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‘Now you’re not to talk like that.’ Her mother was using her coaxing voice, her talking-to-awkward-daughters voice. ‘You have a job, you travel ten miles to work each day, and back, and two nights a week you fire watch for the ARP, leaving me all alone here. But do I complain?’
‘No.’
She said it snappily, because doing a clerk’s job did not seem at all like war work. The local bus picked her up at eight each morning and got her home by six forty-five each evening, and as for the fire-watching duties – well, there had been no fires; not even an air-raid warning, so what was so noble about that?
‘Why you and Jeffrey don’t fix a date, Carrie, is beyond me. I mean – you’d get a naval allowance and nobody could make you leave home if you were a married woman. Why all this soul searching? What’s brought it on, will you tell me?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me, if I did.’ She turned abruptly to stare out of the window.
‘Try me, dear. And please don’t turn your back when you speak to me.’
‘Sorry – and all right, if you must know…’ She went to sit beside her mother, then stared at the empty hearth. ‘What has brought it on? Seeing everything so beautiful, I suppose. Hutton in the spring and this lovely little village and – and the invasion. Because there’s going to be one, and I don’t want us to be invaded. All this is worth fighting for, mother.’
‘And Jeffrey has gone to fight for it. All the young men in the village, too. Nether Hutton is well represented.’
‘Y-yes…’ Her mother was right – except that there were only two young men of conscription age in the village. And herself, of course. ‘And it’s going to be better represented,’ she blurted, red-cheeked to the brass fender. ‘Because I’m going, as well. I’m going to join up.’
‘ Join up! I have never in all my life heard such nonsense! Have you forgotten your duty to me, Caroline?’
‘No. But I really am going. Into the Army.’
‘But you are all I have!’ Janet Tiptree jumped to her feet and began to pace the room. ‘Haven’t I suffered enough from war? Didn’t I lose your father to the Great War, and must I lose my only child to this one? Your father came home a sick man; came home to die of his war wounds and -’
‘And Todd’s father was killed, trying to get him out of No Man’s Land.’
‘Todd Coverdale? Why bring him into it after all these years?’
Her mother’s red cheeks and trembling mouth warned Carrie to have care, but still she said,
‘All these years? It’s not all that long since he left.’
‘And did you expect me to keep him out of a sense of duty?’ she demanded shrilly. ‘I couldn’t help it if his mother died. Your father, out of gratitude, told Marie Coverdale that she and her son would have a home here as long as she lived.’
‘Yes, and out of gratitude she worked in this house like a servant, almost, and – and -’
‘And Todd wanted for nothing. Even after your father died, I saw to it that nothing changed. They continued to live here and Todd went to Grammar School!’
‘He got a scholarship! Todd was like a brother to me, yet you sent him away, when his mother died.’
‘To his aunt, who was willing to have him. But why all this raking up of the past? You said nothing about his going, at the time. And we are talking about now, and you leaving home! What is to become of me, when you go – if you go.’
‘No ifs,’ Caroline said softly, gently. ‘If I pass the medical, I’m going. And it isn’t a question of duty, either to you or to this country. I’m joining up because I want to; because something is telling me I must. Can’t you understand? Can’t you, for once, think of something other than yourself?’
‘Well, now I know you have taken leave of your senses! Me – selfish.’ The tears left Janet Tiptree’s eyes, her jaw hardened. ‘Me, who has been father and mother to you, thinks only of myself? Shame on you Caroline. Don’t make me more upset than I already am! I suggest you go to bed, and wake up tomorrow in a better frame of mind. And apologise for the things you have said!’
‘No thank you. I am well past the age of being sent early to bed. But I am sorry if I have hurt you, if I seem ungrateful for all you have done for me. And I am sorry for your loneliness over the years, but please stop treating me like a child?’
‘Then stop behaving like one and remember where your duty lies. And I have nothing more to say. I shall go to bed. I have a migraine coming on. Will it be too much to ask that you bring me up a hot drink, and an aspirin?’
She opened the staircase door and without a goodnight, walked sighing to her room…
‘Oh, lordy!’ Carrie whispered when she heard the banging of the bedroom door.
It had been exactly as she thought: the pleading, tears and recriminations. It always was, when her mother wanted her own way. Sometimes her mother had a hard heart, inside that sweet exterior. It was sad she was a widow, but the Great War had left behind many widows – Todd’s mother for one, whose husband had crawled into the void between the trenches. Todd’s father had been shot by a sniper as he dragged his wounded officer to safety.
Mind, her father had been grateful; given his word that widow and son should be cared for. And her mother accepted it, because she always took the least line of resistance – and because it suited her to have unpaid help in the house.
Carrie looked at herself in the wall mirror; gazed unblinking so her resolve should not weaken, because there was something else her mother wouldn’t like, if ever she found out.
Fix a date for the wedding? Not yet. Because Jeffrey had shocked her, shown a side to his nature she had not known to exist, and she had not liked it. She recalled his mouth, sensuously pouted, his eyes narrowed so he need not look at her and his mouth, wet on hers.
‘I’m going to the war, Carrie,’ he had said, ‘and if you loved me, you’d let me. We’re engaged, after all. Where’s the harm in it? And anyway, you can’t get pregnant the first time.’
So she had let him; had lain there unresisting, eyes fixed on the ceiling whilst he pushed and grunted and shoved.
‘Told you it’d be all right, didn’t I?’ He had nuzzled her neck when it was over, then slid off the bed and pulled on his trousers. ‘And it’ll be better, next time.’
Next time, thank heaven, was at least three months away, and by next time she could well be out of reach. And she didn’t want there to be a next time. Not yet. Not until she could talk to Jeffrey about her fears, her feelings, because if that was what doing it was like, then she had got it all wrong.
She shrugged and walked to the window, arms folded tightly around her, mouth stubborn, gazing as twilight touched the garden, muting colours, softening outlines.
The wood pigeon that nested in the tree in the lane outside flew past her line of vision, alighting atop the wall, cooing and burbling. It waddled, pecking, then flapped up to its nest. Poor silly, fortunate bird. It didn’t even know there was a war on.
But there was a war on and she was going to join it, and not all her mother’s tears would stop her. Soon, she would have to register for war service so why not choose, as Jeffrey had done, what she would do and in which arm of the Forces. Army, Air Force, Navy – did it matter? Could anything be worse than remaining in Nether Hutton, a dutiful daughter, waiting for Jeffrey to come home on leave from the Navy and marry her, just because that was what everyone expected them to do?
She wished she could talk to her mother about what happened that night she had gone out to play whist and left them alone together. Yet she knew she could not, must not.
She slid home the door bolts and turned the key in the lock. Then she pulled the blackout curtains across the window and went to the kitchen.
A hot drink for her mother, and two aspirins. A little honey in the milk and a glass of water for the tablets. A dutiful daughter again, who would one day be a dutiful wife to Jeffrey.
But not on his first leave. Only when she was ready to be a wife. And on this heart-achingly beautiful May evening, she was not.
‘Sorry, mother,’ she whispered to the honey jar. ‘I’ve got to have time to sort out my life my own way. And sorry, Jeffrey. I will marry you, but not just yet; not until we have talked.’ Because something so very important could not be open to doubt, or left to chance.
And tomorrow, no matter what her mother said or threatened, she would go to the recruiting office. She had to.
‘Let’s check to see if we’ve got it right,’ the ATS corporal in the Recruiting Office said. ‘Nancy Morrissey, of 16 Farthing Street, Leeds. Date of birth November 22, 1924. And you wish, if you pass the medical examination, to join the Auxiliary Territorial Service – right?’
‘Right,’ Nan said, just a little chokily. ‘And I want to be a typist.’ She took the folded piece of paper from her handbag. ‘Got a certificate…’
‘That won’t be necessary, at this stage. If you pass, you’ll be given an intelligence test,’ the corporal smiled.
She had a nice smile, Nan thought; had a ring on her engagement finger, too.
‘I – I wouldn’t like to be a domestic,’ she breathed. ‘I want sumthin’ better than bein’ an orderly.’
‘An orderly is not to be looked down upon,’ the corporal reproved. ‘You will be wearing the King’s uniform – something to be proud of, whatever job you do. Oh, and your next-of-kin…?’
‘That’s me Auntie Mim – Mrs Miriam Simpson, 16 Farthing Street, Leeds. I’m living with her, now, ’cause we was bombed in Liverpool.’ No need to mention her stepmother. ‘Me dad was killed when they bombed the hospital. I hate them Nazis, rot their socks!’
‘Rot their socks indeed.’ The corporal raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m from London – East End.’
‘Aaah,’ Nan nodded, a bond between them established. ‘And I’d like to get in as soon as possible. Auntie Mim can only let me stay for four weeks, see?’
‘I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.’ She handed back the identity card and ration book Nan had offered in lieu of her birth certificate. ‘Farthing Street is your permanent address as from now?’
‘For four weeks, till the lodger comes back. After that, I can’t say. That’s why I want in quick.’
‘I’ll add a note. Your medical will be at Albion Street, here in Leeds, so that’ll be handy. I don’t suppose you and I will meet again, Miss Morrissey, so good luck.’
‘Thanks. Do you like bein’ in the ATS Miss -er – Corporal?’
‘Yes, I do. Very much.’ She rose to her feet.
‘Ta-ra, then – and thanks.’ Nan pushed back her chair. The interview, she realized, was over. She was in the ATS – if she passed the medical, that was. No going back, now. ‘And you won’t forget to add the note?’
‘I won’t.’
Shakily, Nan made her way to the street outside, blinking in the bright sunlight. Shakily, because it wasn’t every day you did something as mind-boggling as joining the Army.
She looked at the clock above the Market Hall. Eleven, exactly, which meant that in the span of two hours, she had changed the address on her ration book and identity card from Cyprian Court, Liverpool, to Farthing Street, Leeds; had obtained an emergency card for two weeks’ food and offered herself to the Auxiliary Territorial Service for the duration of hostilities. Strange that only yesterday she had walked out on her old life for ever, and if she didn’t get into the Army, heaven only knew what she would do, or where she would go. But she had learned, in her nearly eighteen years, not to look for trouble and anyway, nothing could be worse than being at Cyprian Court with her stepmother and her Georgie. Now dad had gone, there was nothing at all to keep her in Liverpool and if Nan Morrissey had anything to do with it, she would never go back there!
She crossed the road to the Market Hall, in search of a queue. Queuing was part of daily life, now. You saw a long line of patiently waiting women, then hopefully joined on the end of it.
‘What’s it for?’ she asked of the woman in front of her.
‘Fish.’ The reply was brief. Usually people talked to you in queues, but the one in front didn’t seem to want to gossip. Nan turned to the woman behind her.
‘Fish,’ she beamed. ‘Fingers crossed, eh?’
Carrie folded the greaseproof paper in which her sandwiches had been wrapped and put it in her handbag. Paper was in short supply, so you used it again and again. She had made her own sandwiches this morning, her mother’s bedroom door being firmly closed, with no answer to her knock and her whispered, ‘Tea, mother?’
Janet Tiptree, it would seem, was still asleep, though the minute the bus left the village, Carrie was as sure as she could be that she would be out of bed and downstairs before the teapot had time to get cold.
Carrie brushed the crumbs from her knees and stuck out her chin. Today, in her dinner hour, she had resolved to go to the recruiting office and there must be no going back, now. A short walk would take her there, after which heaven only knew what would happen…
Yet that was the way she wanted it, and if her mother tried to block her way by refusing her consent, she would try again after her twenty-first birthday. But she was going. Somewhere. Some place out of her mother’s reach to do what Caroline Tiptree wanted – needed – to do.
All she knew – really knew – at this moment was that there was a war on and it was going to last for years and years. Longer than the last one, some said. It was a terrible thought but if, by joining the Armed Forces, her small effort could shorten that war by just one day, then she had to do it, no matter what her mother said. Or Jeffrey, for that matter.
The door of the Recruiting Office was wide open, the room inside bare and empty except for a row of wooden chairs and a desk behind which sat an ATS sergeant.
‘Er – hello,’ Carrie whispered.
‘Hello,’ the sergeant smiled. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes please.’ She was surprised her voice should sound so croaky.
‘Then take a pew.’ The sergeant was still smiling.
‘That was a lovely supper, Auntie Mim.’ Nan wiped dry the pan she had just scrubbed.
‘Good of you to get the fish.’
It had been a very small piece of haddock, but her aunt had made it into fishcakes, followed by bread and butter pudding, conjured up from a little milk, the egg from Nan’s ration card, the remains of a loaf and two precious prunes, chopped into tiny pieces to resemble currants.
‘And good of you, lass, to help with the washing up.’
‘Think nothing of it.’ Nan had done all the dish-washing and pan-scrubbing at Cyprian Court, with never a word of thanks. She settled herself in the kitchen rocker, pink-cheeked at the compliment.
Miriam Simpson took out her knitting. It was all very cosy, Nan was bound to admit; like it would have been at Cyprian Court if Mum hadn’t died. She wondered if the Queer One was having trouble getting Georgie to go to bed on his own, and hoped he was being a right little sod. She waited until her aunt had finished counting stitches, then said,
‘There’s something I want to ask you – about Mum and Dad…Did they have to get married?’ The words came out in a rush.
‘Nobody has to do anything, lass – but what made you ask? I thought you’d have known.’
‘Well, I didn’t. Not till yesterday. They were married three months before I was born. It was a shock, I can tell you.’
‘Does it matter when? You were born in wedlock. That’s all that need concern you.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t think dad was the sort to get a girl into trouble, then take six months to make an honest woman of her. I thought better about him than that, if you must know.’
‘Oh dearie me.’ Miriam laid her knitting on her lap, then folded her hands over it, staring into the empty fire grate. ‘Now see here Nan, you’re almost a grown up and for better or for worse, you’ve decided to branch out on your own and join the Army. So I reckon you should know the truth of it, because I don’t want you to think ill of your father – and that was what he became, the minute he married your mother.’
‘Became?’ Nan whispered.
‘That’s right. Will Morrissey had always cared for your mother – was willing to wed her. He gave you his name, and you should be thankful for it.’
‘So am I to be told who my real father was?’ Nan’s heart thudded, her mouth so dry it was difficult to speak.
‘No you aren’t, because we never knew. Your mother refused to tell anyone, even Will, who’d been decent enough to marry her. All I know was that she went to her wedding with a hundred pounds in her pocket and a house full of furniture. She was lucky. A lot of women in her predicament got nothing!’
‘Ar.’ Still dazed, Nan filled a glass at the kitchen tap and drank deeply. ‘A hundred pounds was a lot of money in them days.’
‘It still is. Whoever it was fathered you, Nan, was of moneyed folk.’
‘And where was Mum when it – when I happened?’
‘Working for a ship-owning family in Liverpool. She was a sort of companion-help to the old mother, I believe. Didn’t you know?’
She hadn’t known, but it all added up Nan thought, wiping the glass, returning it to the shelf. A hundred pounds and enough furniture to fill the house in Cyprian Court would mean nothing to the likes of them.
‘And nobody ever found out?’ she persisted.
‘No. Your mother could be the stubborn one. Why she had to go to Liverpool to work, heaven only knows. You’re like her, Nan. Rushing off to join the Army, I mean.’
‘But I was never like her in looks, Auntie Mim.’
