Bluebirds (3 page)

It was Pearl who broke the hush.

‘Holy mackerel!' she said. ‘Welcome to the
Ritz
.'

Anne lay awake on her narrow iron bed. Pearl, next to her, had already gone to sleep and was snoring softly. Nothing, she reckoned, would ever keep Pearl awake for long, unlike poor old Enid who was crying yet again over on the opposite side of the hut, making whimpering sounds in between the sobs, like an animal in pain. She put her arms behind her head against the hard bolster and stared into the darkness.

It had all been a bit of a let-down so far, she considered, starting with their sleeping quarters and getting even worse. The ablutions hut nearby was a grim, carbolicky place with cracked basins, rust-streaked baths and slimy duckboards. One of the lavatory chains was missing and so were most of the plugs. The graffiti scrawled large and clear over the walls had brought a blush to some cheeks.

‘No use standing on the seat, the crabs in here can jump six feet,' Pearl had chanted, peering into one of the lavatory cubicles. ‘Well, I never.'

‘Crabs?' Sandra had asked, her baby-face puzzled. ‘In
here
?'

‘Not the seaside kind, dearie. Nasty little things that a
well-brought up girl like you wouldn't know about.'

‘Mummy told me to be sure never to sit on the lavatory seats in case I caught something horrid.'

‘Mummy was quite right.'

Anne smiled, remembering. She had never heard of those sort of crabs either but Pearl had explained later. Pearl was going to be rather useful for things like that.

They had been given an evening meal in another hut – a sort of combined tea and supper of bread and butter, sausages, egg and chips, with strong, sweetened tea dispensed from a big urn. The food had all been transported from the airmen's cookhouse and by the time it had reached them it had been only lukewarm, the grease congealing. They had sat at benches at a long trestle table covered with an oilcloth and had each been given an enamel mug, and a knife, fork and spoon and had been told to keep these for their own use and to rinse them in the tub of tepid water by the door as they left. Later, they had been taken over to the NAAFI.

‘What's a NAAFI?' Sandra had asked in her high voice. She was always asking questions.

The Navy, Army and Air Force Institute had turned out to be a large brick building beside the parade ground and was, apparently, a place for recreation and refreshment. Their officer, Company Assistant Newman, who had explained this, had said that there was a shop there too, where they would be able to buy all sorts of things like cigarettes, chocolate, soap and so on. It had all seemed quite promising until they had discovered that they were to go in through a side entrance and be shut away in a poky back room. They had sat around on hard chairs, drank more stewed tea and eaten dry buns, served to them through a hatchway in the wall, as though they were lepers. The sound of airmen ‘recreating' noisily had reached them from beyond the hatch – loud talk and male laughter, and a piano being strummed energetically. The smell of beer and strong cigarettes had wafted through
and Pearl had talked wistfully of the Red Lion in Fulham.

The bedding stacked at the head of each bed in their hut had proved quite as awful as it looked. There were no sheets, the RAF blankets were miserably thin and the bolsters, instead of pillows, appeared to be stuffed with straw. There were no proper mattresses either, only three square pads that were well-named biscuits. Gloria had prodded hers disdainfully with a long, red fingernail.

‘Cripes, I'm not sleepin' on them things. They've got stains on.'

Anne turned over restlessly and the biscuits shifted beneath her like ice floes. She tugged them back into place and pummelled at the bolster. Kit hadn't warned her about any of these things, but maybe it was different if you were training as an officer in the Army. She thought about Kit and about the summer's night in June, only a few months ago, when they had sat out on the terrace at home and talked. The dance given for their eighteenth birthday had ended, the last guest gone, and when their parents had gone to bed they had both stayed up to watch the dawn. They had drunk the left-over champagne and she had kicked off her new silver party shoes and lounged in the swing-seat, the skirts of her blue tulle frock billowing softly as she pushed the seat backwards and forwards with one stockinged foot. Kit had been a bit squiffy. He had perched on the edge of the stone balustrade, legs dangling, white tie undone, a glass in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. They had talked about lots of things, including the future, which had seemed quite different then.

‘Lucky you,' she had told him. ‘Going up to Oxford. I've gone and messed things up as usual.'

‘You were a chump to get sacked from school. You've got a perfectly good brain, if only you'd use it – to stay out of trouble, for one thing. You could easily have got to Oxford if you'd tried.'

‘Don't give me a lecture. I couldn't stick that ghastly
school . . . all those stupid rules and bitchy girls. It was loathsome.'

‘You're still a chump. Well, what're you going to do now?'

She had stretched and yawned. It hadn't seemed to matter much then. ‘Don't know really. Life's a bit of a bore at the moment. Mummy keeps going on about me going to some finishing school in Switzerland. Honestly, I can't imagine anything more deadly, can you? Flower arranging and French cooking and all that sort of stuff. And girls just like the ones at St Mary's, probably worse. Luckily, Daddy says “No,” because of all this scare about there being a war. I'd've refused to go anyway. I've had enough of school. She's still trying to make me do the Season next year, though.'

‘So you can bag a husband?'

‘That's her idea, anyway. Preferably one with a title.'

‘And frightfully rich.'

‘And frightfully boring. That's why you're so lucky to be going up to Oxford. You'll meet all sorts of interesting people. Bound to.'

‘Matter of fact, I doubt if I'll ever get there.'

‘Don't talk rot. You'll get in easily. You'll probably be utterly sickening and get a scholarship.'

He had shaken his head. ‘Didn't mean that. The thing is, we're bound to declare war on Germany soon. There won't
be
any Season next year, so you needn't worry about it.'

‘I don't believe there's going to be a war. Chamberlain signed that thing to stop it.'

‘A piece of paper! What's the use of that? Hitler will just tear it up whenever it suits him. He took over Czechoslovakia and Austria. Now he's got his nasty little eye on Poland. And we've given Poland our guarantee to go to her aid, so that'll be that. War!
Ipso facto
. No getting out of it. Most of the beaks at school say so.'

Anne had been silent for a moment, pushing the swing seat to and fro with her foot. Talk of a war had spoiled
all the fun of the evening. She was sick of people going on all about it. Sick of all the talk of trenches and shelters and gasmasks. It was all such a drag. And what had Poland got to do with England, anyway? It was miles and miles away, somewhere in the middle of Europe – she wasn't sure exactly where – and even if it was invaded then surely it was up to the Poles to look after themselves. It was their country. Why should England have to be involved?

She had said impatiently: ‘But you could still go up to Oxford, even if there was a stupid war.'

‘Not so, old girl.'

‘Why ever not?'

‘Because I'm going to join up, fathead. Dad's old regiment, if they'll have me. A lot of the chaps at school are going to . . . they're just waiting for the show to start.'

He had spoken as casually as if he were talking about an end-of-term play. She had suddenly felt frightened.

‘But Kit, you might get killed!'

He had laughed. ‘Not likely. But don't you dare say a word to Ma. She'd flap like anything.'

‘She'd try to stop you.'

‘Wouldn't be able to. They'll call us up and she won't be able to do a thing about it.' He had waved the bottle at her cheerfully. ‘More champers?'

She had watched her twin brother pouring himself another glass of champagne, and she had been very afraid for him. He was the person she cared most about in the world. He was her other half. Her better half. All the things she had somehow never managed to be. He was Captain of Boats and in Pop and almost certain to get a scholarship to Oxford. To think of him being in danger of being killed made her feel sick.

‘Kit, do you
honestly
believe there's going to be a war?'

“Fraid so. And to tell the truth, I rather hope there is. Dreadful thing to say, I s'pose . . . Anyway, we can't possibly let old Adolf go on doing just as he likes –
marching into other people's countries, shoving them away in camps, all that sort of thing . . . That's what he's doing, you know. S'posing he tries to come and do the same here?'

‘Here? In
England
? Don't be daft.'

‘It's not so daft. Wouldn't put it past him to have a shot at it. And we couldn't allow that, could we? Just not on.' Kit had taken another gulp of champagne. ‘I think it'll all be pretty exciting. A real scrap against an evil little tyrant who's jolly well asking for it.'

She had realized that he meant every word of it. ‘
Must
you go, Kit? If it does happen. Couldn't you wait a bit?'

He had hiccuped gently. ‘Sorry, old bean, but I'd hate to be left out. All my friends are going . . . even old Parker-Smiley and he's still afraid of the dark. Atkinson, Villiers, Stewart, Latimer . . . remember him at the Fourth this year, making sheep's eyes at you? Poor old Latimer. He's got a real crush on you. Keeps asking about you. Must have a screw loose.'

Yes, she remembered Latimer. A tall, thin boy with spots. He'd blushed whenever she spoke to him on that day at Eton, and his spaniel's eyes had followed her everywhere. It had rather amused her at the time. He hadn't been able to come to the dance but the rest of them had been there. She'd danced with them all. Jamie Stewart had kept tripping her up and Noel Atkinson had trodden on her new silver shoes. Peter Villiers was pretty good at the quickstep, really, and little Parker-Smiley, still shorter than her, had surprised her by how well he could waltz. She'd known them all for years – ever since they'd been at prep school with Kit. Now, all of a sudden, apparently, they weren't boys any longer – but men.

She had turned her head to hide the silly tears that had come into her eyes. She had blinked them away. The beech trees at the far end of the garden, beyond the lawn, looked like black cut-outs against the sky. She could hear the first trills of the birds.

‘What about me, Kit? What on earth am I going to do?'

‘Oh, you'll find something . . . you could always join up as well.'

‘Join what?'

‘How about the ATS?'

‘The what?'

‘The Women's Army thing . . . Auxiliary Territorial Service.'

‘Ugh! Sounds grim.'

‘Shouldn't think they'd have you, anyway. Too bolshie by far.' Kit had inverted the champagne bottle over his glass. ‘Damn! Only a drop left. Ah well, all good things must come to an end, as they say. Tell you what, twin, let's drink to us. To us . . . and to the future . . . whatever it may bring.'

They had raised their glasses solemnly to each other in the dawning of that new day, and then Kit had thrown back his head and laughed, as though there wasn't a care in the world. She had tried to laugh too, but she had been so afraid inside herself – so afraid that all the good times they had had together were over. That their childhood was gone and that nothing in the future would ever be the same again.

Pearl had stopped snoring and Enid had stopped crying, at last. But now someone had started coughing down the far end of the hut – a maddening, repetitive sort of cough. It had begun to rain and she could hear it drumming on the asbestos roof and splashing down on the concrete path outside. Anne turned over and pulled the RAF blanket high up over her ears.

Winnie Briggs was awake too. It was so strange to her to be sleeping in the same room as nineteen other girls. At home she slept alone up in the attic, and every sound and movement in the hut disturbed her. She heard Pearl snoring and Anne pummelling her bolster and Enid sobbing. She wasn't far off crying herself. Elmbury seemed as far
away as the moon and, in spite of the others around her, she felt dreadfully alone. In the NAAFI earlier she had sat drinking her tea and chewing her bun, hardly saying a word. And undressing before bed had been embarrassing. She hadn't known where to look. Some of them didn't seem to care at all but just peeled off all their clothes in full view of everyone, though the Yorkshire girl next to her had gone off to the ablutions hut to undress and Enid had made a tent of her bedclothes.

She couldn't get to sleep. She kept thinking of home, and of Ken, and worrying about how much she'd hurt him. She'd tried hard to explain things to him that evening when they'd been out walking together, up the little track at the back of the farmhouse, after he'd come to tea on Wednesday, as usual.

‘I just don't see why you want to go and join up, Winn,' he'd said, with his sad look on his face.

‘I want to do somethin' useful in the war, Ken. Somethin' on my own.'

‘Without me?'

‘You could join up too, if you wanted. Go into the RAF, p'raps. We might even be in the same place. We could ask.'

He had looked even sadder. ‘They wouldn't have me, Winn. Not with my asthma. You have to be fit. I was askin' Mother about it and she said I hadn't got a chance of gettin' in. They'd never even look at me, she says, not with my weak chest. But I've been thinkin' things over . . .'