We'll Meet Again (6 page)

‘I’m not surprised, but I’ve found that if I stand up to her, she backs down.’

‘That’s because you are a lady and she is a snob.’

Prue laughed. ‘Oh, we are going to get on like a house of fire, you and I. Together against the dragon.’

‘I dare not cross her. I’ve nowhere else to go.’ She paused. ‘No, that’s not quite true, I could go back to Chris’s place …’

‘Chris?’

‘My boyfriend. At least, that’s what he calls himself, but I’ve known him since we were at infant school and I’m not sure that’s what he is. A friend who just happens to be a boy, I suppose. Trouble is, his house is overcrowded as it is and his mother is not the cleanest person in the world.’

‘Then stick it out here. It will get better when the dragon realises she can’t browbeat you.’

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’

‘Yes, you could say that. He’s in the air force.’

‘You must worry about him.’

‘Yes, I do, but it’s all-out war and we all have to do our bit. He’s in Bomber Command.’

‘Good for him. Is he a lord?’

‘No. A flight lieutenant. He’s …’ She laughed. ‘How can I describe him? A year older than me, very tall and handsome with fair hair and gorgeous greeny-grey eyes. Sometimes he’s funny, sometimes he’s serious …’

‘Are you engaged?’

‘Not exactly but we have an understanding.’ She stopped and waved her arms to encompass the street. ‘This is Bletchley, known only for its railway junction and its brickworks, and not much else. There are the usual shops, butcher, baker, candlestick-maker.’ She laughed. ‘There’s a Co-op, W H Smith, fishmonger and hairdresser. You can get a meal at the British restaurant. There’s a department store, but if you want to buy clothes I suggest a trip to Bedford or London. Not much in the way of entertainment, except a handful of pubs and a couple of cinemas: the Studio and the Palace. We’ve got leisure pursuits laid on at the Park but that’s only for the people who work there.’

‘Where is this park you keep talking about?’

‘Near the station. You must have seen the fence when you got off the train. It goes all round it. You can’t get in unless you work there.’

Sheila was bewildered; why would anyone work in a park, except gardeners? She wanted to go home, where she was secure and loved, but home had gone, swept away in a single night, along with her family and everything she had known, and with it went her childhood. ‘Why am I here?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Here? Because you need a home, I expect.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I meant, why am I alive? Why have I been left behind when everyone I love has gone?’

‘I can’t answer that, Sheila. Maybe there is a reason behind it all, maybe you are destined for great things.’

She forced a laugh. ‘Me? I’m a nobody. What great things can I do? I’m not even educated.’

‘That can easily be remedied. And you are not a nobody, you are Sheila Phipps, very much a somebody.’

‘I never hated anyone before, but I hate all Germans now.’

‘I can understand you saying that, but you can’t hate a whole race of people. I’ve known some very nice Germans who would deplore this killing as much as we do. The men in those aeroplanes are obeying orders, just as our men must. They are killing too. War is like that. It is horrible.’

‘Are you a conchie?’

‘No, I am not, though I think some of those are brave men to stand up for what they believe in, braver than I would be.’

‘You aren’t in the forces though.’

‘No, I’m a civilian, but even civilians have a job to do to help the war effort. The sooner it’s over, the better.’

‘Do you think it will soon be over?’

‘I have no idea but I doubt it.’

‘But what you are doing is important?’

Prue smiled. ‘So I am told. Come, let us go back. Mrs Tranter cooks dinner for me when I am on early turn, but when I am working evenings and nights I eat at BP.’

‘BP?’

‘Bletchley Park.’

‘Oh, I see.’

They returned to eat an evening meal with their hostess, who spent much of the time apologising to Prue for the poor fare. ‘I know it’s not what you are used to, my lady,’ she said. ‘But it is impossible to buy the ingredients for anything but the simplest meal.’

‘It is delicious,’ Prue said. ‘Don’t you think so, Sheila?’

‘Yes.’ There was nothing wrong with the meal but Sheila had no appetite. Her stomach was churning and she wanted to cry again. She put a forkful of mashed potato in her mouth and forced it down.

‘I don’t know how you can be so fussy,’ her aunt said. ‘It’s better food than you’d get at home, I know.’

‘Ma was a good cook and you’ve no call to say nasty things like that. We were all well fed.’

‘Then eat what’s on your plate. We can’t afford to waste good food.’

Sheila made another attempt to eat and then rushed from the room.

‘Well!’ Constance said. ‘She really will have to be taught some manners.’

‘Sheila can’t help it, Mrs Tranter. She’s all stirred up inside. I would be if I had lost my entire family to Hitler’s bombs. Just imagine what that must be like. Give her time.’

Constance lapsed into silence. Prue glanced across and noticed the woman’s cheeks were crimson. Embarrassment, she supposed, guilt perhaps. Whatever it was, it had shut her up. Prue went on eating, although her hostess had put down her knife and fork, her own meal half-eaten. The silence was almost tangible.

The first course was cleared away and stewed apples and custard produced for dessert, all in silence. It was obvious to Prue the lady did not like being criticised. As soon as she decently could, she excused herself on the grounds she had to be up early next morning and needed her sleep.

She stood outside Sheila’s room for a moment, wondering whether to go in to say goodnight, when she heard the sound of sobbing. She opened the door. Sheila was sitting on the bed in her
oversized pyjamas, crying as if her heart would break. Beside her on the counterpane was a notepad and pencil. Prue rushed across to sit beside her and take her in her arms. ‘Have a good cry,’ she said. ‘I would if I were you.’ She glanced down at the notepad. On the top of the page was written ‘Dear Ma and Pa’.

‘I wanted to tell them,’ Sheila sniffed. ‘I wanted to tell them what it was like here.’

‘Of course you did.’

‘I wrote their names and then I realised … What am I to do? How can I go on living without them?’

‘You will find the strength, Sheila. It will come from somewhere. Why don’t you write the letter anyway? It might make you feel better. A sort of journal, if you like.’

Sheila gave her a watery smile. ‘Yes, I think I will. I must write to Mr and Mrs Bennett too, to let them know I’ve arrived safely. And Chris. I promised him I would.’

‘Will you be OK now?’

Sheila nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Goodnight. I’ll probably be gone when you get up in the morning. I’ll try not to wake you.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m used to getting up early. I had to help with the younger ones before I went to work. We couldn’t all get washed at once.’

Prue left her and went to her own room. Poor, poor girl. Whatever must she be going through? If someone came to her and said Mama and Papa and Gillie had all been killed and her home was a pile of rubble, how would she feel? Mrs Tranter had hardly been sympathetic. She would look out for the poor kid. Could she persuade Mr Welchman to give her a job? There were new people arriving at BP all the time and they needed back-up services, cleaners, waitresses, cooks, clerks, messengers. She would
have to hold her tongue about it, of course, but as the only relative she had in the world appeared to be Mrs Tranter, she didn’t think that would be a problem. There was the boyfriend, of course. How close was that relationship?

She finished undressing and jumped into bed. That would be Mr Welchman’s problem, not hers.

As she had predicted, Prue had left when Sheila went down next morning. She spent the morning doing housework. After lunch her aunt brought down a pile of garments and heaped them on the dining-room table. They smelt strongly of mothballs. ‘See if there is anything there you can use. I’ve finished with them. Can you sew?’

‘A bit. Ma took in sewing and I sometimes helped her.’

‘Good. I’ll show you how to use my sewing machine and you can alter what you can use.’

‘I ought to go and sign on at the labour exchange.’

‘You can do that tomorrow.’

‘Perhaps Prue will get me a job with her.’

‘She is Lady Prudence to you, miss. And she was only saying that to be kind. The people who work up at the Park are all upper-class, educated people, you’ve only got to look at them to know that. What would they want with a little gutter urchin like you?’

‘I am not a gutter urchin. That’s an insult. Ma would be disgusted if she could hear you.’

‘But she can’t, can she?’

‘I’m going to my room.’ She gathered up the clothes and ran upstairs and into her bedroom, where she dropped the garments on the floor and flung herself face down on the bed. She must stop this bursting into tears all the time, but she couldn’t help it; she missed everyone so much. Aunt Constance didn’t help with her constant
innuendo about Ma. What had made her like that? As sisters, they couldn’t have been more unalike. She didn’t want to stay here. Mrs Jarrett’s overcrowded and untidy house would be preferable. The trouble was that she was not at all sure Chris had asked his mother before issuing the invitation. Besides, until she had earned it, she didn’t have the train fare, let alone money for her keep. And she had a distinct feeling that her aunt wanted her for a general dogsbody to replace her daily help and there would be no wages for that.

She scrubbed at her eyes and sat up when she heard a footstep on the stairs, but it was not her aunt but Prue who knocked gently on her door and put her head round it. ‘There you are,’ she said cheerfully, then looking down at the bundle on the floor, ‘What’s all this?’

‘Some clothes my aunt has finished with. I’m supposed to alter them to fit me.’

Prue picked up a shapeless woollen dress in a drab brown. ‘Good God! This must have come out of the ark.’ She dropped it and picked up another. ‘This too. If you need clothes, I can do better than that.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘No, it isn’t. Come into my room and let’s see what I’ve got.’

‘I can’t take your clothes.’ Nevertheless, she followed Prue to a spacious bedroom with a bay window that looked out of the front of the house. It was carpeted and the furniture was solid, if old-fashioned. It also had a small fireplace shining with black lead.

‘I think that was the marital bed,’ Prue said, nodding towards the double bed with its brass knobs. ‘I can’t imagine what went on there, can you?’

Sheila giggled. ‘I feel sorry for her husband.’

‘He didn’t last long. He was gassed in the last war. Horrible way to go.’

‘Did she tell you that?’

‘Yes, when I first came.’ She opened her wardrobe door and began pulling out clothes. ‘This might fit you,’ she said, holding up a blue dress in a fine wool. It had a flared skirt, nipped-in waist and long sleeves. Its bodice was embroidered in matching wool. ‘You will need something for the cooler weather. And here’s a grey skirt and a Fair Isle jumper. They will do you for work.’

‘But, I can’t take those. They’re too good for me.’

‘Don’t be silly. Nothing is too good for you, after what you’ve been through. I’ve got plenty of clothes, more than I’ll ever wear. If I need more I can always send home for them. Try them on.’

‘What do I tell my aunt? She’s already against me, I don’t want to make it worse.’

‘Leave her to me.’

‘I don’t think she wants me to get a job,’ Sheila said as she tried on the skirt and jumper. ‘She kept me so busy today I didn’t have time to go to the labour exchange.’

‘You don’t need to. I’ve got an interview for you at BP.’

‘My aunt said that you were all toffs up there and you wouldn’t want me.’

‘Well, she’s wrong on both counts. I’ve been instructed to take you in with me tomorrow, so you wear that. It might have been made for you.’

Sheila sank onto a stool by the dressing table and looked at herself in the mirror. The skirt and jumper certainly suited her. ‘What am I supposed to do there?’

‘We’ll wait and see what my boss says, shall we?’ Prue picked up a hair brush and began drawing it through Sheila’s auburn locks. ‘You’ve got lovely hair, Sheila, so thick and vibrant. I do like the colour.’

‘They used to call me Carrots at school.’

‘It’s nothing like the colour of a carrot, it’s a rich, dark auburn and I envy you. Hold your head up, Sheila, you are as good as anyone. Don’t forget that.’

‘But you don’t really know me, do you? I might be really wicked. Is that why I survived? The devil looks after his own.’

‘Tommy rot! You survived because that is your destiny.’

She sniffed and rooted in her pocket for a handkerchief. ‘I wish I knew what happened to Charlie. I know I have to accept he’s probably dead like all the others, but I’d just like to know how it happened and where. According to what I was told he was on his way home on his bike when he disappeared. He loved that old bike. Pa bought it for him second-hand. Funny, the bike never turned up either.’

Prue had no answer to that. She put down the brush, picked up the blue dress and Sheila’s discarded clothes and thrust them into her arms. ‘Take these back to your room and come down for dinner. Show that aunt of yours what you’re made of.’

At a quarter to eight the following morning, Sheila, dressed in the skirt and jumper, topped by her new overcoat, was allowed through the gates of Bletchley Park and had her first view of the sprawling mansion, its lake and garden and the dozens of wooden huts that filled the grounds. Everywhere seemed to be a hive of activity as people came and went. Some were in uniform of one kind or another but most were in civvies. She stared round her, while sticking close to Prue.

They entered the front door of the house, where a receptionist checked that she was expected and Prue left her. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, leaving Sheila to follow a guide to the first floor.

Sheila liked the gentleman who greeted her and asked her about herself, though it appeared he had been briefed by Prue.