LONDON
Madeline Brady had joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service – ATS – partly
to annoy her mother. Maddie’s mother was a middle-class snob who didn’t
think it quite the thing for women to be in the army, to put on a rough khaki
uniform. Uncouth, was the word she’d used. They should be baking cakes,
organising fund-raisers for the war effort or volunteering with the Women’s
Voluntary Service (WVS) and serving hot tea to soldiers. That was fine. But
when Maddie announced that she had passed the ATS driving test at
Camberley and could strip down an engine and read a road map, her mother
had reached for the smelling salts.
But Maddie Brady didn’t need her mother’s permission or her older
brother Richard’s to enlist in the army. She was twenty-three years old. A
grown woman. Able to make her own decisions.
And she was proud to be in the ATS, proud of the dress-uniform that she
wore. It sometimes brought whistles her way, and one chap who took her
for a drink in the pub kept on about how attractive women looked in khaki.
The brown lace-up shoes were heavy, though. And the rough, khaki lisle
stockings itched like mad. One of the girls had ditched hers for silk ones
which only the officers were allowed to wear. They’d all been envious until
an eagle-eyed sergeant (a large, overbearing woman with a sagging bust)
had confined the girl to barracks and had her pay of ten shillings a week cut
in half for a month. None of them had complained about wearing regulation
lisle-cotton stockings since. But Maddie had swapped her uniform khaki
bloomers for some silk knickers. It was as close as she came to rebellion.
She’d also invested ten shillings in the new and stylish forage cap. A
private purchase, but most of her ATS friends had bought one. Ten shillings
for ‘other ranks’ and a whole £2 for an officer. It was chocolate-brown with
green piping and if you wore it at an angle it gave you a sophisticated
‘American’ look. It made up for the fact that you weren’t allowed to wear
your hair long. Regulations. Four inches off the collar. That was the rule.
And they all stuck to it.
She was doing what some considered a man’s job. And she did it well.
At times it could be intriguing, the people she met. Mostly what the other
ATS drivers called ‘big wigs’. And it was true because, lately, some of the
chaps Maddie had to drive around were top brass, as she’d been assigned to
the War Office.
On loan, her commanding officer had explained, like Maddie Brady was
some kind of property, a piece of equipment, rather than an actual person.
But the officer had redeemed herself by adding that Madeline was a lady.
Knew how to conduct herself in certain company. Could mind her Ps and
Qs. See all. Hear all. But repeat nothing that she heard. Discretion! Those
had been her orders. To deliver her human cargo safely, without fuss – and
absolutely no gossip.
She was to say nothing to the other girls in the billet about the high
ranking officers she sometimes carried in the back of her Humber staff car.
Walls have ears. That was a favourite expression on many lips. And of
course, no British patriot would want to let slip even the smallest crumb of
intelligence. That would be like handing a gift to Hitler and his cronies.
And Maddie Brady considered herself a patriot with a strong love for her
country. Britain and its allies needed to win this war. Anything else would
be a disaster.
So far, her new posting to the War Office had mostly been routine stuff,
apart from a few of the braid-smothered big wigs she’d driven for. There
were days it could be a little humdrum. Certainly not the glamour that some
of her ATS friends imagined it to be.
Except today promised to be different.
Her journey would be longer than usual, and she’d be driving to a place
she’d always longed to see: Cornwall, with its vast moors, the mist clinging
to them like a mystical, alien world. And the jagged, jutting cliffs, falling
into tempestuous seas at Hell’s Mouth cove. She’d heard about the churning
seas of Hell’s Mouth, wanted to see them for herself. Then there was the
natural and harsh beauty of the Lizard Peninsula. Was it as dramatic and
awe-inspiring as people claimed? And Deadman’s Cove beach, on the
North Cliffs. That was supposed to be haunted. She hoped it was.
Maddie drove through the rubble-strewn streets of London towards
Whitehall. It was often a challenge, zigzagging your way through a
landscape that changed daily; broken water mains and gas mains jutting
through the concrete like prehistoric beasts. But, by now, the mental map of
back roads and shortcuts through the capital was so ingrained in her that she
often found herself driving automatically. Like today.
She’d left early enough but had been held up several times and was five
minutes late by the time she arrived at the War Office to pick up her
passenger. He was a captain from the Directorate of Prisoners of War DWP
(section 5) to be exact – and the War Office liked to be exact.
She was getting used to the confusing number of departments in the
place; a human beehive of more than 1,000 offices spread over seven floors.
But the building in Whitehall never failed to impress her with its strange
trapezium shape and those four magnificent domes. The War Office had
been hit several times during the bombing but was still standing. A kind of
irony, Maddie decided.
The officer was waiting impatiently for her, his greatcoat slung over his
arm and a briefcase clutched importantly in front of him. Her orders were to
drive him to Cornwall and be at his disposal during the length of his stay.
Captain Ernest Andrews’ job in DWP (section 5) was prisoner-of-war camp
inspections and camp security.
Maddie had already worked out a route to the hamlet of White Cross,
but couldn’t imagine what Captain Andrews would have to do in a small
Cornish village. Then a sudden, shocking thought struck her: there must be
a POW camp there. The grim notion made her shudder. Naively, perhaps,
Maddie had never even thought about the idea that Britain, like its enemies,
also had prisoner-of-war camps.
The journey was long, and Maddie ended up with a fierce headache,
concentrating on the map. There were no signposts anymore. They had all
been taken down at the start of the war. No point in making things easier for
your enemies.
The wartime roads often meant lengthy detours because of military
traffic. You had to be patient and keep your wits about you. But Maddie
enjoyed the challenges and that day was one of those days that called for all
her ingenuity and skill. Convoys of military hardware and fuel being
transported on roads that were already under pressure meant several hold
ups for her staff car, dwarfed by the huge vehicles.
A roadblock, set up at a crossroads in Devon, had made her passenger
agitated. At one point he’d even started to blame her for the hold-up: ‘You
can read a damn map, can’t you?’ he’d demanded. A bit unfairly, Maddie
thought, and quite rude. The war was hardly her fault, but he was the one in
charge. So, she’d bitten her tongue and got on with it.
After his short outburst, Captain Andrews had become quiet again. And
late that night, when they finally arrived at their destination, he’d even
smiled at her. Guilt, Maddie figured.
They set her up in a small ante-room off the main guards’ barracks. Hardly
luxurious, but then there was a war on. And a corporal even brought her
some food.
‘Just some bread and cheese,’ said the soldier. ‘And not much at that.’
‘That’s kind,’ she said. ‘More than I expected.’
‘Bread’s that thin you could spit through it. An’ you’d need a
microscope to find the marge on there.’
‘It’s the thought that counts,’ said Maddie. She gave him a small, tired
smile.
The man smiled back and sloped off.
She had no idea what tomorrow might bring: they were due to be there a
few days, the officer had informed her. Tomorrow, I’ll instruct you in your
duties. But that would take care of itself.
As for now, Maddie collapsed into the tiny, uncomfortable bunk, feeling
none of its hard, wooden slats pressing into her through the thin mattress. It
might well have been a massive, luxurious bed with silken sheets and an
eiderdown of feathers as soft as an angel’s wing, and she Sleeping Beauty,
for she immediately fell into a deep sleep. And if she could have hovered
above herself, it might have amused her to see the smile on her face.
The next morning, the corporal arrived again. Corporal Williams seemed to
have taken her under his wing and he brought her a breakfast of stewed tea
and bread and dripping. Hardly exotic, thought Maddie. But it was a kind
thought and she listened politely as he told her a little about the camp and
the neighbouring farms and she watched a smile cross his face. But the
smile disappeared when Captain Andrews arrived and barked at the poor
man to stop loitering, ordered him out. Maddie turned her attention to the
captain as he outlined the day’s duties for her.
‘You’ll find instructions here, Private.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Maddie, as she accepted the scrap of paper. Tried
to decipher his messy handwriting.
‘Not a gruelling task. Only a few items on there. But you’ll need to
check they’ve got the measurements correct. Can’t trust some of these
tradespeople if you’re not there to spur them on.’
‘Right, sir. Measurements correct. Got it.’
‘Place is in Newquay, so I’ll instruct them to dig out some petrol for
you.’
‘Do we know where in Newquay?’
‘Address is on there.’ He handed her an envelope. ‘Give him this and
make sure he gives you a receipt.’
‘And the other items, sir?’
‘Already paid for.’
Nothing on the captain’s list struck Maddie as being in the slightest way
military: not a single item that might influence the course of the war. Unless
you counted the ladies’ lingerie she had to pick up from a seamstress. Or
the fine leather evening shoes waiting to be collected at the cobbler’s shop
in a back lane – it had been almost impossible to find – near the train
station.
She took the shoes, handed the man the envelope. The cobbler counted
out the money inside: a £1 note and a ten-shilling note. £1, seven shillings
and 6d – that’s what it said on the receipt he gave her in return. The
shoemaker pocketed the rest of the money. All that for a pair of shoes!
But being the captain’s personal servant did have at least one
compensation: Maddie got to see the ocean. It seemed only fair, something
she’d earned. She walked down to Tolcarne Beach, kicked off her shoes,
removed the fearsome lisle stockings and allowed the soft, smooth sand to
invade the spaces between her toes.
If you ignored the other beach walkers, promenading in their uniforms,
you could imagine yourself on a lonely desert island with just the sound of
lapping surf for company. Might even fool yourself into believing there
wasn’t really a war on.
She walked to the water’s edge, dipped her feet into the ice-cold sea.
The shock brought her back to reality. There may not be any barbed wire
here on Tolcarne, but many of Newquay’s other beaches were mined against
invasion, and had sinister black gun-emplacements on the cliffs above them.
You might try to forget the war for a few giddy moments, but you couldn’t
ignore it. She was on the army’s payroll now, and she ought to get back:
Captain Andrews might well have drummed up a few more chores to keep
her busy. Keep her out of his hair. She understood. For him she was just a
lowly private and a woman at that. Good for some things, like running his
damn errands, but someone to be kept out of the real business of war – the
serious business. She’d met chaps like him before.
As she brushed the damp sand from her feet and tied her shoes, Maddie
took one last look at the ocean and then trudged back up the steep path
away from the beach. She got into her car and drove back to the hamlet of
White Cross. To Camp 115
