‘Next stop Lincoln.’ The guard’s call roused Pearl from the doze she had slipped into, and she lurched forward in her seat as the train began to slow. An odd fluttering in her stomach started as she caught glimpses of a platform through billows of smoke, and saw it was crowded with people wearing uniform in the same grey-blue shade as hers. She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding, and grabbed her kitbag from the overhead luggage rack, terrified the train would leave before she could get out. She finally managed to lower the window and twist the stiff handle, then made an abrupt landing on the platform as the weight of her kitbag made the door swing open before she was prepared. Glancing around, she mentally rehearsed the instructions she had been given together with the travel warrant. Find the railway transport officer to get information on transport going to RAF Fenthorpe. Staggering under the weight of her kitbag, helmet and gas mask, she followed the other men and women in uniform, hoping they knew where they were going.
It turned out to be a sensible plan and, after a short wait, the helpful railway transport officer had given her directions. ‘Your transport will be along in ten minutes,’ he told her. ‘It won’t be a long journey. Fenthorpe’s only about five miles away.’
Pearl nodded and went to stand by the road to wait. It had been a day of waiting: what should have been a short journey from RAF Cranwell had lasted for three hours, her train having stopped in the middle of nowhere for ages with no explanation. The nerves that she had managed to control during the journey were now getting the better of her, and she twisted her hands as frightening scenarios flitted through her mind. No one at RAF Fenthorpe would be expecting her. Or they would be expecting her but, due to a mix-up, would think she was a mechanic instead of a radio telephone operator. Or she would be in the right place, doing the right job but she would have forgotten everything she had learned during her six-week course at RAF Cranwell—
Stop it! She made a huge effort to pull herself together. Everything’s going to be fine. I got top marks and passed out as an AWC1, for goodness’ sake. She felt a glow of pride, remembering her reward for all her hard work at Cranwell, and her anxiety faded. After an assessment during her initial WAAF training at Bridgnorth, she had been recommended for the trade of radio telephone operator, or R/T operator for short, because of her ‘nice voice’. She had then gone to RAF Cranwell to learn her trade and had spent the weeks learning Morse, how to service a wireless and, most importantly for her future role, radio protocols and how to operate a radio telephone. Most of the other WAAFs on the course had passed out with the rank of ACW2 – aircraftwoman, second class. However, thanks to her high marks, Pearl had been one of the select few WAAFs who had graduated as an aircraftwoman, first class.
Much to her disappointment, none of the other WAAFs she had trained with were going to the same place, meaning that for the third time in three months she would have to learn the layout of a new camp alone and make new friends. Still, RAF Fenthorpe was only a few miles from Waddington, where Thea was based, working as an instrument repairer. She had every hope that she would see her sister often and that when she did they would have lots in common now they were both living in Bomber Command stations.
Feeling more relaxed, she was able to smile at the corporal driving the truck that pulled up beside her a short while later. She had hoped for a chatty driver who could tell her what life was like in Fenthorpe before she got there. Unfortunately he seemed very shy and reluctant to talk, even though he let her sit in the cab, so she looked out of the window in silence as they left behind Lincoln on its hill, and the houses gave way to wide, flat fields, very different from the hills of her native Shropshire. The view looked all the more stark because the trees were still bare after a long hard winter.
Presently, a wooden water tower came into view above the hedgerow lining the road. No sooner had Pearl seen it than she heard the roar of engines. A huge shadow passed overhead, making her shrink in her seat, and the view ahead was filled by a large twin-engined aircraft, its lowered undercarriage seeming to skim the water tower. Remembering her aircraft recognition lectures, she identified it as an Avro Manchester. As she watched, the Manchester glided lower until she could no longer see it, and she guessed it must have landed.
‘Is this Fenthorpe?’ she asked, craning her neck to see what was beyond the hedge. All she could see was wooden roofs and a vast structure that could only be a hangar.
‘That’s right. Main gate’s just here’ – he pointed to the barrier they were passing – ‘but I’ll drop you by Gate 2, closest to the Waafery.’
The truck bounced over the bumpy road for about a mile before turning down a narrow lane. Over the hedge on her left, Pearl could see buildings, so she expected the gate to be on the same side; but much to her surprise, the driver pulled into an entrance on the right. While he spoke to the guard at the barrier, Pearl looked beyond it and saw a muddy field filled mainly with Nissen huts. Uniformed men and women either strolled around the site or were riding bicycles. Pearl quickly saw the advantage of having a bike, considering that the gate to the main station must be over a mile away, and resolved to write to Deedee to have her bike sent to Lincoln on the train.
‘This is where you get out,’ the driver told her once the barrier was raised and he had driven through. ‘The WAAF guardroom is down there.’ He pointed down a path that was gravelled and thankfully free from mud.
A short while later Pearl found herself outside a low hut, laden with her luggage. She fumbled in her pocket for her papers, then walked in.
‘So you’re the new R/T operator,’ the WAAF corporal on duty said when she presented herself in the guardroom. ‘We’re supposed to be getting a new Met WAAF too, but she hasn’t turned up yet. You didn’t spot another sprog on your train, did you?’
‘Another what?’
The corporal rolled her eyes. ‘A new recruit, like you.’
‘Oh. No, I didn’t notice any others. How can you tell I’m new?’
‘Look at your uniform – it’s pristine. You look like a child on her first day at school. Anyway, the buttons are a dead giveaway.’
Pearl glanced at the gleaming brass buttons on the corporal’s tunic that far outshone those on her own jacket, despite the hours she had put into polishing them.
The corporal gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Keep going with the polish. Another year, and you’ll look like an old hand.’
A year? It suddenly hit Pearl what a commitment she had made, joining the WAAF for the duration of the war when she had no idea how long that would be. She made no further comment as she accepted a folded pile of bedding, rough bath towels and a standard-issue packet of sanitary towels from the corporal and then followed her with laden arms along a gravelled path, past a row of identical Nissen huts.
They stopped outside a door with a stencilled number three. ‘Here you are,’ the corporal said. ‘Home sweet home.’
Inside, the layout was much the same as the hut she had slept in during her basic training at Bridgnorth. In the centre was a coke stove with chairs clustered around it. Only one chair was occupied, by a red-haired WAAF who glanced up and swept her with an assessing gaze before returning to the letter she was writing. Iron-framed beds lined the two long sides of the huts. Most were stacked with three ‘biscuits’ – straw-stuffed mattresses that Pearl had already learned to loathe – and folded bedding. However, the two closest to the door were without bedding, and Pearl realised one of these must be hers. Three hooks were fastened on the wall beside each bed, upon which the occupants had hung their uniforms and coats. Every WAAF had her own shelf, fixed to the wall behind her bedstead; there were also chests of drawers between each bed, and Pearl knew she would be expected to share drawer space with the girl in the bed next to hers.
‘This is yours,’ the corporal said, pointing to the empty bed on the left. ‘You’re to be back in the camp by 2230 each night unless you’ve got a late pass. Breakfast at 0800 and morning parade at 0845. Of course, as you’re a shift worker you’ll usually be excused from parades, but I expect to see you there tomorrow.’
Pearl could only nod, dazed from the amount of information she had to take in.
‘Best get an early night,’ the corporal went on. ‘You’ll be on your feet all day tomorrow, getting your arrival chit signed.’
Once the corporal had left, Pearl made haste to unpack, which didn’t take long considering the only clothes she now possessed were those issued by the WAAF. And that included pyjamas and underwear. Once everything was stowed and her kitbag pushed beneath the bed, she made up the bed, thinking to take the corporal’s advice. By this time, five more of the hut’s occupants had arrived. Although they greeted Pearl with a brief nod and smile, they gathered around the stove without inviting her to join them or even introducing themselves. As she tucked in her sheets, one of the WAAFs called to her. It was the redhead Pearl had noticed earlier. She had a propeller badge on her sleeve proclaiming her to have reached the rank of LACW – leading aircraftwoman, one rung of the ladder above Pearl.
‘We’re going to the White Horse later. You’re welcome to join us.’
‘Oh, thanks, erm…’
‘It’s Blanche. Blanche Dalby.’
‘Pearl Cooper.’
‘Yes, we know.’ Blanche pointed to a card pinned to the wall above Pearl’s bed that she hadn’t noticed before. Her name was written on it and below it said, ‘C of E.’ Although what her religion had to do with anything, Pearl didn’t know.
‘I’d love to come.’ Despite her slight embarrassment at missing the name card, Pearl finished making her bed in lighter spirits, glad to find her room-mates were not as stand-offish as they had at first appeared.
She wanted to learn more about life at Fenthorpe but, before she could ask, the door opened to let in the same corporal who had shown Pearl to Hut Three. With her was a very bedraggled-looking WAAF, wearing a uniform as new as Pearl’s. Her suspicions that this must be the other new arrival the corporal had mentioned were confirmed when she was pointed towards the remaining empty bed. The newcomer dropped her gear onto her bed, then fumbled with the drawstring on her kitbag, avoiding the gaze of the other WAAFs. Her hair hung over her shoulders in rat-tails, dripping water. The card above her bed proclaimed her to be Jenny Hazleton, also C of E.
‘Has it started to rain?’ Pearl asked, wondering if that would mean cancelling the visit to the pub.
The newcomer shook her head, pressing her lips tightly together, and didn’t reply.
Blanche, however, laughed. Her laughter had a hard, mocking edge. ‘I thought even a sprog like you would know what having wet hair means. Darling Jenny here must have arrived with her head crawling with nits.’
The other WAAFs giggled, and comprehension dawned. Pearl had heard tales in Bridgnorth and Cranwell of WAAFs with nits being marched straight to Sick Quarters to have their hair and scalp treated, before being released with dripping wet hair. Pearl opened her mouth to sympathise, but Jenny glared at Blanche, her chin raised. ‘At least I know I don’t have nits now.’ Pearl couldn’t quite place her accent but thought she must come from somewhere in the West Country. ‘How about you – is your scalp feeling itchy?’
Pearl was standing close enough to see the slight quiver of Jenny’s chin that belied her defiant words. She looked very young, and Pearl’s heart went out to her.
Blanche regarded Jenny for a moment, her lips curled. Then she shrugged and grabbed her coat from the hook. ‘Come on, girls. We’ll leave Nitty Nora here to get herself tidied up.’ She swept from the room, pausing when she passed Pearl’s bed. ‘Coming, Pearl?’ It was clear Jenny wasn’t included in the invitation.
‘No thanks,’ Pearl replied. ‘I’d rather stay here.’
‘Suit yourself. Mind you don’t catch anything.’ Then, laughing at her own hilarity, Blanche was gone, her friends following in her wake.
Once the others had left Jenny remained where she was, fixing Pearl with a look that made her think of a wary animal backed into a corner. ‘What are you looking at? Never seen someone with nits before?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.’ Although Jenny’s defensive posture didn’t invite conversation, Pearl’s heart went out to the girl. She looked so young, Pearl wanted to comfort her, reassure her that she had at least one friend in Hut Three. ‘I’m sorry I drew attention to your hair, though. I wasn’t thinking. My sister was always coming home with nits, and I caught them from her a few times.’ She grimaced at the memory of Deedee attacking her with a fine-toothed comb that threatened to tear out her thick, wavy hair from the roots. ‘My grandmother always used to tell Thea – that’s my sister – that nits preferred clean hair. I don’t know if it’s true, but it made us feel better.’
Jenny’s sharp features were softened by the faintest hint of a smile. ‘My gran always says that, too.’ A pause, then: ‘I’m Jenny, by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you, Jenny. I’m Pearl. This is my first day at Fenthorpe, too.’ She pointed at Jenny’s kit. ‘Need a hand unpacking?’
‘No thanks. I don’t have much to unpack. Why don’t you go to the pub with the others? I’m sure you’ll catch them up if you hurry.’
‘I’d rather stay here. I hope the other WAAFs are nicer than Blanche because I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than go about with that madam.’
This time Jenny’s answering smile lit her whole face. ‘Maybe I can find something to make up for missing the pub.’ She rummaged in her bag, first extracting three extremely dog-eared books, which she placed on her shelf with the kind of care usually reserved for fragile china. Then she returned to her bag and pulled out a battered tin. ‘I got a few days’ leave before coming here, so I went home.’ She pulled a face. ‘Probably where I picked up the lice. Anyway’ – she brandished the tin – ‘my gran makes the best fruit cake, and she made some especially for me. Fancy a slice?’
‘I’d love some. Tell you what, while you finish unpacking, I’ll see if I can rustle us up some tea.’
It didn’t take long for Pearl to discover a kettle that could be heated on the stove. While she was heating the water, two more WAAFs arrived, one being the corporal in charge of Hut Three, who had a bed screened off from the rest of the room. Corporal Helen Longford was a young woman with dark hair and eyes that brimmed with laughter. Pearl judged her to be about twenty; it was slowly dawning on her that, while she might be a ‘sprog’ in the eyes of the WAAF, she was among the oldest.
They were still waiting for the water to boil when a noise like thunder shook the hut, making the furniture rattle. It took Pearl a moment to realise a plane had flown low overhead.
‘Don’t worry – you’ll get used to it,’ Helen said with a sympathetic smile. ‘We’re close to the end of the main runway, so that happens a lot.’
Jenny’s eyes were wide, making her look like a startled cat. ‘How do you sleep with that cacko phoney going on?’
Pearl stared at her in bemusement, wondering if the noise had affected her ears. ‘Cacko what?’
Helen’s brow, which had wrinkled at Jenny’s odd language, suddenly smoothed. ‘Oh, you mean cacophony.’
‘Is that how it’s pronounced?’ Jenny’s cheeks glowed red. ‘I’ve never heard it said, only ever read it.’
Pearl watched Helen. If she so much as smirked, Pearl would make her regret it.
‘Nothing to be ashamed about,’ Helen said. ‘I’m embarrassed to admit how recently I discovered that Penelope wasn’t pronounced Penny-lope.’
Pearl relaxed and laughed along with the others. Clearly Helen was nothing like Blanche. In fact, Helen rose in her estimation when she offered to show Pearl and Jenny around the domestic area of the station the following afternoon. When she heard about Blanche, she wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t take any notice of her. She thinks she’s a cut above the rest of us because she’s a general clerk in Intelligence. Goodness knows how she qualified for that, because she doesn’t possess a shred of intelligence as far as I can see.’
Pearl laughed, and Jenny offered her and the other WAAF, who was called Sarah, a slice of cake, but they declined.
‘We’re spending the evening in Lincoln,’ Helen explained. ‘We would invite you, but we’ve arranged to meet a couple of lads from RAF Scampton.’ Helen did show them where the hut’s supply of tea, cocoa and Ovaltine was kept. ‘We take it in turns to replenish our stores,’ she told them. ‘There’s a tin of condensed milk too, but we’ve given up trying to get sugar.’
Helen and Sarah changed into their ‘best blues’ – their smartest uniform, mostly reserved for parades and special occasions – and wished Pearl and Jenny a cordial good night. Just before leaving, Helen paused in the doorway and looked back at Jenny. ‘You’re a Met WAAF, aren’t you? If you report to the Met Office at 1100 hours, I’ll show you the ropes.’
With that she left. As glad as she was to know that Jenny already had a friend in the Met Office, Pearl wished she could say the same.
With the hut to themselves, and Jenny’s possessions neatly put away, the two girls retrieved their enamel mugs, poured the tea and sank into chairs by the stove. The chairs were wicker, with flattened, faded cushions on the seats, and were surprisingly comfortable. The wind must have picked up outside, for it howled down the flue like a banshee; Pearl was very glad to have company on her first night in this strange place. The stove’s heat didn’t radiate far into the room, and Pearl shovelled more coke into the fire. Seeing the meagre supply in the bucket, she didn’t dare heap on as much as she would have liked or the fire wouldn’t last the evening. It was a good job spring was on the way; the hut must get bitterly cold in the winter.
While they munched the delicious cake and sipped strong black tea, they discussed their journeys. Jenny had been on leave at her home in the Forest of Dean and had endured a particularly trying journey from Gloucester, as her first train had been full of troops and she’d been forced to sit on the floor.
Once they had cleared away the mugs, Jenny fetched a comb and started to comb out her hair. Now it was dryer, Pearl could see it was the golden colour of ripe wheat. She eyed it enviously; her own mousy brown hair was dull in comparison.
‘What’s your trade?’ Jenny asked.
‘I’m an R/T operator – a radio telephone operator. I’ll be working in the Watch Office. What about you?’
‘I’m a Met WAAF.’
Pearl shook her head. ‘I remember the corporal at the guardhouse telling me that but I don’t know what it means.’
‘A meteorological assistant.’
‘That sounds impressive.’
‘It’s not really, although it’s quite interesting. I had to do a special course in London.’
‘What does it involve?’
Jenny’s face lit up. ‘Well, I have to take readings on things like temperature, pressure and wind speed every hour, which we send to Group HQ. Then we have to plot our readings on a chart. It’s fascinating.’ Her face became more animated as she spoke, and she no longer seemed like an object of pity but a young woman with a true enthusiasm for her work.
‘You’re lucky getting a job you’re so interested in. I hope I enjoy my work as much. What did you do before you joined the WAAF? Have you just left school?’
Jenny’s face clouded. ‘No, I had to leave school at fourteen. I was desperate to stay on and do my School Certificate but…’ Her head drooped. Even by the dim electric light, Pearl could see the blush on Jenny’s face. ‘Well, we needed the money.’
Pearl’s heart twisted with sympathy. ‘That’s rough. I had to leave school earlier than I would have liked but at least I could stay long enough to get my School Cert. I needed to help my grandmother look after my younger sister and I wanted to start earning too.’ She omitted to mention that Deedee had done her best to persuade Pearl to stay on at school, insisting she had enough money to support her through her higher certificate.
‘You live with your grandmother?’ Jenny asked. ‘Are you an orphan too?’
‘Yes. My father was killed in the last war, and my mother died of the Spanish flu just after the war, not long after Thea, my sister, was born. What happened to your parents?’
‘My mother died having me and my dad was a miner. He got ill from all the coal dust and died when I was ten.’
‘How awful. Thank goodness for our grandmothers.’
‘It was better than ending up in an orphanage, I suppose.’
This was hardly a ringing endorsement of Jenny’s gran, and Pearl’s surprise must have shown in her face, for Jenny pulled a face. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love my gran, and she’s done so much for me. But we don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Women’s place in society, for one. She thought I should marry her best friend’s grandson, settle down and have babies. My grancher was more supportive, but he’d never openly disagree with Gran. It was a relief when I turned eighteen and could join the WAAF.’
Pearl groaned in sympathy. ‘Your gran would get on well with my former boss.’ She related Mr Kingsley’s reasons for giving the coveted reporter’s role to Philip Meadows.
Jenny shook her combed locks over her shoulders and gave Pearl a grin. ‘Sounds like we both have a lot in common, and I for one intend to make the most of the WAAF. Even though we’re bound by regulations, this is more freedom than I’ve ever had. I think I’m going to like it here.’
‘You’re right.’ Pearl smiled at Jenny. ‘And I’m not going to let men like Mr Kingsley wreck my dreams. I’ll make the most of my experiences here, and who knows – perhaps I’ll find something to write about.’