A Song in my Heart Page 17

  She went back to the kitchen and carefully smoothed out the WAAF call-up papers.

  Chapter 22

  Pat had bought Sheila a small case made out of waxed cardboard, which was cheap enough and light to carry. She wouldn’t need that many clothes anyway, because she would spend most of her time in uniform.

  Peggy advised her, ‘Always keep your compact and lipstick in your pocket so that you can touch up your makeup, and make sure you tell them you want a close-fitting uniform or you’ll end up like a frump.’

  ‘It’s not a fashion show,’ said Pat.

  ‘I’m just advising her to look her best. I tell you, that WAAF uniform is a disaster.’

  York Street Station had been severely damaged by the Blitz of 1941 two years before and the remains of the once grand building amounted to no more than three walls and a tarpaulin roof over the ticket offices. There were crowds of people, many of them in uniform, milling around when Sheila and Martha arrived. ‘You wait here, Mammy, while I hand in my railway warrant to get a ticket.’ Martha watched her go and marvelled at how self-assured she looked, a young woman making her way in the world. She had been right to sign the call-up papers, but that didn’t stop the churning in her stomach every time her mind conjured up some new disaster that might befall her youngest daughter.

  Sheila had wanted to say her goodbyes at home, but Martha would have none of it. ‘Don’t argue with me – I’m coming to see you off. Lord knows, you’ll be soon enough on your own.’ Martha was glad she had come to the station because there were things she wanted to say. Things she should have said long ago …

  ‘Hello, Mrs Goulding.’

  Martha was startled to see Charles Turner standing next to her, looking anxious.

  ‘Has Sheila gone already?’

  ‘No, no, she’s getting her ticket. She didn’t say you were coming to see her off.’

  ‘Ach no, that’s because I didn’t tell her I was coming. But I had to … well, I just needed to see her, you know?’

  Martha wasn’t best pleased. She had wanted this time alone with Sheila. She knew fine well that Charles must have had the same idea, but she didn’t care – mothers came before fiancés in her book.

  ‘But I’m seeing her off,’ she said.

  Charles looked bewildered. ‘I just want to see her, that’s all.’

  Then Sheila was there. ‘What are you doing here, Charles?’ No smile, no softness in her voice.

  ‘Could we …?’ He looked at Martha, who raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ll get myself a platform ticket,’ she said and walked away, just far enough to keep them in sight. Charles was talking quickly, his eyes searching Sheila’s face. She listened, but made no reply. He touched her arm and she didn’t respond. His shoulders slumped and he looked away from her, his face full of misery. Then Sheila was speaking but, whatever it was she said, it didn’t alter Charles’ expression. Martha watched as he took Sheila in his arms; there was no parting kiss, just a sad farewell before he walked away.

  Sheila said nothing when Martha joined her, but it was clear some of the excitement at leaving had left her. They went on to the platform where the train was waiting, carriage doors open, but they still had time to say goodbye.

  ‘Do you remember the last time you went away, when you were evacuated?’ said Martha.

  Sheila nodded. ‘It was a strange feeling leaving you all and not knowing where I’d end up and who I’d meet.’

  ‘Does it feel like that now?’

  ‘A bit, but I’m older and I’m going because it’s what I’ve chosen.’

  ‘Sheila, about Charles—’

  ‘Leave it be, Mammy.’

  The last thing Martha wanted was for these precious moments to be awkward. Hadn’t she spent ages thinking of the right thing to say to Sheila?

  ‘You know we’re going to miss you so much and we’re really proud of you.’ Martha attempted a smile.

  ‘I know, Mammy, and I’ll miss you. I’ll write to you every week I promise.’ There was a shrill whistle and the guard walked up the platform towards them, a flag in his hand. ‘I’ll need to get on now,’ said Sheila, and she picked up her case and hugged her mother.

  ‘Look after yourself and keep safe,’ said Martha. ‘You know I love you.’ But her final words were drowned by another blast of the whistle and the sound of slamming doors.

  Sheila pulled away from her. ‘I have to go,’ she shouted and ran towards an open carriage door. Safely inside, she leaned out the window and waved to her mother. There was the deafening sound of steam being released as the train began to move and Martha watched it take her youngest child into the unknown, leaving her behind, bereft and diminished.

  The journey from Belfast to the far northwest of Northern Ireland was slow, with several stops at small towns on the way. There were no signs on the platforms, but as the train drew to a halt a stationmaster would appear and call out the name. Even though Sheila had listened carefully at every stop, she began to panic that she had missed her destination. Sharing the carriage with her was an elderly gentleman, who had his head in a newspaper, and a well-dressed young woman with long blonde hair.

  ‘Excuse me, have I missed Ballykelly Station?’ she asked the girl.

  ‘Oh, I was just thinking that myself.’ Her voice was high and quick with an accent Sheila had only ever heard on the wireless.

  The man looked over his paper and said, ‘Next stop – a few minutes.’

  ‘Are you going to Coastal Command?’ asked the girl.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Sheila. ‘I’m going to the Air Force base.’

  ‘Same thing,’ she said. ‘So you must be a WAAF then.’

  ‘Well, I will be when they give me the uniform,’ said Sheila.

  The girl laughed, a high-pitched tinkling sound, and held out her hand. ‘Jessica Cavendish, lovely to meet you.’

  Sheila shook her hand. ‘I’m Sheila Goulding. Are you WAAF too?’

  ‘I will be when they give me the uniform,’ she said, and she laughed again.

  At Ballykelly Station they were surprised to see another four women alight from different carriages and join them on the platform. As the train steamed away, they stood for a moment in uncomfortable silence wondering what to do. They scanned the flat fields that ran across the landscape as far as the sea glittering in the distance, and listened to the eerie sound of corncrakes that shattered the silence. Then Jessica spoke up. ‘I think perhaps we are all waiting for our transport to RAF Ballykelly. Is that so?’

  And that was the cue for the six new WAAFs to get to know each other.

  By the time they arrived at the base in the RAF lorry sent to pick them up, the girls had lost some of their anxiety. At least they knew that, whatever dangers or hardships they faced, they would be with other young women like themselves. They were met by an older woman who told them in a barking voice that she was Sergeant O’Dwyer. She took some time to get them lined up in formation, then marched them to some wooden huts close to the camp perimeter. Inside their hut, there were twelve iron bedsteads, and next to them were metal lockers. Half of the beds were made up with bedding and there were small personal effects on the lockers. Sheila and Jessica managed to get two vacant beds together at the far end. Next they were shown the ‘ablutions block’, a concrete structure with three toilets against one wall and three basins against another. They had just enough time to be appalled by the smell and the state of the facilities before Sergeant O’Dwyer dismissed them, saying she would be back for them in half an hour when they would be taken to base headquarters.

  Back in the hut the girls sat on their beds and chatted. Sheila looked from girl to girl, struck by how different they were. There was Jessica, of course, who sat there looking around the hut, clearly appalled by her new home. Linda had the loudest voice and ginger hair. She told them she had worked in Woolworth’s. ‘Boring,’ she said. ‘I’m hoping for a bit of excitement coming here.’

  Nell wore a neat grey costu
me and spectacles so Sheila wasn’t surprised when she said she was a shorthand typist. Geraldine, a farmer’s daughter from Tyrone, had the broadest smile. Barbara had peroxide hair and an English accent, but she sounded nothing like Jessica.

  At headquarters an officer registered them, collecting their call-up papers and issuing them with identity cards; then on to the mess to eat. Sheila was not surprised by the quality or quantity of food she was served. She had eaten in mess halls many times when she was singing at camps, but some of the girls were amazed at the food they could expect from now on.

  Having eaten, they reported to the quartermaster’s store for their uniforms and kit. There were no measurements taken. Instead, the WAAF corporal in charge walked round each girl, then went into the store and came back with not only a uniform, but a huge pile of everything from knickers and bedding to a tin hat. When it came to Sheila’s turn to be sized up, she remembered Peggy’s advice.

  ‘Could I have a small size?’ she asked.

  The corporal gave a humourless laugh. ‘Of course, madam. I’ll order you a bespoke uniform from Savile Row, shall I? Oh, wait a minute, I think there’s a war on, isn’t there? Looks like you’ll get what you’re given then.’

  When every WAAF had collected their uniform and kit, the corporal told them, ‘Don’t forget you must post most of your civilian clothes back home. You won’t need them again till the war ends.’

  Jessica leaned in towards Sheila and whispered, ‘If she thinks I’m sending my silk underwear home, she’s got another thing coming.’

  Back at their hut, the girls, in high excitement, laid their uniforms and kit out on their beds. They were amazed to see that they would indeed be clothed entirely in uniform, including the regulation issue knickers, bras, vests and suspender belts.

  Linda, the smallest of the girls, pulled the long blue drawers on to her head and jumped up and down on her bed. ‘Look at me,’ she shouted. ‘I’m a WAAF, I’m a WAAF!’ Barbara and Geraldine joined in and soon they were running round the hut shrieking while the rest of them tried to snatch the drawers from their heads as they ran past. Then suddenly Sergeant O’Dwyer was standing in the doorway with a face like thunder. She waited until everyone became aware of her presence then barked, ‘Stand by your beds.’

  She walked the length of the hut and back staring into each face. No one met her eye. ‘There’s a war on,’ she shouted, ‘and men and women of the Royal Air Force are serving and dying and you’re making fun of their uniform. Tomorrow you will begin your basic training with a six-mile march. Normally, it would be three miles, but your disgraceful behaviour needs to be punished.’ She paused to allow her words to sink in. ‘Now get into uniform, you’re due in the lecture room in twenty minutes. There you’ll learn about the importance of discipline and the tests you’ll sit tomorrow. Oh yes, and the rule about hair is that it mustn’t touch your collar. So get it sorted.’

  By lights out that evening Sheila was exhausted. The long journey from home, the strain of settling into such a demanding environment and the news that she would be taking an important test the next day, not to mention the six-mile hike, had left her wondering what she’d got herself into.

  ‘Are you still awake?’ Jessica whispered from the next bed.

  ‘Yes, just about.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to decide what will be worse – the test or the hike.’

  ‘The march will be bad enough,’ said Sheila, ‘but the test is to decide what job we’ll be doing for the rest of the war. I hope I don’t get something like cooking or cleaning. It would be worse than staying at home.’

  ‘Good heavens, I can drive a car, so I hoped I might be given the position of driver. Surely I won’t be expected to do manual labour?’ said Jessica. Sheila had never heard the term before, but she could hear the horror in Jessica’s voice. They had only spent a few hours in each other’s company, but already it was clear that they came from different worlds.

  Sheila slept on and off through the night and towards dawn she was awakened by the sound of someone getting into the next bed. It had been empty when she went to sleep, but now in the dawn light she could see a girl sitting up in her regulation pyjamas brushing her hair. Sheila rubbed her eyes and yawned.

  ‘Hi there, when did you get in?’ The girl sounded American.

  Sheila sat up. ‘We got here yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘New recruit?’

  ‘Yes, there are six of us. We came on the train from Belfast. Have you just arrived now?’

  ‘No, I’ve just come off my six-hour shift. This week I’m working all night and sleeping in the day.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a plotter, work in the operations room. We plot the positions of all the planes and convoys and German U-boats.’

  Sheila was amazed that a girl would be allowed to do such important-sounding work.

  The girl went on, ‘I’m Clemmie. What’s your name?’

  ‘Sheila. Have you been here long?’

  ‘Oh, I came over from Canada about six months ago. Stationed in Lincolnshire then got posted here to Coastal Command. Hey, you taken your test yet?’

  ‘No, it’s today. I’m a bit nervous about it.’

  ‘We could do with a couple more plotters,’ said Clemmie. ‘Maybe you’ll be assigned to us. Are you any good at calculating? Quick and accurate, I mean.’

  ‘Well, I’m quite good at reckoning up, but I don’t think I could do anything like that.’

  At that moment there was a banging on the door. ‘That’s it,’ said Clemmie, ‘time for you lot to get up and for me to go to sleep.’ And she flopped down on her pillow and pulled the blanket over her head.

  The lecture room, where they had been the previous day for talks about the history of the RAF and the importance of discipline and respect, had been set out with six card tables. The girls took their seats and cast nervous sideways glances at each other as the first test paper was given out. Sheila did her best to complete this general intelligence paper in the half hour allowed, but the questions got more and more difficult as it went on and she didn’t finish it all before the time ran out. Well, that’s it, she thought. I’ll probably end up with ‘manual work’. The second paper was handed out and Sheila’s hopes were raised a little when she read ‘Mathematics’ on the front. What had Clemmie said? Quick and accurate – that was it. Only ten minutes allowed for this test and Sheila was determined to do her best.

  When they had finished, they stood outside the lecture room talking about the test as though they were still at school.

  ‘I didn’t understand some of the questions,’ said Barbara.

  ‘I didn’t finish,’ said Geraldine.

  Nell looked worried. ‘The maths was so hard.’

  So much was resting on the results, but there was nothing more they could do. Sheila didn’t tell them she had completed the mathematics test. She had worked fast, but in doing so she had probably made more mistakes than the others. No use worrying about it, they told each other, it would be a month before they would hear what job they would be assigned, but secretly Sheila already had her heart set on being a plotter like Clemmie.

  The days flew by, filled with lectures, marches, square bashing, kit inspections; no wonder that at the end of each day they were exhausted. It didn’t help that they were confined to barracks for the first month and had very little opportunity to mix with other service personnel. Towards the end of the third week, when the girls had started grumbling about interminable basic training and the fact that they were never given anything worthwhile to do, an event that brought home to them the dangers that airmen faced.

  They had got used to the constant noise of planes taking off twenty-four hours a day to fly sorties over the Atlantic Ocean protecting convoys of ships from German U-boats. But one night in late August they were wakened by a shrill whining noise somewhere in the distance, followed by the sound of running feet and people shouting. A clanging bell cut across everything, as
a fire engine raced past their hut. They ran out in their pyjamas and bare feet to stare up at the pitch-black sky. The fire bell was silenced, but the whining was louder now and there came the sound of an engine spluttering.

  ‘Look! Look!’ screamed Barbara and they turned to see a black shape low in the sky hurtling towards them. They threw themselves on the ground as the bomber just cleared their hut. It was a moment before they realised the spluttering and whining had stopped and in the deathly quiet they held their breath. The ground shook once … twice … three times. The fire engine’s bell rang again as it chased the bomber, which had spun off the airstrip and careered across the fields beyond.

  The following morning in the NAAFI there was plenty of banter about the escapade the previous night. The bomber crew were based at RAF Aldergrove, twenty miles away, and a miscalculation had led to them running out of fuel as they returned from an eight-hour patrol over the Atlantic. The crew had cuts and bruises from the rough landing, but they were in good spirits as the Ballykelly airmen shook their hands and thumped the pilot on the back to show their admiration for his skills in bringing the plane down safely.

  ‘How could they run out of fuel?’ asked Sheila.

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ said Clemmie. ‘They might be chasing a U-boat and don’t want to lose it so they stay in the air longer than they should.’

  ‘Does it happen very often?’

  ‘More often than you’d think, but most of them have just enough fuel to reach us. Not many end up with absolutely nothing in the tank.’

  At the end of the month the six girls crowded round the noticeboard outside the lecture room, where the list of names and allocated jobs had been posted. Jessica got there first and whooped with joy. ‘I’m a driver,’ she shouted, ‘how wonderful. I hope it’s one of those huge lorries.’