back into the kitchen to grab a clearing tray.

  Mr Frobisher paid her no attention, intent on unwrapping some smelly cheese.

  Armed with a large metal tray, she looked about the untidy mess hall with a sigh. It would take ages to clear this lot up single-handed and then lay the tables all over again. But she had no intention of complaining about her lot. It was good honest work and she was pleased to have it.

  Charlie desperately needed new shoes, and her wages would pay for them – and far more, if she could make it stretch.

  After taking off her buff jacket, Hazel rolled up her shirt sleeves and set to work, clearing the dirties, scraping plates and gathering soiled cutlery. Not that there was much food left on the plates. These lads had an appetite; that was clear.

  George had told her at the interview that the main building, owned by the London-based Cable and Wireless company but commandeered by the government for the war effort, was for recruits to their training schedule, but since the outbreak of war, extra recruits had been allocated to Porthcurno. The young men were learning to receive, decode and pass on messages around the globe, many of them vital to defeating Britain’s enemies. George had not elaborated, and he hadn’t needed to. By working here, even as only a domestic, she would be contributing to the war effort, and that was good enough for her.

  After washing and drying all the dirty plates and cutlery, and putting everything away – not a simple task, since she hadn’t a clue where anything was stored and she didn’t dare disturb Mr Frobisher to ask – she laid the table for luncheon as instructed.

  All that work finished at last, she stretched out her aching back with a groan, and then hurried back into the kitchen for her next orders.

  ‘Mr Frobisher?’

  She had last seen Mr Frobisher in his apron, bent over the main preparation table in the kitchen, grating several vast hunks of strong-smelling local cheese.

  Now he was nowhere in sight.

  Hazel hesitated, uncertain what to do. Not wishing to stand about idly, she decided to spend a few minutes exploring. What harm could it do?

  Following the corridor further on, she found a side door standing ajar, and peered out. To her disappointment, there was nothing outside but a cramped, dusty yard, set immediately below the looming bluff of the cliffs.

  The house had been built up against the rock, she realised, stepping outside to cool her flushed cheeks. There was barely enough room to swing a cat; she counted nine steps from the door to the cliff wall. But a sea breeze was whistling through the yard, warm and salty, and sunshine picked out delicate ferns and gorse bushes clinging to the rock face higher up.

  Hazel felt her heartbeat slow. She stood there for a rapturous moment, eyes closed, her face lifted into the brilliant light, listening to the mournful cries of seagulls.

  It was so wonderfully peaceful, she thought, when Bertie was away at his soldiering. Whenever he was back home, angrily drinking and shouting, and sometimes hitting her and Charlie, it felt as though her soul were being ripped apart. Only his absence could begin to heal the wounds he inflicted, inside and out. Which was a wicked, disloyal thought indeed. But one she could not seem to shake these days.

  ‘Hello,’ a familiar voice said.

  Startled, she spun round, blinking and confused.

  George Cotterill was watching her from the doorway. He looked so distinguished in his dark suit, yet somehow down-to-earth too, his tie slightly askew, his black leather shoes dusty. Out here in the light, she could see the fine silver strands threading the dark hair at his temple. It gave him such a distinctive air she was struck dumb and could only stare, irresistibly drawn.

  If only she could find this man as attractive as a fence post, and twice as dull. Then she would not be suffering these wicked thoughts. She was a married woman, for goodness’ sake, and had a child besides. But her heart had other ideas.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ George asked her, almost mischievously. ‘Sorry, did I make you jump?’

  ‘Can I help you, Mr Cotterill?’

  That wiped the smile off his face. He had been leaning against the doorframe, but straightened up now, clearing his throat. ‘I just wondered how your first day was going.’

  ‘Perfectly well, thank you.’

  ‘I dropped into the kitchen. But there was nobody around except Frobisher.’ He hesitated. ‘I think he’s been looking for you, actually. Better make your way back before the old boy blows a gasket.’

  ‘He’s a character.’

  ‘Made an impression on you, has he?’

  ‘I’ll say.’ Hazel smiled. ‘He wanted to know if I was really married, or if the “Mrs” was just to keep men at a distance.’

  George looked at her, suddenly intent, and she lowered her gaze. For a moment, there was silence in the backyard, broken only by the gulls crying out overhead as they circled on the warm air. Her heart was beating unnaturally fast, she realised with a guilty start. What on earth was wrong with her?

  ‘Well,’ she added quickly, ‘I’d best get back to the kitchen, like you said. It wouldn’t do for Mr Frobisher to find me standing about gossiping.’

  George moved aside to let her pass, but put a hand out, catching her forearm before she could escape. His fingers were warm on her bare skin.

  ‘Wait,’ he said softly. ‘Really, how is it going? Frobisher’s bark is worse than his bite – don’t mind him.’ He paused. ‘You’ll let me know if you run into any trouble, won’t you?’

  ‘Trouble?’ Hazel met his eyes, bewildered. ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘With the men.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘This place is crawling with soldiers.’ His mouth quirked in a humourless smile. ‘Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘I’m sure I can cope. And wearing this outfit,’ she said, glancing down disparagingly at the grim buff skirt and voluminous shirt, which desperately needed to be taken in, ‘I doubt many will be looking my way.’

  George Cotterill looked her up and down too, his eyes narrowing, and for a moment she felt quite awkward under his gaze.

  Then he nodded and released her.

  ‘Well, I hope you settle in all right,’ he said, and hurried away.

  Back in the kitchen, Hazel endured Mr Frobisher’s ill-tempered reprimand without a word in response. She very much hoped George was right and the old man’s bark was worse than his bite, because his bark was bad enough.

  But later, stirring a vast tureen of thick vegetable soup that smelt delicious, she could feel a slight burning tingle on her arm. She knew what it was, too. The place where George’s hand had touched her bare skin.

  Guilt surged through her again, and she bent to focus her attention on her task, stirring so hard the greenish soup began to whizz round and Mr Frobisher gave her another scolding. Her marriage might have become a sham, but she and Bertie were still legally man and wife. And no amount of wishful thinking could change that hard truth.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When Eva finally woke up after the air raid, she could smell starch and strong disinfectant, and could barely move her legs. Panic flooded her. What on earth? Her blurred vision slowly cleared to reveal whitewashed walls and another identical bed opposite, only its unfortunate occupant was swathed in bandages like an Egyptian mummy. Another woman in a bed further down was sitting up, reading a magazine.

  So she was not dead, as she had half-expected when the bomb fell, but lying in a hospital bed. Groggily, Eva stirred under the tightly tucked-in sheets and blankets. Her mouth was dry, her head throbbing, and she hoped grimly that she too was not swathed in bandages.

  What had happened after the explosion?

&
nbsp; She had a vague memory of coming to for a few seconds, first under a heap of bricks, her face covered with dust and the night sky above riddled with searchlights. Then again at first light when they found her under the rubble. She recalled two men in ambulance armbands bending over her. She had managed to tell them her name, but passed out with the pain when the bricks were finally lifted away.

  I must have cut my head open, she thought, recalling the taste of blood in her mouth.

  But what about the rest of her?

  Glancing down, she was relieved to see both her hands lying on top of the white blanket, nastily cut and bruised, and smeared with some kind of greasy ointment, but uncovered. Presumably then, they were still working.

  Tentatively, Eva wiggled her toes. It hurt, especially in the tight confines of the bedding, but the white blanket twitched at the base of the bed.

  Both legs still intact.

  Her relief was so immense, she gave a little sob.

  ‘Ah, thank God, you’re awake at last!’ Surprised, she turned her head on the pillows to see Uncle Edward at her bedside, lowering the newspaper he had been reading. He looked very smart as always, wearing a dapper, double-breasted suit, though his usually cheerful face was wreathed in concern for her. ‘You’ve been asleep for two whole days, my dear. We thought we were going to lose you.’

  ‘Uncle T-Teddy? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Picking up the pieces after my errant niece had a wall collapse on her, of course.’

  ‘A wall?’

  ‘A bloody great building, to be brutally frank. But don’t worry about that now. You don’t recall what happened?’

  ‘There was an air raid. We were running for the shelter at the end of the road. A bomb fell right beside us.’ Everything was aching now, and a pain shot through her right hip as she moved. ‘I guess we didn’t all make it.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. You’re lucky to be alive, if you ask me.’

  ‘Oh!’ Her cheeks had blenched and she felt faint. She’d suddenly remembered Max and the other dashing pilots from the club. All those people too, on their way to the shelter. And her friends in the club: Karen, Walter, even grumpy Shirley …