eight

Deirdre was stationed in Catterick but a week before I left the Isle of Man she sent a card. She was moving to somewhere in Kent. Later on she’d send her new address.

I liked the girls I had met in Douglas but there wasn’t a great sadness when I left them. Not the pain of parting I had experienced at Training Centre. We said ‘goodbye’, Barbara winked and advised not to do anything she wouldn’t do, adding ‘and that gives you a lot of scope’.

There was a gale blowing as the steamer left Fleetwood reminding me of the night Deirdre and I had sailed to England. I never thought I’d miss her. In fact I hadn’t. All the same it was comforting to think she might be still at Catterick Camp when I arrived. She hadn’t mentioned her lost husband since I had seen her last. And I wondered had she found out where Lupinbeds was.

I wondered so many things about her. Every Sunday morning she and I had gone to Mass and received Communion. I’d watch her walk devoutly back to her seat and kneel with bowed head and I’d wonder had she confessed the sin she had committed on the boat. How would she get the nerve? And if she didn’t how could she receive Communion? That would be a sacrilege for which should she die suddenly straight to Hell she would go.

I shuddered, not sure if it was the horrendous thought of roasting in Hell or the stiff breeze blowing off the sea.

More than likely the cold sea breeze. For lately I thought less and less about death, dying and Hell. Since joining up I had never seen a funeral nor heard of anyone dying. Not even of anyone being sick.

In Ireland all of that was part of daily life. Death, religion, sin. Novenas, miraculous medals, indulgences granted for so many prayers said for the dead in Purgatory. Indulgences you could gain while still alive to reduce your sentence when you died. Young and old men and women belonging to lay religious orders who had already purchased their habits.

Though in reality it wasn’t as macabre as it sounds. For girls could switch from describing the shade of blue shroud to the colour of the outfit they were having for Easter or Whitsun. And my mother talked about her burial policies and grave receipt with less emotion than her wad of pawn tickets.

While pondering these thoughts I was devouring my ration sandwiches which were meant to last me to Catterick, when a pleasant voice in a gorgeous foreign accent put a stop to my mind’s meanderings. He was a Polish soldier, blonde, green-eyed and handsome. He told me his name was Zladimir but that in England everyone called him George.

‘Why,’ I asked.

He smiled, displaying wonderful, big, strong white teeth. ‘They tell me Zladimir is not easy to, to,’ he paused searching for a word.

‘Pronounce,’ I suggested.

‘Ah, yes, pronounce, that is it. So I am George.’

I told him my official Christian name.

‘Helena. A beautiful name. In Poland there are many Helenas.’

‘At home I’m called Nellie. I hate that. It’s an old woman’s name.’

‘Change it. Be Nell or Nella. If you were Jewish that’s what you’d be, Nella, that’s pretty.’

He bought me a cup of what was sold on board as coffee. it was no worse than the NAFFI brew. I drank it and we continued talking. We discovered we were both going to Catterick. We swapped our camp addresses and when we were about to dock he went to find his mates, promising that he’d see me on the train.

I looked for him when we disembarked at Fleetwood but didn’t see him. The train to Crewe was jammed with servicemen and women carrying cumbersome kitbags, haversacks, rolled up groundsheets, tin helmets, the men’s tunics criss-crossed with khaki webbing from which tin mugs and mess tins were suspended. They packed the carriages six to a seat. I was squashed between two soldiers. Those without seats jammed the corridors in such numbers that it was impossible to go to the lavatory or look for Zladimir.

It was ‘all change at Crewe’. The train emptied. There was a two-hour wait for my connection and a stampede into the waiting-room. I had a cup of tea then felt I would suffocate and went outside where despite my thick uniform and double-breasted greatcoat the cold was biting. My feet began to stagnate. To keep the circulation going I walked up and down the platform having left my baggage outside the waiting-room, not caring if someone did steal it, not considering how, if it was stolen I’d be charged with being careless and have to pay for all items of missing army property. Back and fore, back and fore I walked, now regretting my hasty exit from the waiting-room, aware that it was a hope of finding the Polish soldier rather than lack of air that had sent me rushing out.

In those far off days waiting-rooms had coal fires, a woman attendant and long benches where weary travellers with a long wait, sometimes an all-night one, could stretch out and sleep.

When my train did arrive I was already poised ready to push, shove and fight my way on board and secure a seat. Which I did, one by a window.

Everyone was squashed against someone else. Everyone was smoking. Everyone tired and probably hungry. Yet the atmosphere wasn’t only filled with smoke. There was also good humour in the air. There were three other girls besides me. Some of the soldiers flirted clumsily but amusingly. No one swore offensively, no double-meaning remarks were made. Anyone with rations left offered them around. One RASC private generously divided a bar of chocolate between the girls.

Now and then the train thundered through stations, passed towns where lights were strung out and foundries sent up plumes of smoke and flares of flames. We dozed and came to at stations where the train drew to a juddering halt and sleepy voices asked, ‘Where are we?’ Sometimes it was where they were supposed to be and frantically they scrambled out.

Before I arrived at my destination few passengers were left and so it was possible to reach the lavatory only to be almost asphyxiated by the stench of male urine when I opened the door. Of Zladimir I saw no sign. He had made an impression on me. I couldn’t understand how we had missed each other, but consoled myself that at Richmond Station I was bound to see him. And if I didn’t we were going to the same camp and we’d bump into each other sometime.

Little did I know how vast Catterick Camp was. Little did I know how cold the wind would be when I stepped out onto the platform at Richmond. It knifed through my many layers of clothing.

There was a truck to meet and take me to the guardroom where the duty ATS NCO was waiting for my arrival. From the guardroom I was delivered to the cookhouse for a meal of grey, greasy stew and tea. Tea that tasted almost as good as what we drank at home. Sergeant Major’s tea I later learned it was called. The tea of cooks, duty Warrant Officers and non-commissioned on their rounds during the night. It hadn’t stewed for hours in vast urns, washing soda hadn’t enhanced its strength or flavour. Perhaps the rumoured bromide wasn’t added. Perhaps sergeant-majors didn’t need or weren’t to have their libidos damped down. In any case the tea was delicious. Warm, comforting and invigorating. I had a new lease of life. Forgot the long, uncomfortable train journey, the cold, my disappointment in not meeting my Polish soldier. Catterick Camp might be a great place. I remembered how in Training Centre it had been said there were thousands of blokes there. I could be in for a marvellous time.

But I was quickly disillusioned when the truck which had brought me to the guardroom transported me to my billet. The duty NCO accompanied me. Warning me on the way not to make any noise as the girls who shared the billet were mess orderlies and had to be up at six o’clock the following morning. ‘There’s a light left on in the passage and on the landing. You’ll find your way about. Tomorrow report to Cambrai Lines at nine o’clock. To the guardroom. The telephone exchange is there.’

The billet was an ex-married quarter. A two up and two down, with a scullery and outside lavatory. A low watt bulb burned in the hall. The house was freezing. I went up the stairs on tip-toe. Looked into both small bedrooms. Saw one with a barracked bed. Unpacking only my pyjamas I made the bed up. Stiff with cold, aching with tiredness and tense for fear of waking the sleeping occupants I crept awkwardly about my task.

When I got between the sheets they felt as if they had been drenched with icy water. Sleep was impossible. I got up, put on my vest and knickers and my stockings under my pyjamas, jammed the pyjama legs into the stockings and knotted their tops to keep them up. But still I was shivering. Out of bed again, this time to find my pullover. Over the pyjamas it went. I wrapped a khaki woollen scarf around my head, threw my greatcoat across the bed, got in and eventually shivered myself to sleep.

When I woke the next morning the little house was empty. My breath visible in the icy room. I had never felt so forlorn and miserable in my life. I thought with longing of the Training Centre and my hotel bedroom on the Isle of Man. Then a glance at the clock sent me into a fearful frenzy. I had slept it out, missed my breakfast and if I didn’t hurry would be late reporting to the telephone exchange. A quick glance round the room showed me that the other beds were made up. So I plumped my pillows, smoothed and tucked in the brown army blanket which was its covering. Had a cat’s lick as a perfunctory wash is called in Ireland, kicked my kitbag and case out of sight. Ran a comb through my hair, went outside and asked a passing soldier the way to Cambrai Lines. Huddled in his great-coat, not stopping, he called instructions as to how to get there.

It was a long walk. Everywhere in Catterick Camp I was to discover was a long walk from everywhere else. It was a great sprawl of a place, bleak and seemingly always scoured by biting winds. Individual camps within the main sprawl were designated as Lines and named after First World War battle sites.

The guardroom was a single-storey building. Whitewashed boulders lined the concrete path and on a concreted square set in the grass stood a brass cannon. Off the main guardroom manned by Regimental Police was the telephone exchange identical to the one on the Isle of Man. There was a pot-bellied cast iron coke burning stove. With which I was delighted though later I discovered its fumes gave me headaches.

From time to time during my shift a regimental policeman would put his head round the door and ask if I was OK. I saw through the window a bucket of tea being delivered. Sergeant Major’s tea. I was included in the share-out. By the time my relief took over I knew the names of all the men and they called me Paddy.

My relief’s name was Ruby. She came from Walthamstow. She arrived half an hour early and we chatted. Her hair was tightly permed, the black of a dead crow, grey roots along her parting. Her lipstick was a vivid red, thickly applied, and orangey pancake make-up emphasized lines round her mouth. She admitted to being thirty-five. During our chatting I asked her what she thought of Catterick. ‘Not much.’ ‘There’s supposed to be lots of blokes so I was told.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘and every one of them after the same thing. Randy buggers. But it’s the Poles you want to watch. Bite your nipples off they do.’

My hand went to my breast pocket. ‘Honest to God.’

‘On my mother’s life. Ask anyone who’s been out with a Pole.’

In my mind’s eye I saw Zladimir’s handsome face and thought, surely not him. He wouldn’t do a thing like that. Then I remembered his big, white gleaming teeth. All the better to bite me with. Not of course, I told myself, that I’d ever let a man’s hand never mind his teeth near my breast. A girl who did was asking for trouble even if she didn’t lose her nipples. During the following years I dated men of many nationalities but never a Pole. So I can’t comment on their foreplay.

Ruby was married. Her man was with Thirty Corp stationed in Germany. She had a solid gold watch and several rings set with diamonds and other precious stones. She told me they were valuable and brought in to show me a beautiful silver bowl with delicate engravings round its sides and when she lifted the lid a big downy puff smelling of powder rose slowly. ‘All,’ she said, ‘for a few fags and a packet of coffee.’

I didn’t understand. She explained. ‘For fags and coffee you can get anything in Germany, even a woman. Cars as well, though I expect you would have to give a load of fags for a car. Fred’s brought me home jewellery, silver cutlery, all sorts of things. See, the Germans are starving. They’d give anything for a bit of food and tobacco.’

* * *

In Catterick I felt lonely and miserable. The mess orderlies with whom I shared the house were, when I came off duty, either sleeping, out or at work. And the personnel from my unit were scattered over the camp so that I only glimpsed them once a week on pay parade. And as for dates I had none. Though some of the men from the guardroom chatted me up and asked me out. I didn’t fancy any of them. They were mostly ancient and I suspected married.

For the first time since leaving Ireland I began to feel unwell. Vague aches and pains. Listless and feverish. When I mentioned this to Ruby she said I should report sick. Then added, ‘The MO’ll probably say you’re malingering. Not out straight, though. But all you’ll get is medicine and duty.’

I wasn’t familiar with the word malingering and asked what it meant and what was medicine and duty. ‘That he doesn’t believe there’s anything wrong with you. So he’ll give you a bottle, probably chalk or coloured water and a number Nine which’ll run the guts out of you. All the same, you don’t look right so go sick in the morning.’

I did and was admitted to the Garrison hospital. I never knew what ailed me but enjoyed being tucked up in bed in a centrally heated ward, fed well, given dozens of M&B tablets, a sulphonamide drug, the forerunner of penicillin. I hoped for a long stay in hospital. But after ten days was discharged and out I went into the cold Airy-headed and on hollow legs I made my way to the Company Office to report ‘fit for duty’. And to my delight discovered that my unit was soon to be posted to the South of England. I made a miraculous recovery.

The South of England. Brighton, where my father had gone to school. Where a sister of his still lived. The one who’d been educated at the Sacred Heart Convent in Roehampton. Horsham, the home of my grandfather. I’d visit him and my aunt. Meet the Ravishing Lancer with whom my grandmother had eloped. Disowned by her father for marrying an English soldier and worse still a Protestant.

He’d tell me about her. My grandmother, Fanny, my second Christian name. He’d talk about my father. Describe him as a boy. A young man. It would be like bringing him to life again.