The Girls They Left Behind (21 page)

‘I hope so,’ Betty said, and Elsie dug her in the ribs with a surprisingly sharp elbow and gave another chortle.

‘You’ll have to watch out for the farmer, mind! I know what these country bumpkins are like when they get behind a haystack. Eh, Charlie?’

‘You’d know more about that than me,’ he responded dryly. ‘I never went out in the country as much as you did.’

‘Well, I had an auntie out at Titchfield, didn’t i, I used to go over on me bike,’ she told Betty. ‘My cousin Jean and me, we used to go all over the place. Oh, we had a few games, I’ll tell you. But not with Charlie listening, eh?’ She squawked and dug Betty in the ribs again. ‘Still,you won’t be getting up to no hanky-panky, not with Graham to think about.’

‘No.’ Not much chance of that, Betty thought, with all the young men being called up anyway. There would be nothing but old men left, same as in the towns. But Mrs Philpotts was right, she wouldn’t let Graham down any more than he’d be unfaithful to her.

All the same, it didn’t mean she couldn’t have other friends. Same as she kept on writing to Bob, just as a friend.

You couldn’t shut yourself away from everything, just because you had a boyfriend in the Navy.

‘Here, come and talk to me while I put the kettle on,’ Elsie said. ‘We’ll take a cup of tea out in the back garden and you can tell me all about the Land Army. Have you got your uniform yet? It’s trousers, innit? What do your mum and dad think of that, then?’

They went into the house, along the passage with its dark red anaglypta walls and Charlie’s bike, and through to the kitchen. It was smallish and distempered in cream, with green

woodwork and a green oilcloth on the table. An Ascot water heater was fixed to the wall with a long tap over the sink.

Washing-up was piled on the wooden drainer, and there was a smell of cabbage.

‘Sunday dinner,’ Elsie said cheerfully, opening the back door to put a plate of scraps into the meatsafe just outside.

‘We used to have enough meat left over to have it cold on Monday and a nice shepherd’s pie on Tuesday. Now we’re lucky if we got enough to give the cat a few scraps. Still, Charlie says it won’t do me no harm to starve off a bit of me fat!’ She laughed and her bosom shook. ‘I tell him I’ll need it in the winter, the way things are going I won’t be able to get a new winter coat. They’re talking about rationing clothes, did you know that? Clothes! They’ll be rationing fresh air next.’

She filled the kettle and set it on the gas stove. Betty described her uniform and Elsie listened, raising her eyebrows, nodding and pursing her lips at all the right moments.

‘I’m doing war work too,’ she said. ‘I’ve joined the WVS.

Women’s Voluntary Service, that is. I’m helping with canteens for people who’ve been bombed out of their homes.’

She shook her head. ‘You heard what happened over here the other day? We had fifty of the poor sods down in the Central School. Nowhere to go, no money, lost everything, they had.

Well, we’d got crockery and stuff together, and food, and we were going to give ‘em a hot meal. They’ve got good kitchens at the Central School, they used to cook the dinners for the kiddies at Leesland as well. And do you know what?’ Her chins quivered with indignation. ‘That old so-and-so in charge wouldn’t let us cook it! There was a proper up-and downer about it, I can tell you. I thought there was going to be a riot. Well -‘ she grinned suddenly hoped there’d be a riot.

Mean old skinflint, he wanted lynching.’

‘What happened?’ Betty asked. She knew that there had been several people made homeless by the raids on Gosport.

What had it been like for them, their homes destroyed and then refused a hot dinner?

‘Oh, in the end he said we could give it to the kids. Well, that was something, but what were their poor mums and dads to do, starve? So Mrs Green, she went down to the Town Hall and the Town Clerk himself came up the school and told him off proper. And he said in future we’re to give them a good hot dinner whenever we want to, and never mind the high-and-mighty Public Assistance Officer.’ She snorted.

‘Public Assistance! Public Interference, that’s what I call him.’

The kettle boiled and she made the tea, collected a bottle of milk from the safe and carried them out into the garden, leaving Betty to follow with an assortment of cups and saucers.

‘We don’t have a matching teaset in the house,‘Elsie said, setting the tea down on a rickety table. ‘It’s not that we’ve never had one - we’ve had half a dozen. I just can’t keep them, somehow, they break to bits in my hands. Mostly it’s when I’m washing up - Charlie reckons I’m too clumsy, but I think it’s the hot water.’ The milk bottle tipped over and Betty caught it just before it spilled. ‘But you can’t get the grease off things if you don’t use it really hot, can you?’

She took the milk bottle and slopped milk into the three cups. Tea followed, making little brown trails between the cups as she poured, and then she lifted her voice.

‘Char-fo! Tea up. Sit yourself down, Betty, love, and tell me how you’ve got on in the raids over there. Haven’t they been terrible! I heard there’s been Andersons just blown apart, and trench shelters collapsed. And didn’t one get a direct hit?’

‘That was in the second raid,’ Betty said. ‘Nearly a hundred and fifty people in it, there were, but there was only one killed.

A little boy.’

‘Oh, that’s sad,’ Elsie Philpotts said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘A little boy. Think of his poor ma. Mind, we’ve had a bit over here too - a whole team of young RAF lads looking after a balloon were killed in their shelter last week.’ She looked at Betty. ‘I don’t know whether to be thankful that my Graham’s not training to be a pilot or worried about him at sea.’

Betty didn’t know what to say. It didn’t seem to make any difference which Service he was in, they were all as dangerous as each other. She saw the pallor under Elsie Philpotts’ makeup, the tremble of her lips, and realised that under the jollity Graham’s mother was badly frightened.

She felt suddenly ashamed. She’d been thinking of Graham almost as if he was away on holiday and would soon be back. But his mother knew that he might never come back.

And for her, he was the only boy in the world.

It’s worse for mothers, Betty thought. They’re losing their children, the only ones they’ve got. Girls like me, we’ll go on even if our sweethearts or husbands get killed, we’ll still go on living and we might find someone else. But for a mother, he’s gone for ever and there’s nobody else.

It didn’t matter whether your child was a baby in a pram, a little boy in an air-raid shelter or a grown man fighting for his country. He was your child, and always would be, and nobody could take the place of a child.

Throughout the following week, the sirens continued to sound. Monday afternoon brought a hundred and fifty enemy planes and, amidst the fierce battle that was fought over the heads of the citizens, a direct hit was scored on the gas works at Hilsea and more than seventy properties damaged. This time warning was given sooner and the shelters reached in good time, with the result that only two civilians were hurt.

The Royal Marine Barracks of Fort Cumberland, one of the Victorian ‘Palmerston’s Follies’ that ringed Portsmouth, was less fortunate and was hit by more than fifty bombs.

By this time, Betty was out on the farm. She had left home that morning, straight after breakfast, marching selfconsciously up the street in her new uniform. The whole family were standing at the gate to see her off-Annie, Ted, Olive, and even Jess with baby Maureen in her arms. Betty turned at the top of the street and waved, feeling suddenly panicky. Suppose she hated it after all! Suppose she couldn’t do the work. Suppose …

But there was no time for ‘supposing’. The bus came along and she climbed aboard, trying not to notice the stares of the passengers. She found a seat and gazed out of the window.

There was a lump in her throat as she passed the familiar landmarks - the school where she had first learnt to read and write, the ‘rec’ where she’d played cricket with her brother and Bob Shaw. She’d had a letter from Bob last week, but anything interesting had been crossed out by the censor.

She’d heard from Graham too, but Graham wasn’t such a good letter-writer as Bob. Nothing got crossed out in his scrawled notes! And he was still sulking a bit over her going away. He hadn’t asked a single question about where she was going, and although he wished her luck at the end, it didn’t seem as if he meant it.

Oh well, that was men all over, thought women ought to be there at their beck and call whenever they wanted them. This war would teach them different, she thought. Already women were doing a lot of the jobs men generally kept to themselves - why, there was a woman conductor, a conductress, Betty supposed she ought to be called, on this very bus, clipping the tickets as good as any man. And why not? It didn’t exactly need big muscles.

‘Off to the farm, then, love?’

Betty turned quickly. Tommy Vickers had sat down next to her and was looking at her with bright blue eyes. She smiled and nodded. She liked Mr Vickers. He had often tossed her and the boys a few toffees when they were out playing in the street, and sometimes he would even join in and bowl a few balls at the stumps chalked on the end house. Mrs Vickers had come out once and told him he’d never grow up, and Tommy had laughed and slapped her bottom and told her to be glad of it.

‘I heard you were going on the land,’ he continued. ‘Well, you’ll have a better time hoeing turnips than slaving away in some factory making munitions. And the uniform looks very fetching!’

Betty blushed. ‘Dad doesn’t really like me wearing trousers.’

‘Well, not for pleasure, maybe, but it’s different when it’s work,’ Tommy said. ‘You can’t do farm work in a posh frock.

Where are you going?’

‘Bishop’s Waltham. There’s quite a few going. We’re getting a coach at the station.’

Tommy nodded. ‘Well, you take care of yourself and look out for the farmer’s boy.’ He winked. ‘I’ve heard a lot of tales about what they get up to behind haystacks - and if they’re anything like I was when I was a lad, you’d better stay round the front. I know I wouldn’t have wanted to miss a chance of kissing a pretty girl like you!’

Betty felt her blush deepen. ‘Oh, I shan’t be kissing anyone,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’ve got a boy.’

‘Young Ginger Philpotts. Yes.’ Tommy gave her a considering look. ‘Well, he’s not a bad youngster, puts me in mind of myself a bit. I was in the Navy, you know, in the last lot.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘But it’s not serious with him, is it. I mean, you’ll have a good few romances before you’re ready to settle down.’

‘Oh, but -‘ Betty bit her lip. It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell Mr Vickers that she and Graham were secretly engaged. Why was she talking to him like this? ‘I don’t think it’s fair to go out with other boys,’ she said a little stiffly. ‘Not when you’ve got someone away.’

‘No, maybe not.’ But he still sounded thoughtful. ‘Well, I wish you both luck, Betty. I hope it all works out for you. Just don’t be surprised if - well, you’re both young, you can change your minds and no hard feelings. Anyway, this is my stop.’ He grinned at her, suddenly cheerful again. ‘Remember what I said now, take care and stand well clear of haystacks!’

He jumped off the bus and Betty looked out and saw him laughing at her from the pavement. She smiled and waved, feeling better. He always had that effect, she thought, people always walked away from Tommy with a smile on their faces.

The bus was nearly at the town station now, and the coach would be waiting. The adventure was about to begin.

The coach was filled with girls like herself or a few years older. They all looked selfconscious in their new uniforms and avoided each other’s eyes as they lugged their kitbags on to the bus and found seats. A thin woman with spectacles and a clipboard counted them all on, checking their names on her list, and then checked them at least twice more before allowing the bus to move off.

Betty scrambled aboard and got a window-seat. It had taken nearly two hours to get everyone organised but it looked as if they were off at last. She stared at the crowd of girls, all dressed in their breeches and pullovers. They were from all over Portsmouth, some of them from Gosport, and mostly strangers to each other. One or two knew each other and talked in hushed whispers, as if they were in church.

‘Whew! It’s hot isn’t it?’ A tall, lanky girl with untidy brown hair had plonked herself down in the next seat. ‘I hope it doesn’t take too long now. I thought they’d never get us sorted out, didn’t you? Where are you going?’

‘Somewhere near Bishop’s Waltham,’ Betty said. ‘What about you?’

‘Same place. My Dad says it’s hardly worth getting on a bus for.’ She laughed, showing a row of square white teeth. ‘I told him, they need someone to milk cows just as much in Bishop’s Waltham as they do fifty miles away.’ She brushed back a loose curl and gave Betty a friendly grin. ‘P’raps we’ll be seeing a bit of each other. What’s your name? I’m Yvonne, Yvonne Hayter.’

The two girls talked as the coach made its way out of Portsmouth and into the countryside. It did not go directly to Bishop’s Waltham, but meandered around the lanes, calling at different villages and farms. Several times the driver lost his way and Miss Andrews grew more and more exasperated.

‘You’d think they’d send someone who knew the area,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Don’t you have a map?’

‘Look, lady, if you think you can do any better, I’ll get out of this seat and you can drive instead,’ the man retorted. ‘I reckon I could do the grumbling as well as you.’ He poked his finger at the map he had spread out beside him. ‘They’ve took all the signposts down, haven’t they, so Jerry won’t be able to find his way about. Well, he’s not the only one! And half these farms and places aren’t even mentioned on this map.’

‘Well, ask someone,’ she said impatiently, and he groaned and rolled up his eyes.

‘Who? The local cow? Can you see anyone to ask?’ The lanes were deserted. The girls, who had found the situation funny to begin with, sighed and shifted uncomfortably. The seats were covered with oilcloth which had grown hot and sticky, and their breeches and long socks were too thick for a summer’s day. The uniform included dungarees made of strong cotton, but they weren’t so smart and it hadn’t seemed right to wear them.