seven

The Isle of Man

The sea was calm and the day sunny. I sat on deck eating the bully beef sandwiches provided as rations and thought about my friends travelling to different parts of the country. Bubbles off to her driving course. Marj, Edith and the rest to orderlies wearing khaki overalls and matching turbans. Serving food, wiping down tables. Deirdre, who despite her cadging and moaning I’d miss. I wondered if Bubbles would find an old, loaded Brigadier or become a GI bride.

As soon as I was settled in I’d write. I watched the seagulls following the boat, soaring, for minutes remaining motionless in the sky, calling in their complaining voices. Land came into sight, then buildings. We were nearly in. A strange place. Me, a stranger, having to make myself known. Not at all like basic training where we were all strangers. Anxiety beset me. Supposing I couldn’t learn how to operate a switchboard. What would happen to me then?

The boat docked. A truck was waiting to take me to my billet. Which turned out to be a very grand hotel on the Front. I reported to an ATS Sergeant who ticked my name off on her millboard, and told me I would work a shift system in a hotel called the Villiers close by. She had a private show me my sleeping quarters and told me a meal would be provided if after depositing my kit I went to the cookhouse.

The billet was a hotel bedroom overlooking the sea. The private who brought me to it was Scottish, friendly and I took a liking to her. We introduced ourselves. Her name was Morag. ‘This is a cushy number and the grub is great. You’ll like it here. Everyone does,’ she said.

It was a double room furnished with four single beds. The floor carpeted, plenty of cupboard space and a wash basin. Yes, I thought, I will like it here.

Morag left and two other girls arrived and greeted me with great friendliness. They were clerks in the Company Office and English. Without ‘the voice’, well spoken. Their accents I couldn’t recognize. Pointing to a barracked bed, they told me it was mine and the one in the corner next to it was Barbara’s.

‘She’s the telephonist you’ll be working with,’ one said. I noticed that only my bed was barracked and asked why the other three weren’t.

The second girl explained you only barracked in training centre, for inspections or when, like mine, the bed was waiting for a new occupant. ‘You can make yours up now.’ She helped me. I relaxed.

I’d get along with these girls.

* * *

After dinner I went to meet Barbara in the small telephone exchange. She was the prettiest, most glamorous girl I had ever seen. Everything about her was perfect, gorgeous. Black wavy hair, big, dark-lashed blue eyes. Teeth like an advertisement for toothpaste and even in her khaki skirt and shirt her figure was fabulous. Big bust and tiny waist.

As soon as she spoke I recognized her accent—she was from Northern Ireland. And of course she could tell I was from Dublin.

We talked for a little while. Telling each other where we came from in our respective cities. How long we had been in the Forces. And all the time I was mesmerized by her beauty. The smile which lit her face. By comparison I felt so unattractive with my naked face and hair wound round a bootlace from which lank strands had escaped. But not jealous for she exuded warmth, charm and friendliness.

‘Well, I suppose I’d better show you the ropes.’ She sat in front of the little switchboard and told me to bring a chair and sit beside her.

‘Just watch what I do, it’s dead easy.’

It wasn’t a very big board. Maybe eighteen inches to two feet square and fixed to a bench. Its face was covered with numbered metal discs and beneath each number was a hole. At the bottom of its face there was a double row of metal prongs and to the side of the board a handle protruded.

Barbara explained: ‘It’s what’s called a doll’s eye board. If someone rings the exchange a metal eyelid drops on the number and clicks up and down until the call is answered. Then you pick up one of these,’ she demonstrated catching hold of metal prong and pulling it out. To it was attached a lead. ‘Stick this in the hole beneath the clicking eyelid and push this forward.’ She pointed out a double row of switches in front of the panel of prongs. ‘And Bob’s your uncle.’

She looked at her watch and I noticed her long filbert-shaped nails painted a brilliant red. ‘Everyone’s still in the mess or cookhouse. But after two you’ll see me in action.’

She gave me more information. ‘You never leave the board unattended until six o’clock. After six a line is transferred to the guardroom in case of an emergency.’ She showed me printed lists of the board’s numbers with the rank and designation of the man or office whose number it was.

‘And these, the ones underlined in red, are the “sir or ma’am” numbers. No matter how many eyelids are clicking these get priority. You’ll pick it up as you go along. And never forget the Colonel gets top priority. He’s an oul bollocks. Thinks he’s God. Like a lot of peacetime soldiers he hasn’t got used to the idea of women in the Forces. Army Tool Softeners, that’s what some of them call us. Not to our face, mind you. D’ye know something, you don’t hear much swearing. Not like Dublin or Belfast, where a lot of fellas think nothing of saying fuck in front of a woman.’

She showed me telephone directories and how to call the civilian operator. She rambled on. So much information I thought my head would burst. Now and then she stopped and said, ‘Don’t worry, kid, it’ll all fall into place.’

Before two o’clock she repaired her face. Reapplied her lipstick and dabbed round her nose and cheeks with a powder puff, all the time scrutinizing her features in a compact mirror.

On the stroke of two o’clock doll’s eyes closed and clicked up and down. I watched and listened. Noticing that when it was a ‘sir’ or ‘madam’ call Barbara’s Belfast accent became a fair imitation of ‘the voice’. ‘Number, please. Yes sir. Yes ma’am. Trying to connect you. Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m sorry, there’s no reply. Shall I call you back? You’re through now. Hold the line, please.’

I listened and tried to memorise. I also listened when the call wasn’t from a sir or ma’am. When it was someone Barbara was familiar with. When she laughed and made double meaning remarks. Arranged to see some of the callers sometime. And pondered the meaning of an Army Tool Softener. I’d never heard the phrase before. Knowing that ‘tool’ was one of the many euphemisms for a man’s penis I thought it must have something to do with sex. But what?

I knew so little about sex. One night when I’d been in a friend’s house, plastering bread with condensed milk some of the thick, white sticky liquid spilled down the front of my dark brown coat. My mother threatened to kill me when I came home. She shook and slapped me while demanding an explanation which she didn’t allow me to give. My brother and sister looked on, terrified and unable to say a word in my defence.

‘It’s only condensed milk,’ I managed to say. ‘Look,’ I wet my fingers, rubbed at the stain and sucked them. I was so innocent or ignorant that it was years before I realized what she had suspected.

The row blew over as they always did and we sat down to supper as if it had never taken place.

About an hour after my tuition began Barbara suggested I have a go. I put on the headpiece and apprehensively answered a few uncomplicated calls. Barbara congratulated me and I felt a surge of confidence. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I want to slip out. I won’t be a minute. I have to see this fella in the stores. Will you be alright?’

‘I think so but don’t be long.’

‘Only a tic,’ she promised, and left. A few lids dropped and I coped. Congratulating myself on my competence. Then another call came through and a voice asked for the divorce sergeant. Remembering one of Barbara’s pat phrases I stalled. ‘Hold the line. I’m trying to connect you,’ I said as I frantically scanned a list looking for the number of a divorce sergeant. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ I remembered to say as panic almost choked me. The earpiece became clammy with sweat and still no listing of a divorce sergeant. Then as if my guardian angel had alighted on my shoulder and whispered the question in my ear I repeated it. I didn’t hear you properly, could you repeat the number, please.’

Back came the answer in a resigned tone, ‘The provost sergeant.’ I made the connection and heaved a sigh of relief. Telling myself it was all a matter of common sense. All the same I wished Barbara would hurry up. Then my guardian angel deserted me, went for a fag, a pee or whatever guardian angels do when not perched on your shoulder. And down came the Colonel’s shutter, clicking like a demented grasshopper. I plugged in. ‘Number please, sir.’ A voice barked, ‘Get me Manobier.’

‘Yes, sir. Hold the line.’

I talked to myself. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, where is Manobier? India. I’d heard the name. Heard it in a picture. A place in India. Like Bombay, Bengal, Calcutta. How would I get through to India? Deception aided me. I plugged into a hole without a number and turned the handle. After a suitable interval I said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, there’s no reply, shall I call you back.’

‘Keep trying and call me immediately you get it,’ he snapped.

Click, click, the eyelid danced up and down. Please God, help me, I prayed as I picked up and pushed in the pronged lead. At one and the same time two things happened. Barbara came in the door and the Colonel barked, ‘Cancel my call to Manobier.’

I pulled off the headset, put my head in my hands and cried. Barbara was full of concern. Asking what ailed me. What had happened. I ignored her, stood up and ran through the door.

Sitting on the lavatory, the fright abated, anger taking its place. Anger at myself for not being able to cope, with Barbara for staying away so long. Gradually I calmed down and began telling myself how I should have handled the Colonel. Politely I should have said, ‘This is my first day, sir. I don’t know where Manobier is or how to connect you.’ With hindsight how easy it seemed. But the Colonel’s voice had intimidated me. My mother could have done it. No man or woman whatever their

position or voice would have overawed my mother.

I blew my nose, dried my eyes and to cool my face wetted a wad of toilet stamped WD, War Department, hard enough, as Edith used to say, ‘to reef the arse of you’.

Barbara laughed hysterically when I told her of the incident. ‘India’, she cackled. ‘What gave you that idea? Manobier’s in Wales. There, look.’ She held out the list. And there it was. Anti-Aircraft School of Artillery, Manobier.

* * *

Life on the Isle of Man was pleasant and relaxed. You seldom saw an officer except on pay parade. Occasionally we drilled on the promenade, occasionally we had a lecture to attend. At one given by a young doctor on health matters a question was asked from the floor. Was smoking bad for your lungs? Confidently and emphatically the young doctor explained that at post-mortem the lungs of a city dweller whether he smoked or not were dark and the lungs of a man who had spent his life in the country irrespective of his smoking habits a healthy pink.

* * *

In no time I mastered the switchboard and enjoyed my four and half-hour shifts. In between calls I read, wrote letters and gossiped with people who dropped in.

The town was only around the corner from the hotel. There were shops, cinemas and cafes where I sat drinking tea and making dates. Sometimes three for the same night. Staggering the times in case one or the other didn’t turn up. Sometimes they didn’t but seldom did all three let you down.

I learned how to kiss and how ward off the advances almost every soldier attempted. Frequently I took a chance and wore civilian clothes though they were still forbidden. My green tweed coat was greatly admired and often borrowed. So much so that one date said, ‘Pad, it’s a smashing coat—who owns it?’

‘Me,’ I said. I don’t think he believed me.

Life was wonderful. So little work. So much leisure. So many dates.

Remembering the factory sometimes, the dirt, dust, noisy machines, the rats in the cellar, the filthy room where our tea was made, the vile lavatories. I congratulated myself on the change I’d made.

It was good to be alive and young. To have friends, good quarters, nice food and dates and dates and dates. And there were the German POWs who were interned on Douglas. Not all blonde giants, but almost all attractive—their foreignness enhancing their appearance.

Life was good except when my mother’s letters arrived. She never failed to remind me that I had left her with half-a-crown a week and that she hoped God would forgive me for what I had done.

So I requested an interview with my Junior Commander. She was a sweet-faced woman. Invited me to sit down and listened as I explained about the dependant’s allowance and asked was there any way in which I could earn extra money. Truthfully I didn’t at this stage care whether I could or couldn’t. But at least I could truthfully write and tell my mother I hadn’t forgotten that I had left her short of money.

She was sympathetic. I told her of my ambition to be a PTI. And she explained how there wasn’t one on the island.

‘They, as you already know, are the ones who do the talent spotting. You could try a course of shorthand and typing. There are courses here. A successful course could get you a clerical job and more money. What d’ye say?’

I knew the courses were held in the evenings. I liked my evenings free. Going to the pictures with my date, sitting in the cafés, walking along the Promenade and snogging.

But she was so kind, so understanding I didn’t have the heart to refuse. ‘I’ll try it, ma’am,’ I said and prepared to leave. Before I could salute she said, ‘Let me show you something,’ and beckoned me to the window. ‘There,’ she said, pointing to the sea. ‘over there is the coastline of Ireland. I expect sometimes you feel homesick. Then it would be good to look at the sea and assure yourself that you’re not too far away from home.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ I didn’t disillusion her. Didn’t tell her that since one night in Training Centre when homesickness had overwhelmed me I rarely gave Dublin or Ireland a thought.

* * *

I hated the typing course. My fingers so nimble with a needle, performed like thick pork sausages. And the shorthand made no sense at all. I felt stupid and awkward and like many fools looked for something to laugh at. Someone or something to blame for my failure. The instructor. It was her fault. She was too old. She wore thick sugar-bag blue knickers that I knew would have a fleecy lining. My mother and all old people wore them in the winter. The knickers were worn pulled over her stocking tops so that when she bent to demonstrate or remonstrate you could see them. I laughed to myself each time I witnessed the spectacle. It consoled me for my ineptitude. She was a patient, kindly woman who encouraged me. Assuring me that eventually I’d master the typing if not the shorthand. That typing was a worthwhile skill. I should persevere. And I promised I’d try harder although I had already decided to leave the course.

* * *

Barbara was easy going and pleasant to work with. I wasn’t the best timekeeper but she never complained when I was late relieving her. But as time passed she became more inquisitive as to how I got on with the fellas I dated. Asking such questions as how far did I let them go. This surprised and embarrassed me.

I’d hem and haw and change the conversation. Apart from embarrassment I didn’t want to admit to Barbara that so far, at the first feel of a hand descending anywhere on my thick tweed coat or layers of blanket cloth khaki below my waist, back, front or in the region of my chest, I disengaged myself and left my date without explanation. If I confessed this to Barbara she’d think me a thick and holy into the bargain.

One day she sat pushing back her cuticles with an orange stick and out of the blue announced, ‘I’m what you might call a “technical virgin”.’

‘Are you? That’s great,’ I said as if technical virginity was as familiar to me as answering the switchboard.

‘It’s the only way. Let them go as far as possible, almost the whole hog but not quite.’

I was avid with curiosity. About technical virgins, how and what was as far as possible. So much I wanted to know. Why were some soldiers and girls called Geordies, Brummies, Scouse? How could you tell a sergeant from a staff-sergeant, a first lieutenant from second lieutenant, a colonel from a major? But I knew all these puzzles would be solved in time. Would have already been solved had I paid more attention during lectures—at least about army ranks. But who could I ask about technical virgins. Certainly not Barbara. For all that she was beautiful and pleasant, there was something about her that made me feel uneasy. I think it was her smile. She conjured in my mind pictures of beautiful witches in fairy tales. Bad fairy in ‘Sleeping Beauty’. The Queen in ‘Snow White’. A smiling figure who beckoned. My vivid imagination? But that’s the feeling she gave me—someone who would lead me astray.

Next time I wrote to Edith I’d ask her about technical virgins. She was bound to know. Edith knew everything.

Then one day in the middle of her probing questions and my attempt to parry them she suddenly changed the conversation. ‘I forgot to tell you there’s a rumour going round that we’re being disbanded.’

‘Oh, no. But why?’ I asked.

Barbara shrugged. ‘I suppose because the war’s over. Lots of units will be disbanded. I wonder where we’ll be posted?’

I was posted to Catterick Camp. Barbara to Fort William. I never saw or heard of her again.