It was five o’clock in the morning of a very special day. Maddie’s twenty
fifth birthday. It didn’t feel much like a celebration though, and no one else
in the billet even knew about it. Only Gertie, who had other things on her
mind, who was still swamped by sorrow. Besides, Gertie wasn’t even there.
She’d gone off to the seaside in East Sussex to convalesce.
Maddie was thrilled that her best friend hadn’t been discharged from the
army, although Gertie herself didn’t seem interested one way or the other.
They’d sent her off on compassionate leave for a month. Someone pushing
a pen in an office somewhere had decided that a month was the amount of
time it took to recover from the trauma of losing a husband and a baby.
One of their ATS friends who’d been posted to Hastings had offered to
share her room with Gertie for a short holiday. The boarding house wasn’t
far from the seafront; not that it mattered, as no one could walk on the
beach anymore and the seafront was surrounded by barbed wire. The whole
South Coast was a mass of barbed wire and Ack-Ack batteries. Ginger
Barclay, an ATS pal from basic training, was a Predictor operator on one of
the huge gun batteries.
Working on an anti-aircraft battery – Maddie knew it was the kind of
job Gertie had once hoped for. Important, challenging, exciting. Working
beside the men. It was the men who loaded and fired the guns, for women
weren’t allowed to use live ammunition. But still, ATS women played a
crucial part in the gun batteries. And operating a Sperry Predictor was a
complex job that needed steady, cool nerves in the middle of an enemy air
raid.
Their friend Ginger was one of a specialist team of six women working
together on the Predictor, an impressive, futuristic piece of kit, smothered in
dials and levers. It was heavy to manoeuvre, square and box-like, and could
rotate on its large base to follow the trajectory of enemy planes as they
moved across the sky. And with it, the ATS women could calculate the
length of fuse needed so that the anti-aircraft shell would explode at the
correct time, in the right place.
Ginger’s job was vital, took skill and training and high levels of
concentration. But some things they couldn’t teach you. Like how to ignore
your fear when planes were screeching overhead and bombs were dropping
around you. It wasn’t unusual for operators to burn out with nervous
exhaustion.
Maddie was pleased about the sabbatical. A chance for Gertie to
recuperate and gain her strength back. But it wouldn’t be a miracle cure.
There was no such thing. It couldn’t turn back time, or bring Bill back, or a
tiny baby called Alice who had never uttered her first cry. But the change of
scene couldn’t hurt. And there was something to be said for bracing sea air,
even if you couldn’t walk on the beach.
Maddie missed her friend, missed their chats, and Gertie’s straight-talking,
no-nonsense outlook on the world. That had faded since Bill died, and the
world had become a bitter place, but you could still see some of the old
Gertie in there, in small flashes of defiance. When she came home, though,
would she still be content to be a skivvy, happy to return to her mundane
duty as a mess orderly at Inglis Barracks? Or would she be tempted to chase
down a more exciting posting after watching Ginger on her Ack-Ack
battery?
She remembered Gertie’s frantic words: Say you’ll always be here! Her
friend had no one else now, had extracted a promise that would make them
both family. Tie them together. You won’t ever leave me, will you? Plaintive,
pleading words born out of grief and tragedy. But they were a plea that
could just as easily have come from Maddie’s lips. She had no one either.
No one in her family had sent a birthday card. She hadn’t expected one
from her mother, and her father wouldn’t go out on a limb to do so, as he
liked an easy life. But her brother, he could have tried. A letter at least, to
mark the day.
Enough! Feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t do. There were beds to be
made in the barracks. Silverware to polish. Tables to be set out in
preparation for tonight’s regimental dinner. A celebration to mark an
anniversary for the Middlesex. It should be easy enough to forget her own
anniversary in the middle of all that. A special birthday.
Twenty-five years old. A quarter of a century. It seemed impressive
when you said it like that. A kind of landmark in your life. And she was
thankful for every one of those years, even if some of them hadn’t been
ecstatically happy. She’d had her moments of joy. And in a world marked
by sadness and turmoil, that was something not many could say. Something
positive to hold onto. Her glass may not be filled to the brim, but at least it
was half-full.
In the beginning, the war had generated a feeling of optimism and
comradeship: people had helped each other build Anderson shelters, waited
patiently in queues to collect an elderly neighbour’s ration at the butcher’s,
happily spent nights down public shelters permeated with the smell of stale
sweat and overused toilets to the sound of cheerful singsongs. But the third
year of a war that looked like having no quick end had made folk weary and
resigned. Dented their optimism. Many had started to complain about the
lack of food, petrol rationing, clothes coupons being cut back. You tried to
do your bit, it was the patriotic thing to do, but really – how long did they
expect people to get by on one bath a week, and in only five miserly inches
of water? And toilet rolls? One a week for a large family? You had to be
frugal.
It had been a busy day for Maddie, but a happy one, a much better
birthday than she had expected. People had smiled at her in the street, as if
they had known it was a special day for her. And when she got back to the
billet that night, it got even better. So good that Madeline Brady ended up
with tears coursing down her cheeks. Happy tears. The best kind.
The girls had used up their rations to make a cake. And by some
miracle, Betty had managed to find a birthday candle. A single candle
blazed proudly in the middle of a sandwich cake that was slightly lopsided
and looked in danger of collapsing. But it was perfect. The most wonderful
cake she had ever seen. There were presents as well. A tiny bottle of
perfume. Only a cheapie, Betty had apologised. Evening in Paris from
Woolies.
Maddie held the small, thin flask of perfume gently, as if it was made
from precious metal. It was deep blue glass shaped like a tube, with a
stopper in one end and a fancy tassel attached to it, meant to fit snuggly in
your bag. She’d seen them in Woolworths but had never bought one for
herself. It looked truly exotic, French perfume.
‘Betty, you shouldn’t have,’ she said.
‘Have it back then, shall I?’ Betty laughed.
‘This is wonderful,’ said Maddie. She took off the stopper and used the
dropper dispenser to put a little behind each ear. ‘Here, have some.’ She
offered the perfume around.
‘Nope, it’s all yours,’ said Betty. ‘We figure you need it.’
‘What? You think I smell?’
‘No, you daft beggar! But you need to start going out and about a bit.
Find yerself a bloke. That there’s called dating perfume.’
A bloke? she thought. And dating? Not something she would do.
‘Here, we got you these as well. You got yerself some good legs there,
just need to show them off a bit.’
Maddie stared at the silk stockings in disbelief. ‘But where did you—?’
‘Get them from? That bloke of Sissy’s. He’s a spiv. We all clubbed
together, like. But he gave us a bit off.’
‘My God, you lot, you’re incredible. You’re the best.’ She cried again.
‘No more blubbering. Just cut the damn cake,’ said Betty.
She cut the cake, and someone carried in tea, and they sat around the
fire and listened to the BBC Home Service and laughed at the Tommy
Handley comedy, It’s That Man Again. It was a kind of safety valve for
people. It poked fun at some of the small-minded government regulations
and wartime sanctions that they had to put up with.
It was the best birthday that Maddie could ever remember having.
‘Can’t believe you lot did this,’ she said. ‘And how on earth did you
know? I didn’t tell anybody.’
‘Yeah, we know. But Betty’s been reading the tea leaves.’ Sissy
sniggered. ‘She’s got the gift.’
‘You believe that?’ asked Betty.
‘No,’ said Maddie. ‘And I don’t think you’re psychic, so how…?’
‘Gertie! She gave us the nod. Sent a postcard. Sent you one too.’
Maddie cried again that night. In the privacy of her room. Reading her
birthday postcard. They were tears of happiness, and relief. For in the midst
of all her misery, Gertie had still found room to remember a friend. Her best
pal, the card had said. Now and forever. It was twee. It was over the top, but
all the same it sounded wonderful. And Gertie wouldn’t leave her. She
would be home in a few days, she promised. Reporting for duty. She’d
missed Maddie, she said. And it would even be good to see the girls in the
billet again, despite the petty squabbles.
But the strangest thing of all, at least to Maddie, was that she was ready
to start work.
Looking forward to scrubbing the barracks floors. Side by side with
my best pal. It’s a messy old job, but somebody’s got to do it!
