Swim Until You Can't See Land (14 page)

Lights out soon and I must write a quick note to Mama and Father before I’m plunged into the black. I’m sure they will question you, but I’m telling all of you as much as I’m allowed to.

Much love,

           M

INITIAL REPORT  

31st May 1943

NAME OF RECRUIT: Miss Marièle Downie

INITIAL INTERVIEW – PASS
Miss Downie speaks fluent French.
PSYCHIATRIC INTERVIEW – pass

NOTES – Brother K.I.A. (Dunkirk).
Concerns voiced regarding her age. Death of brother had significant impact and should be taken into account. She has good language skills however, and meets the required profile.
ACTION – Report for training, Scotland, assess again following this.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first stage of your training. Some of you may well have guessed from your interviews why you are here. For the rest of you, I’m sure it will soon become clear. This isn’t a holiday camp. You are all being thrown in at the deep end and it’s up to you whether you sink or swim. You’ve all been chosen as we think you should be able to swim, but we’ve been wrong before.

‘So, before you get too comfy, up, up on your feet, that’s right. You too, Miss. Everyone starts with the obstacle course. We time you now, and then again at the end of the training, give you a score, hopefully you’ll have improved. No complaining, I told you this wasn’t a holiday camp. Line up over there, yes, that’s right. Now, I’ll send you off in pairs. Right, you two first, then the rest carry on behind. Okay, you two, on the count of three. Three, two, one, off you go.’

He blew his whistle.

Marièle lined up beside her roommate, Eliza. They were next, dressed identically in the khaki blouse and loose-fitting trousers they’d been given to wear. Some of the other girls had fastened their leather belts tight around their waists, attempted to give some definition to the shapeless outfits. Marièle undid her already loose belt, slipped it back a few notches. There was no way she’d make it over that first obstacle if she couldn’t breathe properly. Eliza’s belt accentuated her curves, her bosom. She’d already attracted attention from the male recruits, despite her wedding ring.

‘I’ll never make it over,’ Eliza said, her eyes on the girls in front of them. They both struggled to ascend the first obstacle, logs of wood piled high into a wall. Doris had managed to swing one leg over the top, but Celia’s jumps had failed to even take her that far.

‘It looks like Miss Lewis needs a leg up,’ said the trainer.

‘I’ll go!’ one of the men shouted.

‘This is not an opportunity to get fresh with the other recruits, Captain Ramsey, you wait in line please.’

Marièle watched their trainer march towards the wall. Doris seemed to sense his approach, hauled herself over and disappeared. Celia clung to the top of the wall, tried to scrabble her feet up the wood.

‘What do you call this, Miss Lewis?’ The trainer glanced at his watch. ‘Three minutes in and you’re not even over the first obstacle.’

‘It’s too wet, my feet keep slipping,’ Celia replied.

‘This is Scotland. What did you expect? Now up you get.’

He bent down and pushed his shoulders under her bum, hoisting her up. Marièle watched her swing her legs over and she was gone.

‘This is silly,’ she whispered to Eliza. ‘Are we not meant to be using our wits too? My wits are telling me to go around.’

‘Is that right?’

Marièle jumped as she realised the trainer stood beside them.

She made a face at Eliza, who winked back.

‘Right you two, ready to get going?’

He blew his whistle and Marièle set off running towards the wall. The trick was to get a bit of speed up. George was the school track and field champion and she remembered him explaining the high jump to Mama.

Speed, Mama, speed. The faster you go, the higher you jump.

Gosh, what would George think if he could see her now?

The wall loomed in front of her, closer and taller, closer and taller. She kicked off from the ground, gripped the top of it, felt a splinter stab into her hand, her plimsolls sliding and slipping as she tried to scramble up the damp wood. Her forearms burned as she heaved and tensed, pulled her body weight up. Eliza struggled next to her, panting and out of breath.

‘Holy mother of goodness.’

Marièle giggled as Eliza swore.

No, no, no. Laughing made her muscles weak, she slipped back down the wall. Come on, come on, you’re almost there.

‘The mother of our lord is not going to help you here,’ the trainer shouted.

Not him again.

Marièle couldn’t face another of his wisecracks and heaved herself over the wall, leaving poor Eliza to face him on her own. The ground was soft where she landed, momentum took over and she sprawled forward. She picked herself up, trying to catch a breath as she ran on to the next obstacle. This was certainly being thrown in at the deep end.

June
1943

Dearest Cath,                                

Another letter from me. I know you’ll be fretting at not being able to write back, but please don’t worry. You’d think I was training to be a spy or something, the secrecy we have to abide by. I suppose it’s just the times we find ourselves in. I do miss our chats and wonder how things are back home. We shall have a lot to catch up on when I next see you, make sure you remember all the shop gossip for me. I’m in a little bubble here. We were fitted for our uniforms this week, you’d laugh if you saw me. Gosh, I look a fright. Stiff and straight-laced, with sensible shoes, just like Miss Beryl at the shop! We even have to polish our buttons, they really do take it all very seriously. I suppose it is serious, it’s a war after all. I don’t see how shiny buttons help to be honest, though. If the Boche ever does invade, maybe the plan is to blind them with our buttons!

Have to dash, my roommate is pointing at the clock. Lights out in ten minutes and I must wash my face before bed. It’s a strict life sticking to curfews!

  Much love,

    M

Marièle sat in the communal lounge, a cup and saucer balanced on her knee. She took a sip of tea and watched the others around her. A couple of the men played chess and smoked, Celia read a book while Doris chatted up one of the male officers. They’d spent the morning learning how to assemble and take apart a Bren gun. Then they’d had firearms practise out in the yard, peering round doorways and corners, shooting at targets which flew in and out of sight on ropes and pulleys. Marièle could still see the flash of the cut-out torso if she closed her eyes. It was strange to think they’d been shooting at pretend people earlier, yet here they all were now, civilised, tea and crumpets for supper in the lounge.

‘Where do they get all this food from?’ Eliza asked, spreading jam on another scone. ‘I’m grateful for these morning runs, I’d never fit in my clothes otherwise.’

‘I’m worried I’ll have to take my overalls with me when we leave, it’s all I’ll fit into,’ Celia replied, looking up from her book.

‘Only the best for the British army,’ Marièle laughed. ‘I think it’s all grown and made nearby. I’m surprised they’ve not had us out fishing, or pulling up tatties.’

‘Tatties?’

‘Potatoes,’ Marièle put on a fake posh accent.

‘Why do you think they’re keeping us up late tonight?’ Eliza asked, ‘I’m so tired.’

‘Another scheme, I suppose. Who knows? You can never get a straight answer round here.’

Marièle drank her tea and helped herself to a scone. Everyone looked tired. Different to that first day, turning up off the train in their skirts and stockings, hair done, even a bit of makeup. Doris still persevered with the lippy but the rest of them had given up. Would rather have an extra five minutes sleep. No point anyway, it all sweated off when they were sent on yet another cross-country run.

Marièle may have been eating more, but she’d lost weight rather than gained any. She lay awake at night, felt the poke of her hipbones, the tightness in her thighs, the shrinking of her bosom. She noticed it in her face too, her cheeks thinner; like the rest of them, she had purple shadows under her eyes, dirt under her fingernails, blisters on her feet. She admired Doris for still having the courage to chat up a fella, Marièle had never felt less attractive.

Just to have a morning when she wasn’t woken up by someone blowing a whistle outside her bedroom door. That would be bliss. Or one night where she slept right through, undisturbed by Eliza’s snoring, not lying awake thinking about George.

A room of her own, now that would be heaven. Her own room wasn’t so far away right now. Just a train ride. It was odd to be so close but not to be able to visit. She couldn’t even tell them she was so near. They all thought she was in London, living in the
FANY
hostel, learning to be a driver.

What were Mama and Father doing now?

Cath?

She glanced at a clock on the wall. Father would probably be reading or listening to the wireless. She wasn’t sure about Mama, suddenly childless after all those years of doing nothing else but bringing up her children. Had Marièle made a terrible mistake leaving them? She had to do something though – didn’t see herself following the life of Mama.

Marièle felt the homesickness tug at her. She bit down on the inside of her mouth. She wouldn’t let herself cry. Not here in front of everyone, anyway. None of them did that. She knew Eliza cried herself to sleep some nights and she’d heard someone crying in the toilets the other day. At first she hovered outside, waiting for them to come out so she could check if they were okay, but then she changed her mind. Walked away quickly, so whoever it was would come out and think they’d got away with it. They all put on a front here, acting brave, trying to do well in the training, when they were all exhausted and missing things back in their normal lives.

Well, as normal as life could be these days.

‘Right, you lot, on your feet. Yes, yes, I know, I’m tired too. I’d rather be in bed than having to organise you lot. Outside, please, outside.’

Marièle put down her tea, followed the rest of them, slipped her hands inside her pockets, away from the chill of the night air. The sky was clear, she could see the stars.

‘Right. You each have an individual scheme to complete. Take a slip of paper, your task is written on it. Once you know what you have to do, off you go. No waiting around to discuss or confer, you’re on your own tonight.’

Marièle took the slip of paper, stepped back so she could read it using the light of the house.

Find the dead letter box located 2km west and 3km South of HQ – 56.910502, 5.84404. Memorise and destroy the message waiting for you. Follow the instructions on the message, complete and return to HQ by 02.30.

8 June 1943
NAME OF RECRUIT: Miss Marièle Downie
PROGRESS REPORT – Fitness improving, asks intelligent questions, struggles slightly with map reading and compass navigation – as a consequence did not complete night mission in allotted time.

June
1943

Dearest Cath,

Well, how are you, darling? I’m being kept frightfully busy, which explains the rather erratic nature of my letters. Being in the
FANY
keeps me on my toes but it’s rather dull work, I’m afraid to reveal. Reveal, that’s a laugh, as if I reveal anything these days!

It seems I’m to remain a driver for now, so spend most of my days ferrying awfully important people around. Some of them are very pleasant and we have a joke but others are frightfully serious and downright rude to your friend – the lowly driver. Think Mrs Walker multiplied by about a hundred! Gosh, you should see me, driving around London . Me, who struggled on my old push-bike. I keep thinking of that afternoon we took the notion to cycle to Peterhead. What an awful idea, why did we do it? My posterior aches just thinking about it.

Well, I shall love you and leave you. Not much free time for me, I’m afraid. Much love to you and say hello to the gang at work. I do hope we haven’t lost any more of our boys.

    M

‘Who do you keep writing to? Is it your sweetheart?’ asked Eliza.

Marièle sat at the shared desk in their room, while Eliza sat on her bed, feet resting in a tub of hot water.

‘No, I don’t have a fella, it’s my friend Cath back home.’

‘Any of the fellas here caught your eye then?’

Her lips were wet from the snow which had started to fall again, and Marièle felt the kiss burn against her cold skin.

‘I’ll admit there are some handsome ones here, but nobody special.’

‘I hadn’t noticed, I’m a married woman after all.’

Eliza laughed, splashed water over the edge of the tub with her feet.

‘You’re not supposed to tell me that, no personal information remember?’

‘Oh nonsense, they can’t make me take off my wedding ring,’ Eliza replied. ‘Besides, you just told me about your friend Cath.’

‘Gosh, I did. Oh dear, I’m never going to pass this training.’

‘Do you see Mr Tracy up there?’ Eliza pointed to a black and white cut-out picture of Spencer Tracy. ‘My Bill looks like a young Spencer Tracy. That’s why I’ve put that up there, they won’t let me have a real photo of him.’