Joanna, Lady Harcourt, was eagerly anticipating the arrival of the first of the WAAF girls. Goodwill House had seemed empty and inhospitable since her beloved daughter, Sarah, had left so precipitously to begin her medical training at the Royal Free Hospital in London.
Thank god they were now on convivial terms and there had already been three letters and two telephone calls from Sarah. Flight Lieutenant Angus Trent, Sarah’s fiancé, was stationed at Hornchurch, so the engaged couple might be able to meet up occasionally. It hardly seemed credible that her daughter was old enough not only to have left home under her own volition, and be studying to be a doctor, but was also engaged to a Spitfire pilot.
Lazarus, better known as Lazzy, the stray puppy Joanna had taken in a few weeks ago, had been a welcome distraction and she hadn’t realised how much she would enjoy the company of a dog. She’d recently signed the necessary documents with the Ministry of Agriculture; and the park surrounding Goodwill House was being ploughed up so potatoes could be planted.
There had been no further letters from David, her husband, who was commanding a brigade somewhere in France with the British Expeditionary Force – better known as the BEF – and for that she was grateful. Heaven knows how she would explain to him that his ancestral home now housed his estranged mother, was also a boarding house for young women in the services, and there was a puppy indoors. Not to mention the fact that, despite his refusing to allow the grass to be turned into farmland, she’d set aside his wishes.
Her reverie was rudely interrupted by the uninvited appearance of her mother-in-law. Despite having made it very clear that this room was out of bounds to her, the wretched woman kept coming and sitting down as if she was a welcome guest.
‘Joanna, I’ve told you more than once that David would not allow you to have a dog in the house and yet you continue to ignore my words.’
With a sigh, Joanna put aside the minutes for the last WVS meeting and resigned herself to yet another unpleasant confrontation with this garrulous and thoroughly objectionable woman.
‘And I’ve told you more than once, ma’am, that the running of the estate is none of your business. What rights you had you abandoned when you refused to attend our wedding and took yourself off to the south of France.’ She looked pointedly at the door and at the ledger she had on her lap. ‘Was there anything else?’
The telephone jangled noisily in the entrance hall but there was no need for Joanna to answer it as Liza, one of the twins who lived in, was always eager to pick up the receiver. Unfortunately, she had a tendency to yell down the wide, empty passageways rather than come in person to deliver the message.
However, today the girl arrived with a beaming smile and stepped around the other Lady Harcourt as if she was invisible. ‘My lady, them girls will be here tomorrow. Mind you, not all six of them, just two. The bloke what was on the other end of the line said the others would be here next week as planned.’
Liza, for a change, had her apron neatly tied and her grey dress was still relatively crisp and clean. What this delightful girl lacked in tidiness she more than made up for in enthusiasm.
‘Now, that is good news. Please make sure Betty knows and then you can decide which room these early arrivals will go into.’
‘Mrs Smith says to remind you that she ain’t going to be here tomorrow – she’s got to go with her hubby to Ramsgate Hospital. Somethink to do with his leg, I reckon.’
‘Of course, how silly of me. I have it in my diary. I’m sure you and Joe can manage without her supervision. Betty was telling me only yesterday what an excellent pupil you’re proving to be in the kitchen.’
The Dowager, who was unhappy at being ignored, turned to the girl. ‘Don’t stand there wasting time, girl, go about your duties at once.’
Joanna was about to intervene, but Liza was unfazed by this unwarranted and unwanted comment. ‘I’ll bring your coffee and a bit of the Victoria sandwich what I made yesterday, my lady.’
The sound of the young maid’s laughter echoed down the corridor. Joanna smiled pleasantly at the fuming old woman. ‘If you return to the drawing room, Mother-in-law, no doubt your cake and coffee will arrive in due course.’
The woman’s pale blue eyes flashed, her thin lips pursed, but she said nothing in reply. She turned and walked briskly back to the front of the house, her court shoes clacking loudly on the parquet floor.
One might have thought that having David’s mother as company now that Sarah had gone would be a good thing – the reverse was true. Joanna had disliked the woman from the moment she’d arrived four weeks ago, and her opinion hadn’t changed.
Sarah had left so suddenly because of her grandmother’s unwarranted attack on her decision to go to London with Angus – a perfectly innocent and acceptable arrangement – and for that Joanna would never forgive her mother-in-law.
Only because the house was so vast was the situation bearable. They could coexist without even seeing each other for days if they so wished. Life would be simpler if they could find common ground and at least be civil to one another and not in constant confrontation.
Joanna smiled to herself. Perhaps she should follow the example of her staff – Betty, the housekeeper and cook, was scrupulously polite when forced to speak to the senior Lady Harcourt but otherwise ignored her. The fourteen-year-old twins, Liza and Joe, were constantly on the receiving end of the woman’s criticisms but like Betty they appeared not to be bothered by it.
A prune-faced, elderly woman, Miss Baxter – addressed as Baxter by her employer – was now the personal servant of the unwanted guest. This meant five people were living together, so why did the house seem empty and no longer like home?
Camilla Cunningham had been offered the opportunity to become a clerk – special duties – but had declined. The girls who became clerks weren’t really clerks at all but as it was hush-hush, no one actually knew what they did. She had the right educational qualifications but had decided to apply to be a driver, one of the least well-paid trades in the WAAF.
Volunteering had scandalised her parents, which was the main reason for her doing so, and she’d been tempted to become a general duties WAAF – someone who did the menial work – but decided that was a step too far. Becoming a driver was more like it – it was going to be a bit of a lark learning to manoeuvre one of those giant unwieldy lorries.
It was when her mother had informed her that she was to marry the man they’d selected for her that she’d decided to rebel and leave home. Her childhood, from seven years old, had been spent at boarding school, as neither of her parents wanted a noisy child around the house.
She’d made pals with Diane Forsyth, someone from her own strata of society, and good fortune had put them through the three months of rigorous training and then to this first posting together. There might be a war on, but for her, life was exciting and she was eager to take up her post as a fully qualified WAAF driver.
‘This is the end of the line, Di, so it must be Ramsgate Station. I wonder if we’ll be picked up or have to make our own way to Goodwill House.’
The train chuffed and rocked to a standstill. Fortunately, they’d had the compartment to themselves so hadn’t been obliged to heft their heavy and unwieldy kit bags onto the parcel shelf.
‘Stodham, the village where our billet is, is about five miles from Ramsgate and adjacent to Manston, where we’re going to be working.’
‘It’s just possible we’ll be able to catch a lift from a friendly local. It’s obvious where we’re going as we’re in RAF blue.’ Di, several inches taller than Millie and considerably heavier, grabbed her bag and swung it easily over her shoulder before turning to grin down at her. ‘I can’t tell you how excited I am to be starting our first posting. It’s unimaginable that three months ago neither of us could drive even a car and yet here we are, fully qualified to be in charge of any vehicle the RAF might have on the base.’
‘It’s a great shame we couldn’t become pilots – now that would really upset my mater and pater.’ Camilla – who preferred to be addressed as Millie – followed her friend down the narrow train corridor to the nearest exit.
A helpful porter saw them coming and offered to carry their bags. ‘No, thank you very much for asking, but we can manage,’ she said with a smile.
‘I reckon you’re the second lot of WAAFs to go to Manston. The first six weren’t there very long as they should have gone somewhere in Norfolk and came here by mistake. There’s no vehicle here to collect you.’
‘We feared that might be the case. Is there perhaps a local bus that could take us?’ Diane asked hopefully.
‘There’s one in an hour – it pulls in just across the forecourt. You’ve got time to nip into the station café and get yourselves some lunch. They do a nice fry-up in there.’
They nodded their thanks and headed along the platform and pushed open the door he’d indicated. Millie sniffed appreciatively. ‘It smells divine. It’s absolutely ages since we had breakfast and it might be hours before we arrive at Goodwill House.’ She looked around at the café interior, thinking for a moment there were no free tables.
A friendly waitress beckoned to them and they threaded their way through the crowded room, almost beheading a couple of elderly gentlemen with their kit bags as they went past. The kerfuffle caused by the near accident broke the ice and by the time the two of them were seated it was as if they were amongst old friends.
They propped the bags against the wall and sat down with apologetic smiles all round.
‘What do you recommend?’ Di asked the waitress.
‘I’d have the fish and chips – fresh caught today.’
‘That sounds spiffing. Could we have a pot of tea and a glass of water each, if that’s not too much trouble?’
‘Course you can. Won’t be a tick – I’ll bring your tea right away.’
Conversation was drowned out by the roar of aircraft flying low overhead and the building shook and the cups and saucers rattled on the table. The war suddenly seemed frighteningly close. They’d completed their training in the wilds of Scotland and on a base near Blackpool, but this was the first time they’d been so close to the action.
Nobody else seemed bothered by the noisy interruption, so Millie relaxed and smiled at her friend as if nothing had bothered her.
‘Things are going really badly in France,’ Di said. ‘The Germans have occupied Belgium and the Netherlands and when I spoke to my brother, he said Lord Gort, the man in charge of the BEF, is beginning to arrange for the army to retreat towards the coast.’
It never failed to amaze Millie that William Forsyth, who worked at the War Office in army intelligence, was so indiscreet when talking to his sister.
‘We’re going to be in the thick of it here as it’s only twenty or so miles to the French coast. What did you find out about Manston when you spoke to your brother the other day?’
‘It’s an operational base, but from what he could find out there are only a couple of squadrons of Hurricanes and the same number of Blenheims permanently based there. It’s being used for rearming and refuelling the fighters. The squadrons won’t do more than stay there overnight before returning to their own bases.’ Di nodded. ‘Despite the fact that there aren’t many operational aircraft based there, he told me it’s a big, well-organised place. Over one hundred officers and almost one thousand other ranks.’
‘Then I expect our main task will be to ferry pilots from their overnight accommodation to their planes as well as driving officers to wherever they might need to go. I rather think that we’re going to need our tin hats as Manston is bound to be bombed at some point.’ Just talking about bombs made her heart thud – she prayed she would be brave enough to stand firm and not cower in a corner.
‘Here comes the tea, and it looks as if the waitress has also got our fish and chips. I’m absolutely starving, and it smells wonderful,’ Di said with a happy smile.
There wasn’t much conversation whilst they devoured the battered cod and crunchy chips, which more than lived up to expectations. Not that they would have been able to talk over the racket of the aircraft flying overhead at regular intervals.
‘I need to find the ladies’ – I think there’s just time for us to use the facilities before we have to head to the bus stop.’ Millie dropped her cutlery on the empty plate with a sigh of satisfaction and headed across to the waitress to settle the bill. She was beginning to rather resent the fact that, just because she came from a wealthier background than her friend, she was always expected to pay when they ate out.
One thing she wasn’t short of was money, as her parents had pots of it and she had a generous monthly allowance. It was fortunate this was from a trust fund, otherwise she was certain they would have cut her off when she all but ran away to join the WAAF.
She forgave her friend, as she always did, when she emerged from the WC to find Di had carried her kitbag as well as her own over to join the small queue waiting at the bus stop. There were half a dozen housewives, but to her surprise no RAF, which she’d expected as Ramsgate was the nearest town for those who had a few hours free. By the time the vehicle turned into the forecourt, there were another dozen women clutching bulging shopping bags waiting behind them.
The bus was commendably on time and they scrambled aboard. The conductor pointed to the luggage space. ‘Shove your things in there, ladies, no need to carry them down the bus.’
There were no travel warrants for local buses so, before joining her friend on the seat, Millie delved into her jacket pocket and produced a handful of coins to pay the fare.
Both the driver and conductor were men of middle years, cheerful and efficient. The conductor paused at their seats but refused to take any money. ‘No, you go on, ladies, I never charge for boys or girls in blue.’
‘I expected there to be some airmen on the bus as well,’ Di said.
‘Leave’s been cancelled, miss, constant sorties being flown from the base at the moment. That bastard Hitler will be over here and there’ll be jackboots tramping through the streets if we don’t watch out – you mark my words.’ With that cheerful comment, the man continued down the bus.
‘An invasion? How absolutely terrifying – if they did come, this is likely to be where they’d land. All the army is in France and the only protection we’ve got is the RAF.’ Millie swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I’m not especially brave, never liked riding to hounds in case I fell off and hurt myself. I just hope I don’t let everybody down when it comes to it.’
Di laughed out loud, and shook her head. ‘Good grief, Millie, we won’t have to do anything particularly brave – all we have to do is drive those that risk their lives every time they go up in those fighters.’
‘What if a bomb drops on the base? Do you think we have to find a shelter or ditch or just carry on driving regardless?’
‘William said that the RAF is hot on airmen not having sufficient moral fibre – whatever that might be. I think it means that if they refuse to fly for any reason they’ll be branded as cowards, demoted and have to clean the latrines for the rest of the war.’
‘Golly, I didn’t know that. I don’t think it’s in the rulebook for us. Let’s talk about something else – something more cheerful.’ Millie, who was sitting on the inside, nodded towards the picturesque countryside they were trundling through. ‘Plenty of cows and so on, and I think I saw some cart horses in the last field. I thought all the farmers now had tractors as they’re cheaper and more efficient to run.’
Fifteen minutes later, the bus slowed as it approached the outskirts of Stodham. ‘Let’s see how many different shops we can see as we trundle down the High Street,’ Di suggested.
They saw two pubs, a butcher, haberdasher, café, two hardware shops, a greengrocer and three grocers. A decent selection for a village, but Millie was concerned she’d not seen a post office or a newsagent – both essential as far as she was concerned as she liked to keep abreast of the news and she collected her allowance from the post office.
When she raised the question with her friend, Di reassured her. ‘Didn’t you notice there was a marketplace? Not very big, but it had streets leading off from it. I expect we’ll find what you want down one of those. We also didn’t see a church and there’s bound to be one.’
‘I hope there’s a village hall as I really enjoyed the couple of social evenings we attended and would love to go to one of those.’
All but two of the women had now disembarked. The conductor called to them. ‘This bus detours to the base, ladies, if you’re billeted there?’
‘No,’ Di answered, knowing that Millie wouldn’t want to raise her voice in public. ‘Goodwill House, I think it’s on the outskirts of the village somewhere.’
‘Righty-ho – you’re lucky, I can drop you at the end of the drive. Some of those big houses are set half a mile or so back but I reckon that Goodwill is not even quarter of a mile from the road. Not too far to lug those heavy bags.’
The bus stopped once more and the remaining two women got off, giving them a friendly smile as they passed. Millie wondered why nobody had got on – she hadn’t asked if Stodham was as far as this particular bus travelled.
‘It obviously doesn’t go to the base unless there are airmen on it, as we passed the turning a while ago,’ she said.
A few minutes later, they arrived at their own stop. They collected their kitbags and then waited on the side of the narrow road – more a lane, really – until the ancient bus had vanished. Millie’s home was impressive, late Georgian, and the estate had two farms and over two hundred acres. But the building she was gazing at was twice the size, possibly hundreds of years older in parts, and quite hideous in her opinion.
‘Look, Di, the wing on the left of us has a false Georgian front, the centre is definitely Georgian, but the other wing is Victorian and doesn’t match at all. No wonder this Lady Harcourt wants to take in lodgers. One could get lost in a place as big as that. It might be pleasant enough in the summer, but I bet it’s absolutely horrid when it’s cold.’
‘Whatever it’s like, it’ll be better than the accommodation we’ve been using these past few months. Imagine the luxury of having an actual mattress, not those three biscuits, and sheets and blankets better suited to the stable. Come on, old girl, best foot forward.’