Polly's Angel (28 page)

‘Kippers! I haven't tasted a kipper since I left the ‘Pool,' Grace said, her mouth watering at the thought. ‘What about me cutting some bread and butter, Uncle Peader, while you put the soup on the stove? When I'm up, that is – and you may depend upon it, I shan't be long, not with kippers waiting.'

And so it was a comfortably full Grace who finally left the house at about half past one, bound for the recruiting offices. Peader had reassured her that she could perfectly well join up without having to leave them immediately; indeed, he said he'd told Polly over and over that it took at least a couple of weeks to get all the paperwork done when a body joined the services. Then she would have to wait until there were sufficient girls ready to undertake their basic training.

‘Don't you worry your head that you'll be sent off to somewhere like a little parcel as soon as you sign on the dotted line, Grace me darlin',' he said with a comfortable chuckle. ‘You'll be wit' us for a while yet.'

So Grace found herself heading with a quiet mind for Canning Place, where Peader told her she would find the Naval Recruiting Office. She was wearing her best navy-blue coat with a matching velour hat perched at what she hoped was a becoming angle on her smooth and shining hair, a pair of neat, navy lace-up walking shoes on her feet and a bounce of delighted anticipation in her step. As she walked, she glanced around. It was a fine, bright February day, with more than a touch of frost in the air so that her breath fanned out round her like a cloud, but the sunshine, though pale, was cheering and Grace, who had so enjoyed New York, still found herself remarkably glad to be home again. It was odd, she mused as she walked, that she remembered Liverpool with such fondness considering that the first dozen or so years of her life had been spent in this city in poverty and fear. But it had been Liverpudlians who had fed her and given her affection, and there had been pals, a good many of them, amongst other kids . . . Oh yes, Liverpool was home all right, and one that still had the power to bring tears of affection to her eyes.

But best of all, the Liverpudlians, she reminded herself as she turned on to the Scottie, were the Salvationists. It had been Sara who had recognised her as Grace Carbery when she had first entered the Strawb, and she was a Salvationist. From then on she had had her own place, and that had been as a loved child of the Strawb. The Army had taken her in, and she had suddenly found herself with two families – the O'Bradys, and the Strawb. From being a child alone, with no brothers or sisters who acknowledged her, she had had a dozen sisters, and as the home grew, so did these wonderful new relatives, until by the time she was sixteen and able to go out into the world and earn her own living, Grace had had confidence, and friends galore.

She was thinking this, telling herself that as soon as she had cleared up the matter of joining the WRNs she must go back to the Strawb and tell them she was home, when a voice hailed her. She glanced across the road and saw a plump, yellow-haired girl heading in her direction, a wide smile spreading across her face.

‘Gracie! Well, wharra turn-up for the books, eh, our Gracie! I reckernised you at once, you've not changed at all – where you been these past few years? Ooh, if that ain't the smartest coat I seen . . . You a member of one of the services yet? The coat's awful like a uniform one, only a bit too smart . . . I did hear as you'd gone to America . . . now who telled me that, I wonder? . . . But I see I were wrong. Oh, Grace, give your old pal a hug!'

Grace squeaked and threw her arms round the other girl, hugging as tightly as she could, pressing her cheek to the plump, pink one so close to her own.

‘Fanny! Oh, Fan, it's so good to see you! You were right, I have been to the States – I mean America – but I'm back now, and on my way to join up! This was my nannying coat – I was a nanny in New York – but I couldn't stay over there when dear old England was at war, and things weren't so good. How about you? What've you been doing all these years?'

Fanny stood back, then caught hold of Grace's hand and began to pull her along the pavement. ‘Look, we've gorra deal of talkin' to do, our Gracie, so we might as well do it over a cup of char! There, that's Army slang for you, not that I mean to join the ATS, because I don't like that sludgy-brown uniform – the same colour as a baby's nappy when the baby's been feelin' poorly, I always say.' Fanny threw back her head and laughed uproariously, then continued to drag Grace along the pavement. ‘Here, Miss Young's place is all right, we'll catch up a bit and then what say we join up together? Things is always more fun if there's the two of you in it. I've a mind to try the WAAF – what d'you think?'

‘Oh . . . but I've applied for the WRNS,' Grace said slowly as they sat themselves down in the small tearoom. ‘I – I wrote from the States, but—'

‘The WRNS? But they say they've gorra waiting list, believe it or not,' Fanny told her. ‘Besides, they don't let the WRNs go to sea, you know, or do anything much other than office work or cookin'. Now if you're a WAAF you can be a driver, or a mechanic, or you can pack parachutes . . . Oh, there's all kinds of thing you can do, queen. And then the WRNS are a bit kind o' snobby about gals from orphan homes, I daresay. Did they answer your letters, eh?'

‘No, but—'

‘Oh well, we'll talk about it when we've catched up on each other,' Fanny said with all her usual unimpaired cheerfulness. ‘Oh, yes, two teas, please, miss, an' a couple of iced buns.'

Grace ate her bun and drank her tea and listened to Fanny telling her the story of her life so far. She had always greatly admired Fanny's easy ways and friendly attitude and when the two girls had become seniors they had shared a small bedroom and talked of all the things sixteen-year-olds talk about – young men, work, their dreams and aspirations. Now it was no hardship to talk to Fanny of her own wishes and dreams, and to listen, too, as Fanny shared hers.

‘But I think I'll probably try the WRNS first, all the same,' she said finally, as the two of them prepared to leave the tearoom. ‘Why don't we both go to the WRNS recruiting place? You might find you wanted to join them, after all. Think of the black silk stockings!'

‘And them 'orrible school prefect hats.' Fanny laughed. ‘Still, an' all, I'll give it a go, queen. And when we've done the deed, how about us goin' back to the Strawb, tellin' them all that we've joined up? Come on, we can catch a tram a bit further up the road that'll take us to the Pier Head. It'll save us quite a walk.'

When Polly burst into the little house in Titchfield Street that evening, full of curiosity to know how Grace had spent her day, she found her friend settled in front of the fire with a round of bread on a toasting fork, held out to the flames. Grace turned round and smiled rather guiltily at Polly.

‘Oh, you're back, Poll! I've had a grand day, but I did miss you, though I did meet up with an old friend . . . Do you remember me telling you about Fanny Meeson, when we were at the Strawb? We shared a bedroom when we were seniors.'

‘Oh, aye, the girl with yaller hair,' Polly said, casting her coat and hat on to the floor and hastily picking them up again as Deirdre turned from the sink to give her a reproachful look. ‘Sorry, Mam . . . Well, go on, Gracie! Tell me the most important thing – have you joined up?'

‘Yes, I have, and as your dad and mam said, it'll be a week or three before I hear anything further, but I've signed and now I'm . . . well, guess!'

‘You're a WRN!' Polly shrieked, diving across the kitchen to give Grace an exuberant hug. ‘Oh, aren't you the luckiest girl? Oh, don't I wish I were a bit older, so's I could be a WRN too!'

To Polly's surprise, Grace's cheeks went bright pink and she glanced rather guiltily across the kitchen, to where Deirdre, at the sink, was clearly amused by the conversation.

‘Oh . . . well, I did go to the Navy, but . . . and anyhow, they didn't seem at all interested in my letters, said they were being besieged by applicants . . .'

Her voice trailed away and Polly's mother turned away from the sink and began to dry her hands on the roller towel which hung on the back door. ‘She's a WAAF, Polly me love,' she said gently. ‘Our darlin' Gracie's been and gone and joined the Women's Auxiliary Air Force!'

There was no denying that Polly was delighted to get Sunny's letter, particularly as it proved that she and Ivan had not been imagining things – Sunny had been in Liverpool just before last Christmas. Once she had an address for Sunny, Polly wrote regularly – as regularly as she wrote to Tad, who had joined the Air Force and had trained to be an aeroengine mechanic and was now attached to a squadron based in Lincolnshire. She looked forward to the post each morning, though, once a letter came, she naturally had to reply to it, which was not so easy now that she was working so very hard. ‘Me war's passin' in letterwritin',' Polly grumbled to Deirdre one day as she sat at the kitchen table scribbling away, whilst outside the May sunshine fell on the kids playing in the jigger and Ivan and his pal Boz, kicking a bundle of rags up and down and ferociously screaming ‘Goal!' every time one or other of them let the ‘ball' get past him. ‘It's not as if me life was full an' excitin' either, Mammy . . . not like Sunny an' Tad, to say nothin' of our Grace. She's up there, on an airfield full of fellers, payin' them their wages and dancin' with them and all sorts, whereas you don't even let me go to the hops, in case I meet someone interestin' who isn't a Catholic and might . . . well, might be – be interestin',' she finished.

‘We're not against you going dancing, provided you go wit' a group of friends,' Deirdre said mildly. ‘And what about the letters you get from Sunny and Tad? Both of them young fellers is probably holdin' a torch for you. Yet here's you, wantin' to gad off every night and have an exciting life . . .'

‘I don't! It's just . . . well, Sunny says in his letters that he's a signaller now, and not just an ordinary seaman – he wasn't too keen on bein' down in the bowels of a ship, said he were rotten seasick – and Tad's with his squadron, messin' about with the innards of aeroplanes and probably getting covered in grease the way he always liked to be. Not that any of 'em's allowed to write much about what they're doing, because of walls havin' ears, but their letters are more interesting than mine. Once I've said I earned a bonus for typin' Mr Slater's private letters I've said it all, just about.'

‘What private letters?' Peader said. He pushed his spectacles down on his nose and looked at Polly over the top of them. ‘I didn't hear nothin' about this, not a word did I hear. I t'ought he was such a dull, pernickety old feller, too, but now you tell me he has a private life, and private correspondence, to boot! Not that it can be very private if he lets you into his secrets,' he added thoughtfully.

Polly giggled. ‘Well, I'd never have thought it, but he's the father of six kids, Daddy, four of 'em in the forces. They write home, so he has to write back, of course, and he suddenly realised that if he paid me a bit extra and worked half an hour late in the evenings he could get 'em typed, which is a whole lot easier than handwriting.' She glared at her own correspondence, then rubbed her aching wrist. ‘I wonder if I could type my letters in me lunch hour? she enquired plaintively. Not that there's anything much to tell 'em,' she concluded rather bitterly.

‘Never you mind, love,' her mother said serenely. She was making bread for the week, pounding the great lump of dough as though it were alive and dangerous, Polly thought with some amusement. ‘I dunno about Tad, but I reckon Sunny's life isn't all that easy; life aboard ship never is. I reckon your letters bring him a lot of pleasure.'

‘Tad's still got that Angela girl writin' to him,' Polly muttered. She tried to write another word but her pen seemed empty so she shook it and was rewarded with a blot. ‘Oh, damn!'

‘Language,' Peader said mildly from his place opposite her at the kitchen table. ‘If it were me, Polly me darlin', I'd write one letter and then copy it out twice more. After all, alanna, you've only the one life! They're leading their own lives, so why shouldn't you ease your trouble a little? Answer me that now.'

‘No, that wouldn't work, Daddy,' Polly said firmly. She frowned over her letter for a moment and then signed off with a flourish and reached for the blotting paper. ‘When I write to Grace I write like a girl, and when I write to Sunny . . . Oh well, I think I write a different side of me, so I do, If you see what I mean.'

‘I do,' Deirdre said at once, when her husband merely went on with his own work of addressing envelopes, though he did give his daughter a puzzled look before bending once more to his task. ‘But never mind, love. Your letters give a lot of pleasure, I can tell you that without ever having read one word of them. You're a good girl, Polly.'

‘Oh well,' Polly said. She heaved a sigh and glanced across at her father. ‘Could I give you a hand wit' them envelopes, Daddy, seeing as I've finished me letter-writing for this week? I can do it without having to think too much, unlike letters to me pals.'

Chapter Nine

A
UGUST
1940

Sunny leaned on the rail and stared towards the outlines of the Devonport dockyard as the ship nosed its way into its berth. The
Poppy
was coming in for repairs, since she had been nipping round a convoy when she had been attacked by Stuka dive bombers and holed just above the waterline, as well as losing some of her superstructure, for the attack had been a vicious one. They had been lucky, however; one of the anti-aircraft gunners had suddenly found one of the diving planes in his sights and had poured enough lead into her for the attacker to suddenly become the victim, as it fell, corkscrewing madly, into the sea. They had been even luckier, Sunny reflected now, that the bloody plane hadn't hit one of the convoy, but although they had managed to get the ships with their precious supplies safely home, they would have to go into dry-dock for repairs.