If there had been a corner to be turned, Gertie had turned it. Slowly, she
became less melancholy and threw herself into her ATS duties, as if she
really enjoyed being a ‘skivvy’.
One day, just before Christmas and the first anniversary of their arrival
at Inglis Barracks, Maddie asked her friend why. Why she seemed so
content now with her duty as a mess orderly.
‘You know, when you went off to see Ginger, I didn’t think you’d be
back,’ said Maddie.
‘Really? Why ever not?’
‘All the excitement of her job, I guess. Sort of exotic, up a notch from
what we do.’
‘We’re well off, Madds. The guys here treat us like queens; appreciate
the things we do. Proper gents, they are. Not like some of the blokes
Ginger’s got to work with. Always sniping away: “Women shouldn’t be in
the army, specially not on guns and on stuff like the Predictor, what needs
brains instead of tits.”’
Maddie looked shocked.
‘Swear to God, Madds. It’s what them idiots say. Girls on her battery
take some stick. Sergeant told her she’d be better off lying on her back.
Don’t know how Ginger stands it, that and the bleedin’ stress.’
‘You believe we’ve made it through to our first anniversary?’ asked
Maddie.
‘Maybe we’ll get to celebrate Christmas this time.’
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said Maddie. ‘Maybe New Year, eh?’
They both smiled. Because really, did it matter what day of the year you
celebrated on? They’d have a weekend pass coming up, for sure, after the
officers that were still left in the barracks had enjoyed their own Christmas
dinner. No turkey. But a friend of the cook had killed a few chickens and
somebody else had caught some salmon. And maybe, if they were lucky,
there’d be a bit left over to make its way back to their billet at Sunnyfield.
Life had lots of riches, you just had to look for them.
New Year’s Eve was a wonderful surprise. There was the miracle of the
steak and kidney pie, courtesy of Cook, and a bottle of her homemade
elderberry wine, along with half a bottle of port.
It was a night to remember, with gummed paper chains decorating the
lounge at the billet, and they all wore bizarre-looking paper hats in the
shape of upside-down flowerpots that somebody had made out of hoarded
newspapers. And just when Maddie thought that couldn’t be topped, Betty
arrived from the kitchen with a massive grin on her face, and with the flair
of a magician, had produced a huge bottle of pickled onions. They went
wonderfully well with the steak and kidney pie. And the elderberry wine,
although a primitive concoction, was full-blooded, just one notch below
dynamite.
‘It’ll blow yer head off,’ said Gertie, after only one sip. And she took
more than one sip – they all did.
The wine went first and then they started on the port. Maddie had never
been a lover of port, but she took a hefty swig from her tin mug without
even tasting it. By then, her taste buds had been overwhelmed by the grip of
the elderberry wine and her tongue had gone numb.
There were jokes and laughter and somebody sang. And nobody argued.
And at twelve o’clock, they all held hands and squawked out a noisy
rendition of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Furniture was moved and in a raucous
conga that started in the lounge, they all made their way downstairs and
onto the street. Somebody tripped over the outside step in the blackout.
Maddie couldn’t be sure who it was, but the culprit picked herself up and
sniggered. Drunken giggles came from both Sissy and Dot.
A figure on a bike loomed out of the darkness in front of them. An air
raid warden. ‘Keep the noise down and put that bleedin’ light out,’ the man
said, pointing at the miserable light filtering onto the street from the
hallway.
‘It’s New Year,’ said Maddie. ‘And it’s only a little party.’
‘Think Hitler’s having a party?’ the warden asked.
‘Well, we didn’t invite him,’ said Gertie, her words slurred. She
hiccupped. Said pardon. And coyly put a hand in front of her mouth.
‘Women in the army?’ said the man. ‘Bleedin’ joke!’
‘Like we ain’t heard that before,’ Betty shouted back.
‘Shall we, ladies?’ asked Maddie. And she led the ragged conga back
into the house, only a slight wobble in her step. The bloke was angry, but
fair enough: it was New Year and there he was, out working while others
were celebrating. Making his rounds on an ancient bicycle in the dark, with
only a small hooded lamp to light his way. A perilous business. An air raid
warden had died last year in the blackout. Had taken a wrong turn and
ridden his bike straight into the Regent’s Canal. Drowned before they could
haul him out.
With luck, the warden wouldn’t report them for not keeping a proper
blackout. But it had been worth it at any rate. It had been one of the best
nights they’d shared together and one that Maddie and her friends would
recall for years to come. Silly hats made from newspaper and pickled
onions the size of golf balls. And goodness only knew where the steak and
kidney had come from for the pie – some miracles you didn’t question, just
got on with and enjoyed.
It was a fitting and optimistic welcome to the year 1943 and maybe it meant
that the war would take an optimistic turn for the country as well, thought
Maddie. Everyone needed some good news.
But, good news or bad, the British Bulldog would take a bite out of
Hitler wherever it could. The country would grit its collective teeth and
carry on regardless. And so would the feisty women of the ATS, on their
gun batteries and driving their ambulances, on their motorcycles and in
their offices, sorting out schedules and troop movements and cooking in
kitchens. And those waiting tables and cleaning floors in the officers’ mess.
Women had stepped up to be counted. Women from all social
backgrounds and races were showing they were equal to men, could do all
kinds of jobs. They were working in the navy, in the army and the air force,
facing arduous shifts in hospitals, going out fire-watching; and some were
even having their hair dyed orange by toxic chemicals in munitions
factories, like Betty Wooten.
They were freeing men to go off to war. Men who did what their
country asked of them in its time of need. Ordinary men like Bill Adams,
whose final sacrifice made them extraordinary, turned them into heroes.
One day, there would be a grim accounting of young men’s lives and the
thousands of civilians killed in countries around the world. Would it all be
worth it? Maddie Brady fervently hoped so, but only time would tell.
When the calendar worked its way around to May 1943, they went back to
the outdoor pool again. Even managed some picnics. And there were visits
to the cinema. Lots of people went to the flicks not just to lift their spirits
but to keep warm. The cold, draughty old house in Sunnyfield was
beginning to feel its age. Still, Maddie was glad of it, ancient or not. A roof
over her head and a room to herself was a luxury nowadays. Not things to
be taken for granted. Especially when you saw the bombed-out buildings,
the fronts of houses ripped off, exposing their innards. Floors miraculously
still hanging there, suspended. And tables and chairs in place; ornaments
and pictures bizarrely sitting on shelves. The minutia of people’s lives left
there for all to see.
But there was one thing that Maddie and her best pal never did again in
the remaining years of war, and that was go to the Palais. Or go dancing
anywhere. It was just too painful for Gertie. Like a trip to Blackpool would
have been. Too many memories of her husband, Bill.
Gertie sometimes spoke of Bill, but not often. And she never talked
about her baby. So, Maddie didn’t either. And as for her own? As time went
by, it grew harder to introduce the subject. To tell her friend that she too
shared that same hollow space in her heart.
And Maddie made a vow, that for every year that passed, on that
sorrowful anniversary in November, she would add another year to the age
of her baby. A child that never was.
