Read Online Apple Blossom Time by Kathryn Haig - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathryn Haig
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the Rifle Brigade? If the drill book says a 27-inch pace, ladies, then a 27-inch pace I shall have, and not an inch more nor less.’
Grace and Vee struggled daily to keep their vehicles roadworthy. They constantly had to strip down and clean sand out of carburettors and filters or adjust plugs. We’d been reinforced by a new draft from home by then, clerks and storewomen, and all the beds in our hut were occupied, but we four, the originals, stuck together in rather a clannish way. We weren’t surprised that more than one of the new girls arrived pregnant – there weren’t many ways to while away the time on a troopship!
We had fire drills and air-raid drills. We scrubbed latrines. We had kit inspections, when a diffident Miss Carstairs tried not to enquire too closely as to the state of our clothing.
‘You seem to be short of all your collars, Westonbirt.’
‘At the laundry, ma’am.’
‘And a suspender belt.’
‘Laundry, ma’am.’
‘And your spare shoelaces.’
‘Laundry, ma’am.’
Sergeant Gulliver had no such scruples. She was only too keen to point out if we were diffy a hook on a khaki brassière or our knicker elastic was frayed. She poked and meddled amongst our belongings in a way that really put my back up. I hated even more when, before a parade, she’d jerk our hats straight or tweak our ties.
‘If she touches me just once more, I swear I’ll swing for her!’
‘Can’t you see, she enjoys it more when you’re angry,’ said Vee, wisely. ‘She looks into your face and she knows you’re fizzing and she loves it. Don’t get mad – there’s no future in it. Just keep your face straight, say “Yes, sergeant!” like a good little girl and think to yourself Ma’alish! ’
Pansy put her first tape up. We’d always known she’d be the one. We toasted her in cocoa, as she stitched the single chevron into place.
‘It could have been any of us, really,’ she said, modestly. ‘I was just lucky they were short of a shift NCO in the cookhouse.’
‘Absolute rot,’ Grace retorted. ‘You deserve it.’
We wrote letters home and had airgraphs, miniaturized on to film to save cargo space and enlarged at their destination, back. When they came, we read them to each other, sharing families. We heard about Grace’s grandfather, who was a Scottish earl, complaining that his shoot had gone to blue blazes because his keepers had all enlisted. We heard about Vee’s grandmother, whose shop-front had been blown in by a land mine, but who’d opened a stall in the street outside the very next morning rather than close down for ‘that bloody little Herr Schicklgrueber’. We all felt as proud of her as though she were our own joint grandmother.
We wrote a round robin to the crew of a ship on Atlantic convoy who’d appealed for penpals and sent them a snap of the four of us and a camel. With hats at every angle but the correct one and arms linked, we grinned out from the picture, tanned, laughing, confident. We hoped it would give the sailors a few smiles. God knows they deserved one, out there on the freezing Atlantic run. On the back, Vee scribbled, ‘Guess which one’s me (and it’s not the one with a hump)!’
Busy, busy girls. Don’t you know there’s a war on?
* * *
The lights still blazed and the music still played. Cold, dark England, rationing and air raids seemed a lifetime away. The sun still shone, blinding, pitiless, a white light that lanced through your eyes and into your brain.
* * *
After a month, James came back out of the blue for two days. We dined at Le P’tit Coin de France and danced at the Deck Club. How extraordinary – I was really pleased to see him. We seemed to laugh a lot – I don’t know why, everything seemed funny – but James didn’t say very much.
I never knew where he’d been, what he’d done, what he’d seen. And I couldn’t tell him what I had been doing, either. We had no friends in common, no shared
Grace and Vee struggled daily to keep their vehicles roadworthy. They constantly had to strip down and clean sand out of carburettors and filters or adjust plugs. We’d been reinforced by a new draft from home by then, clerks and storewomen, and all the beds in our hut were occupied, but we four, the originals, stuck together in rather a clannish way. We weren’t surprised that more than one of the new girls arrived pregnant – there weren’t many ways to while away the time on a troopship!
We had fire drills and air-raid drills. We scrubbed latrines. We had kit inspections, when a diffident Miss Carstairs tried not to enquire too closely as to the state of our clothing.
‘You seem to be short of all your collars, Westonbirt.’
‘At the laundry, ma’am.’
‘And a suspender belt.’
‘Laundry, ma’am.’
‘And your spare shoelaces.’
‘Laundry, ma’am.’
Sergeant Gulliver had no such scruples. She was only too keen to point out if we were diffy a hook on a khaki brassière or our knicker elastic was frayed. She poked and meddled amongst our belongings in a way that really put my back up. I hated even more when, before a parade, she’d jerk our hats straight or tweak our ties.
‘If she touches me just once more, I swear I’ll swing for her!’
‘Can’t you see, she enjoys it more when you’re angry,’ said Vee, wisely. ‘She looks into your face and she knows you’re fizzing and she loves it. Don’t get mad – there’s no future in it. Just keep your face straight, say “Yes, sergeant!” like a good little girl and think to yourself Ma’alish! ’
Pansy put her first tape up. We’d always known she’d be the one. We toasted her in cocoa, as she stitched the single chevron into place.
‘It could have been any of us, really,’ she said, modestly. ‘I was just lucky they were short of a shift NCO in the cookhouse.’
‘Absolute rot,’ Grace retorted. ‘You deserve it.’
We wrote letters home and had airgraphs, miniaturized on to film to save cargo space and enlarged at their destination, back. When they came, we read them to each other, sharing families. We heard about Grace’s grandfather, who was a Scottish earl, complaining that his shoot had gone to blue blazes because his keepers had all enlisted. We heard about Vee’s grandmother, whose shop-front had been blown in by a land mine, but who’d opened a stall in the street outside the very next morning rather than close down for ‘that bloody little Herr Schicklgrueber’. We all felt as proud of her as though she were our own joint grandmother.
We wrote a round robin to the crew of a ship on Atlantic convoy who’d appealed for penpals and sent them a snap of the four of us and a camel. With hats at every angle but the correct one and arms linked, we grinned out from the picture, tanned, laughing, confident. We hoped it would give the sailors a few smiles. God knows they deserved one, out there on the freezing Atlantic run. On the back, Vee scribbled, ‘Guess which one’s me (and it’s not the one with a hump)!’
Busy, busy girls. Don’t you know there’s a war on?
* * *
The lights still blazed and the music still played. Cold, dark England, rationing and air raids seemed a lifetime away. The sun still shone, blinding, pitiless, a white light that lanced through your eyes and into your brain.
* * *
After a month, James came back out of the blue for two days. We dined at Le P’tit Coin de France and danced at the Deck Club. How extraordinary – I was really pleased to see him. We seemed to laugh a lot – I don’t know why, everything seemed funny – but James didn’t say very much.
I never knew where he’d been, what he’d done, what he’d seen. And I couldn’t tell him what I had been doing, either. We had no friends in common, no shared
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