Keep Smiling Through (12 page)

Cissy’s eyes widened. ‘I said so, didn’t I?’ She gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Honestly, Rita. Don’t you ever think about anything but machines?’

‘Not often,’ she admitted, and grinned. ‘You said I could try on your spare uniform.’ She waggled her hands. ‘My nails are clean – I won’t get muck on it. I promise.’

Cissy giggled and gave her a hug. ‘You are a caution, Rita Smith, but it’s lovely to be friends again – quite like old times.’ She opened the wardrobe to reveal acres of dresses, skirts and suits. The floor of the cupboard was littered with shoes and handbags, and the shelf above the hanging rail was stuffed with hat boxes.

Rita stared at this bounty in amazement. Cissy could have opened a shop, and it made her own paltry collection of worn clothes fade into further insignificance. But then Cissy had always loved clothes – it was probably why she’d gone on the stage. Rita smiled fondly at her friend, glad that they were so different – glad that they’d found each other again, for life had become far too serious of late, and Cissy was injecting fun back into it.

Cissy finally found what she was looking for and held it out. She puckered her lips as she eyed Rita thoughtfully. ‘It’ll probably be far too long in the skirt, and the jacket will swamp you. I’d forgotten how tiny you are.’

‘All the best things come in small packages,’ Rita retorted as she pulled off her jumper and trousers and almost reverently stepped into the lovely blue serge skirt.

It swam at her waist and fell almost to her ankles, and she and Cissy burst out laughing. ‘Here, put on the jacket and I’ll hold it at the back so you can get a good idea of what you’ll look like when you have your own.’

The sleeves covered her hands, sagged at the shoulders and poked at the front. Cissy did a great deal of judicious pulling and tugging and then they looked in the dressing-table mirror to see the effect.

Rita’s eyes widened. ‘Gosh,’ she breathed. ‘Don’t I look different? All sort of grown-up and posh.’ She shot Cissy a grin and put on her plummiest voice. ‘A bit like you, Corporal Cecily Reilly – all glamorous and
terribly, terribly
sophisticated.’

They burst into gales of laughter and it was a few minutes before order was restored and the uniform was put carefully back into the wardrobe.

‘Come on, Rita. It’s time to make you look gorgeous.’ Cissy pushed her down on the dressing stool. ‘You’re far too serious about everything. You simply can’t go about without make-up and a decent haircut. Sit still and I’ll show you just how lovely you can look.’

‘But I don’t like wearing make-up,’ Rita protested.

‘All girls like make-up,’ retorted Cissy as she flung a towel round Rita’s shoulders and picked up her scissors.

‘What are you doing?’ Rita gasped.

‘Taming this mop,’ she replied, and without further ado, began to snip at Rita’s curls.

Rita closed her eyes. With a mixture of dread and excited anticipation, she listened to the snip of the scissors and felt the scrape of the comb. ‘Just don’t cut it too short,’ she pleaded, ‘or I’ll look like a half-witted pixie.’

‘Keep your eyes closed while I do your make-up,’ murmured Cissy as the scissors clattered onto the glass top of the dressing table.

Rita tried to relax and sit still as Cissy smoothed cream on her face, dusted it with powder, and began to brush something on her eyelids and lashes. She could smell Cissy’s perfume and feel her warm breath on her face as she carefully applied lipstick and gave her hair a final tweak. It was an intimate moment, reminding her of their childhood when Cissy had insisted upon dressing her and May in frothy frocks and bejewelled tiaras so they could be princesses to Cissy’s queen in her little plays.

‘There,’ sighed Cissy. ‘You can look now.’

Rita opened her eyes and stared at her reflection. Her unruly curls had been tamed into a side parting, the thick sweep of hair carefully brushed back from her face to enhance the cheekbones she never knew she had. Her eyes looked enormous and very dark brown against the dusting of blue eyeshadow and black pencil, the lashes were long and curled with mascara, her lips a deep scarlet. ‘I can’t believe how different I look,’ she breathed.

‘But do you like it?’ Cissy’s face was anxious.

Rita nodded. ‘I look just like the photograph of my mother,’ she murmured. ‘I never realised . . .’

Cissy seemed satisfied, and she whipped off the towel, shaking the hair out of the window. ‘That’s no bad thing,’ she said. ‘From what I can remember, your mother was a beauty.’ She rummaged about in the mess on her dressing table, picked out powder, eyeshadow, rouge, eyebrow pencil and lipstick and pressed them into Rita’s hand. ‘Keep practising,’ she said. ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it.’

‘I can’t take these,’ Rita gasped. ‘They’re far too expensive.’

Cissy pressed her beautifully manicured hands on Rita’s shoulder. ‘Of course you can,’ she replied. ‘Think of them as an early birthday and Christmas present.’

Rita slipped the gifts into her trouser pocket and had to blink back the tears as she gave her friend a hug. ‘Thanks, Cissy. Thanks ever so.’

Cissy waved away her thanks and tried to look stern. ‘Don’t you dare cry, Rita Smith. You’ll spoil the effect.’

Rita took another long look at her reflection and smiled ruefully. ‘I’ll spoil it the minute I put on my helmet and goggles.’ She glanced at her watch and gasped. ‘I’d better go if I’m to get to the recruitment office before lunch.’

Cissy laughed and gave her a hug. ‘It’s been so lovely, Rita, and I wish you the very best of luck with enlisting.’ She too glanced at her watch. ‘Goodness, I didn’t realise how late it was. I’d better spend some time with Mum before I have to be back at base.’ She blushed prettily. ‘Someone’s coming to give me a lift in a couple of hours, and I won’t see Mum again until the New Year.’

Rita noted the blush. ‘Think about what I said about Joe,’ she said softly, ‘and take care of yourself. I’ll need a friendly face when I come to the airbase.’

‘I’ll make sure to look out for you – and don’t worry, Rita. You’ll sail through the interview and training. I just know you will.’

Rita followed her down the stairs and went into the kitchen to fetch her coat and say goodbye to Peggy and Mrs Finch, who was still snoring fit to bust.

Peggy eyed the make-up and haircut. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I can see Cissy has been hard at work.’

‘What do you think?’

Peggy smiled. ‘You look just like your mother,’ she said softly, ‘and very lovely.’ She picked up three neatly wrapped parcels from the kitchen table. ‘This is for your birthday,’ she said, handing one over, ‘and these are for you and Louise on Christmas Day.’

‘Aunt Peg,’ Rita gasped. ‘You shouldn’t have – and I didn’t bring anything . . .’

‘It’s what aunts are for,’ said Peggy as she gave her a hug. ‘Now, we won’t disturb Mrs Finch, but you have a lovely Christmas and I’ll see you when I get back.’

Waving goodbye to Cissy and Peggy on the doorstep, Rita placed the packages alongside the gas mask box in the motorcycle pannier before carefully donning helmet and goggles and buttoning the jacket. She kicked the Norton into life and roared down Camden Road. The warmth of Peggy’s love and Cissy’s friendship and kindness stayed with her all the way to the recruitment office in the High Street.

It was an austere-looking place, wedged between two shops and almost hidden by the vast wall of sandbags in front of it. The only clue to its purpose was a large poster in the window exhorting all and sundry to do their bit by joining up.

Rita’s heart was pounding, the blood rushing in her ears as she took off the goggles and helmet, ran her fingers through her hair and pushed the door open.

The room was empty and stiflingly hot and smelly from the kerosene heater that stood in one corner. Rita could already feel the perspiration rolling down her back as she tried not to make too much noise with her heavy boots on the bare floorboards.

‘I hope you wiped those boots before you came in here.’ A stern-faced woman suddenly appeared from the doorway behind the scarred desk. Middle-aged and sturdy, she was dressed in blue serge and sensible laced-up shoes.

Rita hadn’t, but she wasn’t about to admit it. She gripped the helmet and goggles more firmly. ‘I’ve come to apply for the motorbike dispatch riders’ unit in the WAAFs,’ she said before her courage failed her.

The woman’s grey eyes trawled over her leather trousers, elderly flying jacket and sturdy boots. ‘You certainly look the part,’ she said grudgingly. ‘How old are you?’

‘I shall be eighteen in two days’ time.’

The woman puckered her lips thoughtfully, her gaze fixed on Rita’s face as she settled ponderously behind the desk. ‘Despite all the make-up, you don’t look much older than fourteen or fifteen. Do you have proof?’

Rita felt a rising tide of panic. She couldn’t fail now – not when she was so close to achieving her goal. ‘Not with me,’ she said. ‘But if I could just have a couple of forms for me and my friend May, we’ll fill them in and bring our birth certificates with us next time.’

The woman eyed her for another long, heart-stopping moment and then reached for something in her desk drawer. ‘These forms are highly confidential and must not leave this office. You will fill the form in here, and then return with proof of your age within twenty-four hours or your application will be scrapped.’ She pointed to the single metal chair in front of her desk. ‘Sit,’ she ordered.

Rita sat.

A pen was pushed towards her. ‘I assume you can read and write?’ At Rita’s dumbfounded nod, the woman slid the application form across the desk. ‘At least that’s a start, I suppose,’ she said on a sigh.

Rita’s hand was shaking as she picked up the pen. The words blurred as she quickly read through the form. This was worse than sitting any exam, and her nerves were threatening to let her down. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she filled in her name, address, date of birth, father’s name, mother’s name and all her qualifications. She’d been an able student and had sailed through her School Certificate with ease.

They seemed to want to know a great many things, including her height and weight, and her reasons for applying – but she supposed that was necessary security. The WAAFs wouldn’t want just anybody, and she could only hope and pray she was good enough for them.

She filled in every section and then signed the bottom of the last page with a flourish and pushed everything back across the desk. ‘How long before I know whether they’ll take me?’ she asked.

‘Once we have proof of your age the application takes only a matter of days.’ The pale grey eyes raced over the paperwork, widened when they reached the long list of qualifications and examination passes and moved swiftly on to the end. ‘Thank you, Miss Smith. That all seems in order.’

Rita realised she was being dismissed, but she still had questions to ask. ‘How long is the training?’

‘About three weeks.’

‘And will I have to leave Cliffehaven to do this training – and if so, where will I be sent?’

The grey eyes narrowed. ‘You certainly will, but that is classified information.’

Rita was about to ask something else when the woman stood and made it clear the interview was at an end. ‘Goodbye, Miss Smith. This office will be open tomorrow morning at ten. I look forward to seeing you then.’

Rita nodded, glanced up at the enormous clock on the wall, and backed away from the desk. Once outside, she rammed on her helmet and goggles, fired up the Norton and within minutes was racing for home. Her birth certificate was in a tin box under her father’s bed. There was still plenty of time to get back to the office before it closed this afternoon – and then she would go and see May and tell her all about it.

May lived in a narrow backstreet of terraced houses some distance from Rita. It was even more downtrodden than Barrow Lane, and May lived with her mother on the ground floor of a house which was shared with another family. The outside lav was also used by the two houses next door, and water had to be collected from a communal tap further down the street. The only good to come out of the heavy bombing was the disappearance of the rat population, which had fled after the first raid for easier pickings amongst the debris.

Rita could see May sitting on her front step, the BSA parked at the kerb as she sipped from a mug of tea. There was a smear of grease on her cheek and her hands were filthy, the oily rag poking from the pocket of her dungarees.

Rita steered the Norton along the rough cobbles and drew to a halt in front of the BSA. ‘Hello,’ she said once the engine had died. ‘Doing repairs?’

May grinned and stood to greet her. ‘Just been oiling and adjusting. Nothing too serious.’ She lifted the mug of tea. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

Rita took off her helmet and goggles. ‘I certainly could,’ she said.

May’s blue eyes regarded her suspiciously. ‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself,’ she said. ‘And what’s with all that make-up? You got a bloke on the go?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Rita. ‘I’ve got something far more exciting than that to tell you.’

May grinned. ‘So have I, but let me make your tea first.’

Rita was intrigued as she followed her friend into the house, which was dark regardless of the time of day, and headed into the main room. It was shabby and cluttered with old newspapers and magazines and far too many cheap ornaments. Thankfully, there was no sign of May’s mother, although the smell of her cheap perfume permeated the room.

Rita perched on the arm of a sagging chair as May poured the tea. ‘I obviously have no idea what your news is – but it’s clearly exciting, ’cos you’re positively bursting with it. But I’ve found the perfect job for both of us, and if you’re quick, you can get down there today and sign on.’

May frowned as she handed over the mug of very weak tea. ‘You’d better start at the beginning, Rita, ’cos I’ve got no idea what you’re on about.’

Rita quickly told May about her visit to the recruitment office. ‘If you apply today, then we’ll be able to join together,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Just think, May. It’s the perfect job for both of us.’

‘Um, yes . . .’

Now it was Rita’s turn to frown. ‘You don’t sound very keen,’ she murmured. ‘I thought . . .’