The September Girls (52 page)

1942

‘We’re nearly out of lavatory paper, ma’am, size ten boots, pencils and them ladies’ cotton wool thingies,’ Corporal Tennant said gloomily.

‘Thank you.’ Sybil made a note on a pad. The ‘cotton wool thingies’ were sanitary towels and she wasn’t sure if it was because of ignorance or embarrassment that Tennant never gave them their real name. It was more likely embarrassment as he called knickers ‘ladies’ under thingies’. ‘In case I don’t see you again before tomorrow, Corporal, I hope you have a Happy New Year.’

‘Thank you, ma’am, and the same to you.’ He closed the door with a tragic sigh. He was a man who never smiled and deeply resented a woman being in overall charge of the stores. Sybil couldn’t imagine him enjoying New Year’s Eve, let alone a whole year. She pushed the list to one side: she’d order the things from Central Stores in the morning. It was almost five o’clock and she wasn’t in the mood for more work.

Her mother’s latest letter was on the desk and she read it again for the fifth time.

Sybil threw the letter on to the desk with a smile. She wondered when the penny would drop and Mummy would realize Oliver was a poofter. She’d be enjoying herself too much at the party to think of her. The smile quickly vanished when she thought that Cara would almost certainly be there. It was the reason she hadn’t gone home for Christmas, knowing the Caffreys and the Allardyces would almost certainly spend it together. She had sworn never to enter the house in Parliament Terrace again and she meant it. Now, the two families were actually related! Sybil grimaced at the thought.

The phone went and she picked it up at the first ring. ‘Hello, Allardyce speaking.’

‘Sybil!’ boomed a hearty voice. It was Steve Richardson, the vicar of St Jude’s. ‘Just wanted to make sure you’ll be there tonight, that there’s no sudden emergency and a load of new recruits have landed on your doorstep and need kitting out.’

‘No emergencies, thank goodness, and no new recruits until the day after tomorrow.’

‘Excellent,’ the vicar hollered. ‘See you later then, at about a quarter to seven, earlier if you can make it.’

I’ll do my best to make it earlier,’ she promised.

There was a crash as the telephone at the other end was put back - the Reverend Richardson had played rugby for Cambridge and his abundant energy was extended to everything he did. Sybil went over to the window to check on the weather. Last night it had snowed a little and the day had been too cold for it to melt. British summer time had been extended by an hour, so the sky was still a dusky blue with just a light powdering of stars, and everywhere was covered in a thin layer of white, making the camp look almost pretty. It was similar to the one in Lincolnshire where she’d done her basic training, a collection of single-storey wooden huts, except this one was close to the ancient, but lively village of Melton Purvis.

The ladies of Melton Purvis WVS along with members of St Jude’s, the parish church, had accepted the responsibility of having hundreds of servicemen and women - although only a handful were permanent - billeted on their doorstep with all seriousness, seeing it as their job to keep them entertained. There were dances every Saturday night in the village hall, the amateur dramatic society always gave an extra performance free of charge - on Sunday, Sybil was going to see
Puss in Boots
- there’d been a party on Christmas Eve and there was another tonight, along with a concert in the church at which the choir would sing.

If someone had told Sybil that one day she would join a choir, she would have laughed in their face but, six months ago, not long after she’d arrived and had been keeping very much to herself, not wanting to make the mistakes she’d made in Malta, a feeling of utter boredom had set in. She’d made a vow never to accept a date, had refused two invitations to take her out and was left with the choice of spending her evenings in the officers’ mess or reading in her billet.

Neither choice particularly appealed and when she’d read the typed notice on the village hall board of the functions on offer during the forthcoming week, none of those appealed either: on Monday, Mrs Winifred Glendenning was giving a talk on roses; Tuesday, there was a whist drive; Wednesday, a debate on local government; Thursday, a meeting of the Conservative Association; and Friday the youth club met. On Saturday, the weekly dance would be held, but it was open to all ranks, often got quite rowdy and was studiously avoided by the female officers.

At the bottom of the notice, as if it had been added as an afterthought, was scrawled, ‘Ladies required for St Jude’s church choir. Contact Steve Richardson at the vicarage,’ followed by a telephone number.

It would be something to do, Sybil thought with a sigh, only faintly interested. She’d been in the choir at school and was considered to have quite a good soprano voice, although she’d like to bet that everyone in St Jude’s was as old as the hills.

In fact, this wasn’t true. There was a mixture of ages from eighteen to eighty, and it turned out to be one of the best decisions Sybil had ever made. Within a matter of weeks, she’d made loads of friends, men and women alike, and, as the choir sang before and after the well-attended eleven o’clock service on Sundays and on Sunday evenings too, her face became a familiar one in the village and she was greeted warmly on the streets and in the various small shops, as if she’d lived there all her life. She wasn’t used to being popular and rather enjoyed it.

It was time she left to have a wash and change into the black dress she wore in the choir: St Jude’s was only a short walk away. She opened the door and saw Corporal Tennant had locked the stores and there was a stern CLOSED sign outside. About to lock her own door, she paused when the telephone began to ring and wondered whether or not to answer it. She decided she’d better in case it was something important and was glad she had when she discovered that her brother, Jonathan, had called to wish her a Happy New Year.

‘And the same to you!’ She grinned at the phone. ‘Where are you?’

‘At some girl’s house, her name’s Morag. We’re going to a party, you’ll never guess where.’ He paused dramatically. ‘John O’Groats! Morag’s taking me in her dad’s van.’

‘I hope you’ve not thinking of getting married while you’re there or Mummy will have kittens.’

‘I wouldn’t mind, sis, Morag’s gorgeous. She has red hair like Rita Hayworth and an incredible figure.’

‘You won’t though, will you?’ She felt slightly alarmed. He was only nineteen, an overgrown, fresh-faced schoolboy who had only recently started to shave.

‘Nah! She’s already got a boyfriend in the Army.’ He gave a rueful laugh. ‘We’re just good friends. Why didn’t you come home for Christmas, sis?’ he asked in a pained voice. ‘I really missed you. You didn’t come home for your twenty-first, either, and Mummy had to make do with the party for Cara. ’Fact,’ he said accusingly, ‘I haven’t seen you since Marcus’s funeral.’

‘I was only allowed a few days’ leave at Christmas, Jonathan,’ she lied, ‘and I would hardly have reached Liverpool, when I would have had to come back. As for my birthday, I couldn’t get away at all, but they had a lovely party for me at the vicarage.’ Had she gone home, she would have had to share a party with Cara - the September girls. What a joke!

‘Of course,’ he chuckled. ‘You’re in the choir. I can’t imagine you in a choir, sis. I wish I could be there to hear you.’ He sounded as if he meant it.

‘I wish you could be too.’

‘Anyway, sis. I’d better go. I promised to give Morag’s dad five pound for using his telephone and I think I might have overspent a bit. Oh, by the way, rumour has it we’re being sent to India in the New Year, so this might be the last time we’ll talk to each other for ages, let alone meet. But don’t tell Mummy, will you?’ he said warningly. ‘She’ll only worry and, you never know, it might not happen, although I’m keeping my fingers crossed.’

‘I won’t breathe a word.’ She knew how desperate he was to see some action. ‘Look after yourself, Jonathan - and have a really Happy New Year.’

‘You too, sis. I hope the weather’s OK where you are, it’s really wild up here.’

She put down the phone, feeling incredibly sad. He didn’t realize how much she loved him, that she would be just as worried as their mother at the idea of him being sent abroad.

An hour later, marching over the crisp snow towards St Jude’s in her fur coat and long black velvet frock, carrying her suede shoes, she felt a little better. There was a war on and all you could do was hope that you and the people you loved got through the next twenty-four hours. If you let yourself worry about the future you could easily go mad.

 

Tyrone and his mates were touring Manhattan’s clubs and bars, sampling a different cocktail in each followed by a beer to wash it down. They had already caused some confusion in one bar by welcoming the British New Year - no one had bothered to change their watches and, so far as they were concerned it was already 1942 - with a great deal of shouting, thumping of backs and shaking of hands. In a few hours they would do it again along with the citizens of New York.

The contrast between New York and their own blacked-out country couldn’t have been greater. Here, neon lights dazzled the eyes, blinking on and off, changing colour all the time, sending messages to the stars. The shops were still open, the windows decorated for Christmas, throwing more light on to the crowded pavements where people didn’t hesitate to push if someone was in their way - New Yorkers were very rude. Music thundered from every doorway, a mixture of jazz and carols, blues and the big band stuff that was Tyrone’s favourite, adding to the sound of the never-ending traffic and the drivers impatiently sounding their horns in a vain attempt to escape the clogged-up streets. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen a car at home with its headlights on.

There was something in the air, an extra zip that he put down to the fact that America was now at war with Japan and Germany. Perhaps everyone thought that this would be the last New Year of its kind for some time and they were making the best of it while they could.

They were gradually making their way towards Times Square where thousands of New Yorkers were reputed to gather to cheer the arrival of another year but, by then, Tyrone would have left his mates for the Zelinda Club, a dance hall, where you paid for girls to dance with you by purchasing a ticket for a quarter. Tyrone would buy a bunch of tickets for Sadie, his girl in New York. Afterwards, she would take him back to her apartment and they would make love, something for which Sadie didn’t charge a dime.

Sadie was small, dark, and pretty and reminded him very much of Maria. In fact, if he’d drunk enough by the time they reached the Zelinda Club, which seemed more than likely, it could have been Maria he was dancing with; Maria he was kissing when the clock struck midnight; Maria he was making love to in the shabby apartment. Although when he woke up in the morning, Maria would be gone and he would find himself in bed with Sadie with her smudged make-up and badly painted nails, who only reminded him of the wife he’d lost.

 

Colm found the noise of revelry coming from the Railway Arms across the road unsettling. Until now, he’d always celebrated the New Year in a pub with people he knew. Although he wasn’t a serious drinker, tonight was one of the few nights he got mildly plastered before going home to Shaw Street where there was usually a party going on, even if it was only the family and a couple of friends. It didn’t feel natural to spend such a momentous night in the quiet flat in Kirkby with Lizzie and Bernard, now eight months old and fast asleep in the bedroom, despite the noise.