Turn Left at the Daffodils

‘Really? So I take it there wasn’t a lot of traffic during the night?’

‘Not a sausage.’ He picked up the ashtray. ‘Ah, well – see you.’

He walked to the green baize door, inspected the two trays – In and Out – that stood on the hatch beside it. Then he pressed the bell push, and turned. ‘By the way, there’s a kettle in the little kitchen place and tea and sugar. Milk on the floor. Feel free to brew up.’

The door was opened from the inside and briefly Nan glimpsed a row of bells on springs on the wall.

‘Looks like there’s kitchens through there,’ she said as the green baize door slammed.

‘Never mind what’s on the other side of that door, Morrissey,’ said the sergeant. ‘Right now there’s nothing I’d like more than a mug of tea.’

In the tiny kitchen was a milk bottle in a pan of cold water under the sink and on the wooden draining board an electric kettle, tins marked tea and sugar. And four mugs in need of washing.

‘Shall I make a brew, sarge?’

The sergeant nodded, then turning to Evie who was inspecting the switchboard she said,

‘So what do you make of it, Turner – Navy bods at the big house, I mean?’

‘Don’t know, Sergeant. It gets curioser and curioser.’

‘And very little night traffic…’

‘Mm. I thought – mind, I don’t know why -that they were a load of civilians from some bombed-out government office, but they’ve got the Army guarding them and here, in this office, and a signals bod from the Navy on the other side of the green door. Combined Ops maybe?’

‘Could be, but I doubt it. And why don’t you nip to the motor pool, see if Tiptree is still there? Cookhouse won’t be operational till seven – ask her if she’d like tea?’

So Evie hurried round the back of the stables, whispering ‘Morning, Cecilia,’ then called to Carrie who was making for the gateposts.

‘Hey! Wait on, Tiptree! Sergeant says do you want a cuppa? We’ve got a kettle in there.’

‘Wouldn’t I just? Busy, are you?’

‘No, it’s dead as a dodo, and a Navy bod – a Yeoman he calls himself – doing the night shift. The sarge was a bit sniffy with him, but he seemed all right to me. Quite handsome, if you like them a bit more mature. But don’t forget to thank the Sergeant for the tea, then you might get a brew on a regular basis.’

‘At six-fifteen in the morning, I’d positively grovel if there was tea at the end of it. Lead on, lance-corporal!’

Nan switched on the kettle then rinsed mugs under the tap. Amazingly, a tea towel hung behind the door. Short of nothing, that lot at the big house, and tea and sugar unrationed, it would seem.

Carefully she spooned tea leaves into a cream enamel pot with a green handle, then leaned against the draining board, feet crossed, arms folded, to await the kettle, and to think.

Think about Heronflete Priory and the diddy little billet. And Evie and Carrie who were smashing and Sergeant James who just might become human, given time.

And she thought about being in this unbelievable place where a lord once lived, and the fields and trees and wild flowers; the peace and quiet of it, too, with only the bombers – ours – that flew over, to remind her that somewhere out there, a war was going on.

Then she closed her eyes and smiled, because tomorrow was pay day.

‘What will happen, Sergeant,’ Evie asked later, ‘when we go to the cookhouse for meals? Will you be able to manage?’

‘Of course I will, even when you get long leaves – provided you go one at a time. I’ve been in signals from day one of this war, and teleprinters and switchboards bother me not one iota.

‘And if you are reminding me that the cookhouse is open and none of us has eaten yet, I suggest you toss up for who goes first. In fact, the way things are this very minute, I think the three of us could slope off and never be missed!’

She had wondered about the lack of activity; had even thought that the Post Office engineers might have left without connecting things up, had silently fumed about this tuppeny-ha’penny place and longed with all her heart for the bustle and discipline of a properly-run unit on a wartime footing. And girls in Nissen huts!

‘You take first breakfast, Turner,’ she said absently, standing behind Nan who sat in front of two silent teleprinters, willing one of them at least to cooperate.

‘Switch that printer on, Morrissey.’

Nan pressed the start button and with a clatter the black machine came alive, so she hit the answerback key, and the carriage swung from left to right and back. On the page in front of her came CEN HP4.

‘There, sarge! Must be our call sign! HP4, off Central switchboard. We do exist, then.’

‘Seems we do. Give it a go, Morrissey – see if it prints.’

Nan cancelled the transmit swich, then typed The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The words appeared speedily, because it was one of the sentences you typed a lot, when you were a learner. If she had a silver shilling for every time that fox had jumped, she would be a very well-to-do ATS private.

‘Do you suppose they know we’re here, Sergeant? I mean – they’re so secretive that maybe they’ve forgotten to tell the government about Heronflete.’

‘Y’know, that wouldn’t surprise me at all, Morrissey!’

She sat down at the switchboard, adjusted the headset, then willed one of the circular, numbered discs to fall, or one of the square flaps of the outside lines to open with a brrr, then sighing, fixed her eyes on the second hand of the wall clock, which moved very, very slowly.

The silence became so uncomfortable that Nan said,

‘Have you heard about the ghost, Sergeant? The one they call Cecilia? She was a nun that got walled up in the old priory – left there to die…’

But the Sergeant continued to stare at the switchboard in silence. She was so browned off that the last thing she wanted to hear about was a stupid bloody ghost!

It seemed that eight-thirty – or 0830 hrs BST -was the magic time and it was as if all those who lived at Heronflete had arisen, bathed and eaten breakfast, and were ready to do whatever it was they had come to Heronflete to do. When both Evie and Nan had breakfasted and Sergeant James had left for the cookhouse, a disc on the switchboard fell. It was No.5. Picking up a plug she pushed it into the hole beneath No.5, said ‘Switchboard’, very clearly and firmly, and was asked for an outside line.

She pushed in the corresponding plug, said, ‘You’re thrrrrrough.’ Then she turned triumphantly to Nan. ‘We’re in business, old love!’

‘Who was it?’

‘Extension five – a man, for an outside line.’

‘What’s he talking about? Have a listen, Evie?’

‘You reckon?’ After all, they were alone. ‘I shouldn’t, you know…’

‘Ar. Be a devil!’

Evie said, ‘Ssssh, then,’ and placed the palm of her hand over the mouthpiece of her headset. Slowly and carefully so as not to make even the smallest click, she pushed a switch forward.

‘Ha! Wouldn’t you know it, Morrissey! They’ve got the scrambler on!’

‘What’s that, when it’s at home?’

‘Some clever-dick device to distort sound so that anybody tapping in on a phone call just hears gobbledygook. Sensible, I suppose, when you think that a spy could climb a telegraph pole and listen in to any conversation he wanted. They do it all the time, I know that for a fact.’

‘Ar,’ Nan nodded. ‘Amazin’ what them Jairmans get up to.’

‘Don’t worry. We do it, too. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if that lot,’ she nodded towards the green baize door, ‘aren’t up to something similar.’

‘Climbing telegraph poles, you mean?’ Nan was disappointed.

‘No, but they might be listening in. Monitoring air waves, I mean. They might have operators searching for anything they heard in Morse code and taking it down. Telegraphists.’

‘Like Carrie’s feller?’

‘Yes, though I think he’s still in barracks, waiting for a ship. Carrie says he’s not best pleased about it.’

‘Hmm. What do you make of that romance, Evie?’

‘None of my business. The fact that Carrie doesn’t wear her ring is neither here nor there. I never had an engagement ring. We used the money to open a bank account for when the war is over. But Carrie often gets her hands dirty and greasy. You can’t blame her.’

‘Yes, but -’ Nan bit on her lip, deciding against telling Evie that Carrie wasn’t absolutely sure she wanted to get married just yet and said instead, ‘Well, if I had a ring, I’d wear it! Not that anybody’s offered yet.’

‘Give it time, Nan. You’re young enough. Have a bit of fun before you settle down.’

And nan was about to say that chance would be a fine thing when, just as the sergeant opened the door, one of the teleprinters came to life with a loud clatter.

‘Hey up, Sergeant! A signal!’

They watched as figures in groups of four clicked themselves into columns. They flew across the page.

‘That’s a good operator on the other end.’ The sergeant nodded her approval.

The typing stopped.

‘Go on then, Morrissey. Give them a receipt.’

So Nan looked at the wall clock then typed R 0858B/3/9/41 NM, then tore off the message and handed it to the sergeant.

Now she really was a teleprinter operator! Her eyes shone, her cheeks pinked. And one day Nan Morrissey too would be a good operator!

‘Hm. HF4 V ZAA. That’s Heronflete from ZAA. So who the heck is ZAA?’ the sergeant frowned.

She pressed the bell beside the hatch, placed the signal in the out-tray, then waited until a hand took it, clucking at the stupidity of a signals office that didn’t need a sergeant to run it. And she longed for the busy office she had left where sergeants had a mess of their own and didn’t have to share a gate lodge with privates. And she missed squad drill; girls marching, arms swinging, responding like automatons to commands! But most of all, she missed Joe; missed him so much it was like a pain inside her and what was far, far worse, the cold, stark certainty that she would never see him again.

‘Sergeant!’

‘Yes, Turner…?’

Monica James tore herself from the memory of a kiss that had been a last goodbye.

‘Take a look at this!’ The switchboard was criss-crossed with cords and plugs in holes. Heronflete had come to life. ‘I – er – I listened in to the first one; an outside line. It was scrambled.’

‘Hmm. Try an internal call, Turner.’

Evie covered the mouthpiece and slid a key gently forward, then nodded.

‘They’re scrambled, too – even inside Heronflete.’

‘Which only goes to show that something just might going on in there.’

She nodded towards the green baize door, all at once disliking it, because if the Army girls -herself included – were to be treated like a load of mindless morons who couldn’t be trusted to keep their mouths shut, then the sooner she was out of this place, the better! It made her think that maybe volunteering for service overseas might be the best way out – a new start, perhaps?

The bell buzzed again. She walked to the in-tray to pick up a signal, in code.

‘Right then, Morrissey – here’s one for you to send…’

It gave no clue; was merely prefixed Attention of C in CWA. A pencilled note attached with a paperclip instructed Send to LPL CWA.

The sergeant searched the route-map on the wall that gave all Army teleprinter stations. LPL CWA was not on it, but who damn-well cared!

Nan secured the signal to the holder in front of her, then began to tap the spacebar to alert Central Switchboard – wherever it was – that Heronflete had a signal for someone who was a Commander-in-Chief – that much she deduced without too much effort – but where LPL and WA were, no one was going to tell her.

It bothered her not one bit. Nan Morrissey was sending her first secretive signal; she was at war!

It made her glow with happiness. And for a bonus, she reminded herself yet again that tomorrow was pay day. How good could life get!

* * *

‘I’ll be doing the shift-run in ten minutes, Freddy,’ Carrie called. ‘You’ll have to wait for your tea till I get back!’

Pick up B-shift at Priest’s Lodge at 1350 hours, deliver them to the signals office, wait outside for A-shift – Evie and Nan – and drive them back to Southgate. It was a piece of cake, though it might make a change, she thought, if she were to get some real driving in. On proper roads.

Lenice and Ailsa made up B-shift. Lenice Cooper’s uniform was still in need of alteration but she vowed it would stay that way until she went on long leave when her uncle, a time-served tailor’s assistant, could make a proper job of it. Lenice, she had insisted, was not an unusual name at all, but the feminine of Leonard, which was her father’s name.

Ailsa Seaton was fair and pretty with a pink and white complexion. Carrie thought she seemed so fragile she should have been named Rose, or something delicately floral. Ailsa was Scottish and homesick for Edinburgh and hid behind Lenice’s forceful personality.

Carrie would not, she had quickly decided, cross swords with Lenice who was a bit Bolshie, and was glad the lord had been booted out of his dirty big house!

Yet it took all sorts to make a world, Carrie thought, and all sorts and shapes and sizes to make up the Auxiliary Territorial Service, which was beginning to have its good points.

She called a goodbye to Freddy and Norm who grunted from beneath the bonnet of the officers’ car, and thought about Jeffrey’s letter which had been cheerful and optimistic. Jeffrey’s draft chit into the real Navy – the pusser Navy, he called it – had come through and he told her not to write to Barracks again, and wait until she heard from him.

I know the name of my ship, but had best not tell you in a letter, or the censor will cut it out. Sufficient to say that by the time you get this I shall be on my way at last.

Thanks for yours, which arrived this morning.

In haste and high delight. Take care of yourself. I love you.

Jeffrey

Carrie tooted a goodbye as she left the stable yard. The afternoon was pleasant. September days were quite something; still warm, yet without the blazing heat of summer. A mellow time; a small Indian Summer before Autumn finaily gave way to winter. Which made her wonder how it would be when the snows came and they had to get from Southgate to the motor pool and the cookhouse and the ablutions. Would they be issued with gumboots, or would Sergeant James have got her way by then, and have them all in a more conveniently placed Nissen hut? With a coke stove, of course.

But she would worry about leaving Southgate when she had to. Right now it was a delight to be driving on the estate roads, making for Priest’s Lodge where, she hoped, Lenice and Ailsa would be waiting at the gate.

Carrie thought about Sergeant James who had been on duty since early morning and wondered how long her shifts would be and if they had managed to work out a meals rota. But that was up to the sergeant, whose dislike of the way things were at Heronflete plainly showed.

‘Nothing to do with you, Private Tiptree,’ Carrie said to the hen pheasant that ran across the lane ahead of her, then made cheerfully for Priest’s Lodge.

‘Have you eaten, then?’ she asked of B-shift as they climbed into the back of the truck.

‘Of course. At half-twelve, though it’s a heck of a trudge to the cook-house and back,’ Lenice grumbled. ‘Mind, it’ll be a whole lot worse when it rains, had you thought about that, Tiptree?’

‘N-no.’ Carrie stared ahead, deciding not to mention she had gone one better, and thought about snow! ‘But we’ve got our capes – we’ll be all right.’ Lenice had the makings of a barrack-room lawyer, Carrie frowned; one who always complained – often and loudly. ‘And it hasn’t rained yet. This far, the weather has been lovely. Looking forward to your first shift,’ she asked over her shoulder, turning right at Southgate, making for the huddle of buildings ahead.

‘Suppose so. Anything to relieve the boredom, though why I let myself be inveigled into a capitalist war I’ll never know!’

Carrie almost told her it was to fight the Fascists, who were far more evil than capitalists, but instead she said,

‘Now you know political opinions are forbidden so if you don’t mind, Lenice, I want none of them in this truck whilst I’m in charge!’

They completed the journey in silence, then Ailsa whispered, ‘Thanks,’ as they got down.

It was the first word she had spoken and Carrie thought how awful it must be for her at Priest’s and it made her all the more glad that she shared with Evie and Nan who were absolute loves.

‘Had you thought,’ Nan said with relish, ‘Priest’s will be doing the early shift in the morning as well, and that Evie and I will be off till tomorrow, at two? Don’t know whether to get up for breakfast, or have a lovely lie in.’

‘Yes, but Priest’s will be free for a trip into Lincoln on Saturday. Norm told me there’ll be a transport laid on.’

‘So will you be driving, Carrie?’ Evie looked up from her bedmaking and the meticulous envelope corners she was tucking in.

‘No one has said anything to me.’ Now Norm had agreed to relieve her of the evening shift, Carrie supposed she might have no choice in the matter. ‘I’ll be available from two, so maybe I will. I’ll ask Sergeant James to sort it with Freddy.’ She had learned that orders came from above and you didn’t go over the head of anyone with rank up.

‘Did you see the notice in the NAAFI – a dance, on Friday night?’

‘What – here?’ None of the soldiers she had seen at Heronflete looked a likely dancing partner. Nan frowned.

‘No. At the aerodrome. Invitation to the Sergeant’s Mess. Dancing from seven till ten-thirty. Transport laid on. If we’re going, we won’t be back here till eleven, at least. We’ll have to put in for a late pass,’ Evie warned.

‘Then I’m game,’ Nan beamed, thoughts of a real night out pleasing her. ‘Will they have a decent band, do you think?’

‘They very often do, in the RAF. Should think it’ll be a good hop,’ Evie said.’ Before I came here, I went to quite a few RAF dances. They often lay on beer and sandwiches.’

‘And they send transport? But will it be worth their while,’ Carrie frowned, ‘for just the three of us, because I don’t suppose the sergeant will be going.’

‘They’ll probably pick up in the villages around – civilian girls, to make up numbers. Is Friday night on, then?’ Evie wanted to know.

And Carrie and Nan said it was, and had anybody realised it would be their first night out for ages and ages?

‘OK, then. Leave the passes to me,’ Evie said. ‘And I’m going to the washroom to press my best uniform and wash some stockings. Anybody coming?’

But Carrie said she had to write to her mother, and Nan said she was going to take off her collar and tie and sit outside at the back in the sun.

To think, she supposed, about how smashing it was at Heronflete, even if they were a bit of a funny lot. And maybe to give a little thought to the grave marker, and how she would be able to find it if they weren’t allowed up the drive, much less within a hundred yards of the house. Because that’s where they’d buried Cecilia, Grandad had said.

My word, but being in the ATS gave you a lot to sit in the sun and think about!

Nan lay on her bed, hands behind head, watching as Carrie put on her make-up. She was very lovely, Nan thought; a nose every bit as perfect as Hedy Lamarr’s and high cheekbones, like Lana Turner’s. And her hair was thick and fair – more honey-coloured than blonde. But of more importance than Carrie’s enviable beauty was the ring. On the third finger of her left hand.

‘I’ll wear it,’ she had said, ‘if we go dancing, or anything,’ and there it was, sparkling and flashing; three diamonds that must have cost every bit of twenty pounds.

‘Something the matter?’ Carrie met Nan’s gaze in the mirror and turned, smiling.

‘No. Was just thinking that’s a smashin’ ring.’

‘Mm. It feels a bit strange, wearing it again. Wonder where Jeffrey is.’

‘Maybe on his new ship. Maybe sailing off into the sunset.’

‘He could be, but I’m sure he’ll be with the Home Fleet. If his ship was going foreign, he’d have been given leave. And talking about leave, we’ll have got three months’ service behind us, soon, and you’re supposed to get leave every three months, don’t forget. Must ask Evie about putting in for it.’

‘You’ll be goin’ home, to Yorkshire?’

‘Yes, and I’m quite looking forward to it. Be nice to wear civvies again and sleep in, mornings – and see Mum, of course. She’s missing me a lot, and it’s going to be awful for her when the bad weather comes.’

‘Why?’ Nan watched as Carrie removed Kirby grips from her pin-curled hair.

‘Well, we’ve got a little car and up until now I’ve always done the driving. When petrol was rationed, we decided we could manage on foot or on bikes in summer, to save our petrol coupons for winter. And Mum can’t drive…’

‘Then you’ll have to give her a few lessons, when you go home.’

‘Might be a good idea, though if she’d wanted to drive, she’d have taken it up before now. Mind, if she feels confident, it should be all right. At least she won’t have to pass a driving test.’

Tests had been suspended for the duration, which was very convenient, Carrie thought. All you did, now, was to apply for a licence, then start driving, which her mother would refuse point blank to do. She knew it! She already hated the blackout; driving a car in it when winter came wouldn’t even be considered. But it was too late now to worry about her mother living in an isolated village miles away from shops of any size; it was only one of the things she hadn’t taken into account in her haste to leave Nether Hutton.

‘Hi, folks!’ Evie’s bedroom door opened. ‘Got your war paint on, then, ’cause we’ll have to get a move on. The transport is picking us up at Priest’s at seven. Aren’t you putting your lipstick on, Nan?’

‘Haven’t got one. The Queer One didn’t allow make-up. Said it was common.’

‘Why do you call your stepmother The Queer One?’ Carrie asked as they walked towards Priest’s Lodge. ‘Hasn’t she got a name?’

‘Yes. It’s Ida. She said I was to call her mother, but it wasn’t on.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she wasn’t my mother. And she didn’t like me and I didn’t like her. It’s why I shoved off when dad died. No way was I stoppin’ with that one, and when I’m due for leave I’ll go to Auntie Mim’s, even if I have to sleep on the parlour sofa. Mind, I just might ask for my travel warrant to be made out to Edinburgh. Always wanted to go to Scotland…’

The possibilities, thought Nan, were heady and endless.

The RAF transport they shared with five civilian girls came to a stop at the guard room of the RAF bomber station.

‘Five civvies and three Army girls,’ called the driver, who was a member of the Womens’ Auxiliary Air Force – an aircraftwoman, or a WAAF, Carrie supposed – envying the skill with which she handled the large transport. ‘For the Mess dance.’

The red and white barrier was lifted and behind them, as they drove through, they could see outlines of huge hangars, wooden buildings and rows of Nissen huts. They stopped outside one of them.

‘Here you are, girls! Sergeants’ Mess. And they aren’t on ops tonight, so there’ll be plenty of partners,’ the driver grinned as she let down the tail board. ‘Sounds like it’s already started.’

They walked towards the sound of the music and drum beats, then pushed through the thick blackout curtain that covered the door to be met with wolf whistles of relief, Evie thought, at the arrival of eight more partners, because, apart from the WAAFs and three land girls already there, women were outnumbered by two to one. There would be no wallflowers here tonight! They threaded through the dancers to find empty chairs where a lone sergeant sat.