The September Girls (30 page)

 

Cara found Peggy Cross and Fielding in the billet where they’d saved her a bed and were in the middle of unpacking. They whooped and flung their arms around her - it was lovely to start off in a new camp with ready-made friends.

‘Have you saved a bed for Liz Childs?’ she asked.

‘She’s not coming back,’ Peggy explained. ‘I saw her name wasn’t down on the list of names for the billet, and when I asked they said she’d discovered she was pregnant. That other girl’s name isn’t there either, Sybil something-or-other, the snooty one.’

‘Sybil Allardyce. She isn’t coming, she’s gone for officer training,’ Cara told them.

‘So, it’s just us,’ Fielding cried. ‘The Three Musketeers. Let’s stay together if we possibly can till this bloody war ends. United we stand . . .’

‘. . . divided we fall,’ the others chorused.

‘We’ll have a great time here,’ Peggy said gleefully. ‘We’ll be learning something useful, not like last time, and this camp has a mess for the lower ranks and they hold dances at weekends. Bedford’s only a bus ride away and there’s loads of cinemas - I noticed
Gone with the Wind
is on: I’m dying to see it.’

‘Me, too,’ Cara enthused.

‘I’ve already seen it, but I’d love to again.’ Fielding raised her voice and spoke in the accent of the American Deep South. ‘I’ll think about it tomorrow, at Tara. Tomorrow, I’ll think of some way to get him back. After all,’ she declared, throwing back her head dramatically, ‘after all, tomorrow is another day.’

Two other girls in the billet who looked very lonely as they unpacked their kit bags raised their heads in surprise.

Peggy folded her arms and frowned accusingly. ‘Have you just told us the end of
Gone with the Wind
, Fielding?’

Fielding grinned. ‘An awful lot happens before then, Peg.’

‘I’d sooner not sit through a picture for nearly four hours knowing how the bloody thing ends.’ She flung her pillow at the unrepentant Fielding, who merely stuck out her tongue.

‘If you’re going to see
Gone with the Wind
, can I come with you?’ one of the girls asked timidly. ‘I don’t know a soul here.’

‘Neither do I, and I’d love to see it, too,’ said the other.

‘Let’s put a notice on the board and we can all go together,’ Cara suggested. ‘If there’s time, we can have a cup of tea afterwards.’

‘Or something stronger,’ said Peggy.

‘Or something stronger,’ Cara echoed.

 

The next few months were very intense. She took to driving like a dream and always remembered to stay calm, as Lewis Brown had advised. The instructor, Sergeant Drummond, expressed his pleasure every time she had a lesson, unlike Sergeant Major Fawcett who’d made her feel a failure.

‘You’ve got a gift for this, Caffrey. You’re a natural driver and there’s not many of them around.’

There were lectures every day with diagrams showing how the engine worked that she managed to understand. She knew, before taking a vehicle out, that the ignition system had to be checked, as well as the battery, the leads to the distributor and the alternator, that she had to make sure the tyre on the spare wheel was fully inflated and there was enough fuel in the tank, enough water in the cooling system and enough oil in the engine.

‘Imagine if you were in the middle of the desert on your own and the vehicle broke down, what would you look for?’ asked Sergeant Kelly, a bluff, red-faced man with four daughters of his own, who considered himself a father figure to the girls on the course.

‘An ice cream cornet,’ shouted Fielding.

‘And after you’ve eaten the cornet, Fielding, what then?’

‘I’d check the things you’ve told us to check, Sarge, and if they were all right, I’d stand on top of the vehicle and scream for help.’

Evenings were spent in the mess, at the cinema, or in public houses where eyebrows would be raised when they went in. Until the war, the only women seen in pubs without male escorts were of doubtful reputation, and the influx of quite respectable girls in uniform was taking a bit of getting used to. Occasionally, a barman would refuse to serve them, but plenty of male customers would leap forward and buy them drinks. Mostly, they only drank lemonade, but Peggy Cross was partial to a gin and It and Fielding drank Guinness. ‘It gives me muscles,’ she claimed, flexing her tiny, birdlike arms.

The tests had marked Fielding out as a promising driver, but no account had been taken of her stature. She had to take a pillow when she had a lesson otherwise she was hardly big enough to see through the windscreen and people would dodge out of the way, thinking the oncoming vehicle was driverless.

Saturday night dances in the mess were the best of all. There were two men for every girl and, by the end of the evening, they’d been danced off their feet and would limp back to the billet, exhausted.

‘I know I shouldn’t say this,’ Cara confided to her friends one night when they got back after a particularly hectic evening in the mess, ‘but I’m almost glad there’s a war on. I was perfectly happy living at home, but I didn’t realize how awful dull me life was until I left. Since I’ve been in the Army, I’ve felt quite different. Me brain’s moved into a higher gear or something.’ Her emotions lay beneath a very thin surface and she cried easily and laughed a lot. She was very conscious of the pathos of the young men, some even younger than her, who were being sent overseas after Christmas and had asked if she would be their girlfriend.

‘I’d like to have a girl to write to,’ one had said to her only that night. His name was Brian and he hadn’t yet started shaving. His eyes were still a baby blue. ‘Have you got a photo I can stick on my locker?’

‘I’ll have one taken,’ Cara promised.

Christmas was fast approaching and the course would come to an end in January. Yet again they would part from women to whom they felt closer than they ever had to their friends back home.

‘How can we make sure us three stay together?’ Fielding asked one morning when they were having breakfast.

‘I suppose we could ask,’ Peggy mused.

‘Who?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘That’s a lot of use. Most of the men are staying together.’

‘Only because they belong to a particular regiment: us girls are just anonymous drivers and we don’t belong anywhere,’ Cara explained.

‘But that’s not fair!’ Fielding said plaintively, pretending to wipe away a tear.

‘There’s nothing fair about the Army, Fielding. I’d have thought you’d know that by now.’

‘There’s a notice in the billet asking who wants to be sent overseas. If we put down our names, bracketed them together and wrote NOT TO BE SEPARATED, do you think that’d work?’

‘Do we want to be sent overseas?’ Peggy looked doubtful.

‘I’d love it,’ Cara said instantly. Fergus was having a great time in France where he seemed to do nothing much except lounge in cafés and drink wine.

‘It’d be more exciting than staying in England,’ Fielding said. ‘Ah, come on, Peggy, me girl. Imagine us strolling down the Champs-Elysées or climbing the Sphinx.’

‘It’s not a sightseeing tour we’d be going on,’ Peggy pointed out. ‘Oh, all right. Tom is already so fed up with me, it can’t make things any worse.’ Tom was Peggy’s fiancé and sent complaining letters every week accusing her of deserting him, which she had, Peggy conceded, but had felt the urge to do her bit and thought he’d understand.

They returned to the billet, put their names on the list and were making their way to the lecture hall when they saw a smart young woman coming towards them. She wore an expensive fur coat and carried an equally expensive leather suitcase. It took a good minute for Cara to recognize Sybil Allardyce.

‘Sybil!’ she cried, hurrying towards her. ‘Have you been posted here?’

‘Only for a few weeks,’ Sybil said stiffly. ‘I’m an officer now, Caffrey. You should salute me and address me as ma’am.’

‘Oh!’ Cara fell back with the strong feeling she’d been put in her place.

Peggy butted in. ‘You’re wearing civilian clothes . . .
ma’am
, and we’re only expected to salute the uniform, not the person.’

Sybil’s face went very red. ‘I’ll see about that - what’s your name?’

‘Cross . . .
ma’am
.’ Peggy invested as much sarcasm as she could muster into the word. Fielding was doing her very best not to giggle.

‘You might find yourself on a charge, Cross.’ Sybil was blustering now, clearly aware she was on the losing side. ‘And you, Private, what’s your name?’

‘Fielding . . .
ma’am
. You said you saw me on the West End. Apparently, I made you cry.’ Fielding had suddenly acquired a cut-glass accent, and now Cara had the urge to giggle.

Sybil didn’t answer. She marched away, leaving the three women to laugh until they cried, holding each other up as the tears poured down their cheeks.

‘What a bitch!’ Peggy said eventually when she’d got her breath back. ‘It’s a wonder she didn’t order us to carry her suitcase.’

‘I don’t think much of your friends, Caffrey.’

‘Our mothers are friends, that’s all. Sybil Allardyce is no friend of mine.’ She’d always thought of Sybil as a sort of friend, but no longer.

 

Sybil signed in and was shown to her room, feeling very put out when she saw there were two beds when she’d expected to be on her own. The sound of hysterical laughter was still ringing in her ears. She’d got off to a really bad start. There’d been no need to jump down Cara’s throat like that, but she’d been so keen to advertise the fact that she was an officer and hadn’t been prepared for Cara’s unexpected approach. It wouldn’t have hurt to explain their changed positions in a more courteous way.

She groaned and began to unpack, hanging the uniforms she’d had made in the wardrobe. The tailor had been instructed to send the bill to daddy. At least she actually had a proper wardrobe, not like the first camp where there was only a locker and a hook to hang things on. And her room-mate would be from her own class, not some awful woman who’d worked in a factory or a fish market and whose every other word was a curse. What’s more, she’d only be in this camp for a fortnight before being transferred elsewhere. She’d volunteered to be sent overseas and was unlikely to meet Cara and her friends again while she was in the Army.

The door swung open and a hearty voice cried, ‘I was told you were here. Allardyce, isn’t it? We’re going to be room-mates, but not for long. I’m Cordelia Butcher, known as Butch to my friends and enemies alike. How do you do?’

Sybil’s slender hand was shaken forcefully by a stout, red-faced woman of about thirty with skin like an elephant’s hide. ‘How do you do, Butch?’ she said faintly.

‘I’m very well, Allardyce, very well indeed,’ Butch boomed. ‘Don’t think much of this shitty place, though. D’you know they don’t stock beer in the officers’ mess, only shorts. I like a slug of whiskey as much as the next chap, but only if it’s washed down with a pint of brown ale. Bloody bad show, I must say. Well, Allardyce, I’ll love you and leave you, I only came to say hello.’ She half closed the door, then opened it again. ‘I say, I hope you’re a sound sleeper. People tell me I snore like a fucking rhinoceros, so I apologize in advance if I keep you awake.’

The door closed. Sybil put her hands over her face and groaned again.

 

They were going home for Christmas for a whole week. On the morning of their departure, a parcel arrived for Cara. She opened it curiously and found a little black velvet box that held a ring with three sparkling blue stones, accompanied by a letter - the notepaper smelled of lavender and the writing was very shaky.

There was no return address.

‘Oh!’ Cara felt quite overcome. She showed the ring to Peggy and Fielding. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? It looks almost real. All I did was give her a cup of tea and a sarnie.’

Peggy took the ring and examined it. ‘It
is
real, at least it’s real gold: twenty-two carat. I’m no expert, but they look like genuine sapphires too. If so, it’s worth a mint. I’d leave it at home if I were you, Cara. We’re not allowed to wear jewellery apart from wedding rings and you don’t want to leave something that valuable in your locker.’

The weather was appalling. The entire country was covered in a thick carpet of snow and great lumps of it threw themselves at the train windows all the way to Liverpool. At Birmingham, where Cara changed trains and the platforms were packed with troops, all the non-military passengers were ordered off and told to wait for the next one, including mothers with small children, the elderly and the infirm.

That night, she showed the ring to her mother.

‘It’s lovely, darlin’,’ Mam gasped. ‘Here, let’s try it on a minute.’

The ring fitted the third finger of Mam’s right hand perfectly - it was too big for Cara’s. ‘Keep it for now, Mam,’ she said impulsively. ‘You can give it me back once I’m home for good. I was going to leave it behind, any road.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly, girl, I might lose it.’ She waved her hand, admiring the way the stones flashed and sparkled. ‘Eleanor hasn’t got a ring like this.’

‘You can just wear it for best, luv,’ Dad said. ‘Seems silly to let it lie in a drawer when you fancy it so much.’

‘Oh, all right,’ Mam replied in a tone that implied she’d been forced into wearing the ring, while continuing to admire it on her hand.

Maria and the lads had returned from Southport. ‘It’s nothing but a phoney war,’ Maria snorted. ‘If there wasn’t a shortage of food, you’d hardly believe there was a war on. Nothing’s hardly changed.’