Ethel was exhausted by the long journey to their new camp. They sat sideways in the back of a lorry with several other girls and a few RAF boys. The boys at first tried to engage them in conversation, but the movement of the vehicle, which was making them all feel queasy, and their uncomfortable position, made it impossible to respond.
They learned from other conversations that they were heading for a bomber station from where Lancasters flew. A recent raid had demolished the cookhouse and until it was rebuilt they were going to provide three meals a day to all the personnel plus the usual canteen and net bar services.
Kate and Rosie looked around them as they alighted from the lorry that had brought them to an airfield much larger than the one they had left.
‘Here you are, ladies, three good meals a day the lads will expect, and the canteen open as usual. You’ll have to get cracking.’
‘All on our own?’ Kate asked with a sweet sarcastic smile as she pulled her and Ethel’s cases down.
‘There are other Naafi girls here and they’ll tell you whafs needed,’ their driver told them cheerfully. ‘You wait till you see the pile of ’taters waiting for you, that’ll take the smile off your face, gorgeous.’
The RAF driver pointed them in the direction of the guard room where they had to report, and drove off with a backward glance through his mirror. Nice one, that Kate, always ready with a smile and a cheeky response to any hopeful approach. He wondered how the shy one would cope, and the one called Ethel looked worn out. ‘I wonder what she’s been up to to make her look like scrag end of mutton?’ he asked his oppo with a wink. ‘Up to no good, I bet yah!’
The canteen facilities from where they were expected to produce all these meals were two Nissen huts joined together. There was electric lighting fixed up temporarily with a generator, but the cooking was on a huge range with a fire in the middle and ovens at both sides. They were told they had been registered as three cooks.
‘I can’t cook, I signed up as a counter hand,’ Kate said anxiously.
‘You’d have to learn some time, so learning here would be better than trying out your skills on your husband when you get wed,’ Ethel said.
‘I won’t be doing much cooking. I intend to marry someone rich.’
‘No one is that rich!’
‘What are you worrying about, everyone can cook,’ Rosie laughed.
‘Everyone except me,’ Kate groaned.
They were shown to their billet, which was a long narrow Nissen hut that they would share with nine others. The usual bedside lockers had been removed to make room for more beds. Here there was no electricity. Storm lamps and candles provided light; the heater, which the girls called a donkey, was in the centre of the room. The other occupants had pulled their beds around so their feet were towards the heat.
Ethel threw herself on her bed as soon as Kate and Rosie had made it up from the bedding provided, and, leaving her there to rest, Kate and Rosie went to explore.
The sound of singing coming from the back of the canteen led them to investigate and, to their amusement, they saw a huge container full of peeled potatoes, surrounded by seven girls, all singing as they peeled the pile each one had resting on their laps.
‘You the new arrivals?’ one called and they went in and introduced themselves.
‘Ethel Twomey is resting, she got travel sick,’ Rosie explained.
‘She should have got some travel pills from the MO,’ another criticized loudly. ‘No time for idle excuses here.’
‘Tomorrow she’ll work, today she rests, got it?’ Kate said. The smile was still present but the warning was clear.
The girls moved up and allowed Kate and Rosie to squeeze in, and in the growing silence Kate began to sing, ‘Sing a song of sunbeams, let the notes fall where they may…’ The others joined in, the angry-looking girl walked away, and the brief threat of a confrontation faded. As usual, Rosie mouthed the words but little sound emerged.
‘That’s Frances, you’ll have to watch out for her,’ one of the girls whispered.
‘She’ll have to look out for us, more like!’ Kate replied firmly.
‘I’m starving,’ Rosie complained. ‘When do we get to eat?’ On being told there was more than an hour to wait, she tucked into a raw potato and others followed her lead, chomping, and singing when they could, as the choruses continued.
The task finished, Rosie and Kate stood up to leave but the pugnacious girl, Frances, heavily built with short boyishly-cut hair, and red, powerful hands, stopped them. ‘Where d’you think you’re going? You’d better get this lot cleared before you go back to your hut. Or are you going to leave it for your so-called sick friend to do as her share?’
‘We’re doing neither!’ Kate snapped fiercely. ‘Tomorrow we start and we’ll all do more than our share. But there’s one thing we’ve learnt already and that’s never to volunteer to help out when you’re around!’
The girl slowly walked towards Kate and Rosie while the others looked on, but both girls stood their ground. The girl leaned towards them appearing enormous. Rosie, quaking in her shoes, said in a surprisingly firm voice, ‘You heard. Now get out of our way.’
‘Just watch it, that’s all,’ Frances warned as she turned away.
Several of the other girls silently mimed clapping and others showed a thumbs-up gesture, but none of them dared to show their approval of the newcomers aloud.
When they returned and told Ethel about their first encounter with the other girls, she whispered, ‘If you can’t join ’em, fight ’em, eh?’
The canteen was large, and so full of chairs and tables they knew the cleaning was going to be a problem. During their first lunchtime session the tables were full and people sat on tables, windowsills, the steps and crowded into corners squatting on the floor. The staff were falling over themselves as they served the large number of men and women. There were many hands to help clear up and as Ethel was far from well she was sent back to their hut to rest.
Their first attempts at providing a full meal were shared with some of the other staff who were very friendly and helpful. Fortunately Frances kept well out of their way and there was no confrontation between her and Ethel.
After a week, during which they were given more and more freedom to deal with the menu, they were facing their first lunch for fifty men, and with a pile of potatoes ready to boil and some sausages to fry, they began to prepare. The amount used was stipulated firmly in their instructions, three portions from every pound of potatoes. Two sausages and, when available, onions to add to the gravy.
‘What have I done?’ Kate, who had always left the cooking to Rosie or Ethel, wailed loudly as the sausages began to spit angrily in the huge frying pan.
Rosie turned the heat down and Kate continued to look at them doubtfully, turning them frequently, anxious to get them cooked and start on another batch. Baked beans were emptied into a large saucepan and onions were browning in a second pan, to which Ethel planned to add the gravy being made by Rosie. With a constant glance at the clock, the food continued to cook and the minutes passed.
‘How do I know when they’re cooked?’ wailed Kate.
‘When they’re brown they’re done and when they’re black they’re buggered!’ a young airman shouted.
‘Oh dear,’ Kate sighed, ‘I think these are buggered.’
After a week of dealing with the meals as well as the refreshments on the counter and on trolleys, they all felt more relaxed. It was Ethel who sorted out their problems and guided them through the intricacies of preparing main course meals in quantity, and Rosie who did most of the clearing up. Kate and Ethel dealt with the accounts, orders and menu lists.
‘I’ve never been much for writing and arithmetic,’ Rosie explained. ‘Action rather than administration, that’s me.’
‘You, Rosie Dreen,’ Ethel told her several times, ‘are wonderful!’
On this large camp there was no trolley to push. An open-sided van went around to the various workshops and hangars each morning and Kate volunteered to drive it, after being promised a few refresher driving lessons. During the period when there was no cookhouse, this service was out of action, and all the men had to collect their needs, usually sending one person to collect snacks for a group. Grubby pencilled lists were handed over, and orders shouted, and how they made sense of it all was a wonder to everyone concerned. The day went on without a break and all the staff were exhausted by the time the place closed at eleven o’clock.
One of their jobs, when others dealt with the main meals, was making cakes, biscuits and sandwiches for the snacks counter. One standby were cakes called Nelsons. These consisted of any left-over cakes, mixed together and reheated in large trays and, when cooked, cut into slices. Although the ingredients varied, they turned out so similar that they were recognizable on sight. Called Nelsons, so they were told, because if a man ate more than one, he’d sink. They were popular nevertheless and every Naafi girl learned the secret of making them.
One evening when the weather was unseasonably chill and the men were coming into the canteen complaining about it, Ethel found some brandy in the depth of a cupboard, probably hidden by some secret tippler. She sprinkled a dash of it over the huge trays of Nelsons and served slices hot with custard. The normally mundane offerings had never been more welcomed. Any superstitions about eating two were quickly forgotten.
It was never certain, but Ethel and Kate suspected that the secret bottle had been the property of the obnoxious Frances.
When the damaged ship on which Wesley Daniels served had reached the south of England port and was awaiting repairs, he was sent to a shore base for a few weeks, waiting for a new posting. As always, he asked the girls in the Naafi whether they had met Ethel Twomey. He showed a battered photograph around but had no luck.
It was the only photograph he had of her, a dog-eared snapshot taken in her garden with Glenys and Sid and her mother. Ethel was in the centre of the picture sitting at the garden table, offering a bowl of apples. It was certain to be one of the times when her father was either working away or in prison for his latest demonstration of unacceptable behaviour. He knew that, because Ethel and her family were all smiling, and eating their tea in the garden, a picture of a happy family, something they could never imitate when Dai Twomey was around.
Pinning the picture on the wall beside his bunk, he stared at it every night as he drifted into sleep. What would he say to her when they did meet? Would she forgive him, or allow him a chance to explain? How could he excuse his cowardice? Should he even try? Why hadn’t he made her leave with him that day? Why hadn’t he gone with her before she reached the decision to go alone? The same thoughts danced around in his mind every time he sat to relax, or settled down to sleep. Questions with no answers.
Walter Phillips had not left the Naafi service, although his attempts at stealing from the organization had meant he had lost his position. Instead of being a superintendent, he worked as a cleaner and occasional counter hand with no authority to handle money or stores. With manpower so short, he had to be used, but in such a way he could never again succumb to his dishonesty.
He was constantly moved. He was used for temporary positions when someone was sick or taking leave. No one wanted him to stay. He seethed with fury at the way he had been relegated from an important position to the most menial. Like many immature personalities he had to blame someone. He had stolen from the stores but Ethel, Kate and Rosie were responsible for him being caught. So his present situation was their fault, his illogical mind decided. His attraction to Ethel and her humiliating indifference made him place more blame on her than the others.
Convinced that his downfall was due mainly to Ethel’s interference, and also aware that for some reason she was afraid of her father, he had set out to revenge himself by looking for Dai Twomey. Enquiries at the guard room, purporting to be a trusted friend of Ethel, resulted in failure. He had fortunately memorized the number plate of the motorbike the man was riding, and chanted it regularly as a sort of mantra of hope. But apart from learning that it had been issued in Hereford, it hadn’t taken him any further. It could have been sold and resold half a dozen times since being issued and probably meant nothing. Unless he were fortunate enough to see it one day.
He chanted the numbers and letters again, checking them from the piece of paper in his pocket, committing them to memory and keeping them in the forefront of his mind. One day he’d see that motorbike. It was an expensive one, a Vincent, there weren’t too many of those around. Although, he thought with growing irritation, having been moved to the south coast, for him to find it was extremely unlikely. For the moment, the chances of finding Dai Twomey and telling him where to find his daughter were remote. Having just learned that the three girls had been moved from the RAF airfield to another, ‘Somewhere in England’, just made it more improbable, but he resolved to keep the number plate in mind.
One of the Naafi assistants had left a jacket in the store room and Walter was asked to return it to its owner who was off duty for the following two days. It was as he entered the Nissen hut that he saw the photograph. Such a scruffy old photograph, he was curious.
Most of the men had either good, clear photographs of their loved ones or, in the case of the young and carefree, posters of glamour girls or film stars. Others pinned up drawings of the popular strip cartoon character Jane. None had such a poor effort as this gazing down at him.
Pulling out the pin, he turned to the occupants of the room, preparing to jeer and make fun of the tatty object. Then he stopped and stared at the girl in the centre of the picture. It was Ethel Twomey. Younger and with shorter hair but there was no doubt about it. Smiling, he replaced the photograph and asked casually, ‘Who’s bunk is this? I’ve got a coat to return to a chap called Daniels. Wesley Daniels, anyone know him?’
Ethel wrote to Duggie’s family after a few weeks had passed. She described herself as Duggie’s friend, avoiding mention of being more than that. There was no point creating a close attachment to his family, not any more. If the baby had survived it would have been different and she could have met them, allowed them to share the baby’s life. She parcelled up some of his possessions but kept the scarf.
She was pleased to learn that they were still in the area covered by Albert Pugh. He turned up one day and stood at the back of the canteen watching as Ethel served, supported by the flirty Kate and the shy, but efficient Rosie. It had been difficult but he had managed to keep them together, knowing how close they were and guessing that they would have been unhappy to be separated.
Next time they moved they might not be so lucky, experienced staff were spread widely to help new arrivals to settle in and they were all very useful members of the service. With Naafi requirements it was more common sense than elaborate training and Ethel, Kate and Rosie were the kind to deal with whatever life threw at them with a minimum of fuss. He smiled as he decided to reward them by inviting them to go to the camp concert. The camp cookhouse was back in action and the Naafi canteen had reverted to its normal functions.
‘Officially you’re on duty this evening,’ he told them when the doors were closed after lunch and the girls were starting to clear up. ‘But, as it’s a special night and there’s a concert of famous performers, I’ll turn a blind eye if you want to go.’
The ebullient Kate jumped up and kissed his cheek and Rosie squealed, her cheeks reddening with pleasure. Ethel looked at him, caught his gaze and said, ‘Thanks, Albert, we’d love to go.’ She walked with him to the door and added, ‘I know it’s against the rules and you’re sticking your neck out for us, again. We’re lucky to have you as a friend. Thanks.’
‘Sorry to hear about Duggie. I understand you and he were close friends.’
‘Close, loving friends.’
‘If ever you want to talk about him, I’m here.’
‘I’m glad you’re there. Thanks.’ She reached for his hand and squeezed it before returning to the counter and gathering up the last of the cups.
‘You’ll be back here with the counter stocked, tea and coffee ready to serve when it finishes, mind,’ he said, trying to sound stern but glowing in Ethel’s appreciation.
The concert was a touring company who were about to leave for North Africa, their small truck an Aladdin’s cave from which they pulled out an assortment of drapes and costumes, stage sets and lighting systems that would hopefully work off a car battery. Plus a wind-up gramophone with a supply of records. The famous performed alongside talented beginners, and there was also a comedy act in which animal puppets, worked by rods, mimed to records played too fast or too slow, distorting the words and music to the audience’s amusement.
True to their promise, the three girls left as the final sing-song began and hurried across the parade ground to open the canteen for their late-night customers, singing as they went. Albert was there before them and had the urn heating and the bars set out.
As they did the finishing touches to their display, Ethel asked him what had happened to Walter.
‘He was given a menial job as cleaner cum odd-job hand with a promise of having the worse jobs given to him. Why, you aren’t sorry for him, are you?’ Albert asked.
‘Me, sorry for him? The creep!’
‘I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again. The last I heard he was—’ There was no time to tell her more as, chattering cheerfully, laughing as they remembered their favourite acts in the evening’s entertainment, the men charged in for their late-night hot drinks and other purchases.
In October the canteen had been returned to its normal business for a few weeks and Ethel and the others guessed that their time there would be short. There was no longer need for the extra staff. They would be sent to another emergency and the probability of being separated was worrying. The following day was their day off and the three girls had planned a walk, hoping to find somewhere to eat lunch that didn’t include chips. Ethel was surprised and pleased when Albert invited her to go with him into town. At once she prepared to refuse, the arrangements to go out with Kate and Rosie had been made.
‘It’s mainly business I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘I have to see a farmer about getting a regular supply of potatoes and anything else I can scrounge. We’ll be going in the lorry, hardly luxurious travel, but we should find a pub somewhere and get a bit of lunch. What d’you say?’
‘She says yes!’ Kate answered for her.
Rosie nodded enthusiastically. ‘Just what she needs, a couple of hours away from this place.’ There was no chance to refuse and she smiled her thanks for their willingness to change their plans for her.
Albert quickly made arrangements for deliveries of the vegetables he needed, leaving them the rest of the day to themselves. The cold snap was a reminder that winter was not far away and as there was no heating in the lorry, Ethel wished she had dressed more comfortably. So as soon as opening time came, they stopped and went into a small village pub, where a newly lit fire crackled and spat, and the brass and copper around the fireplace glowed with the reflection of the leaping flames.
Pie and mash was hardly an exciting meal, but it allowed them to warm their cold legs near the fire and to talk in private.
‘Privacy is one of the things I miss since being in the Naafi,’ Albert said as they exchanged anecdotes and their laughter rang out and rose to the smoke-stained rafters. ‘What do you miss most?’
‘I miss belonging,’ she said softly, a sadness clouding her eyes. ‘I’ve been so lucky to have Kate and Rosie as friends. In fact, I can’t imagine ever losing them. I just know we’ll be friends for the rest of our lives.’
‘But…’ he coaxed.
‘I had a sister and brother, I had a mother and a father. Dad was wild and was often dangerous but they were my family and, hard perhaps for you to realize, I miss them.’
‘I can understand you missing Glenys, after all she’s gone for ever, and your brother, who might be anywhere. I know you must miss your mother, I miss my own. But your father? To say you miss him implies affection, even love. How can you say you miss a violent man who inflicted pain and terror on you all?’
‘Because it’s better to have a violent father than not have one.’
Albert shook his head, reaching over and covering her hands with his own. ‘My parents and young brother were killed in an air raid, I lost my two closest friends in Norway when the Germans pushed us out. And another in Dunkirk. I know about loss, sadly most of us do, but your father, that’s something I’ll never understand.’
‘He’s my dad,’ she said with a shrug. ‘It’s easy to remember the bad and forget the good, and there were good times.’
‘Of course. There would have to have been, or your mother wouldn’t have stayed with him.’
‘My childhood was carefree and as Dad was so often away, I usually felt safe and loved. There was nothing I wanted that I didn’t have, probably because living in such a small village I didn’t know about all the things other people had – there was nothing to pine for. I only remember being happy. Dad was always a threat and I learned to behave differently when he was around. It was better when he wasn’t there, and we could all relax. But he was away for days at a time, and longer when he was arrested for fighting. I was treated as someone special, with a grown-up brother and sister as well as Mam. Dad was Mam’s problem, not mine.
‘I think the worst thing that happened was my sister’s death, but it was in the days before that happened that Dad became worse, more violent. Something had occurred, something he couldn’t cope with. He drove Wesley away and she swallowed and took a few breaths as she remembered – ‘it was then he began hitting my mother. He’d often flipped her out of his way and sometimes pushed her roughly, but he’d never hit her as badly as he did in those last few days before Glenys died.’
‘You still have no idea what caused this flare-up? Something to do with Wesley, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know why, but I’ve been over and over this since we last talked of it and I’m sure that I must have been the cause. But I can’t work out how. If Mam had confessed that Dad wasn’t my father, that I’d been the result of her carrying on when he was in prison, why did my sister kill herself?’ She flopped back against the arm of the seat they shared, tears welling up in her eyes, and she sighed. ‘I don’t know, and without more information I never will know. And I’m never going home to find out.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve upset you again. I promise to avoid the subject in future.’
‘Don’t be sorry, Albert. I have to talk about it sometimes.’
Tentatively, aware of others now filling the bar room, Albert slid an arm around her shoulders and handed her a handkerchief. She leaned back against him and dried her eyes. They didn’t move for a long time. Albert afraid of making the wrong move and Ethel grateful for the warmth and comfort of his nearness.
At two o’clock the landlady called time and, easing himself regretfully away, Albert paid the bill, helped her on with her khaki jacket and they left.
Walter was waiting for Wesley when he returned to camp two days later. He had Wesley’s jacket over his arm. He had kept it although there had been no need. All he’d had to do was leave it in the hut in the care of one of the other men, to be given to him on his return, but Walter wanted to talk to the man, find out how well he knew Ethel and, if possible, learn the address of her father.
Turning him down in favour of that flyer Duggie, then causing him to lose his job, she had something coming to her and with luck payment would be soon. He removed the picture from the wall again and stared at it to reassure himself it was Ethel Twomey. Then he smiled as his inspection confirmed his first impression. It was Ethel all right.
When Wesley came in he was carrying a biscuit tin, which Walter guessed contained a cake from home. Most mothers saved the ingredients from their meagre rations to make a cake for their sons to take back to camp. His pulse quickened at the thought that Wesley might have seen Ethel a matter of hours ago.
‘I was asked to return this,’ he said, offering the jacket. ‘You’ll need it in the morning and might wonder where it was.’
Welsey thanked him off-handedly with a nod. ‘There was no need, you could have left it with one of the others, or in the canteen – I know exactly where I left it.’
‘Yes, but I thought… well, the fact is, I did bring it back and when I came here I couldn’t help noticing your picture of a friend of mine. If I’m not mistaken, that’s Ethel Twomey with her family. Friend of yours too, is she?’
Startled, caught unaware, Wesley replied, ‘Ethel? I used to know her but we’ve lost touch. This war, eh?’
‘You know where she lives though?’ Walter asked a little sharply.
Something about the man made Wesley stop the automatic response explaining that they were near neighbours, living but a short distance from each other. Instead he shook his head, stared at Walter and said, ‘No idea. Sorry.’
‘We were to keep in touch,’ Walter explained, ‘but I’ve mislaid her address.’ Wesley knew that was a lame excuse. If Ethel had wanted to keep in touch, she would have written to him. ‘Bad luck, mate,’ was all he said, taking his jacket and putting it into his locker.
‘If you could give me her home address,’ Walter coaxed, ‘I could write to her there.’
‘Forget it, I can’t help.’ It was clear that he didn’t know much about Ethel or he’d know that her family didn’t know where to find her.
Wesley wrote a letter that evening, addressing it to his parents. He told them of the man’s enquiry and asked them to be vigilant in case there was some threat to Ethel. His warning was vague but he had disliked the man and had a strong feeling that his need to find Ethel bode ill for her.
Walter had no trouble getting Wesley’s home address. There was something about the man’s reaction to his enquiry that suggested there had to be more than a once-upon-a-time friendship. A man doesn’t keep a tatty photograph unless there was something special about it. If they were still together he’d have been given a more recent snap or a replacement. On his next leave, after checking at Ethel’s last posting to find out where she had been sent, he would visit Wesley’s home, where he was sure he’d find Dai Twomey close by. They could have a nice little chat.
There might even be money in it for him. If the man was so anxious to find his daughter he might be willing to pay. He’d play dumb at first, promise to find out where Ethel was and let the man know. That way he’d be more likely to be promised some cash.
Wesley sat on his bunk and wondered about the man called Walter Phillips. His reasons for enquiring about Ethel were unlikely be good ones. He had a devious look about him. If only he could find Ethel, it might be a good idea to warn her or at least find out what Walter was up to. Taking the photograph from the wall once more, he went up to the canteen. Some new Naafi girls had arrived that weekend, it might be worth showing the picture and asking them. They moved around from camp to camp and there was a slim chance, a very slim chance, they had seen her.
‘No,’ one bright young girl replied with a smile. ‘And what are you asking about her for when I’m standing in front of you, free, fascinating and fabulously rich?’ Wesley smiled and turned away. A smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
For Walter, finding Wesley’s address had been simple, and on his next weekend leave he went to the area and tracked down the Twomeys, in spite of the lack of signposts and the refusal of local people to help for fear they were assisting an enemy spy. He booked into a bed-and-breakfast for two nights and promised himself that when he returned to camp, Dai Twomey would be aware of his daughter’s whereabouts.
Outside the front door was the powerful Vincent, and the number matched the one in his memory. Remembering the violent behaviour of the red-haired man, he was cautious as he walked up the path and knocked on the door. It was to his great relief that the person who opened it was a small, greyhaired woman. Dressed in black and wearing no make-up even to hide the bruises on her cheek, she frowned and waited for him to explain the reason for his call.
‘I wondered, is Ethel here?’ he asked.
‘You know her? You know where she is?’
‘I think I can tell you exactly where she is,’ he smiled.
‘I… I can’t ask you in, my husband is sleeping and he wouldn’t like being woken,’ she said, glancing behind her nervously. Whispering now, she begged tearfully, ‘Just give me an address so I can write, please.’
‘Well, I can take a message, but it was her father I wanted to talk to. She’s upset and wants to make up their quarrel. I know she’d be pleased if he went to see her. I’d hoped to plan a little surprise.’
‘Sorry, but that wouldn’t be a good idea.’ He waited but she didn’t explain. She asked again for an address but when he shook his head sadly, she pushed him with surprising force away from the door and closed it firmly. ‘Stay away from here,’ she hissed through the crack of the door. ‘There’s been enough trouble.’
Walter walked away, there was no need to knock again, no need make a scene. The man would come out some time, and he had all day.
There was a field opposite the Twomeys’ house and, although it was cold and it soon began to drizzle, Walter waited, sheltering under a tree that was as useful as a sieve. He was soon very uncomfortable, with icy cold drips trickling through the trees, flattening his hair, soaking his shoulders and running down his neck. He ate the remains of the breakfast toast which he had brought with him and tried to ignore his growing discomfort.
There had been no movement from within the house all day. As darkness fell he saw the curtains being pulled across the windows and someone stepped outside to adjust the shutters that blacked out the porch.
A few minutes later he heard the front door open and in the gloom of the evening saw a shadow emerge. Then the motorbike started up and, with a roar, moved slowly down the narrow path and over the bridge. Before he could reach it, the driver had opened her up, it sped down the road rattling the air with its noise, and the shaded rear light disappeared from sight. Walter went back to the bed-and-breakfast to dry his clothes and find some food.
The following morning, with only four hours left before he had to leave, he once again stood in the field opposite the house and waited. It was quiet. There were only a few houses in the country road with wide spaces between them. An overnight mist was slow to clear and he felt confident of not being seen as he leaned against the smooth trunk of an elderly beech and watched the house for movement.
The hand over his mouth, another twisting his arms together and the knee in the small of his back came without warning, and shocked him. Sweat burst out on his forehead. His eyes opened wide. He tried to struggle but whoever was holding him knew how to render a man incapable and after a few seconds he relaxed and awaited his fate.
‘Who are you?’ a voice demanded, easing the hand away from his face to allow him to answer
‘I don’t mean any harm,’ Walter panted.
‘Who are you? Just answer my questions,’ the man growled.
‘Walter Phillips. I’m a friend of Ethel Twomey, I wanted to talk to her father.’ Slowly and to his utter relief, the hands holding him relaxed and he was spun around to face a man six inches taller than himself, with red hair and bright blue, angry eyes. So like Ethel’s father, but too young. ‘But you aren’t Dai Twomey? Who are you?’ he dared to ask.
‘Her brother! And I don’t want you talking to my father, understand?’
‘I wanted to try and settle the argument between your sister and your father. Life is so precarious these days and I wanted to help to bring them together, in case… in case something awful happened to one of them.’ He was lying but hoped he sounded pious enough to be believed.
‘You’re lying. And if I find you anywhere near Ethel or any of my family again, you’ll live just long enough to regret it. You’d do well to remember that your war is with me. So far as you’re concerned, I’m to be feared more than Hitler’s bombers, believe me,’ the man warned, before pushing Walter away from the house.
Pushing him in front of him, Sid guided the frightened Walter across a field and into a lane on the far side. He demanded Ethel’s address and, fearfully, Walter told him what he knew, insisting that he didn’t know her present whereabouts. He explained about seeing her father at the airfield, and told the man that Ethel and he had been been moved on separately. After a few minutes of being pushed around and threatened, Sid let him go.
Stumbling clumsily, his legs as useless as chewed string, Walter went back across the field and worked his way warily around the lanes to the bed-and-breakfast, collected his things and went to get the bus. As he found a seat he glanced back and was startled to see the red-haired man sitting astride a bicycle, watching, his expression a reminder of his threat.
When the bus had gone, Sid Twomey sat for a while, his heart racing with his performance of Sid Twomey, violent son of the violent Dai. He hadn’t inherited his father’s temper and neither did he enjoy fighting, but this was one time when he had been able to use the threat of his father’s reputation to good effect. If Walter had swung a blow at him he’d have been able, by his remarkable strength, to push it aside, but he would have found it impossible to retaliate.
He went back home hoping his father was having one of his calmer days and that he wouldn’t have to fend off an attack on himself or his mother. He had run away on the night of the row, after Ethel had pleaded with him to leave before their father killed one of them. But once Ethel had gone he had returned, knowing that his mother needed him.
Working in a munitions factory and spending almost every other moment at home was hardly a life, but until his father calmed down and accepted the situation, he had to stay. Thank goodness Wesley was in touch, news of him reaching them from his parents. One day they would find Ethel and then everything would be out in the open.
He sighed. If only he were a little more like his father, he would have forced Walter Phillips to tell him where Ethel was. He hadn’t believed him when he’d insisted he didn’t know. Another chance lost. Perhaps his father was right and the world really was run by bullies. The meek hardly inherited the earth with people like his father around. And what was Hitler if not a bully? Destroying, taking what he wanted by force, using his power to rid the world of people whom he considered unsuitable.
He’d missed an opportunity to beat the truth out of Walter, but he still couldn’t accept that violence was the right way to get what you wanted. Ethel would get in touch. Their father would one day be too weak to bully his way through life. He smiled grimly at that unlikely thought. Even when disease or age weakened him, the man would survive on his past record, creating fear in everyone who met him, until the day he died.
A call at six thirty one morning woke Ethel and Rosie; Kate slept peacefully on, her face shining with cream, hand underneath her head with fingers in between the metal curlers holding her rolled up hair, to ease the discomfort of her necessary suffering.
‘Get your things together, you’re moving on,’ they were told. Half an hour later, Kate was still half asleep, struggling to untangle some recalcitrant ‘Dinkie’ curlers from her long hair. They had been given just enough time to drink a cup of tea and swallow a few biscuits then the three girls and four others were on their way to a new destination.
On arriving at the new camp a few hours later, one of the first people they met was Baba Morgan. He rushed up and gave Ethel a hug as the others were scrabbling around in the truck to find the clothes they had hastily thrown on board, not having time to pack properly.
Rosie turned and blushed alarmingly when she saw him. ‘Baba! I wasn’t expecting to see you.’
‘I knew you were coming, Albert told me. He’s over there getting the beds moved in.’
‘Oh no, damp beds and cockroaches in the cupboard,’ wailed Kate in mock distress, ‘and nowhere to wash our hair.’ She was laughing, pleased to see Baba too.
‘I hope the canteen is up and running and we don’t have to move out spiders and mice,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m starving, we didn’t have breakfast before we left.’
‘You? Hungry?’ Baba teased. ‘I can’t believe that, Rosie Dreen. Come on, there’s soup and fresh bread for you sent over from the cookhouse.’ He took Rosie’s arm and led them to where a table was set and a meal prepared.
Looking around them preparing to disapprove, they were gratified to see that the place was clean and ready for the eleven o’clock tea break. Having to complain about something, Ethel said, ‘This tea’s a funny colour, I bet that urn needs a good cleaning, eh, Rosie?’
‘And that sweeping brush has swept its last crumb. I’ll insist on a new one straight away,’ Kate added. She patted her curly blonde hair and rubbed a licked finger across an eyebrow. ‘Got to keep up our standards.’
Baba was there on loan for a month or two, to help train new recruits in vehicle maintenance, and when the girls’ first weekend off came around he was free too.
Rosie was going home to stay with her grandmother, Kate planned to visit her parents. Baba invited Ethel to go with him to London.
‘Air raids. Bombs. What d’you want to go there for? Come home with me,’ Kate said, a hint of jealousy in her protest.
Rosie smiled and said sadly, ‘Lucky you. I wish he’d invited me. You wouldn’t fancy swopping would you, and going to stay with my Nan?’
Being assured by Baba that it was definitely not a ‘single room only’ weekend, Ethel agreed. She had never been to London and, air raids apart, she thought it would be exciting.
Baba had been offered a lift in a friend’s car and made sure he scrounged enough petrol to get them to the station. Sitting on the train in uniform, and with just a small suitcase, made the start of their weekend exciting. Knowing there were no emotional complications made Ethel feel relaxed, prepared to enjoy it even more, and her attitude towards Baba was affectionate and warm. This was such a treat. With nowhere to go on leave, she usually stayed in camp and often helped out others when asked, simply to make the time pass. Normally a weekend off meant long hours to fill until Kate and Rosie returned with news of their brief holiday. This time, thanks to Baba, she too would have a story to tell.
They had bought a newspaper and studied what was showing in the West End, planning a theatre and a late supper on their first night. Sunday was to be spent walking through some of the parks and just seeing the sights. Their train back to camp left at seven fifteen and whatever happened, they had to be on it or face being up on a charge.
They found their hotel and checked in and after leaving their cases and having a quick wash, they went out on to streets that were surprisingly busy. Arm in arm they went by underground and bus to the theatre and as they were nearing the front of the queue and about to buy their tickets, the air raid siren filled the air with its wailing.
With an arm around Ethel’s shoulders, Baba led her back out on to the pavement. They followed the crowd to the street shelter, squashed into the damp, overcrowded building that seemed to Ethel less safe than the tin hat and slit trench she was used to.
‘It’s claustrophobic in here after being outside, watching the skies,’ she whispered.
He pulled her closer to whisper, ‘I’m not complaining, mind. Lovely this is.’
‘Stop it, Baba, you promised to behave.’
‘I will, but I won’t pretend to like it. Here, come under my coat, it’s not that warm in here. I can feel the damp seeping out of the walls, can’t you?’
‘You should have seen the first canteen we opened,’ she laughed, squeezing closer to him, sliding an arm around his waist, welcoming his warmth. Snuggling up to Baba was no hardship, she admitted, and being in a strange place among strangers she was glad he was there. More than glad. She tried not to admit it to herself, but being so close to him was exciting.
The first bomb fell very close and dust filled the air. Her nostrils were filled with what she described as a ‘dead buildings’ smell. It brought back to her mind the old farm barn where she had found her sister but she quickly tried to brush away the painful memory.
She would have preferred to have been outside, where she could watch what was happening. Claustrophobia was easily encouraged while locked in a shelter with heaven knew what going on outside and facing the possibility of damage sealing her in. Other explosions were heard but they were a long way off and when the all clear sounded they sighed with relief. ‘I thought for a moment we were going to be hit, didn’t you?’ Ethel said as she began at once to move towards the entrance.
‘No,’ he said scornfully. ‘Nothing bad will happen to you while you’re with Baba Morgan. He’ll look after you.’
She patted his face playfully in the restricted space and he caught hold of her hand and kissed it slowly, the dim lights of the shelter making his eyes dark and mysterious, the eyes of a man she didn’t really know. Excitement filled her and she leaned her head against his shoulder.
‘Why are they taking so long to get out?’ he asked a moment later when the doors hadn’t opened and no one had moved on.
‘Now we don’t want no panicking, d’you hear me, ladies and gents?’ a voice called. ‘But we’ll have to wait a while before we leave. There’s something stuck against the door.’
Voices murmured and rose into a babble of alarm. Ethel clung even more tightly to Baba and took deep breaths, holding back her fear. The same voice called to them to be quiet. ‘Be patient, and wait quietly. The wardens know we’re here and they’ll get things sorted as soon as they can – in the meantime, why don’t we have a sing-song? That’ll help the time pass.’ There was a low groan of dismay from the rest.
‘The British spirit is all very well, but being a captive audience an’ ’avin’ to listen to that is treating us unfair,’ someone muttered, as the strains of ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ began at the other end of the building.
‘Why the ’ell don’t they choose somethin’ cheerful for once?’ another complained. Their grumbles were lost as more and more joined in the well-known choruses.
‘We’ll miss some of the play,’ Baba whispered into her hair, kissing her at the same time. Her forehead, her cheek, moving closer to her lips.
‘Baba—’ she warned.
‘But I’m scared, Ethel,’ he defended poutishly. ‘I need to be comforted by a beautiful woman.’
Ethel said nothing. The desire to comfort him was too strong for her to be flippant. Her voice would give her away, her voice and the way her heart was beating, so close to his. She just hoped that by the time they returned to the hotel the feelings he was generating would have faded.
It was not for the first time that she wondered whether her father had been right and she was going the way of a wicked woman. To convince herself she was thinking stupid thoughts she pushed him away and joined in the singing with the rest.
When the doors opened it was a surprise at how much light there was. With more traffic on the road than she was used to at home, the faint lights for each vehicle made sufficient contrast to see reasonably well. As a country girl she was accustomed to moving about with far less. She had no difficulty finding the edge of the pavement, but when Baba took her arm she didn’t resist.