tablets. A dutiful daughter again, who would one day be a dutiful wife to Jeffrey.
But not on his first leave. Only when she was ready to be a wife. And on this heart-achingly beautiful May evening, she was not.
‘Sorry, mother,’ she whispered to the honey jar. ‘I’ve got to have time to sort out my life my own way. And sorry, Jeffrey. I will marry you, but not just yet; not until we have talked.’ Because something so very important could not be open to doubt, or left to chance.
And tomorrow, no matter what her mother said or threatened, she would go to the recruiting office. She had to.
‘Let’s check to see if we’ve got it right,’ the ATS corporal in the Recruiting Office said. ‘Nancy Morrissey, of 16 Farthing Street, Leeds. Date of birth November 22, 1924. And you wish, if you pass the medical examination, to join the Auxiliary Territorial Service – right?’
‘Right,’ Nan said, just a little chokily. ‘And I want to be a typist.’ She took the folded piece of paper from her handbag. ‘Got a certificate…’
‘That won’t be necessary, at this stage. If you pass, you’ll be given an intelligence test,’ the corporal smiled.
She had a nice smile, Nan thought; had a ring on her engagement finger, too.
‘I – I wouldn’t like to be a domestic,’ she breathed. ‘I want sumthin’ better than bein’ an orderly.’
‘An orderly is not to be looked down upon,’ the corporal reproved. ‘You will be wearing the King’s uniform – something to be proud of, whatever job you do. Oh, and your next-of-kin…?’
‘That’s me Auntie Mim – Mrs Miriam Simpson, 16 Farthing Street, Leeds. I’m living with her, now, ’cause we was bombed in Liverpool.’ No need to mention her stepmother. ‘Me dad was killed when they bombed the hospital. I hate them Nazis, rot their socks!’
‘Rot their socks indeed.’ The corporal raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m from London – East End.’
‘Aaah,’ Nan nodded, a bond between them established. ‘And I’d like to get in as soon as possible. Auntie Mim can only let me stay for four weeks, see?’
‘I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.’ She handed back the identity card and ration book Nan had offered in lieu of her birth certificate. ‘Farthing Street is your permanent address as from now?’
‘For four weeks, till the lodger comes back. After that, I can’t say. That’s why I want in quick.’
‘I’ll add a note. Your medical will be at Albion Street, here in Leeds, so that’ll be handy. I don’t suppose you and I will meet again, Miss Morrissey, so good luck.’
‘Thanks. Do you like bein’ in the ATS Miss -er – Corporal?’
‘Yes, I do. Very much.’ She rose to her feet.
‘Ta-ra, then – and thanks.’ Nan pushed back her chair. The interview, she realized, was over. She was in the ATS – if she passed the medical, that was. No going back, now. ‘And you won’t forget to add the note?’
‘I won’t.’
Shakily, Nan made her way to the street outside, blinking in the bright sunlight. Shakily, because it wasn’t every day you did something as mind-boggling as joining the Army.
She looked at the clock above the Market Hall. Eleven, exactly, which meant that in the span of two hours, she had changed the address on her ration book and identity card from Cyprian Court, Liverpool, to Farthing Street, Leeds; had obtained an emergency card for two weeks’ food and offered herself to the Auxiliary Territorial Service for the duration of hostilities. Strange that only yesterday she had walked out on her old life for ever, and if she didn’t get into the Army, heaven only knew what she would do, or where she would go. But she had learned, in her nearly eighteen years, not to look for trouble and anyway, nothing could be worse than being at Cyprian Court with her stepmother and her Georgie. Now dad had gone, there was nothing at all to keep her in Liverpool and if Nan Morrissey had anything to do with it, she would never go back there!
She crossed the road to the Market Hall, in search of a queue. Queuing was part of daily life, now. You saw a long line of patiently waiting women, then hopefully joined on the end of it.
‘What’s it for?’ she asked of the woman in front of her.
‘Fish.’ The reply was brief. Usually people talked to you in queues, but the one in front didn’t seem to want to gossip. Nan turned to the woman behind her.
‘Fish,’ she beamed. ‘Fingers crossed, eh?’
Carrie folded the greaseproof paper in which her sandwiches had been wrapped and put it in her handbag. Paper was in short supply, so you used it again and again. She had made her own sandwiches this morning, her mother’s bedroom door being firmly closed, with no answer to her knock and her whispered, ‘Tea, mother?’
Janet Tiptree, it would seem, was still asleep, though the minute the bus left the village, Carrie was as sure as she could be that she would be out of bed and downstairs before the teapot had time to get cold.
Carrie brushed the crumbs from her knees and stuck out her chin. Today, in her dinner hour, she had resolved to go to the recruiting office and there must be no going back, now. A short walk would take her there, after which heaven only knew what would happen…
Yet that was the way she wanted it, and if her mother tried to block her way by refusing her consent, she would try again after her twenty-first birthday. But she was going. Somewhere. Some place out of her mother’s reach to do what Caroline Tiptree wanted – needed – to do.
All she knew – really knew – at this moment was that there was a war on and it was going to last for years and years. Longer than the last one, some said. It was a terrible thought but if, by joining the Armed Forces, her small effort could shorten that war by just one day, then she had to do it, no matter what her mother said. Or Jeffrey, for that matter.
The door of the Recruiting Office was wide open, the room inside bare and empty except for a row of wooden chairs and a desk behind which sat an ATS sergeant.
‘Er – hello,’ Carrie whispered.
‘Hello,’ the sergeant smiled. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes please.’ She was surprised her voice should sound so croaky.
‘Then take a pew.’ The sergeant was still smiling.
‘That was a lovely supper, Auntie Mim.’ Nan wiped dry the pan she had just scrubbed.
‘Good of you to get the fish.’
It had been a very small piece of haddock, but her aunt had made it into fishcakes, followed by bread and butter pudding, conjured up from a little milk, the egg from Nan’s ration card, the remains of a loaf and two precious prunes, chopped into tiny pieces to resemble currants.
‘And good of you, lass, to help with the washing up.’
‘Think nothing of it.’ Nan had done all the dish-washing and pan-scrubbing
