The sun was just beginning to set over the familiar Shropshire landscape that had always been home to me, as I walked up the path to the backdoor of our little terraced cottage. I turned the knob, opened the door and stepped inside, already anticipating the look of surprise on my Mum’s face when she saw who’d just walked in.
“Alan!” She cried wiping her hands on her pinafore as she walked across the kitchen to give me a hug, “why didn’t you say you were coming? Look at you, have you lost weight? And what’s this? Three stripes, my word your Dad’s going to be so proud when he sees them why didn’t you tell us? Why haven’t you written? The last time we heard from you was the day after you got back from Dunkirk.”
“Mum, “I said bending down to kiss her forehead, “what a lot of questions put the kettle on and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Mum put the kettle on to the hob and I sat down in one of the easy chairs that were each side of the fire in the back room. It seemed strange, everything looked just the same as when I’d left and yet somehow it all seemed different, smaller perhaps.
“Your Dad won’t be long, he’s gone down to the allotment, and he’s got a new job you know, he’s doing war work, munitions over at Radway Green. It takes him nearly an hour to get there, they put on special buses, and he’s trying to get on the Air-Force base at Ternhill as a civilian employee, because that’s only twenty five minutes away if he uses his bike. Perhaps now you are a Sergeant you could put a word in?”
“Yes Mum, next time I’m talking to Winston I’ll mention it.”
“There’s no call to be sarcastic Alan. “She said as she put the tea in the pot, after her usual ritual of warming it first.
I looked across at her and was regretting the remark almost as soon as I’d finished saying it.
“Sorry Mum “I said standing up and giving her a hug. “I’m spending too much time with these flipping Tommie’s.”
Just then the back door opened and my Dad came in, he was carrying a cauliflower and a dead rabbit. He put them both down and came straight to me shaking my hand vigorously.
“Well, well, well!” was all he seemed capable of saying at that particular time, he must have repeated the phrase at least four times before my Mum pushed him down into the opposite chair and poured us all a cup of tea. I explained to them that I’d got two weeks leave as a sort of reward for gaining my Sergeants’ stripes. Because I couldn’t say anything about what I’d really been doing for the past couple of weeks I just emphasised that we’d been on all sorts of courses where it wasn’t possible to get in touch with them.
“We’ll go down the railway club tonight,” my Dad said adding, “leave your uniform on we can show off your stripes!”
My Mum turned away from the sink where she was peeling vegetables looked at my Dad and said. “Perhaps Alan has his own plans don’t you think you should ask him?”
After much discussion between my Mum and Dad I was able to but in and to convince both parties that I was happy to go to the club and as it was my first night home I really didn’t mind wearing my uniform, they were going to make it compulsory soon for servicemen on leave anyway.
The first week of my leave passed easily enough I was able to catch up on my sleep and recuperate after the strain of the last couple of weeks. I enjoyed being back with my Mum and Dad. However they were really the only company I had because by now most of my school friends had left the village and gone off to join one or other of the Services. Of the lads that were left behind, working in engineering either at the Railway Works in Crewe or at the Radway Green munitions factory, none were on my list of close friends, similarly the girls I knew seemed only interested in the RAF blokes from nearby Tern Hill, I was told that mostly they were secretly hoping to land a pilot of their own.
So it was perhaps no wonder that by lunchtime on the Monday of my second week of leave I walked down to the pub and asked them if I could use their phone to ring Ronny. The phone was answered by his mother who said that he had gone out for a walk but if I left my number she’d get him to phone me back, I explained to her that we hadn’t a phone at home and that I was phoning from the pub.
She said that was ok and that if I could be there at seven thirty that evening she would get him to ring me after dinner.
I walked home, frankly feeling slightly bored and looking forward to a chat with Ronny later.
That evening I cried off going to the club with my Dad and walked down to the pub, bought a pint for myself and a half for Reg the barman, explaining that I was expecting a call. “You sit you down there with the paper then and I’ll shout you when it comes through.” He said.
I was halfway down my pint, engrossed in reading the report on Churchill’s latest speech to the House when Reg shouted to me and I went through behind the bar to take the call.
I think we must have both been glad to hear a familiar voice and we chatted like two schoolgirls, each struggling to get a word in. However as the conversation slowed to a more normal pace it became obvious to both of us that we were both bored to tears being back in the bosom of our families.
Ronny asked if I had plenty of money left and I told him that I’d spent very little, he suggested that we should meet up on the Wednesday at Victoria Station and spend the last few days of our leave somewhere on the coast as there was still plenty of late summer sunshine about, I readily agreed.
All I had to do now was go home and tell Mum and Dad.
The following morning Mum, Dad and I all sat down together for breakfast at about 9.00 a.m. Dad was not going to work until the two o’clock shift and he had swapped some of the vegetables from his allotment for a dozen eggs so we all had eggs. Mum and Dad opting to have theirs poached whilst she boiled two for me.
After we had finished eating and were enjoying a second cup of tea I lit a cigarette and plucked up the courage to tell them that I was going to spend my last few days of leave on the coast. Surprisingly, instead of the objections that I expected, Mum smiled and Dad, whilst lighting up his pipe, simply said
“I don’t blame you son, it must seem a bit boring for you round here with all your mates away.”
Later I borrowed Dads bike and cycled down to the pub to check the train time-table, having worked out my best train, I rang Crewe Station to make sure the trains were running to schedule. They weren’t, the booking clerk advised me that my best option was to take the night train that left Crewe at one a.m. and which should get me into Victoria at six forty-three on Wednesday.
When I got home again I told Mum and Dad what I planned, Mum had a bit of difficulty hiding her disappointment, but Dad practical as ever, simply asked how I planned to get to Crewe?
I confessed that I hadn’t thought of that, he told me to leave that to him and picking up his bike clips from the top of the scullery cupboard went out of the backdoor.
He came back about half an hour later and explained that, Bert Johnson, the local butcher would pick me up at eleven thirty that night and take me to Crewe in his van. Dad then went to get ready for work and I walked him to the bus stop to catch his ‘works special’ bus that would take him to the munitions factory. With a wave he boarded the bus and with a crunch of gears the bus pulled away, leaving me waving as the bus disappeared into the distance.
I lit a cigarette and walked back down the lane to our house.
Mum helped me pack and did me some sandwiches for the journey.
True to his word Bert arrived, spot on eleven thirty and
I bade a tearful farewell just to Mum, as Dad was still not back from work, Bert and I set off.
There was a full moon making the journey much easier for Bert who had only limited headlights due to the blackout restrictions, shortly before a quarter past twelve we arrived at the station. I thanked Bert and said farewell. “Think nothing of it lad, least I could do, your Dad’s always been good to Me.” he said and with a cheery wave drove the little Ford van away.
The train arrived more or less on time and I managed to get a compartment to myself and shortly after we had stopped at Stoke, I was snuggled down into my greatcoat and ready to go to sleep.
I had woken a few times briefly, as people came and went from the compartment, at Rugby I bought a cup of tea and ate my sandwiches but in the main I had managed to sleep most of the way to Victoria. At the station it took some time for me to pull myself together, only waking properly as the guard came down the corridor announcing our arrival.
I got off the train and hoisted up my kit bag and put my Glengarry at the correct angle, glancing up at the huge station clock I saw that it was six fifty four. It was chilly and I was not at my best following the sleep on the train, glancing around I saw a sign for the station wash and brush up and was surprised to see that it was open so early in the morning. I made my way across and was greeted by an elderly attendant in a white jacket. “Morning Sergeant, wash and brush up is it?” He spoke with a southern accent and had a cheery smile despite the early hour, I replied that it was indeed my requirement and he gave me a clean towel and a small bar of soap wrapped in paper. As I made my way to the sinks he shouted to me that I could borrow the razor with a new blade for another twopence, I took him up on the offer and he said he would sort me out with that and a mug of boiling water. True to his word, by the time I had stripped down to my singlet he arrived with an old Gillette razor, a new blade still wrapped and a cracked earthenware mug with steaming water.
My ablutions over, I gave him two bob which was one and six for the wash and brush up, twopence for the razor and a threepenny tip as I felt he had looked after me well.
I made my way to the station buffet, entered and went up to the counter, a woman in her forties with bright blonde hair smiled invitingly and asked me if I could see anything I fancied? Ignoring what I guessed was her innuendo I asked for bacon and eggs and three slices of toast, I perhaps should have humoured her a bit more, as she delighted in telling me there was no bacon and no eggs but I could have sausage and tomatoes with my toast if I wanted. “It’s the war dear” she offered in explanation.
I took up the offer and ordered a mug of tea to wash it down, and went to sit at one of the tables. Ten minutes later my breakfast; two very greasy sausages, watery tomatoes, with burnt toast on a separate plate, plus an enormous mug of scalding tea was brought to my table by an old lady in a hairnet and pinafore. “Enjoy your breakfast dear.” she said and hobbled back towards the kitchen.
Unappetising as the meal looked, with the help of several splashes of HP sauce I managed to do it justice and was just cleaning the plate with the last of the toast when the door to the buffet opened and with a grin from ear to ear in walked Ronnie.
Ronnie ordered two more mugs of tea and sat down opposite, taking out a pack of Players he threw one to me and lit one for himself. “Our train doesn’t leave until nearly nine so plenty of time.” he said.
By now I had ceased to be surprised by Ronnie’s organisational skills, though I was interested to know where exactly our train was going. Ron explained that his Mum had suggested we went to stay with her sister in Sheringham in Norfolk for a few days. So he had rung his uncle, who was the local vicar and who was so delighted by the idea that he had insisted on buying the train tickets and had promised to meet us at the station.
A two hour train ride and we were in Norwich, we then waited at the station for half an hour or so for the local train which chugged and wheezed its way to Sheringham, stopping it seemed at a village halt every ten minutes. Finally the train pulled into our station and happily we jumped down onto the platform. We handed our ticket stubs to the collector and walked outside to the station concourse, you could smell the salt on the bracing sea air and overhead, as if to confirm our location, half a dozen gulls wheeled and squawked above us.
“I wonder where Uncle Josh is.” Ron said whilst looking around him in all directions. As if in answer to his question, around the corner at some speed came a trap pulled by a very smart grey pony. On the driving seat dressed in tweed jacket and plus fours and polished brogues sat a man in his fifties. He pulled back the reins in his hands. “Whoa there Jackson!” the man said, pulling back on the reins and stopping the trap right in front of us.
Jumping down, almost before the trap had stopped; calling Ronnie by his real name (the nickname Ronnie had been an invention of Fishy’s) the man grabbed Ronnie’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “Peter how are you? You are certainly looking very fit.” Using his free hand to hold his uncle’s shoulder and reduce some of the vigour of the hand shake Ronnie turned his uncle to face me. “I’m very well Uncle Josh and you are right, I’m fitter than ever, let me introduce you to my friend Alan, he’s my best friend and was over in France with me.” Uncle Josh stopped the hand shake and turned to me again, offering his outstretched hand and resuming the pumping. Once the greetings were completed we threw our kitbags into the trap and climbed aboard after them, Josh shaking the reins and shouting to the pony who didn’t need telling twice and was quickly away at a very smart trot.
The early autumn sun warmed our backs as we left the pretty Edwardian town behind us and progressed rapidly through the dry Norfolk lanes. Jackson, high stepping in the trot, seemed to be enjoying every minute and I said as much to Josh who explained that he was really the children’s pony but since they had gone off to boarding school he had done very little but eat grass and get fat. Petrol restrictions meant that the Austin had been put up on bricks and the trap pressed back into service. With this new job to do Jackson had found a new lease of life, relishing every minute of his new found role.
We arrived at the vicarage after about 20 minutes and were greeted at the door by Ronnie’s Aunt Rosemary, a good looking woman, at a guess some ten years younger than her husband and with that healthy country glow that I well knew was gained by hard work and good diet. Aunt Rose greeted us both warmly and showed us to our room, apologising for the fact that we had to share, explaining that the children had not gone back to school after the summer holidays as it was thought safer for them to stay in Norfolk, their boarding school being situated right in the middle of the Kent fighter bases.
We had a great time in Norfolk, the weather stayed fine all of the time we were there; the beaches were mined but we were still able to swim in the harbour. We borrowed bikes and cycled around the many small villages, we helped out on Josh’s small holding, went to the pub daily and generally relaxed and recuperated.
Batteries recharged and feeling much more relaxed than when we had arrived, on the following Sunday at 3.00 pm we could be seen leaning out of the train window waving our goodbyes to Uncle Josh, Rosemary and the children, all of whom had insisted on coming to see us as we started off on our return journey.
After we had changed at Norwich we found an empty compartment and settled down for the last leg of our journey and the end of our leave.
One evening in the pub we had discussed this last night in London, where had we decided we would try and stay in the same NCO’s club that we had used previously. The one thing we hadn’t discussed was, what we were going to do on the Monday following? I lit two cigarettes, passed one to Ronnie and then sliding down the door window I leaned out enjoying the sunshine. With my back to Ronnie I finally plucked up the courage to ask him what he intended to do the next morning. “What’s it to be tomorrow then Ron, rail warrant to Tillington or a phone call to the Major?”
There was a pause of several seconds before Ronnie answered and then he told me what I expected but not what I wanted to hear, “I’m phoning the Major Alan, I think you knew I would. I could go back to the Artillery, after all we keep our stripes, but I just feel I can do more working for the Major.”
“What about the lads?” I said “Harry, Jack and Fishy, I thought we made a good team.”
“I bet you won’t see Fishy again, I’d bet a months’ pay he stays on that boat for the duration, I know the other two are nice enough lads Alan, but in all honesty that’s all you can say about them.”
“Well think back to France…” I said “Don’t you think we were lucky to get back at all? We were captured for God’s sake, how long do you think your luck would hold?”
We argued the point, tossing it back and forth all the way to Victoria, it was obvious that both our minds were made up, as we got down from the train we agreed to disagree and enjoy our last night together. We managed to get a twin room at the NCO’s club and after the usual bath, shave and change into fresh shirts we were off to sample the West End but not before Ronnie had stopped off in the foyer to telephone the Major and inform him of his decision. When he came back he told me that the Major had expressed his disappointment that I was not to join them but had asked Ron to thank me and give me his best wishes for the future, adding that if I changed my mind, to ring him anytime.
Well we did our best to have a good time but both of us were sad that our partnership was dissolving, a lot of false laughter was heard during the evening and I think it was with some relief when our night was ended early by an unscheduled air raid.
The next morning after breakfast I said a rather too formal goodbye to Ron and made my way to Euston for the train to Tillington.