Down Daisy Street (36 page)
‘It’s easy to hate shelters when you don’t need ’em,’ Alec said wisely. ‘And judging by his uniform, he were a sailor, probably on convoy duty. I’ve a friend doing that and the stories he tells make me powerful glad I joined the Junior rather than the Senior Service.’
The two of them began to walk back towards Daisy Street, following Jane and Jimmy along the rubble-strewn pavement. One had to pick one’s way but it was impossible not to crunch on glass at practically every step and Kathy began to fear for her shoes. It would not do to let a shard pierce the sole and enter her foot. ‘Yes, he was on convoy duty,’ Kathy admitted. ‘When I think about it, Alec, I feel really bad. We got along with him all right – Mam, Billy and myself – but we were never truly friends, not like we are with Mr Bracknell, our other lodger. Poor Mr Philpott never really joined in and you couldn’t tease him because he took everything so seriously. I – I don’t think he was a very happy man and I don’t think he had much of a life, either, and in a way that makes his being killed even more unfair. You see, if he’d had a future, it might have been a happy one with a wife and kids and a home of his own instead of lodging with strangers. Oh, how I hate the bloody Jerries! They stole his future away from him!’
By this time they were turning into Daisy Street and Alec took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Oh, that weren’t nothing to do with you,’ he said firmly. ‘There’s misfits in every walk of life, girl Kathy, and if they don’t choose to try to help themselves then, believe me, no one else can do it for ’em.’ They had reached the Kelling house and Jane had already opened the front door. Alec gave Kathy’s arm a little shake. ‘Go indoors and get some sleep while you can,’ he advised. ‘Jimmy an’ me are going to do the same and when we wake we’ll come and call for you, because I dare say you’ll want a hand with funeral arrangements.’
‘Funeral arrangements?’ Jimmy said in an astonished tone. ‘Mam and meself have done all that – I
telled
you, it’s all arranged for two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’
telled
you, it’s all arranged for two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’
Kathy passed him, then turned in the doorway. She was feeling quite light-headed from lack of sleep but had understood at once what Alec had meant. ‘No, not your dad, Jimmy,’ she said gently. ‘It’s Mr Philpott; there’s only me now to do the arranging for that funeral.’
When she got into bed, Kathy was haunted by Mr Philpott’s sad fate. It was a shame that she had not really liked him very much, had considered him to be wishy-washy and without character, because somehow this made his death seem even more pitiable. Who would go to his funeral? In normal circumstances she was sure that the inhabitants of the flower streets would have rallied round, but knew that was unlikely to happen when so many deaths had occurred in the raid which had crushed the shelter. She thought, guiltily, that few people even remembered him, and those who did remember would not think to support her as they would have supported her mother.
Outside the window, the life of the street went on, making it difficult for Kathy to fall asleep, though Jane seemed to find it no problem. Little snorts and snores emanated from her and Kathy envied her, wishing that she herself could forget the still figure on the stretcher and sink into a deep and peaceful sleep.
In fact, she had almost done so when something Mr Philpott had said the previous evening popped into her head.
All I want, I swear it, is just to talk to you
. She could not remember anything else that he said, but this particular sentence seemed not only innocuous but pretty pointless. After all, why should he have to swear that he just wanted to talk to her? And what
else
had he said? She was sure he had said something important, though she could not quite remember . . .
All I want, I swear it, is just to talk to you
. She could not remember anything else that he said, but this particular sentence seemed not only innocuous but pretty pointless. After all, why should he have to swear that he just wanted to talk to her? And what
else
had he said? She was sure he had said something important, though she could not quite remember . . .
She was at the warm, delicious stage when sleep is only seconds away when she remembered some fragments of his conversation . . .
lovely hair, lovely an’ smooth an’ shiny. I been watchin’ you wi’ that yaller-headed girl
. . .
lovely hair, lovely an’ smooth an’ shiny. I been watchin’ you wi’ that yaller-headed girl
. . .
It doesn’t make sense, Kathy thought dreamily, pulling the blankets up a little higher and burrowing into the pillow, it really doesn’t make . . . and she was asleep.
Some time later she awoke, her spine prickling. I must be going mad, she thought; Mr Philpott never said those things, it was the feller who grabbed me on the North Dingle that night.
He
said he only wanted to talk to me, and then went on about my lovely shiny hair and seein’ me with the yaller-headed girl. How could I possibly confuse that man with poor Mr Philpott? But then she heard again the voice in her head and knew that she was not mistaken. It had been Mr Philpott who had grabbed her on Christmas Day almost five years earlier!
He
said he only wanted to talk to me, and then went on about my lovely shiny hair and seein’ me with the yaller-headed girl. How could I possibly confuse that man with poor Mr Philpott? But then she heard again the voice in her head and knew that she was not mistaken. It had been Mr Philpott who had grabbed her on Christmas Day almost five years earlier!
The realisation banished sleep. Kathy lay there, staring at the ceiling and going over everything Mr Philpott had said to her, both on that Christmas Day and on the previous evening, and the more she thought, the more certain she became that Mr Philpott and her attacker were one and the same. At first she felt indignant, truly angry with him for having scared her so badly, but the more she considered it, the more she realised just how desperately unhappy and lonely Mr Philpott had been. He must have received many rebuffs to make him so scared that he could not even tell a young girl he admired her. His only friend was Mr Bracknell and Kathy imagined that his enormous shyness and lack of self-confidence would have backed down at once before Mr Bracknell’s cheerful, outgoing personality. He would not have dreamed of trying to compete with the older, more experienced man.
Kathy lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She could not blame herself for not understanding Mr Philpott, for wanting to be with Alec whilst she had the chance, but one thing she could do; she could join the WAAF – she had intended to do so anyway, she reminded herself ruefully – and do her best to see that the Allies won the war. And she would never tell a soul, not her mother, not Jane, not Alec, that it had been Mr Philpott who had grabbed her so long ago.
Having made up her mind, she turned on her side to prepare for the sleep which she needed so badly, and suddenly realised that she was crying in good earnest now, crying for the sad and ineffective young man who had put up such a brave front in the shelter and whose death was all the more tragic because he would be so little missed.
Chapter ThirteenAugust 1941
‘Right, young ladies, quick march!’ The sergeant’s voice was strident and Kathy felt perspiration beginning to trickle down her forehead. She glanced sideways at Jane and saw her friend flick a hand across her brow and then continue to march across the great concrete swath of the parade ground. It was a fortunate thing that she and Jane were of a similar height since it meant that they could pair up for drill without receiving any adverse comment from officers or other Waafs. There was supposed to be no opportunity for idle chat but she and Jane usually managed to exchange, if not a few words, then at least speaking looks. Basic training had been invented, Jimmy had told them, to turn everyone into replicas of each other. Uniform helped, of course, and very soon the girls began to realise that life in the WAAF was a good deal easier if you conformed totally to what the officers and NCOs wanted and kept your own personality completely hidden, though it would emerge quickly enough once basic training was over.
‘Right . . . wheel!’ A silent snigger passed between Jane and Kathy. Only the previous evening, as they polished their buttons to gleaming whiteness and shined their shoes until the leather mirrored their faces, they had wondered aloud what would happen if, on reaching the end of the parade ground, the sergeant forgot to give the order to right wheel. ‘We’d all march straight into the chain-link fencing and pile up like a traffic accident,’ Jane had giggled. ‘No one would dare disobey and wheel right of their own accord – we’d probably get jankers if we did!’
Kathy and Jane had not believed that Waafs would ever be given jankers, but they soon realised their mistake. Punishment and threats of punishment surrounded the Waafs as surely as chain-link fencing surrounded the camp. There was a kit inspection several times a week and woe betide you if one article of your uniform was missing, or unpolished, or even placed in the wrong order upon your bed. Jane, who had lived a pretty casual life in her mother’s house, Kathy knew, found the business of unmaking one’s bed every morning and making it up each night particularly trying. The beds consisted of an iron bedstead and a mattress which was in three parts. These parts were called biscuits and had to be piled neatly at the foot of one’s bed each morning whilst one’s blankets and sheets were folded in a certain way and placed on top of the biscuits. When there was a kit inspection, one’s entire uniform had to be laid out, again in a certain order. Dreadful punishments awaited anyone who lost anything, even if the loss was only temporary, and the girls in Hut 5 had soon learned what every experienced Waaf knew – that one stuck by one’s friends and helped them in time of adversity. If someone three beds up was a pair of stockings short, then she whose kit had been examined and found to be correct would wait until the officer moved on and then pass her stockings along to the unfortunate who had mislaid hers.
‘It’s a good thing the officers are all such mean old bitches because it teaches us to stick together and stand up for one another,’ Jane had observed the first time she had seen equipment being moved about during the kit inspection. ‘Why, if there’s one person I really hate it’s that Ellen Morris. She’s so common – I don’t believe she’s washed once since we started basic training – and as for her hair . . . yuck! But she passed her ground sheet along when she saw someone had borrowed mine just as though we were real pals, so I suppose she isn’t so bad after all.’
‘I admit she isn’t the cleanest Waaf on the station but she does wash now, you know,’ Kathy had pointed out. ‘A good few of them are from large families where washing’s a luxury and it takes time before they begin to see it has its advantages. Ellen washes her hair now whenever she can get hold of a bit of soap. And anyway, I’d rather have her than Pauline Whittle. I heard her telling everyone that the Section Officer had told her she was officer material and ought to put in for a training course, but I bet the SO says that to everyone – she certainly said it to me!’
‘And me,’ Jane had agreed. ‘She asked me whether I’d be interested in barrage balloons, so I said I was but to tell the truth I didn’t know what she were talking about. Do they want clerical workers or something on the balloon sites? Only men fly the buggers, don’t they? I’ve seen ’em on the balloon sites around Liverpool an’ they’re all fellers.’
‘Squad . . . halt! Stand – at – ease!’
The drill sergeant’s loud voice sounded almost as fed up with drill and the sun-drenched parade ground as Kathy felt. She was hot, tired and heartily sick of drill. It was a sweltering August day and she longed for nothing so much as a cool drink and a sit down, but knew she was unlikely to get either until they were dismissed to go to the cookhouse for their dinner. And, knowing the RAF, it won’t be salad, or cold meat, it’ll be stew and spuds, Kathy thought, unconsciously mimicking the head cook, a big beefy man who disliked all Waafs and had been known to fling mashed potato on to one’s plate with such force that the gravy splattered someone a couple of feet away. You’d think the air force would have realised by now how simple it was to make a Spam salad, but their main aim in life seems to be to fatten us up. She glanced at Jane, unable to help noticing that her friend looked a good deal sturdier than she had when they were both in Civvy Street. Somewhat smugly, Kathy glanced down at her own front. Despite a diet of potatoes, stews and boiled puddings, she was still as slim as ever and intended to remain so. Other girls might hold their plates out hopefully for a second spoonful but Kathy was not one of them.
‘Squaaad . . . dismiss!’
This time the sergeant’s voice sounded far happier and as the girls broke ranks and headed for their huts, Kathy thought that she would give herself a good strip-down wash before going along to the cookhouse. Jane, hurrying along beside her, was of the same mind and they both entered their hut, tore off their tunics and caps and headed for the ablutions which were at the far end of the room.
‘What are we doing this afternoon?’ Jane asked presently.
‘There’s a lecture on barrage balloons,’ Kathy said. ‘I wonder if I’ll have time after dinner to write to that feller I met back in Liverpool?’ She glanced rather guiltily at her friend. ‘I did tell you we were going to write to one another, didn’t I?’
Jane, who had been combing out her hair and trying to subdue its exuberance with a great many hairgrips, turned to Kathy, eyes rounding. ‘I suppose you mean Alan Grimshaw? Well, if you ain’t a dark horse! You never said a word! Whenever I’ve seen you scribblin’ away, I’ve thought how good you were to write to your mam and Billy so often.’ She turned back to the mirror once more, bending towards it to check that the last frond of hair was neatly in place. ‘Jimmy’s a grand letter writer – better than I am meself. But what with writing to Mam and Dad and the kids . . . well, you’ve only got one life an’ writin’ borin’ letters is no way to spend half of each day.’
‘I quite like writing letters,’ Kathy said. She did not add that Jane was mistaken; that it was Alec Hewitt to whom she wrote, and not Alan Grimshaw. The fact was, she could not forget that Jane had seemed to like Alec rather too much, so Kathy had decided to keep their relationship a secret. Now she said, as casually as she could: ‘I meant to write to that pal of your Jimmy’s, but I’ve not got round to it, so if you’ve seen me scribbling the letter will certainly have been to Mam or Billy. But I thought Alec was rather nice – you liked him, didn’t you?’
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