Bluebirds (7 page)

She coloured. ‘In what way exactly, sir?'

‘Giggling and horseplay, outside this very window. An appalling display of indiscipline such as I have never witnessed in all my years in the Service. Running about and shrieking as though this was some kind of playground.'

‘I'm very sorry, sir. I'll do my best to see that it doesn't happen again.'

‘You will indeed. You are supposed to be in control of your airwomen, and you are answerable for them and for their behaviour – to me. Under no circumstances is the sort of scene I witnessed ever to be repeated, do you understand? You will speak to your airwomen and make quite certain that it does not.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘I do not expect to see airwomen hob-nobbing with airmen, let alone sky-larking with them.'

‘Yes, sir . . . I mean, no sir. If I might say one thing, sir . . .'

He raised his eyebrows. ‘What one thing?'

‘Well, sir, the airwomen will be working alongside the men, in the kitchens, on the switchboard, and so forth . . .'

‘I am aware of that.'

‘Well, sir, they have to talk to the men, as part of their work. They couldn't very well do it properly without doing so. Then, if they come across them off-duty, about the station, as they're bound to, it would be very difficult not to talk to them then as well . . . not to act in a friendly manner, if you see what I mean.'

‘I don't think you see what
I
mean, Company Assistant Newman. I'm not talking about normal exchanges of conversation, in passing or otherwise, but the kind of blatantly flirtatious behaviour that took place before my very eyes. I will not allow that sort of thing at RAF Colston. It is an operational fighter station, engaged in the very serious business of waging war against the enemy. Surely you can grasp that?'

‘Yes, sir.'

She was looking distressed but he went on without mercy.

‘Which brings me to another point. Clothing. Something has got to be done about it. Your airwomen are parading about the station dressed unsuitably, to say the
least. Some of them look as though they are going to a party. It's disastrous for discipline, all round. It can't go on.'

‘We have no uniform at all, as yet, sir.'

‘I realize that. But that doesn't prevent you from seeing that your airwomen wear more appropriate garments. I surely don't have to spell it out in detail, do I? You must know the sort of thing I mean – sensible shoes with low heels, plain skirts, navy jumpers or cardigans . . . all that sort of thing – not frilly frocks and high-heeled sandals. I don't want to see any more of those on my station, and that's an order.'

‘I'll do what I can, sir.'

‘You'll do better than that, Company Assistant. You will carry out my orders to the letter. If the airwomen have no proper garments, they must send for them from their homes, or you must get your people to authorize the purchase of appropriate clothing. That's all.'

He reached for his pen and pulled some papers towards him, in dismissal. When she had left the room he looked up at the closed door. How old had Robbie said she was? Twenty-two? That was damned young for the job. Maybe he should have been a bit less hard on her? A bit more sympathetic? It must be pretty tough starting from scratch, with nothing laid down properly, no uniform, no proper accommodation, everything a bit strange . . . No, damn it, he couldn't afford to be anything less than tough. He'd got a job to do as well and that was to make quite certain that the Station was on top line. Nothing else counted. He bent over the papers again.

If they had no uniforms, at least they had numbers. Each had been photographed with a number on a board held beneath their chins – just like convicts, as Maureen Platt complained. She complained as frequently as Sandra Hunt asked questions. The photographs were stuck on their identity cards, called twelve-fifties, and they were told to learn their own numbers by heart.

And they had been issued with paybooks in RAF
blue, and with heavy steel helmets that they carried on their backs like humps, and with cumbersome anti-gas respirators with long elephant snouts that had to be taken everywhere, slung across their chests in canvas holders. As well as these things they had been given identity tags – two flat discs strung on a cord, one red and one green and marked with their name, number and religion, to be worn round their necks at all times.

‘In case of you-know-what,' Pearl said darkly.

Sandra looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean, you-know-what? I
don't
know.'

‘In case they have to identify our bodies.'

‘Bodies?'

‘That's right. These things we walk around in. If Jerry comes and bombs us we might have to be dug out of the smouldering ruins and they'll want to be able to tell who's who.' Pearl tugged at the cord round her neck and fished out her two discs. ‘One's rot proof and t'other's fireproof. One of the men told me. This one with the two holes is for nailing on your coffin.'

‘Coffin!'

‘Sorry, dear, but you did ask . . .'

Vera Williams, who stuttered, was examining her paybook closely. ‘It says, instructions to airmen. It's not even for us. It should s-s-say instructions to
airwomen
. Listen to this. One, you will be held p-personally responsible for the custody of this book. Two, you will always carry the book on your person both at home and abroad. Three, you must produce the book whenever called upon to do so by a c-c-c –'

Anne leaned over her shoulder. ‘Competent authority.'

‘S-supposing I lose it?'

‘You get put on a charge, I expect.'

Vera turned the pages. ‘Oooh! There's a place right at the end for making your will. It says, this is the last will and t-t-testament of . . . and they've gone and left a space for it all.'

Pearl was replacing her identity discs poking them
down the neckline of her blouse. ‘What did I tell you, Sandra?'

Sandra had gone pale. ‘Actually, I don't think Mummy would be very pleased.'

RAF Colston, Anne had discovered, was like a small town. They had trailed round it in the wake of their officer, vainly trying to absorb its geography, but there were so many buildings. There were barrack blocks, cookhouses, workshops, stores, hangars, MT units . . . Station Headquarters, the Operations Room, the Sergeants' Mess, the Decontamination Centre, the Signals and Meteorological Office . . . it was endless and she had forgotten most of them as soon as she'd been told. It wasn't a bad-looking place, she decided, all things considered. It had been built in the late 1920s, mostly from red brick and there was a lot of smart white paint, well-kept flower beds and tree-lined avenues. You'd hardly know it was a fighter station until you saw the great steel hangars, the new wartime camouflage, and heard the 'planes.

The Officers' Mess was an impressive, creeper-clad building with a stone portico at its entrance and a gravel driveway sweeping up to it. Ever so posh, Pearl called it. There were rosebeds and smooth lawns in front, tennis courts at the side and squash courts nearby. A bit like a sports club.

The kitchens, where she was to work, were located, less grandly, round the back – a warren of white-tiled passageways and dark storerooms leading off a big central room. At first sight, this had looked to her like a giant's lair. Everything was oversize. The pans were as big as washtubs, the baking dishes feet square, the knives like medieval battle weapons and the ladles the size of fish bowls. The room was divided down the centre by a row of iron cooking ranges and lit from overhead by a long glass skylight. The atmosphere was hot and steamy with the lingering odours of past meals . . . soups and stews, cabbage and sprouts, fried bacon and onions, fish and a great many chips. Corporal Fowler, the head cook, had
been anything but pleased to see them when they had presented themselves at the door. He had turned round from beheading a pile of fish with a huge cleaver.

‘Wot the 'ell do you lot think you're doin' standin' there?'

Susan had said haughtily: ‘We have been told to report to you for duty.' She might as well have added, my man.

His eyes had narrowed. ‘It's
Corporal
, and don't you forget it.'

He had turned his back and they had stood in an uncertain huddle by the doorway while he went on wielding the cleaver. Every chop made Enid jump. When he had finally finished he came over to them, wiping gory hands on a cloth.

He had jabbed a forefinger at Susan and herself. ‘You two can do them spuds – in there. That one 'idin',' pointing to Enid, ‘can make 'erself useful in 'ere. And you and you,' the finger moving on to Pearl and Sandra, ‘can start layin' up tables. Get yourselves some overalls, all of you. You can't work in them fancy clothes.'

She and Susan had found a sackful of potatoes in the scullery and two smelly, rubberized aprons hanging up on a hook. They had begun work, peeling the potatoes and dropping them into huge pans of cold water. She couldn't get the hang of it at all. The peel came off in thick, uneven chunks, leaving misshapen lumps a third of the size. Her arm still ached from the injections the RAF medical officer had given them all, her fingers grew tired and the metal handle of the knife began to rub a sore place in her palm. She had cut her finger badly and the makeshift handkerchief bandage had quickly become a sodden pink mess. Susan had added to her disenchantment with her know-all remarks.

‘You're doing it all wrong. Didn't they teach you how to hold the knife properly in cookery classes?'

‘I didn't go to any cookery clases.'

‘Goodness, didn't you? Why on earth did they put you in here then?'

‘Because I lied and said I could cook.'

Susan had looked shocked and disapproving.

Corporal Fowler had been far from satisfied. ‘You can take that lot back and get all them bits of peel off; and all them eyes out. Make a proper job of it.'

After the potatoes there had been carrots to be peeled and chopped and cabbages the size of footballs to be washed, trimmed and sliced. And later on came the washing up – a never-ending stream of dirty plates and cutlery and a tottering stack of pots and pans. All had to be washed, scoured, rinsed, dried and, finally, put away in their correct places. Enid, sent to help in the scullery, had cried enough to make everything wet again.

Pearl and Sandra, waitressing in the dining-room, had done better.

‘Officers!' Pearl had crowed. ‘
Pilots!
Whoopee!'

On their one day off a week she and Pearl took the bus into town. They wandered happily round the shops, gazing into windows, and went into Woolworths where Pearl wanted to buy a lipstick. It amused Anne to be entering somewhere ruled strictly out of bounds at St Mary's for its open counters of cheap merchandise, its supposed germcarrying unwrapped sweets, its dirty wooden floor and its defiantly common shop girls. Pearl spent a long time trying to decide between Pillar Box Red and Flamingo Pink. She daubed two vivid streaks of colour across the back of her hand and considered them at arm's length.

‘Which do
you
think, Anne, love? Can't make up my mind.'

‘Aren't they both a bit bright?'

‘Not for me, dear. Got to go with the red hair, see. I think I might dye it different next time. I'm getting sick of it.'

Anne looked at the massed fringe of russet curls beneath Pearl's hat brim. ‘Isn't it really red, then?'

Pearl laughed. ‘Gawd, no! Straight out of a bottle. Autumn Glory it's called.'

‘It suits you anyway.'

‘Ta, very much. Well, I think I'll take the Pillar Box Red. It goes better.'

They progressed to the Regal Cinema to see
The Ghost Goes West
with Robert Donat, and then treated themselves to sausage, egg and chips and a pot of tea for two in the cinema café. Pearl sighed over Robert Donat.

‘Now that's what I call a real gent. Class. Lovely manners. He'd make you feel a lady – which I'm not. That voice sends shivers up and down me to hear it. I used to have a picture of him pinned up over my bed – him and Alan Ladd. That's another one gives me the goose pimples. What about you? Who's your favourite?'

‘Me? Gosh, I've never really thought . . .' Anne looked at the coloured photographs of Hollywood film stars hanging round the café walls . . .

‘That one's rather nice.'

‘Robert Taylor? Yeah, he's all right. And I wouldn't say no to Clark Gable. See that picture there of Ginger Rogers? Now
that's
what I'd really like to look like. I keep trying to get my hair to go the same as hers but it's got a mind of its own. Have you got a steady boyfriend?'

‘No.'

‘Funny, I'd've thought you would have. One of those upper-class johnnies who speak like they've got plums in their mouths. You soon will, I 'spect, with all those officers roaming around. They'll soon spot you.'

‘I'm not really that interested.'

‘Aren't you? Blimey, that's one reason I joined up. Thought I might get myself a nice pilot.' Pearl lifted the teapot. ‘Fancy another cuppa?'

It was pitch dark when they left the Regal café. The town was blacked out and they groped their way along the pavement in the direction of the bus stop. When they passed a telephone kiosk Anne phoned home, fumbling with coins while Pearl, squashed in beside her, held the
torch. She dialled for Trunks and gave the number into a receiver that smelled strongly of disinfectant. The operator's voice told her to kindly insert one shilling and sixpence in the box and she dropped her only shilling on the floor. Pearl dived after it. After a moment she heard her mother's voice answering, miles away in Buckinghamshire.

‘Darling! What a lovely surprise! How are you?'

She could picture her mother standing beside the telephone in the drawing-room at home, see the room behind her. She saw the whole familiar scene – the big chintz sofa and comfy armchairs, the grand piano by the french windows with all their photographs on the top, the bookcases, the magazines strewn about, the vases everywhere filled with flowers from the garden and greenhouse . . .