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‘Ghost and all?’ Evie teased.
‘All right, then. Mock if you want, but it’ll be a different kettle of fish, won’t it, when I find that grave marker.’
And find it she would or her name wasn’t Nancy Morrissey who was a member of the Auxiliary Territorial Service and would be eighteen in November. On the day – or night, most probably – that the ghost walked!
‘Er – anybody goin’ down the garden to the lavvy before it gets dark? I’ll nip down with you, if you are…’ Nan was nothing if not careful.
‘OK. Let’s all go,’ Carrie grinned. ‘We can hold hands. Safety in numbers, I suppose, in case we meet Cecilia!’
Which made Evie remark that she’d had enough of the ghostly nun for one day, and could they please remember there was a war on and tomorrow they were on early shift; their first shift at Heronflete and it began at six in the morning!
It made Carrie remember to make sure the alarm clock was set for 5.20, and Nan to ponder just how much wiser they all would be after that first shift. And it made her feel glad she would be working in the old estate office and not in the stableblock, with Carrie.
And oh, my goodness! If only the Queer One at Cyprian Court could see her now!
Five
Sergeant James slammed the flat of her hand on her door marked SIGNALS OFFICE: NO ENTRY then stood, hands on hips, mouth rounded in disapproval.
The blackout curtains on the windows either side of the door were still drawn even though, because of Double Summer Time, it had been light for half an hour. She bought down her hand again, then relaxed a little at the sound of bolts being drawn back and the scrape of a key in the lock.
A man said, ‘Oh – hi…’ He was rubbing the back of his neck, and yawning. ‘Sorry, Ma’am. Was having a zizz…’
‘Please do not address me as Ma’am. I am not an officer.’ She stepped inside, followed by Evie and Nan. ‘And are you allowed to sleep on night duty? What about the switchboard and the teleprinters?’
‘They’re fine. I put the alarm bell on the switchboard and the printer starts up automatically if a signal comes through. Which it didn’t. All night.’
‘I see. Draw back the curtains, Morrissey, and open the windows.’ She glared at a tin lid filled with cigarette ends. ‘And will you take that with you when you leave, please?’
‘Sure. No problem,’ he smiled.
Nan took a sneaky look. He wasn’t half bad. Tall, fair, dressed in black pumps and navy trousers and polo sweater. Too old for her, of course. Must be at least thirty.
‘I thought there were to be two night operators.’ The sergeant took off her cap and jacket and began the process of rolling up her sleeves to the elbow. ‘And how do I address you?’
‘Well, you are a sergeant and if I were in your mob, I’d be a sergeant too. But in the Navy, I’m a petty officer – P O, I suppose.’
‘So that’s your name? P O? Fine by me.’
‘Well, no,’ he smiled and that smile was quite something, Nan thought reluctantly. ‘I’m in Signals like yourself but my rank is that of Yeoman of Signals – not petty officer. I’m addressed as Yeoman – or Yeo, when you know me better.’
‘Quaint…’
‘No, sergeant. It’s the way it has always been. There were Yeomen and Chief Yeomen of Signals in Nelson’s day, so who are we to change it? The Royal Navy floats on tradition, you know.’
‘Really? So I take it there wasn’t a lot of traffic during the night?’
‘Not a sausage.’ He picked up the ashtray. ‘Ah, well – see you.’
He walked to the green baize door, inspected the two trays – In and Out – that stood on the hatch beside it. Then he pressed the bell push, and turned. ‘By the way, there’s a kettle in the little kitchen place and tea and sugar. Milk on the floor. Feel free to brew up.’
The door was opened from the inside and briefly Nan glimpsed a row of bells on springs on the wall.
‘Looks like there’s kitchens through there,’ she said as the green baize door slammed.
‘Never mind what’s on the other side of that door, Morrissey,’ said the sergeant. ‘Right now there’s nothing I’d like more than a mug of tea.’
In the tiny kitchen was a milk bottle in a pan of cold water under the sink and on the wooden draining board an electric kettle, tins marked tea and sugar. And four mugs in need of washing.
‘Shall I make a brew, sarge?’
The sergeant nodded, then turning to Evie who was inspecting the switchboard she said,
‘So what do you make of it, Turner – Navy bods at the big house, I mean?’
‘Don’t know, Sergeant. It gets curioser and curioser.’
‘And very little night traffic…’
‘Mm. I thought – mind, I don’t know why -that they were a load of civilians from some bombed-out government office, but they’ve got the Army guarding them and here, in this office, and a signals bod from the Navy on the other side of the green door. Combined Ops maybe?’
‘Could be, but I doubt it. And why don’t you nip to the motor pool, see if Tiptree is still there? Cookhouse won’t be operational till seven – ask her if she’d like tea?’
So Evie hurried round the back of the stables, whispering ‘Morning, Cecilia,’ then called to Carrie who was making for the gateposts.
‘Hey! Wait on, Tiptree! Sergeant says do you want a cuppa? We’ve got a kettle in there.’
‘Wouldn’t I just? Busy, are you?’
‘No, it’s dead as a dodo, and a Navy bod – a Yeoman he calls himself – doing the night shift. The sarge was a bit sniffy with him, but he seemed all right to me. Quite handsome, if you like them a bit more mature. But don’t forget to thank the Sergeant for the tea, then you might get a brew on a regular basis.’
‘At six-fifteen in the morning, I’d positively grovel if there was tea at the end of it. Lead on, lance-corporal!’
Nan switched on the kettle then rinsed mugs under the tap. Amazingly, a tea towel hung behind the door. Short of nothing, that lot at the big house, and tea and sugar unrationed, it would seem.
Carefully she spooned tea leaves into a cream enamel pot with a green handle, then leaned against the draining board, feet crossed, arms folded, to await the kettle, and to think.
Think about Heronflete Priory and the diddy little billet. And Evie and Carrie who were smashing and Sergeant James who just might become human, given time.
And she thought about being in this unbelievable place where a lord once lived, and the fields and trees and wild flowers; the peace and quiet of it, too, with only the bombers – ours – that flew over, to remind her that somewhere out there, a war was going on.
Then she closed her eyes and smiled, because tomorrow was pay day.
‘What will happen, Sergeant,’ Evie asked later, ‘when we go to the cookhouse for meals? Will you be able to manage?’
‘Of course I will, even when you get long leaves – provided you go one at a time. I’ve been in signals from day one of this war, and teleprinters and switchboards bother me not one iota.
‘And if you are reminding me that the cookhouse is open and none of us has eaten yet, I suggest you toss up for who goes first. In fact, the way things are this very minute, I think the three of us could slope off and never be missed!’
She had wondered about the lack of activity; had even thought that the Post Office engineers might have left without connecting things up, had silently fumed about this tuppeny-ha’penny place and longed with all her heart for the bustle and discipline of a properly-run unit on a wartime footing. And girls in Nissen huts!
‘You take first breakfast, Turner,’ she said absently, standing behind Nan who sat in front of two silent teleprinters, willing one of them at least to cooperate.
‘Switch that printer on, Morrissey.’
Nan pressed the start button and with a clatter the black machine came alive, so she hit the answerback key, and the carriage swung from left to right and back. On the page in front of her came CEN HP4.
‘There, sarge! Must be our call sign! HP4, off Central switchboard. We do exist, then.’
‘Seems we do. Give it a go, Morrissey – see if it prints.’
Nan cancelled the transmit swich, then typed The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The words appeared speedily, because it was one of the sentences you typed a lot, when you were a learner. If she had a silver shilling for every time that fox had jumped, she would be a very well-to-do ATS private.
‘Do you suppose they know we’re here, Sergeant? I mean – they’re so secretive that maybe they’ve forgotten to tell the government about Heronflete.’
‘Y’know, that wouldn’t surprise me at all, Morrissey!’
She sat down at the switchboard, adjusted the headset, then willed one of the circular, numbered discs to fall, or one of the square flaps of the outside lines to open with a brrr, then sighing, fixed her eyes on the second hand of the wall clock, which moved very, very slowly.
The silence became so uncomfortable that Nan said,
‘Have you heard about the ghost, Sergeant? The one they call Cecilia? She was a nun that got walled up in the old priory – left there to die…’
But the Sergeant continued to stare at the switchboard in silence. She was so browned off that the last thing she wanted to hear about was a stupid bloody ghost!
It seemed that eight-thirty – or 0830 hrs BST -was the magic time and it was as if all those who lived at Heronflete had arisen, bathed and eaten breakfast, and were ready to do whatever it was they had come to Heronflete to do. When both Evie and Nan had breakfasted and Sergeant James had left for the cookhouse, a disc on the switchboard fell. It was No.5. Picking up a plug she pushed it into the hole beneath No.5, said ‘Switchboard’, very clearly and firmly, and was asked for an outside line.
She pushed in the corresponding plug, said, ‘You’re thrrrrrough.’ Then she turned triumphantly to Nan. ‘We’re in business, old love!’
‘Who was it?’
‘Extension five – a man, for an outside line.’
‘What’s he talking about? Have a listen, Evie?’
‘You reckon?’ After all, they were alone. ‘I shouldn’t, you know…’
‘Ar. Be a devil!’
Evie said, ‘Ssssh, then,’ and placed the palm of her hand over the mouthpiece of her headset. Slowly and carefully so as not to make even the smallest click, she pushed a switch forward.
‘Ha! Wouldn’t you know it, Morrissey! They’ve got the scrambler on!’
‘What’s that, when it’s at home?’
‘Some clever-dick device to distort sound so that anybody tapping in on a phone call just hears gobbledygook. Sensible, I suppose, when you think that a spy could climb a telegraph pole and listen in to any conversation he wanted. They do it all the time, I know that for a fact.’
‘Ar,’ Nan nodded. ‘Amazin’ what them Jairmans get up to.’
‘Don’t worry. We do it, too. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if that lot,’ she nodded towards the green baize door, ‘aren’t up to something similar.’
‘Climbing telegraph poles, you mean?’ Nan was disappointed.
‘No, but they might be listening in. Monitoring air waves, I mean. They might have operators searching for anything they heard in Morse code and taking it down. Telegraphists.’
‘Like Carrie’s feller?’
‘Yes, though I think he’s still in barracks, waiting for a ship. Carrie says he’s not best pleased about it.’
‘Hmm. What do you make of that romance, Evie?’
‘None of my business. The fact that Carrie doesn’t wear her ring is neither here nor there. I never had an engagement ring. We used the money to open a bank account for when the war is over. But Carrie often gets her hands dirty and greasy. You can’t blame her.’
‘Yes, but -’ Nan bit on her lip, deciding against telling Evie that Carrie wasn’t absolutely sure she wanted to get married just yet and said instead, ‘Well, if I had a ring, I’d wear it! Not that anybody’s offered yet.’
‘Give it time, Nan. You’re young enough. Have a bit of fun before you settle down.’
And nan was about to say that chance would be a fine thing when, just as the sergeant opened the door, one of the teleprinters came to life with a loud clatter.
‘Hey up, Sergeant! A signal!’
They watched as figures in groups of four clicked themselves into columns. They flew across the page.
‘That’s a good operator on the other end.’ The sergeant nodded her approval.
The typing stopped.
‘Go on then, Morrissey. Give them a receipt.’
So Nan looked at the wall clock then typed R 0858B/3/9/41 NM, then tore off the message and handed it to the sergeant.
Now she really was a teleprinter operator! Her eyes shone, her cheeks pinked. And one day Nan Morrissey too would be a good operator!
‘Hm. HF4 V ZAA. That’s Heronflete from ZAA. So who the heck is ZAA?’ the sergeant frowned.
She pressed the bell beside the hatch, placed the signal in the out-tray, then waited until a hand took it, clucking at the stupidity of a signals office that didn’t need a sergeant to run it. And she longed for the busy office she had left where sergeants had a mess of their own and didn’t have to share a gate lodge with privates. And she missed squad drill; girls marching, arms swinging, responding like automatons to commands! But most of all, she missed Joe; missed him so much it was like a pain inside her and what was far, far worse, the cold, stark certainty that she would never see him again.
‘Sergeant!’
‘Yes, Turner…?’
Monica James tore herself from the memory of a kiss that had been a last goodbye.
‘Take a look at this!’ The switchboard was criss-crossed with cords and plugs in holes. Heronflete had come to life. ‘I – er – I listened in to the first one; an outside line. It was scrambled.’
‘Hmm. Try an internal call, Turner.’
Evie covered the mouthpiece and slid a key gently forward, then nodded.
