three

The next morning dressed in my uniform I looked in the barrack room’s full-length glass and wanted to cry. After all the pressing, soaping, spit, polish, enamel plate and pleating of the cap’s crown it looked hideous. But I instinctively knew that even the good-natured Edith’s patience would run out if at every disappointment I turned on the ‘waterworks’, as she called excessive crying.

I’d have to put up with the uniform, maybe find ways of improving it. For one thing the tunic was on the big side. Shifting the buttons would help. That could wait until later. But something had to be done about my hair, which hung lankly, resting on my collar. I asked Edith’s advice. ‘Two inches above your collar, that’s regulations. You could be put on a fizzer for that.’

‘What’ll I do?’

‘I’ll give it a trim.’

‘I’ll fix it,’ said Bubbles.

‘Without cutting?’ I didn’t want my hair cut, I was planning that when I had enough money I’d get a perm. With curls and waves and my teeth which I knew were beautiful I’d be presentable. Later in my army career I discovered my legs, they were good, and my figure desirable.

‘No cutting,’ Bubbles assured me, smiling like a knowing cherub with her blonde hair curling round her cap. ‘Hang on I’ll get my spare shoe laces.’ She did, knotted them, placed the ring on my head and strand by strand rolled my hair round them. Tucking every straggling hair securely in. The front she brushed into three sweeps, fixed one over each ear and one above my forehead. An unbecoming hairstyle except for the exceptionally pretty. But it was tidy and two inches above my collar and after five minutes on the square I forgot about my appearance as I attempted to learn the drill manoeuvres. Remember which was my left foot, my right arm, keep in step, not bring the wrathful voice of Corporal Robinson singling me out.

We marched up and down, wheeled and about turned, some making the turn so that they faced each other and were tongue lashed by the immaculate Robinson. My legs felt leaden, my too tight cap band making my head ache. The brassière I had longed for and was wearing for the first time restricted my chest without supporting my breasts. I didn’t like drill and knew at my first session that I never would.

At last we were commanded to halt, stand to attention, to stand at ease and to fall-out. We were free. Free to go to the barrack room, the lavatory and have a quick smoke. ‘Half an hour’, said Edith, ‘half a bloody hour. My feet are killing me,’ and took deep drags of her Park Drive. Everyone had a moan. Each of us in turn had been inspected before drilling began. And each of us in turn had been found fault with. Crumpled collars, dull buttons, caps not sitting straight on the head. All minor except Deirdre’s. The eagle eye of the Corporal had noticed the absence from Deirdre’s left tunic pocket of her AB64. A brown booklet with our physical description, including distinguishing facial marks. There was a section in which we named our next of kin, could make a will. A page listing the injections we had received and many more pages that as yet meant nothing to the new recruits.

The little brown book was our most important document. And never must we move outside the barrack room without it in our possession. When not in uniform it would be carried in our khaki shoulder canvas bag: in uniform in our left breast tunic pocket. It was a serious offence to disobey this rule. A chargeable offence. But as a new recruit Deirdre escaped with a telling off.

The break was up. Those who had lit a second cigarette nipped them and saved the butts. The next stop was the dentist where appointments were made for treatment. Then another break. A wonderful interlude in the cookhouse where we were served with milky sweet cocoa and currant buns and told that this was the time of day when in future our mail would be distributed. We drank and ate, talked and smoked. Saw the drill session as something to be endured, hoped we’d improve. All in all our good humour was restored. Before leaving the cookhouse a list was taken of those not yet eighteen who if and when a ration of bananas became available would be entitled to one. During the six weeks in basic training the bananas never materialised.

Before dinner we attended a lecture on Current Affairs. I listened attentively but with neither a reading background, the lectures meant little to me. And in any case my thoughts were on the coming evening and freedom to go into the town.

After dinner we were having Physical Training. ‘More square bashing,’ said Edith, standing in the baggy rayon shorts that creased as you looked at them, plimsolls, no socks, and tangerine sports shirt.

We grumbled about everything, the uniform, food, NCOs, regulations. But never in a serious disgruntled manner. For there was always something to laugh at. Usually the officers and NCOs. The bellowing of the latter and plummy voices of the former. Laughing at yourself as you remembered the fools you must have seemed not able to tell your right foot from your left. And today our good humour was almost manic, keyed up as we were with the prospect of our freedom after tea when we’d be let loose on the town.

* * *

PT wasn’t anything like drill. At the gymnasium we were greeted by Corporal Barret, our instructress. Her voice was sweet and welcoming as she explained that PT was a gentle, relaxing form of exercise. Very good for us. It was enjoyable and would improve our posture and general health. ‘It’s great fun, actually. After we’ve warmed up I’ll demonstrate the exercises which you will then copy.’

I listened spellbound. Not so much in thrall to her words but her appearance. The pale blue aertex shirt, short shorts, golden brown face, arms and legs. Neat white ankle socks, soft leather shoes as flexible as dancing slippers. Around her neck she wore a snowy white lanyard from which a whistle hung that to my bemused eyes could have been solid silver.

There and then I made a decision. One day, no matter what it took I would be a PTI.

* * *

We huddled in a group like ragamuffins, awkward and embarrassed. Though probably not Bubbles. Bubbles was posh. Bubbles had poise. As yet I wasn’t familiar with the term, but Bubbles, like the instructor, Corporal Robinson and most of the officers, was middle class.

We the hoi-polloi shuffled and cleared our throats, hiked up our brassière’s shoulder straps and giggled nervously as we eyed the immaculately dressed creature. ‘Now girls,’ she said ‘move apart. In a circle round the gym. Fine. Good. That’s it.’ We shifted, spaced ourselves and made a circle. Into which she entered placing herself in its centre. Then lifting an arm, pointing and in a voice with no semblance of the drill instructor’s bark commanded ‘Running this way round, run.’ We ran. Some so enthusiastically we trod on the heels of laggards. ‘Like a lot of bloody kids in school,’ Edith said stopping to pull up the plimsoll’s trodden-down heel, causing more collisions and peals of laughter.

We were, I thought, like kids in school and it was wonderful. Playing in the afternoon. Which I suppose with the exception of Bubbles none of us had done since leaving school. For once you went to work at fourteen, as most of us had, playing was a thing of the past. I never knew anyone in the clothing factory who played tennis. Tennis clubs were not for us and as far as I knew there were no public courts. Some of my better-off relations fenced. But on the whole the recreation of poor girls was dancing once a week. Where the attendance wasn’t for the exercise but in the hopes of finding a fella.

Half an hour of rhythmic exercises, throwing and catching bean bags and balls. Bending and stretching to reduce hips, thighs and bellies. Our movements being encouraged and when necessary corrected by the instructress. All too soon the session ended with a posture-improving technique. We tucked in our tails, dropped our shoulders, stood tall and didn’t allow our chins to poke forward. Walking back to my billet the instructress passed wearing a most becoming track suit. And again I told myself, ‘That’s what I’m going to be, a PTI.