Bluebirds (13 page)

‘Something wrong?'

He shook his head. ‘No, not really. Nothing to worry about. Oh Lord, I just stepped on your toes . . . sorry, I'm afraid I'm a rotten dancer.'

Pearl winked as she danced past in the arms of Dusty Miller. The green dress was splitting a little at the seams.

Winnie was sitting in a corner with Maureen and wishing she had never come. She didn't know how to dance and hadn't the nerve to try. She had refused lots of invitations until, at last, they'd left her alone. It seemed silly to be there at all and to have let the others persuade her to come. She should have stayed behind with Susan who had said snootily she had no intention of going dancing with a lot of sergeants. She shifted uncomfortably on her chair and glanced at Maureen sitting rigidly beside her, wondering if it would be very rude to go back to the hut and leave her there by herself. Maureen didn't look as though she was enjoying herself either. Only one man had asked her to dance all evening and she'd said ‘No' very sharply, as though he'd insulted her. He'd gone away muttering to himself, and after that nobody had asked her at all. She hadn't said much while they'd been sitting there, except to make nasty remarks now and then, mostly about the other WAAFS. She thought Anne was making a spectacle of herself, dancing in that show-off way, and she had never seen anything so vulgar as Pearl
in her tight frock with the side seams splitting so that you could see her petticoat. And what on earth did Vera think she was doing, jumping around like a goat? As for Gloria, the less said about
her
the better. Her behaviour was a disgrace to them all. The way she carried on with all those men . . .

Winnie listened to it all but said nothing. She didn't understand why Maureen had come to the dance if she disapproved of it all so strongly. And she couldn't see what was so bad about the others enjoying themselves dancing. The cigarette smoke was making her eyes sting and she rubbed them with the back of her hand. She had noticed, through the haze, and hoped that Maureen had not, that one or two of the men seemed a bit the worse for drink. There was a crash and the sound of breaking glass from the direction of the bar, followed by loud laughter. Maureen pursed her lips. The band was striking up again after an interval with a bouncy sort of tune. The pianist, jigging up and down on his stool, was grinning round the room. Winnie began to tap her foot surreptitiously. Couples rotated past her . . . Anne dancing with a shy-looking young sergeant pilot who kept tripping over her toes, Sandra plodding round with a tall, serious flight sergeant, a back view of Gloria wiggling her bottom, Vera hopping along and giggling up at her partner . . . and then Enid came slowly into view, sagging against hers like a wilting plant. Her eyes were shut, her head lolled and her hair had come unpinned from its roll and hung stringily down her back.

Maureen drew in her breath with a hiss. ‘She's
drunk
!'

Winnie, Anne and Pearl took Enid back to the hut, hauling her along between them, her head hanging low. She was sick three times on the way, once over Pearl's shoes. Susan was sitting up in bed reading.

‘What on earth's the matter with her?'

‘Some joker laced her orange squash,' Pearl said, swinging Enid's thin legs onto her bed. ‘Stupid bugger!'

‘You mean she's
drunk
?'

‘Clever of you to notice, Duchess.'

‘Don't call me that, Pearl. How disgusting!'

‘Oh, shut up, Susan,' Anne exploded. ‘You sound just like Maureen and about as much help. Why don't you give us a hand?'

‘It's nothing to do with me. If you will go to a hop like that, Anne, and mix with those sort of people . . .'

‘If you're not careful, Susan, I'll hit you over the head with that bloody book.'

They undressed Enid, peeling off the vomit-stained blouse and skirt, the wrinkled stockings, vest and knickers. She flopped around like a rag doll. Winnie, fumbling with buttons and suspenders, averted her eyes uncomfortably from the white and skinny body beneath. They had just succeeded in putting on Enid's flannel nightgown and in sliding her under the bedclothes, when the door was flung open and Sergeant Beaty strode into the hut. She stood, ham-hands on hips, swinging her big head balefully from side to side.

‘What's going on in here, then?'

Anne, the nearest, moved quickly forward. ‘Nothing, Sergeant. We're all going to bed.'

‘Don't give me that. There's something up, and I
know
it. What've you lot been up to at that dance? What's the matter with Potter?'

‘She was tired. She's gone to sleep.'

‘She looks funny to me. Stand aside, Cunningham. Let me see . . .'

‘I told you, Sergeant, she's asleep. She wasn't feeling very well.'

‘Not well? Why didn't she report sick then? Why did she go to that dance? Potter, I want a word with you . . . Out of that bed this minute!'

Anne moved again, blocking the sergeant's path. ‘Leave her alone. You've no bloody right to disturb her.'

‘
What!
I'll have you on a charge for this, Cunningham. Insubordination! Obstructing me in the course of my duty!
Let go of my arm!
You'll regret this . . .'

Enid groaned loudly and opened her eyes. She reared up, leaned over the side of her bed, and was violently sick on the floor.

‘You are confined to camp with extra duties for four days,' Felicity said coldly. She looked up at the girl standing with studied indifference before her desk. ‘I'm getting awfully tired of seeing you in here, Cunningham. It's happening far too often and your Conduct Sheet is a disgrace. You're capable of much better things. In fact, I'd say you were officer material, you know, if only you'd give yourself a chance.' She ignored Sergeant Beaty's muffled snort. ‘There's a war on, in case that has escaped you, and we're all supposed to be giving our best, not our worst. Think about that and don't let me see you in here like this again.'

Anne left Station HQ jauntily. What did she care? It was all pretty pathetic. A bit of a joke, really. Beaty had been just like an angry bull. She'd felt rather like one of those picadors at a bullfight who stick lances into the bull to make it angry and divert its attention . . .

She stepped into the roadway without looking and the sharp blast of a car horn made her jump back hurriedly. A dark green sports car swept past, driven much too fast and splashing her with muddy water as it ploughed through a puddle. She caught a glimpse of a RAF officer's cap, fair hair to the collar, a spotted scarf . . . and then the car was gone and she was left standing at the kerb, brushing her spattered stockings and swearing indignantly.

Later, Pearl button-holed her. ‘How did it go, love?'

‘Four days CB and jankers. She really blew me up.'

Pearl made a face. ‘And Enid got off scot free.'

‘Well, I couldn't say anything about her, could I? I don't care, anyway.'

‘I've got some good news for you. This'll cheer you up. A new squadron's arrived and they're all
millionaires
! Auxiliary squadron toffs. Those weekend pilots. Think of that!'

‘I think one of them just nearly ran me over, the bastard. It looked a pretty expensive car.'

‘If it'd been me, I'd've let him.
Thrown
myself under the wheels. Worth it to get to know one of them. They're nicknamed Croesus Squadron because they're all so stinking, bloody rich. Do you know, some of them have brought their own servants. And their own silk sheets. And they wear silk underclothes . . .'

‘Honestly, Pearl, how on earth do you know all this?'

‘I've got my spies everywhere, duckie. And I'll tell you another thing, too. We'll be getting some uniform any moment. Newman's gone to Wembley Depot today with a driver to collect it all . . . raincoats, berets, shirts, ties and knickers. That's what we're getting.'

‘Is that true, Pearl?'

Pearl drew her finger across her throat. ‘As I'm standing here. Anything you want to know that's going on round here, just you ask your Auntie Pearl.'

The weather became bitterly cold. The WAAFS square-bashed on the arctic waste of the parade ground, wearing their new raincoats and berets. Underneath were the crisp blue shirts and black ties, worn with a variety of civilian skirts, and further underneath the voluminous black bloomers that had caused incredulous laughter and dismay in the hut. Pearl had put hers on at once and paraded up and down with the waistband drawn up high under her armpits and the elasticated knicker legs down to her knees, her black beret stuck on top of her red curls like a cowpat. Even Maureen had managed a faint smile. Nobody's raincoat, when they had tried them on, had seemed to fit properly. They were either too big or too small. The shirts had turned out to have separate collars that had to be attached by front and back collar studs. They were fiddly to fix and the stiffened collars rubbed their necks. Some had to learn how to tie a tie.

But to have some kind of uniform at last, however unsatisfactory or incomplete, made them feel differently.
They paraded before Sergeant Baker with a new confidence and pride and he looked them over with a new, if grudging, approval. Magically, their drill improved. Enid managed to synchronize her arms and legs properly for the first time and Sandra remembered her left from her right, though she got in a muddle when she had to salute and march at the same time.

‘Wot was you wavin' at me like that for, 'unt?'

‘I was saluting you, Sergeant.'

‘Thought you was wavin' me goodbye, or somethin'.
Right
'and, not the left, an' don't flap it around at me. Smarten it up! Right now, let's see if you females can all do it perfect for once. By the left . . . wait for it, Potter,
wait
for it . . . by the left . . . 
quick march
!'

They stepped out across the parade ground in unison, arms swinging, heads held high, the pale wintry sun catching the gilt RAF badges on the front of their new berets. Unobserved, their Station Commander watched them from a window.

The station cinema was a cold and draughty hangar that had been fitted out with rows of seats. Winnie found herself next to Vera and surrounded by airmen. They had started off by sitting in quite the wrong place.

‘That's the shillin's there, girls,' an airman had called across to them, grinning from ear to ear, as they had taken their places in an area of empty seats. ‘Only tapes and rings can sit there. You lot 'ave to sit over 'ere in the sixpennies, same as us.'

They had moved, with red faces, and to a barrage of teasing and laughter as they squeezed their way past airmen to two empty seats.

‘Come and sit next to me, darlin'. I'll keep you warm.'

‘Over 'ere, love. Don't be shy.'

‘Try my lap for size, sweetheart.'

To Winnie's relief the lights soon went out and the banter stopped. She watched the screen as the title appeared:
It's a Wonderful World
.

‘They must be joking!' someone called out.

There was more laughter, more shouts and sallies, and then as the film began the noise subsided except for some disturbance in the row behind her which sounded like somebody changing places. She concentrated on the film, gazing, absorbed, at the screen until someone tapped her on the shoulder and whispered in her ear.

‘There's an empty seat here beside me, Winnie. You'll see better.'

She recognized Taffy Jones' voice instantly and stiffened. ‘I'm all right here, thank you.'

‘Don't be daft. You've got that big bloke right in front of you. You can't see properly there.'

His hand was resting on her shoulder and she could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck. She wriggled sideways towards Vera who was watching the film with rapt attention and sucking a strong peppermint.

‘Vera, can I change places with you?'

Vera took her eyes reluctantly from the screen. ‘What for?' she asked through the peppermint.

‘Someone's botherin' me, in the row behind.'

‘Oh. All right then. So long as he doesn't go and bother
me
.'

They changed places, climbing awkwardly across each other to groans and complaints from some of the airmen. Winnie tried to enjoy the picture after that but all the time she could feel Taffy's presence there behind her. She knew that if she turned round she would find him watching her.

There was a dance in the Officers' Mess and Anne and Pearl were deputed for duty in the ladies' cloakroom, looking after the furs and wraps. They watched rather sourly as wives and girlfriends in long evening dresses titivated in front of the mirrors. Pearl passed remarks out of the corner of her mouth.

‘Don't know why
she
bothers. Nothing'd improve that
face. Blimey, how about her in the red! The back of a London bus looks better . . . See that one combing her locks like she was Helen of Troy? Dyed. Straight out of a bottle. I should know.'

But Pearl was momentarily silenced by the entrance of two women whose expensively sophisticated appearance bore the stamp of London, far removed from the RAF wives. The taller, a slender brunette in a gown that clung to her like a second skin, dumped her mink coat casually on the counter in front of Anne before turning away to inspect her reflection in the mirror. She took out a gold compact and retouched her face.

‘I do hope this is going to be an amusing evening, Roz. I've never been to one of these Service dos before.'

Her companion held out her sable wrap in Pearl's direction, looking the other way. ‘I shouldn't count on it, Cynthia. It'll probably be fairly deadly. They usually are, in my experience. Thank God, most of the Croesus lot will be here, so we won't have to dance with any of the usual ghastly RAF Regular types, with any luck. You know Willy Langham, don't you, darling?'