A Christmas Promise (18 page)

‘It would only take a well-placed bombing raid to blow the whole island to kingdom come,’ Janet said, sipping her drink.

‘That’s why the authorities have kept this place top secret.’

‘For obvious reasons,’ said Tilly. They had hardly dared to think of the consequences of living each day with the threat of the world’s biggest firework display, and now she was trying not to worry about her two friends who actually preferred to stay here.

‘It doesn’t bother me about not going home, dearie,’ Pru laughed. ‘I’m having the time of my life. I doubt they’d give you a special dispensation to go home just because you miss your mum, though.’ She clicked her tongue in jovial admonishment, saying, ‘Oh, you really can’t wait, can you, Tilly?’

‘I’m freezing here,’ said Tilly shivering. ‘I’m miserable when the weather’s cold.’ If she was honest she missed her home comforts as much as she missed Drew. And if she should happen to bump into him in London … no, she would put that thought out of her mind.

It wasn’t the weather that was getting her down, she was worried that her memories of Drew were beginning to lose their potency, which scared – no, terrified – her. One day, she might wake up and not remember his face or his voice and, what was worse, that he might be feeling this way, too.

The following day, early, among many tears and promises to keep in touch, Tilly and Janet were on the paddle steamer going home. Cheering, Pru and Veronica waved them off. As the dawn broke Tilly and Janet caught sight of Southsea in the distance.

‘I’m still not sure how you managed to wangle this.’ Janet asked as they landed on terra firma.

‘Maybe somebody heard my plea for home leave,’ Tilly said, hardly able to contain the excitement at the prospect of seeing her mother’s face and knowing that since Agnes and Dulcie had left Article Row there were a couple of spare rooms if the other girls wanted a London billet.

Orders were that Tilly and Janet had to report for duty at the War Office in Whitehall, opposite Downing Street and close to ‘the Fortress’, a concrete structure, which, like an iceberg, concealed most of its bulk below the surface and was purportedly impervious to bombs.

She and Janet entered the vast hall of the War Office and halted at the security desk. Their papers were scrutinised and a further telephone check made before they were issued with a temporary pass-card and were told to report to the sergeant-major.

‘Do you think we’ve done something wrong?’ asked Janet.

‘I don’t know,’ Tilly answered, ‘but we’ll soon find out.’

They were shown to the sergeant-major’s office by a competent woman who, at close quarters, was not as old as Tilly had first thought. On knocking, they were ordered to enter.

Tilly led the way, not by choice, more by gentle force as she was pushed forward by Janet into the large expanse of room.

The sergeant-major, a huge man, looked disapprovingly at their hair, their uniform and their shoes, before telling them, ‘Personnel living within an hour’s travelling time and who have domestic accommodation can be billeted at home, as we are very short of barrack and billet facilities in London right now.’ Tilly loved her mum with all of her heart but she also knew that, Olive being the protective and nurturing type, Tilly would not be able to move without her motherly interrogation. So she was going to have to be firm and not let her spoil her like she always did.

‘You will parade at nine o’clock each morning …’ the sergeant-major was saying, breaking into her thoughts. ‘And get those shoes polished.’ Then, indicating a corporal, the sergeant-major said in more gentle tones, ‘Corporal Wyngate will take you to Room 656.’

After the girls had been given their duties for the following day, they were dismissed.

‘Do you think I could ask for Sunday off on religious grounds?’ Tilly said laughing.

‘I should think that is a reasonable request,’ laughed Janet. ‘Maybe they could stop the war on Sundays too – oh, and every Saturday, so I could go to the market.’

‘I’m sure that won’t be a problem,’ Tilly laughed. ‘In fact, maybe we could ask them to keep the noise down while we had a sleep in!’

The girls were in good spirits being back in London, and Tilly couldn’t wait to get back home to Article Row. It didn’t take long to get to say hello to the girls they had worked with before leaving for the Isle of Wight. However, they couldn’t fail to notice that some faces were missing: either gone abroad or gone to meet their Maker – but no questions were asked and no explanations were given.

‘This is your office,’ said a solidly built female sergeant, whom Tilly vowed never to get on the wrong side of. ‘It’s quite small but you’ll soon get used to it and it can be quite cosy on cold winter afternoons.’

‘I bet it can,’ said Tilly as she and Janet wedged themselves behind the squashed-in desks and Tilly immediately likened it to her tiny office back at St Bartholomew’s Hospital where she once worked as an assistant to the Lady Almoner.

‘There are a number of American newspapermen working next door,’ said the sergeant, and immediately the hairs on the back of Tilly’s neck stood on end … It would be so wonderful if … No, she mustn’t torture herself like that. There was no need to dwell on what could have been. There were hundreds, even thousands of girls all over London and beyond who were crying into their pillows every night for the loss of an American sweetheart. She was beyond all that now.

‘Shall I just go and check they have enough typewriter ribbon  … ? Tilly tried not to sound too enthusiastic and was dismayed when she was refused permission to leave the room.

‘There are plenty of Forces Restaurants locally, so you will do very well for lunch and at about one shilling and tuppence a pop, you won’t starve, I’m sure,’ continued the sergeant. ‘Your hours will be Parade at nine a.m., then start work at nine thirty and, with an hour for lunch, you will finish at five thirty. From then on, your time is your own.’ The sergeant then bid them good afternoon and they were given the rest of the day to find a billet.

‘Come on, Jan,’ said Tilly, collecting her bag and slipping the long strap across her shoulder. ‘We’ll go and see Mum. There’s plenty of room back in Article Row.’

Olive noticed there had been more than the usual interest in the much-sort-after tickets for the Red Cross Christmas raffle this year, and the reason was obvious when she saw Audrey display the basket, done up with a ribbon, containing a tin of talcum powder and a whole bar of Palmolive soap, in the shop window.

‘Now I know why there’s been such a rush,’ said Olive. Soap had been rationed since 1942.

‘The soap is scented,’ Audrey said in a low whisper, deeply inhaling the soap’s perfume.

‘It’s something to treasure, that’s for sure,’ Olive said. Undoubtedly it would be eked out to the last sliver by the lucky winner.

‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to when we can’t even get hold of a bit of soap,’ said a war-weary woman, accompanied by three young children in ragged trousers.

Olive nodded sympathetically when the down-at-heel woman, who was doing her Christmas shopping in the Red Cross shop, informed her that it was impossible to buy a decent bar of perfumed soap these days and bought three tickets while looking accusingly at Olive.

‘She must think we have a secret stash under the counter,’ Olive said, and then laughed, as the woman and her three wailing children left the shop. The shop was busy for the rest of the afternoon. As dusk drew in, the customers dwindled and Audrey declared the raffle closed. She drew a ticket from the box in which the staff had been placing them for the last fortnight, then stuck the winning number to the prize in the window, but an hour passed and nobody came to claim the star prize of talc and soap.

‘What if nobody comes to collect their prize?’ Olive asked Audrey, who was adding up the day’s takings, amazed at how much they had taken that day.

‘Oh, someone will claim it for sure. It will be a late Christmas present.’

‘Well, someone is going to be very lucky and smell gorgeous over Christmas.’

‘Are you looking forward to going to the country?’ Audrey asked as they tidied around before locking up.

Olive beamed. ‘I can’t wait. Agnes said I have to put my feet up and be waited on hand and foot,’ she laughed. ‘I can’t really argue with her, though; my feet are killing me today.’

‘Mine, too,’ said Audrey. ‘We have been exceptionally busy today. I’m going to go home and soak my aching feet in a bowl of warm water.’

‘Throw some Epsom salts in for good measure, it’s really soothing.’

‘I’ll try that,’ said Audrey. ‘I’m dressing the altar in the church tonight ready for tomorrow. I want everything looking just right for the big day.’

‘You work so hard, Audrey,’ said Olive. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you sit down and have a proper rest for ages.’ They had been on the go all week, swapping, mending and organising salvage schemes. As salvage stewards they each wore a special badge with an ‘S’, and were in charge of collecting all manner of goods from their neighbours for salvage as well as for the Red Cross shop.

Housewives had been urged not to throw away aluminium milk bottle tops or cans. Rubber could be recycled to make boots for paratroopers. Leftover bones gathered at ‘bone drives’ went to produce glue used in ship-building and shell cases, while battledress fabric was made from wool remnants, and the nation’s pigs benefited from every scrap of food waste that could be collected. Olive knew that the work had to be done regardless of whether it was Christmas or not.

But, fortunately, she had a few days off from the depot and the shop. On Boxing Day, Audrey would gather with like-minded women in the church hall to dismantle used batteries and electric light bulbs, and sort the old tyres that had been dredged from ponds. They would not be the only women who would be doing their bit for the brave men fighting for their country. Olive knew that the salvage campaign was the brainchild of Herbert Morrison and the women of Britain were proud to support it.

‘Well, there’s no sense in slacking. I’m like you, Olive: if I see a job needs doing I have to get on with it.’

‘We’ll only be gone two days and then I’ll be back in the shop the day after I get home,’ said Olive, feeling a bit guilty for leaving it to Audrey now.

‘Don’t you worry at all, Olive. If anybody deserves a nice rest it’s you. You never stop.’

‘We sound like the mutual esteem team.’ Olive laughed.

‘And why not?’ Audrey laughed. Then a little more thoughtfully she said, ‘If that prize isn’t claimed in the next five minutes somebody is going to go without a Christmas present.’

‘You’re right,’ Olive said, looking at the clock near the door, just as Archie came hurrying into the shop. As usual Olive’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.

‘Hello, Archie,’ she smiled ‘have you come to walk me home?’

‘Well, yes,’ Archie said, ‘that would be my pleasure, but as I was passing the window I noticed that my number has come out for the raffle.’ He looked a bit bewildered when Olive and Audrey burst out laughing.

‘Let’s have a look,’ said Audrey, examining his ticket. ‘Yes, he’s only won the star prize, Olive.’

‘The star prize!’ Archie was thrilled. ‘I’ve never won a thing in my life.’ He looked at Olive now and said in a low voice that was meant only for her, ‘Until now.’

‘Here you go, Archie,’ Audrey announced with great aplomb, ‘your raffle prize.’ She handed him the gift basket containing the talc and the soap. and Archie’s eyes widened.

‘Well, what a lovely surprise.’ He then turned to Olive and said, ‘But I can’t use scented soap and perfumed talcum powder; the lads at the station would think I’ve turned—’

‘Archie!’ Olive said, presuming he was going to say something that would embarrass Audrey.

‘I was going to say “vain”. Why, what did you think I was going to say?’ Archie laughed ‘Anyway, you can have it, Olive. You ladies like things like this.’

Olive’s jaw dropped as she looked at Audrey.

‘Oh, I can’t take it, Archie. People will think the raffle was rigged in my favour!’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Archie. ‘I paid my money for the raffle ticket just the same as everybody else.’

‘That’s right, Olive, he did,’ Audrey countered. ‘I’ll put the winning ticket in the window. I’ll write Archie’s name on the back, and the date it was bought – who is going to argue with a police sergeant?’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Olive, still feeling a little apprehensive and undeserving of the prize. Then a thought struck her and she turned to Audrey, holding up the soap in one hand and the talc in the other.

‘Which one do you prefer?’ she asked, and there was no hesitation from Audrey who, as the poorly paid vicar’s wife, did not get very many luxuries – if any at all.

‘Oh, Olive, that is kind of you. Do you mind if I have the talcum powder?’

‘Not at all,’ Olive said benevolently, handing the tin to her friend. ‘Happy Christmas.’

‘Oh, and a happy Christmas to you, too, and you, Archie.’ She threw her arms around Olive’s shoulders and gave her a friendly hug, then the same to Archie, whose face coloured to a fetching pink, Olive noticed, smiling.

‘I think it’s going to be a wonderful Christmas after all,’ Olive said as she linked her arm through Archie’s and made her way back to Article Row.

‘I do have a proper present to give you tomorrow,’ Archie said as Audrey turned off at the vicarage, waving her Christmas booty.

‘Oh, you didn’t have to buy me anything, Archie,’ Olive said as a warm feeling of contentment washed over her.

‘I didn’t say it was bought,’ Archie offered, and would say no more on the subject no matter how much Olive tried to coax it out of him. Laughing, he told her she would just have to wait and see.

‘Archie, can you hear something?’ Olive whispered as she entered the hallway of number 13. Barney had gone to the pictures to see
Casablanca
with Sally, who had a bit of a crush on Humphrey Bogart, to take her mind off Callum not being on leave for Christmas, Alice was at the child-minder and Olive was picking her up at six, so Olive knew there should be nobody in the house at all.