It was almost midday by the time April’s arm had been plastered, and as she stood in the bustling entrance of the navy hospital, she wondered what she should do and where she should go. There was no sign of Petty Officer Rainsworth or any of the girls who’d been trapped in the basement with her and Paula, and with her arm in a plaster cast and the threat of dismissal hanging over her, there was little point in reporting for duty.
She looked out at the glistening streets, still wet from the earlier rain, and the scudding clouds which promised more to come. The weather matched her mood, for she was downhearted and grieving for Paula, and feeling very lost and alone, the weight of her troubles pressing on her narrow shoulders.
She dumped the tattered clothing in a nearby waste bin and slowly began to walk through the city streets, heading back to HMS Firefly because she couldn’t think of anywhere else to go – and there just might be a chance she could retrieve some of her belongings from the wreckage. The navy-issue sweater and shirt were not much protection against the chilly wind, but at least she still had her sturdy boots to keep her feet dry.
Her thoughts meandered as she walked, drifting to memories of Paula and the close friendship they’d had – and on to Daniel who had betrayed her so utterly – and finally to the dreaded interview with her superior officer which would surely come within the next few hours.
She turned the last corner and stared in shock at the sight that greeted her. HMS Firefly was nothing more than a pile of smoking rubble, the line of terraced housing on either side blasted into extinction. There was a gaping hole in the road and both the pub and the two warehouses on the other side were nothing more than blackened shells.
April could smell the smoke still lingering in the air, could feel the particles of ash and soot falling softly onto her face as the firemen doused the last of the flames and the utility workers checked that the gas and electrics had been made safe. A group of soldiers were hunkered down around something beyond the ruins of the pub, and as she drew closer, she could see that at the bottom of the bomb crater lay a pool of oily, scummy water.
She stared at the great piles of rubble which had once been her billet, and it suddenly dawned on her that she’d lost everything, for even the clothes she wore belonged to the navy. The tears threatened again and she began to tremble. She’d never owned anything much in terms of value, but she had treasured the photograph of her father, the gold locket and chain he’d given her just before he’d died, and her one good overcoat. Now they were gone, destroyed for ever in the burnt-out remains of HMS Firefly. The tears ran down her face as she stood there, unaware that it had started to rain again.
‘Stay back,’ shouted a warden as he came running towards her. ‘There’s an unexploded bomb.’
She blinked and stared at him in dumb confusion.
‘Didn’t you see the signs?’ he asked, taking her arm and roughly propelling her to the end of the road. She shook her head and his expression softened. ‘It’s all right, ducks,’ he said. ‘I can see you’ve had a bit of a nasty do – caught up in that lot, were you?’ At her nod he continued, ‘Why don’t you go to the central office building? They’ll help you there, and probably get you a nice cuppa at the same time.’ He regarded her sympathetically. ‘It looks as if you need it, ducks, if you don’t mind me saying.’
April thanked him dully and began to tramp back the way she’d come. She had no choice but to do as he suggested, for she had no billet, no possessions, no money, identity papers or ration books – and soon she wouldn’t even have a career.
The navy’s central administration offices were housed in a forbidding red-brick building that had once been a workhouse and home for destitute sailors and their families. It was even grimmer inside, with battleship-grey paint on the walls and woodwork, cold flagstones on the floors, and windows so narrow they let in very little light.
April reluctantly climbed the steps and pushed open the heavy wooden door which creaked ominously. Her footsteps echoed as she walked along the dimly lit passageway towards the sound of rapid-fire typing and the chatter of voices.
‘There you are,’ said Petty Officer Rainsworth, stepping out from the door ahead and startling her. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’
‘I had to get my arm seen to and there was a long wait,’ she said, stumbling over the words.
The older woman’s expression was kindly as she regarded her. ‘You look like a drowned rat, Wilton. A cup of tea, I think, and a bit of a wash and brush-up before I take you in to see Chief Wren.’
April didn’t have the strength or the will to argue, so she meekly followed the other woman down several corridors until they came to the washrooms.
‘You’ll find soap and towels in there, and I’ll get one of the girls to bring you that tea. I’ll come and collect you in half an hour. That should give you time to catch your breath.’
‘Paula died on the operating table,’ April blurted out. ‘Has her father been informed?’
The petty officer nodded. ‘The next of kin of all the deceased have been informed where possible.’ She looked suddenly less efficient and rather downcast. ‘We lost eight Wrens last night,’ she said softly. ‘You were one of the lucky ones.’
‘That depends on how you look at things,’ April replied, feeling the prick of tears again – and not wanting to shame herself any further, she pushed through the door into the washrooms.
It was bitterly cold in here, with nothing to soften the grey walls, stone floor and line of metal basins. She caught sight of her reflection in the large mirror above the basins and almost smiled, for her hair was plastered wetly to her head, she had a corker of a black eye on her bruised and battered face, and looked as bedraggled and wretched as a street urchin.
There were piles of clean towels and even a few decent-sized bars of utility soap, so April took one of each and stepped into a shower stall. Having stripped off, she turned on the water, which was hot and plentiful. Wary of getting her plaster wet, she awkwardly washed with one hand and used the soap to scrub the dirt from her hair.
The needle-sharp jets of water warmed and restored her, and after struggling to get dry and dressed again, she stepped out of the stall to discover that a mug of tea had been left for her on a bench alongside a plate of sandwiches.
April hadn’t realised how hungry she was, and she sank onto the bench and wolfed down the sandwiches before sipping the scalding and very sweet tea – the one perk of being in the navy was the abundance of lovely brown sugar, supplied by an English company in Africa. Feeling much more able to face the chief Wren, she rubbed her hair dry and tried to tidy it with her fingers. The navy didn’t provide brushes or combs, clearly expecting their personnel to possess their own.
She had just finished the mug of tea when the door opened and Petty Officer Rainsworth appeared. ‘At least you look a bit more presentable,’ she said. ‘Come on, the chief Wren is waiting for you.’
April’s heart was thudding as she followed the other woman down another long corridor. She could scarcely breathe as they came to a halt outside a door, and after a discreet tap, Petty Officer Rainsworth indicated she should go in.
Quaking with trepidation, April marched smartly into the room, saluted and gave her name, rank and number. She stood stiffly to attention and tried not to meet the woman’s eye.
The chief Wren sat behind a polished desk on which lay a leather-edged blotter, a buff-coloured service record folder, a fancy silver inkwell and pen and a tortoiseshell-framed photograph of her husband – a rather stern rear admiral. She was an imposing woman in her late forties, with a no-nonsense expression and unfriendly blue eyes. Her uniform was immaculate and her hair had been pulled back from her hawkish face into a very tight bun. This was clearly not the sort of woman who would show clemency.
‘Wren Wilton, you have been found guilty of breaking one of our most stringent rules. Therefore I have no option but to dismiss you from the service with immediate effect.’
‘Please, ma’am,’ she blurted out. ‘I can still work for a while yet.’
The blue eyes became arctic as they bored into April. ‘I did not give you permission to speak, Wilton.’
April flushed hotly and fixed her gaze on a distant point over the woman’s shoulder.
‘You will take this chit to stores and they will provide you with civilian clothing, as circumstances have led to HMS Firefly being out of commission. You will then take this chit to the accounts department and collect wages owing to you, new identity papers and ration books. The navy is very charitable, regardless of any unseemly behaviour by its personnel, and therefore will grant you a train ticket home and an extra month’s pay to help you settle.’
‘Thank you, Chief Wren. That’s most generous.’
‘I’m disappointed in you, Wilton. You had the makings of a first-class Wren, and I thought you had more sense than to get yourself into this unseemly mess. Dismissed.’
April took the chits, saluted again and left the room. She was still churning inside as she walked unsteadily down the deserted corridor towards the entrance hall, and she kept her gaze focused ahead of her determinedly, aware of the girls in the typing pool whispering behind her back and the glances of disapproval coming from the officers who watched her pass from their offices.
Closing the front door behind her, she stood for a moment to catch her breath and take gulps of fresh air in an attempt to steady herself. Her body was aching, the migraine was returning and her left eye was so swollen she could barely see through it. The only glimmer of light on this awful day was the fact that it had stopped raining, and the sun was trying to come out from behind the dark clouds.
She hurried towards the large naval stores, her teeth chattering with nerves at the thought of having to face her mother before the day was out. The last place she wanted to go was home, and she could only hope and pray that someone in accounts would take pity on her and give her a ticket to somewhere else. But where? There was no other family to turn to except for an uncle she’d only met once when she was a very small child, and she didn’t even know if he was still alive.
She arrived at the store and handed over the chit in silence. The girl glanced at it, shot her a look of sympathy and then went off for several minutes before returning with an armful of clothes that had definitely seen better days.
‘They’ve all been laundered after they were donated to the seaman’s mission,’ she said, ‘but the underwear is new. You can change over there,’ she added, indicating a curtained-off cubicle.
April dumped the clothes on the narrow bench and struggled one-handedly to strip off the overalls, the bell-bottom trousers, shirt and sweater for the very last time. Refusing to allow herself the luxury of self-pity, she unlaced the boots and tucked the socks inside them along with the service-issue bra and knickers.
The second-hand clothes had been of good quality once upon a time, and to her relief, she discovered that the underwear was indeed new, and by some miracle the bra actually fitted her. She pulled on the woollen skirt, the cotton blouse and knitted cardigan, fumbling awkwardly with the buttons, and then slipped on the plain black shoes. There were no stockings or socks and the shoes were a bit tight, so she suspected she’d end up with a blister before the day was out – which in the scheme of things hardly mattered.
The mackintosh was gabardine and apart from an amateurishly repaired tear in the lining, it didn’t look bad at all. She struggled into it and covered her injured arm, leaving one sleeve dangling. She picked up the gloves and woollen scarf and then carried her navy-issue clothes through the curtain and laid them regretfully on the counter.
‘I thought you could do with this,’ said the girl, handing over a black umbrella. ‘Someone left it behind, and there are at least a dozen others out the back.’
April was barely clinging on to her emotions in the light of such thoughtfulness. ‘That’s very kind, thank you,’ she managed.
‘It’s rotten luck, Wilton. I hope things turn out all right for you.’
April nodded her thanks and headed for the door. She stepped outside, and after a moment of hesitation made her way to the accounts office.
It hadn’t taken very long to sign the forms which would bring her naval career to an end, and to collect her ticket, new ration books and identity papers, and within the hour she was standing on the station platform waiting for the train that would take her to the cold comfort of a loveless home.
She breathed in the scent of the sea as she gazed out to the fleet of battleships that were anchored on the horizon, and the flotillas of MGBs and MTBs which were moored in the harbour. Other girls would be servicing them now and enjoying those heady rides across the choppy waters of the Solent – would they even notice that she and Paula were no longer amongst them?
Seagulls mewled and shrieked as they hovered and swooped against the leaden sky, and April could hear planes taking off from nearby and the rattle and clang of rigging against masts accompanying the shouts of sailors and the distant rumble of ships’ heavy engines as they prepared to set sail.
She turned from the scene she’d come to love at the sound of the approaching train. Her navy days were over. It was now time to say goodbye to Portsmouth, and to the work she’d found so rewarding and fulfilling, and begin again.
April blinked back the tears and swallowed hard as she climbed aboard the train. She would have to dig deep to find the courage to face her mother and deal with whatever happened next. And although the prospect was daunting and would take every ounce of will to achieve, she was determined not to fail.