I arrived here, I wondered what on earth I was going to do,’ Carrie smiled, ‘but I’m going to be kept pretty busy. I’ll have to collect the late shift, then take the earlies back to billets. And Corporal Finnigan expects me to learn engine maintenance, too. Mind, there’ll always be Norman to fall back on. He seems very affable, now he’s had his toothache seen to. But shift-working is a seven-day job, and my last run will be at ten at night. I’m not going to get any time off at all.’
‘Of course you will,’ Evie laughed. ‘If men are going to do night-shifts, then maybe your corporal will arrange something for you. It was him collected us from Lincoln, remember. Or maybe the mechanic will do some of the late runs.
‘Of course, when we are working from two till ten it means that every other night we won’t be able to go anywhere. It could play havoc with your love life, if you think about it. Not that I mind, of course, though Bob doesn’t expect me to live like a nun. I’ll be going dancing, though I won’t be up for dates.’
Her wedding ring would see to that. If asked, she held up her left hand and smiled and said, ‘Sorry.’ The decent ones accepted it, and it was tough luck on those who thought a young married woman in uniform was fair game.
‘I suppose there’ll be dances round about.’ Carrie loved to dance, though Jeffrey wasn’t too keen. ‘One of the girls at Priest’s told me there’s a village not far away. Within walking distance, she heard. Perhaps there’ll be a pub we can go to – just for the odd drink and a change of scene, I mean.’
‘Suppose we’ll give it a try,’ Evie was fondling her ring again. ‘But had you thought that we’ll be on duty from two in the afternoon until ten at night, then next day we’ll be on earlies – six till two in the afternoon.’
‘A bit much, if you ask me,’ Nan grumbled.
‘You still haven’t got the point. We do a late, followed by an early, then we’re off duty till two o’clock the following afternoon. Virtually twenty-four hours off. We could go much further afield than the local pub. There’ll be dances and flicks in Lincoln and if Sergeant James allows us sleeping-out passes, we could get a bed at the Y W and make a real night out of it.’
‘What,’ Nan wanted to know, ‘is the Y W?’
‘You’ve heard of the YMCA, surely? Well, the YWCA is the female equivalent. If you can manage to bag a bed there, it’s a good place to stay – and cheap and cheerful, too.’
‘Ar…’ Nan frowned. ‘But will I be able to sleep out? I’m not eighteen till November.’
‘If you’re old enough to join up, you’re old enough for a SOP – if the sergeant allows them, that is.’
‘Seems Sergeant James has the last word, here. Why haven’t we got an officer of our own?’ Carrie frowned.
‘Because in my opinion a few females don’t warrant an officer. And maybe the sergeant won’t be so bad, once we’re in some kind of a routine. And talking of angels…’ Evie nodded towards the doorway where Sergeant James looked pointedly at her wrist watch.
They worked hard all morning, Carrie driving the pick-up truck piled with supplies from the quartermaster’s stores to the estate office which now bore a notice on the door. SIGNALS OFFICE: NO ENTRY.
They cleaned out cupboards then stacked them with teleprinter rolls, stationery, pencils, pens and signal pads. They positioned In-trays and Out-trays, dusted everything that didn’t move, polished the sergeant’s desk, then swept and mopped the black and red floor tiles.
‘Just the windows to clean – inside and out,’ the sergeant stressed, ‘then you can call it a day, girls.’
* * *
They ate corned-beef hash and pickled red cabbage at midday, which made Carrie very happy, with rice pudding and a dollop of bright red jam in the middle of it for pudding.
‘I’m goin’ to have a lazy afternoon. Got a magazine to read,’ Nan took the billet key from its hiding place above the front door jamb. ‘What are youse two goin’ to do?’
‘Write to Bob,’ Evie smiled, ‘then do some ironing. And my buttons and cap badge need a polish. What about you, Carrie?’
‘Probably sweep the workshop floor or clean the officers’ car and see to the tea, of course. Corporal Finnigan won’t be giving me the rest of the afternoon off.’
Which was a pity, really, because she had to -wanted to – write to Jeffrey. Letters, redirected from their old addresses, had arrived this morning; one for Nan, four for Evie and two for herself; from her mother and from Jeffrey, still in barracks with never a draft chit in sight.
I am stuck here like a lemon, polishing and cleaning and hardly getting any morse in at all. Which gives me a lot of time to think about how much I love you and miss you and wish you had been there when I had my leave.
Have a photo taken of yourself in uniform – not that I need to be reminded how lovely you are…
Jeffrey, she thought, could be quite sweet when he put himself out – or had his loving, longing letter been the result of a run ashore and a few pints of beer?
Then she chided herself for such thoughts, knowing that things between them would be all right, once she caught her fiancé in another loving and longing mood and they were able to talk sensibly and calmly about – things.
She had reason, too, to warm towards Corporal Finnigan that afternoon when he said, ‘I was having a word with Sergeant James about your duties, Carrie – the last run, I mean. Seems you won’t have as much free time as the rest of the girls, so Norman here has volunteered to do the evening pick-up, at ten.’
‘Norm! How good of you.’ Carrie blushed with pleasure. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
Private Fowler did not mind at all. He was courting very seriously and wrote home to his girl every evening. He was also saving up for an engagement ring, and the extra duty meant less time and money spent in the NAAFI. He also liked Carrie. She was pleasant and willing and – what was by far the most agreeable thing about her – she now did the tea run which been the bane of his life until she arrived.
‘Think nothing of it,’ he had said, grinning awkwardly, because it was nice to be appreciated, sometimes.
That was when Carrie looked at her watch and, without being asked, picked up the small enamel teapot and walked cheerfully to the cookhouse.
Nan addressed the letter to her aunt, wrote On Active Service in the top, left-hand corner, then propped the envelope on the mantelpiece, wishing there was someone other than Auntie Mim to send her letters. She wondered what it would be like to have a boyfriend to write to, but in Liverpool boyfriends had been thin on the ground when you had to depend on Georgie’s sleeping habits for your free time.
It might be nice to be cuddled and kissed – even once. But she was sweet seventeen, wasn’t she, and ran true to form because she had never, to her shame, been kissed. But she would be eighteen in November, and a lot could happen between now and then. Oh, please it would!
Dearest Jeffrey, Carrie wrote,
At last I have time to write to you properly. Things have been hectic these last few days but we
