We'll Meet Again (9 page)

An early entry read:

She closed the book and hid it in her rucksack on top of the wardrobe. Tonight she was beginning a week of night shifts,
walking about in the park with her letters and packages by the light of a feeble torch. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

Prue arrived back just as she was leaving and they only had time to exchange a few words before they parted again. To Sheila’s question, ‘Did you enjoy your leave?’ Prue said, ‘Not exactly. Something happened. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.’

As she left the house, wrapped in a warm coat, a beret, scarf and gloves, she heard her aunt come out from the kitchen and ask Prue if she wanted dinner. ‘We had ours earlier,’ she said. ‘But I can rustle up something …’ She didn’t hear Prue’s reply as she shut the front door behind her and set off for Bletchley Park, lighting her way with the torch, the only way to get about in the blackout.

The grounds of the park took on an eerie atmosphere at night. There were still people moving about from hut to hut or coming and going from the house to the cottage, a converted stable block to the side of the house, or arriving and leaving at the gate, each with a shaded torch, like so many glow worms. The lake was a lighter patch and the walls of the house, with its blacked-out windows, were dark and rather menacing. The huts were dark, shuttered blocks, but the smoke coming from their stovepipe chimneys could be seen against the lighter sky.

She made her way to the post room, which was to the side of the main house, to be given her first delivery and then with a canvas bag over her shoulder, went out again. She knew where all the huts were now and there were more being added all the time. She went from one to another, briefly into warmth and light and then out into the dark again and on to the next. Sometimes she was given notes or packages to take to other huts or back to the post room to be put in the mail, which was given to a motorcyclist. There were several of those who
came and went all the time. She had no idea what she was carrying. She had been told curiosity would be her undoing and she believed it.

Halfway through her shift she went to a hut that had been set aside for making tea and coffee. Sometimes there were biscuits, but they soon disappeared. Other people came and went and chatted to her about the weather, or the news published in the newspapers or broadcast by the BBC, films they had seen or jokes that were doing the rounds, but never about their work. She knew some of their first names but no more. They all knew what she did. This evening there was only one other person in the room. She set about making a pot of tea.

‘You are Sheila Phipps, aren’t you?’ he said, watching her from a chair at the table.

‘Yes. Who are you?’

‘I’m James Barry,’ he said. ‘I work in one of the huts, but I’m also on the entertainments committee. A little bird told me you have a fine singing voice.’

‘Would that little bird be called Prue, by any chance?’ She poured two cups of tea and pushed one towards him.

‘Yes. I’m looking for people to take part in a pantomime we are putting on at the Assembly Rooms on Boxing Day. Would you care to audition? It’s
Cinderella
.’

She laughed. ‘One of the ugly sisters, I suppose.’

‘Most definitely not. Depending on the voice, of course, it could be Cinderella or the handsome prince or one of the chorus. What do you say?’

‘When do you want me to do the audition?’

‘How about when you finish work? There’s a piano in the ballroom.’

‘OK.’

‘Right, I’ll see you there.’ He drained his cup and left.

She washed up the teapot and mugs and went to the post room to fetch more envelopes and packages to finish her shift. She couldn’t help smiling in the dark as she went from hut to hut. Someone had deigned to notice her and apparently wanted her to sing for him. She would tell Ma and Pa about him and the audition in her next letter and Chris too, of course. As soon as her last delivery had been made, she went to the ballroom.

The main house was a hive of activity. There were desks and files in every room and trestle tables in the corridors, all piled with papers. Sheila didn’t often go there, but she knew where the ballroom was. It was a large wood-panelled room, with a high ornate ceiling and a polished wood floor. It had housed the telephone exchange and teleprinter earlier but that had been moved to its own hut and the room was now used for recreational purposes. James was waiting for her by the piano. ‘Hallo again,’ he said. ‘What do you like to sing?’

‘All sorts,’ she said. ‘Popular ballads mostly.’

He sorted through some sheet music. ‘How about “Apple Blossom Time”? Know that?’

‘Yes.’

He sat down and began to play. She started diffidently. ‘Don’t be shy,’ he said. ‘Fill the room with sound.’

So she did. When she finished, he swivelled round on the stool. ‘Who taught you to sing like that?’

‘No one, but my mother had a lovely voice.’

‘Had?’

‘She was killed in an air raid, so was everyone else. I had three brothers and three sisters, all gone except perhaps Charlie. He disappeared on the night of the raid that killed the others and
I don’t know what happened to him. I was at work and didn’t know anything about it until I went home. The house was a wreck. Pa died fighting fires down by the docks …’ she stopped, gulping back tears. She really hadn’t meant to talk about it; as long as she could push it to the back of her mind, she could cope, just about.

‘Please don’t cry.’ He stood up and put his arm round her shoulders and drew her to him. ‘I wish I hadn’t asked.’

She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. ‘I’m all right now. It’s just that sometimes it hits me all over again.’

‘You poor girl. This war is evil, don’t you think?’

‘Yes I do. The sooner we send Hitler packing, the better.’

‘And I must do my small bit towards it. First rehearsal on Saturday afternoon. Can you make it? There’s no time to waste, Christmas is a-coming.’

‘You mean you want me?’

‘Oh, yes, definitely.’

‘Then I’ll be there.’

‘Good.’ He dropped a kiss on her forehead and left her standing there, bewildered by the speed of it all and his familiarity.

To save her aunt cooking, she had breakfast in the canteen which was just outside the main gate of the Park – only the most senior staff used the dining room in the main house – before catching the bus back to Victoria Villa and going to bed for a few hours. She was getting used to the irregular hours, but it was always difficult the first day or so after a changeover. Today it took her some time to get to sleep; her head was whirring with the idea of singing in public. Could she really do it?

Prue woke her when she came off the early shift. ‘Come on, lazy-bones. Up you get.’

‘It’s warm in here. I don’t want to stir.’

‘I can understand that, this room is icy. Get dressed and come into my room. We can talk there.’

‘Where’s my aunt?’

‘Downstairs, entertaining the vicar with tea and biscuits. No doubt they are putting the world to rights.’

Prue left and Sheila hastily washed and dressed and joined her. They sat side by side on the bed with the eiderdown draped round their shoulders. Aunt Constance did not believe in fires in bedrooms.

‘You said something happened while you were on leave,’ Sheila said.

‘Yes, it was awful.’ She went on to recount what had happened, ending, ‘It’s the first casualty of the war I’ve had contact with and what made it worse is that my mother and all the village are blaming Papa. Oh, I know it’s not like losing your whole family, but it really brought home to me what war is all about. Good men dying.’

‘Women and children too.’

‘Yes. Now I have made you miserable. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.’

‘It’s all right. I’m trying not to be sad. And I have a bit of news.’

‘Go on.’

‘You should know, since you’ve been telling tales behind my back.’

‘Me? What have I done?’

‘You told James Barry about me singing. He’s putting on a panto and he asked me to sing for him. He’s offered me the part of Cinderella.’

‘Oh, Sheila, that’s wonderful news. You said yes, of course.’

‘It helps, you see.’

Prue did see. ‘Let’s go for a walk before dinner. I need some
fresh air, even if you don’t. The people in my hut smoke like chimneys and so does the stove and with the windows boarded up because of the blackout, it creates a real fug.’

‘OK. I’ll go and get my coat.’

Constance was seething. That little gutter rat was off her head, writing letters to her dead parents. It was ghoulish and the things she put in the letters about her were beyond belief. Snobbish, she had called her. Well, if it was snobbish to expect good manners and deference to one’s betters and to want things done tastefully, then she was guilty. And to say Lady Prudence had the measure of her was ridiculous. No one had the measure of her, no one knew what went on inside her head, what secrets were kept hidden, nor would they ever, because it was evident Sheila did not know. That was a relief at least. The girl was going to end up like her mother, if she wasn’t watched: pregnant and unmarried. It didn’t make any difference that Ellen was married before she began to show, Sheila was still a bastard.

‘What are you doing?’

Startled, she turned to face her niece, the notebook still in her hand. ‘Tidying up,’ she said quickly. ‘Your mother seems not to have taught you about housework.’

‘This room is perfectly tidy and you have no right to go poking into my private affairs. Not even Ma would do such a thing. Give me that book.’ She held out her hand for it.

Constance ignored it. ‘I was dusting the top of the wardrobe, thick with dust it was, and when I picked up the bag, the book fell out.’

‘Then you should have put it back where you found it, not read it. It’s private.’

‘So it needs to be. If a doctor read it, I’ve no doubt he would
certify you insane. Can’t you accept that your parents are dead? Dead! Dead!’ Her voice rose almost to a shriek.

‘Of course I know. Give it back to me.’

‘You are an ungrateful wretch. After all I’ve done for you, taking you in, feeding and clothing you …’

‘Clothing me! With your fuddy-duddy cast-offs you haven’t worn in years. Give me back my book.’ She reached out to grab it and then began a fierce struggle, with neither of them prepared to give way.

‘Give it back,’ Sheila shouted, as the cover was torn off it. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

‘What on earth is going on here?’ Prue’s voice stopped them in their tracks. She was standing in the doorway in her dressing gown with a towel round her head, having just come from the bathroom. They had been caught in a rainstorm while out walking and been drenched, which was why they had returned earlier than expected.

Constance, flustered, threw the book on the bed. ‘The girl is off her head, writing rubbish like that.’ Then she stalked out past Prue who stood aside to let her go.

Sheila sank onto the bed and picked up her book. ‘She was snooping. She read my letters. I’m not really off my head, am I?’

Prue came into the room and sat beside her. ‘Of course you’re not, silly. Anyway, I was the one suggested it, so if that’s the case, I must be off my head too.’

‘I feel awful. I can’t have any private life at all. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said those things about her.’

‘What you write in private is no one’s affair but your own.’ She paused. ‘You didn’t write anything about your work or what goes on at BP, did you? It would be a breach of security, if you did.’

‘Only about finding my way round the huts. Now, I suppose
I’ll have to stop writing it. She’ll snoop again when I’m out. It was only luck I caught her at it this time.’

‘Does it help doing it?’

‘It makes me feel closer to Ma and Pa, like you said, and I can let off steam if I want to.’

‘Then you keep writing. I’ll look after the book for you. She won’t dare poke about among my things.’

‘I ought to find different digs.’

‘No, don’t do that. I should miss you. We’ll get the better of her.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘I was wondering what to give you for Christmas and now I know. You shall have a lockable box to keep your private things in.’ She stood up. ‘You had better get those wet clothes off or you’ll catch your death. You can’t sing if you’re ill and that would be a shame.’

‘Oh, Prue, what would I do without you? It is only because you’re here that I put up with it.’

The war did not stop for Christmas. Neither she nor Sheila had any extra time off for the festivity. Fortunately they were both on the first watch from eight until four and had their Christmas dinner in the canteen before joining the party in the main building. There would be dancing to records, paper hats and silly games and a great deal to drink. Constance had gone to spend the day with the vicar and his wife, so they had no need to feel guilty about leaving her on her own.

Prue had loaned Sheila a party frock. It was a pale-green silk, with a nipped-in waist, a full skirt and a little matching shoulder cape. ‘You look gorgeous,’ she said as they changed from jumpers and skirts into the frocks in the ladies’ cloakroom after coming off their shift. ‘You’ll knock them out.’

‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’

Prue’s own dress was a blue and white stripe with a boat-shaped
neckline and huge puff sleeves. She linked her arm in Sheila’s. ‘Come on, the party’s already noisy, we’ve some catching up to do.’

They drifted into the crowded ballroom. James Barry, as Master of Ceremonies, was operating the gramophone in an alcove, originally intended for an orchestra. He winked at Sheila and beckoned her over. ‘Are you going to sing for your supper, Sheila?’

‘What, now?’

‘Yes, give them a taste of what’s to come tomorrow night. We’ve still got empty seats to fill.’ He didn’t wait for her to agree, but handed her the microphone.

‘Go on, Sheila,’ Prue urged her. ‘Give it to them.’

There was so much noise going on, they hardly heard her begin to sing ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’. She stopped and turned to James. ‘Let’s have something to wake them up instead.’

He sorted through his music and found ‘Bless ’em all, the long and the short and the tall …’ Sheila belted it out and before long she had her audience. She followed it with ‘Boogie, Woogie, Bugle Boy’ and ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’. They clapped and whistled when she finished and shouted, ‘Encore! Encore!’ Now she had their attention, she went back to Berkeley Square and its nightingale.

‘That’s it,’ James told them when that came to an end. ‘If you want more, come to the show tomorrow night.’ He kissed Sheila’s cheek and let her go.

‘You’ve made a conquest there,’ Prue said, as she rejoined her.

‘Don’t be daft.’

They drank, they danced, they played musical chairs and blind man’s buff and the ballroom became even more crammed as people drifted in from work or from festivities elsewhere. Apart from sitting down to dinner, Sheila had been on her feet since before eight o’clock that morning and she knew she could not
keep going much longer. She found Prue talking to her friend Alice. ‘Prue, I’m going home. I’m whacked.’