Bluebirds (10 page)

The heavy rubber masks were foul-smelling and clung suffocatingly to their faces like limpets. The WAAFS filed after the corporal into the Decontamination Centre where thick, acrid fumes rose from a container placed on a table in the centre of a room. They lumbered round and round the table, following their leader in a weird war dance. Outside again, they dragged off their respirators and stood sucking in deep lungfuls of fresh air. Vera was coughing and clutching at her throat, while Enid sank to her knees, moaning.

The corporal shook his head sadly. ‘Crikey, what a fuss you females make. What're you all goin' to do when it's the real thing?'

Sergeant Baker, who took them for their first drill, was even more sceptical than the gas corporal. They gathered before him in a timid cluster at the edge of the parade ground. He was a big, beetroot-faced man with a voice like a foghorn and he looked them over with cold eyes, taking in the varying heights, shapes and contours, and the motley array of civilian clothing. Finally, his acid gaze came to rest in disbelief on Gloria's high-heeled, peep-toe shoes.

‘You can't wear them things. Go and change 'em.'

Gloria lifted her chin. ‘I 'aven't got no others so they'll just 'ave to do.'

He went redder still, an angry purple flush spreading upwards from his thick neck. ‘I'm not 'avin' them on my parade ground. It's an insult to the Service and to 'is Majesty.'

Gloria shrugged. She bent down and took off the offending shoes and suspended them from the backs on one forefinger, swinging them gently to and fro. Sergeant Baker glared ferociously as she stood there in stockinged feet on the wet asphalt.

‘Catch her death, she will,' someone muttered.

There was a long moment while the sergeant and Gloria confronted each other; at last he gave a snort of disgust.

‘Put 'em back on. But next time you come in proper footwear, see, or you don't come at all.' He stared round the group. ‘God help us with you women. How're we goin' to fight the war with you lot on our backs? 'itler's secret weapon, that's what you are. 'E won't need to lift a bloomin' finger.' He whacked his stick across the palm of his hand, making some of them jump. ‘Well, the first thing I've got to say to you lot is that you're not 'ere to enjoy yourselves. Get that? The second thing is that you don't do
nothin'
'til I give the order. Is that understood?'

They nodded obediently, huddled together like driven sheep and shivering in the cold wind. Several windows in the barrack block along one side of the square had opened and airmen were leaning over the sills. Whistling and laughter could be heard. The sergeant turned in that direction with a savage yell.

‘Pack it up, you lot, or I'll make you tag on the end of these women and see 'ow you like that.' He swung back and pointed at Vera who cringed. ‘You there! Come and stand over 'ere. You're the marker. I want you all in a line each side of 'er. Tallest to the right, shortest to the left. Get yourselves in ‘eight order.
Fall in!
'

There was a hopeless muddle as they tried to arrange themselves. Exasperated, the sergeant seized those out of order by their shoulders and moved them bodily about like pawns on a chess board until they had formed a row before him, the tallest at one end, down to the shortest.

‘Stand still and stop talkin'! When I say
right dress
– and
not
before – you put your right arm out and space yourselves so that your knuckles touch your neighbour's shoulder. That clear, or do I 'ave to say it all over again?'

At his command they all stuck out their right arms obediently, except for Sandra who put out her left and poked Vera in the eye.

After that, they formed themselves into threes, with a good deal of shuffling about and abuse from Sergeant Baker.

‘Wot a shambles! Never seen anythin' like it in all me life. Now then, I'm goin' to try and show you 'ow to stand to attention,
if
that's somethin' any of you are capable of, which I doubt.
Stop fiddlin' with your 'air, you at the back there!
Watch closely. You stand on the balls of your feet, 'eels together, feet at forty-five degrees, stomach in, knees back, 'ead up, shoulders back, arms at the side, elbows in, fingers curled with the thumb on the top of the first finger, in line with the seam down your thigh – if you
'ad
a seam, that is . . . 
Attenshun
!'

They struggled vainly to remember it all and to imitate the sergeant's ramrod figure before them.

“Orrible!
'orrible!
A bunch of 'ottentots could do it better. Well, let's see if you can stand at ease – that ought to suit the lot of you. Place your left foot to your left, a foot away. At the same time put your arms behind you and bring the shoulders back, placin' the right 'and in the palm of the left with the thumbs crossin' . . .' He twisted sideways. ‘See? Simple. Now, let's 'ave you doin' it, just like me.
At ease!
'

They tried their best to copy him. Sandra moved her right foot instead of her left and collided with Vera. Somehow their limbs became entangled and they both collapsed onto the ground. Sergeant Baker turned puce.

‘Wot do you two think you're playin' at? This isn't a bloomin' three-legged race! Don't you know your left from your right?'

Sandra had grazed her knees and there were tears in her eyes. ‘I'm awfully sorry, Sergeant. I do get them mixed up sometimes.'

‘Saints preserve us! And they expect me to drill people like you!'

He took a piece of chalk from his pocket, bent down and wrote a large white letter L on Sandra's left shoe and an R on the other.

‘
Now
p'raps you'll remember.
If
you can read.'

He taught them how to turn left, turn right, and about on the spot. They practised the movements many times under his jaundiced eye before, finally, he allowed them to begin marching.

‘And I want you
marchin
', not trippin' along like you was all out shoppin'. Heads
up
, arms swingin', shoulders back . . . Are you all ready? Listen for my commands and don't do nothin' 'til you 'ear them. By the left . . . 
quick march!
'

Sandra started off on the wrong foot in spite of the chalked letters on her shoes, and kept hopping and skipping along as she tried to get in step. Blood trickled from the grazes on her knees. Enid's arms and legs moved in stiff and jerky unison instead of as opposites, and Gloria minced along on her high heels, swinging her bottom more than her arms. Winnie, concentrating hard, forgot the cold and felt instead a sudden warm glow of pride as the small band of WAAFS moved together across the vast parade ground.
Left, right. Left, right
. She repeated the words to herself under her breath. Anne, marching at the front, was finding it easy. She had enjoyed the drill, and that had surprised her. She flung her arms out in time with
her marching feet and strained her ears for the sound of the sergeant's voice and his next command. The far side of the square was approaching rapidly and still she heard nothing. They were within yards of the edge of the asphalt when, at last, she heard his foghorn voice.

‘About turn!'

She turned smartly about to face the other way and the other girls in the front rank turned with her. Those behind them, however, had failed to hear the sergeant properly and the ranks collided in confusion and disarray. Enid was knocked to the ground like a ninepin and lay weeping in a puddle. Sandra's grazes were now bleeding in earnest and one of Gloria's high heels had snapped and she was hobbling about, swearing loudly.

Sergeant Baker, a distant and furious figure, could be heard yelling hoarsely while the raucous and delighted laughter from the airmen at the barrack room windows floated to them on the wind like the cawing of crows.

The offices of the Falcon Assurance Company overlooked Holborn. From her desk near the window, Virginia Stratton could watch the endless flow of people walking by on the pavement below. There was a new public shelter now, just across the street. She had seen them piling up a thick wall of sandbags against the building and erecting the ‘S' sign, but so far there had been no air raids, only false alarms, and the pessimists who had said that London would be bombed to bits within weeks of the war being declared, had been made to look foolish. In spite of the sandbags and shelters, the blackout and the barrage balloons, a great many people seemed to be living their ordinary, normal lives, going to and fro from their offices and carrying on business as usual. Her mother kept saying that the war would be over by Christmas, but Virginia was not so sure. She had noticed many more uniforms in the street below the window lately – far more khaki, navy and lighter blue among the civilian clothing. And, if the war was going to end so soon, why were the
parks being dug up, the statues all taken away, more and more shelters being built, like the one opposite, and all the children evacuated to the country?

She stared out of the window. The subject of her wanting to join the Women's Air Force had not been mentioned again. Mother probably thought she'd given up the whole idea but it had become even more firmly fixed in her mind. She found herself watching for women in uniform among the crowd, and envying them. They walked with their heads held high and with purpose in their step, and she longed to be one of them and not imprisoned in a dreary office. She never saw many in Air Force uniform but there were always a lot in Army khaki. She watched one crossing the street. She looked young and very self-assured. Her tunic buttons and shoes were shiny and her hair was dressed in a beautifully neat roll under her cap. Virginia fingered her own hair and wondered if she could ever make hers go like that. She peered after the girl until she was lost to view.

In two weeks time she would be eighteen and officially old enough to join up. Several people in the department had gone already. Mr Wilson and Mr Platt had joined the Army and Mr Whicker, who spent his weekends sailing, had gone into the Navy. And Mavis, the junior typist, had announced only that morning that she was going to join the ATS.

‘I'm going to do my bit, like they asked,' she had told the office smugly. To Virginia she had said later in lower tones, and with a huge wink, ‘And it'll be a lot more fun than working here. Chance of a lifetime, that's what it is. Aren't you going to join up, or something?'

‘I don't know. I'm not sure yet.'

Mavis had shrugged and picked at the sleeve of her pink angora sweater. ‘Loopy if you don't. There'll soon be no-one left here but old men and Miss P.'

Miss Parkes, so disparaged by Mavis, spent her lunch hours knitting long scarves for servicemen. She clicked away briskly in her corner by the filing cabinet and the
scarves grew rapidly, snaking onto her bony knees. After Mavis had delivered her news she looked up as Virginia went to one of the cabinets and smiled.

‘I expect you'll be leaving us before long, dear. Joining up with all the rest of the young things.'

Virginia coloured. ‘I'd like to – as soon as I'm eighteen – but . . .'

‘But what, dear?'

‘There's my mother, you see.'

‘Is she ill then, dear?'

‘No . . .'

‘Then why can't you? If you want to. I'm sure you'd be very useful to one of the women's services. You've got a good sensible head on your shoulders. And you're intelligent and hard-working.'

Virginia said reluctantly: ‘Mother doesn't want me to leave her, that's the trouble. We live alone, you see. Just her and me . . . she rather depends on me.'

Miss Parkes looked over the top of her spectacles. Her hands went on moving busily, the needles click-clicking.

‘Is your mother an invalid?'

‘No.'

‘So, there's no reason why she can't look after herself?'

‘No . . . the thing is she spends most of her time by herself in the flat. She hardly ever goes out and it's very lonely for her. She looks forward to my coming home. She got very upset when I told her I was thinking of joining up.'

‘I see. Have you suggested she tries joining something like the Women's Voluntary Service? She'd meet a lot of people and keep busy. It might do her good. Try that as an idea.'

‘I'll try,' Virginia said doubtfully. ‘But I don't think she'd like it very much. She doesn't seem to get on with strangers very well. It's awfully difficult to explain . . .'

Miss Parkes started on another row. ‘Which service would you like to join?'

‘The Women's Auxiliary Air Force, actually, if I could
choose. I don't really know why . . . I've hardly ever seen an aeroplane in my life. But I heard an appeal on the wireless for volunteers, and it's new . . . I've seen queues of girls in Kingsway waiting to join every day.'

Miss Parkes, surprisingly, stopped knitting. The mass of khaki wool lay inert on her lap. She looked up at Virginia earnestly. ‘If you want my advice, dear, I should go and join the Air Force as soon as you possibly can. It's a chance to do something else with your life . . . see a bit more of the world . . . meet all sorts of different people . . . do some really interesting, useful work. You shouldn't spend your youth keeping your mother company, or working in an office like this with a whole lot of old people like me; not if there's a good alternative. So long as your mother can look after herself and get out and about there's nothing whatever for you to feel guilty about. That's the way I see it. And I speak from experience. I spent years living with
my
mother, for much the same sort of reason, until she died recently, and every day I came to work in this office. Look at what has happened to me. Or
not
happened, I should say. Life has passed me by. If I were your age again, I'd join up like a shot . . . and I shouldn't let anything stop me. Just find the courage, if you can, to do what you want to do. You'll live to regret it, if you don't.'