little nose pushed out of the bicycle basket and the puppy looked at her mournfully.
“Oh you poor little mite!” she spoke to the pup, “you’ve been so good, and just as I promised Bill, my boyfriend who died in Malta that I would look after his dog, I will look after you because you were Fred’s little doggie.”
Having taken on the responsibly of Fred’s puppy it made her forget her memories of Normandy, and come to her senses.
“Now, what shall we do, Freda?” she asked the little pup as she stoked its head.
A series of whines reminded her that she must feed it.
Getting on her bicycle she rode along the quay and saw a NAAFI mobile van.
A nice cup of English tea was pictured in her mind - and water and some food for the dog.
Having to concentrate on not only her needs - but on Fred’s puppy too, made her snap out of her lethargy as she approached the canteen van.
The two women in overalls looked at Vera scornfully when she asked for a cup of tea. “We don’t serve civilians,” one said.
For the first time Vera was aware of how others would see her: a ragamuffin. Her hair had grown over the past few weeks and was longer neat she normally wore it. And instead of it being brushed off the forehead and neatly rolled off her collar, it straggled untidily around her face and neck, as it had been blow about in the Channel wind. She hadn’t worn any lipstick for ages and her lips were not smooth and kissable. Her clothes were a mixture of some clothes she’d left home with and some Jeanette had kindly given her, because her bump was beginning to make her skirt too tight around the waist. Her stockings had many runs, and her shoes had seen any polish for ages and were covered with sand.
But that didn’t make her feel inferior – in fact she felt quite pleased to think she’d come though all she had, and didn’t see why she had to accept being put down by a couple of stay-at-home tea servers.
She propped her bike up against their van and ignoring their contempt she said crisply, “I’ve not just biked up from the town to cadge a free cup of tea.” Even mentioning tea made Vera’s mouth water, and she was determined to get it.
As neither of them made any move to pour any out for her, Vera went on, “You might be NAFFI girls serving tea and buns to service personnel. But you are not supposed to shut up shop just because I’m not in uniform. I had to destroy my military identity card in France in case I was captured by the Jerries And the papers Colonel Parkington – he’s my husband – gave me, were kept by a military policeman on the beach at Arromanches.”
“Oh yes?” said one young woman with a giggle, her poised with her hand on the huge metal tea pot handle, as she winked at her assistant and said, “Now tell us another story.”
Vera took a deep breath and tried again. “I’m the supervisor of British Restaurants in Norfolk.”
“So, why are you here? We can’t serve any Tom, Dick and Harry, a free cup of char, just because they happen to be on holiday here at the seaside.”
Vera’s face glowered. Her argumentative nature came to the fore. “Listen you two, just because you can’t see any further than a tea urn, it doesn’t mean everyone else does their national service behind the hatch of a NAFFI canteen van. I’ve just come back from France after doing my duty helping with the invasion. Now don ‘t tell me you can’t spare me a cup of tea. Get on the phone to your manageress, Dulcie Swanton, or Doreen Thornill, or Susie Salter, they all know me – Vera Parkington - and they won’t refuse me a cuppa.”
The women looked at each other “Well, in that case,” said one, “I suppose we’d better give you one.”
“Well, don’t put yourself out too much, will you?”
Looking a little nervous now because of her cross manner, and obvious officer tone as she was used to giving instructions, the girls handed her a cup of tea.
“Mmm, it’s lovely. Heavenly,” Vera
“Oh you poor little mite!” she spoke to the pup, “you’ve been so good, and just as I promised Bill, my boyfriend who died in Malta that I would look after his dog, I will look after you because you were Fred’s little doggie.”
Having taken on the responsibly of Fred’s puppy it made her forget her memories of Normandy, and come to her senses.
“Now, what shall we do, Freda?” she asked the little pup as she stoked its head.
A series of whines reminded her that she must feed it.
Getting on her bicycle she rode along the quay and saw a NAAFI mobile van.
A nice cup of English tea was pictured in her mind - and water and some food for the dog.
Having to concentrate on not only her needs - but on Fred’s puppy too, made her snap out of her lethargy as she approached the canteen van.
The two women in overalls looked at Vera scornfully when she asked for a cup of tea. “We don’t serve civilians,” one said.
For the first time Vera was aware of how others would see her: a ragamuffin. Her hair had grown over the past few weeks and was longer neat she normally wore it. And instead of it being brushed off the forehead and neatly rolled off her collar, it straggled untidily around her face and neck, as it had been blow about in the Channel wind. She hadn’t worn any lipstick for ages and her lips were not smooth and kissable. Her clothes were a mixture of some clothes she’d left home with and some Jeanette had kindly given her, because her bump was beginning to make her skirt too tight around the waist. Her stockings had many runs, and her shoes had seen any polish for ages and were covered with sand.
But that didn’t make her feel inferior – in fact she felt quite pleased to think she’d come though all she had, and didn’t see why she had to accept being put down by a couple of stay-at-home tea servers.
She propped her bike up against their van and ignoring their contempt she said crisply, “I’ve not just biked up from the town to cadge a free cup of tea.” Even mentioning tea made Vera’s mouth water, and she was determined to get it.
As neither of them made any move to pour any out for her, Vera went on, “You might be NAFFI girls serving tea and buns to service personnel. But you are not supposed to shut up shop just because I’m not in uniform. I had to destroy my military identity card in France in case I was captured by the Jerries And the papers Colonel Parkington – he’s my husband – gave me, were kept by a military policeman on the beach at Arromanches.”
“Oh yes?” said one young woman with a giggle, her poised with her hand on the huge metal tea pot handle, as she winked at her assistant and said, “Now tell us another story.”
Vera took a deep breath and tried again. “I’m the supervisor of British Restaurants in Norfolk.”
“So, why are you here? We can’t serve any Tom, Dick and Harry, a free cup of char, just because they happen to be on holiday here at the seaside.”
Vera’s face glowered. Her argumentative nature came to the fore. “Listen you two, just because you can’t see any further than a tea urn, it doesn’t mean everyone else does their national service behind the hatch of a NAFFI canteen van. I’ve just come back from France after doing my duty helping with the invasion. Now don ‘t tell me you can’t spare me a cup of tea. Get on the phone to your manageress, Dulcie Swanton, or Doreen Thornill, or Susie Salter, they all know me – Vera Parkington - and they won’t refuse me a cuppa.”
The women looked at each other “Well, in that case,” said one, “I suppose we’d better give you one.”
“Well, don’t put yourself out too much, will you?”
Looking a little nervous now because of her cross manner, and obvious officer tone as she was used to giving instructions, the girls handed her a cup of tea.
“Mmm, it’s lovely. Heavenly,” Vera
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