It’s not so bad here. Some of us have been billeted on a farm and we actually sleep in an old barn, which sounds worse than it is. The farmer’s wife made us a great rabbit stew the other day. It tasted better than anything I’ve eaten in a long time.
We have snow just like you; everywhere is covered with it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much. I wear three pairs of socks at night – don’t suppose you could knit me some, could you?
Last night we went on a march on ice-covered roads. One lad slipped and it wasn’t until we got back to our barn and he took off his boot that we realised he’d broken his ankle. God knows how he marched on it.
Please don’t worry about me, I’m fine. The nearest to danger I’ve come is laughing to death over some of Tommy’s antics when he’s mimicking our sergeant, who has the strongest Yorkshire accent you’ve ever heard.
Write soon and tell me all your news. And don’t forget, a pair of socks would be very welcome!
Longing to hear from you,
Your loving husband, Elijah
PS I hope that RAF bloke who you say keeps calling in isn’t making a nuisance of himself. And yes, I don’t mind admitting I’m jealous that he gets to see you and I don’t!
*
25th February, 1940
Dear Romily,
I said I’d do it and I have – I’m now a member of the women’s section of the Air Transport Auxiliary, a second officer no less! I had to do a flight test in Whitchurch in a Gypsy Moth, which, without being big-headed, was no test at all. We’re a small band of determined women and I feel hugely honoured to be one of the group.
You should see the look of disgust on some of the faces of our male colleagues when they encounter us – they’re the sort who think we should be at home cooking dinner for our husbands. Well, in the absence of a husband, I’d much rather be doing what I am. Maybe even if I had a husband, I’d sooner be doing this! I should say that not all of our male colleagues treat us this way; some are all for us.
For now our job is to help ferry training planes – Gypsy Moths – from the de Havilland factory at Hatfield to RAF training bases in Scotland and northern England, but I suspect our remit may well change in the coming months.
On a perfectly superficial note, I have to say I think I look rather good in my uniform, which has a blue service tunic, a pleated skirt and slacks (I much prefer wearing the latter!), black shoes (serviceable rather than elegant!), a black tie and a blue shirt. Our flying suits have a quilted liner and the sheepskin leather flying jacket is jolly useful when flying in the freezing cold, as are the fleece-lined flying boots.
It’s tiring work, but I can honestly say it’s the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done. So come on, Romily, hurry up and finish your latest novel and then apply to the ATA. You won’t regret it, I promise you.
All my love,
Sarah
Chapter Fifty-Two
March 1940
On a lovely mild day nearly two months after her wedding, and fully recovered from her accident, Florence turned out of the drive and set off down the lane towards the village. As she walked along in the March sunshine, swinging the basket in her hand, all around her birds sang and sparrows cheeped happily, fluttering busily in and out of the hedgerow, where fat buds were swelling. Spring was in the air and it couldn’t come a day too soon.
Winter had dragged on for far too long; it had made them all restless for change. Allegra was particularly restless, and very irritable with it. Florence didn’t blame her; being the size she was must be awful. She was having trouble sleeping and Florence often heard her going downstairs in the night to make herself a drink. It worried her, Allegra taking the stairs in the dark on her own, and many a time she forced herself to stay awake until she heard the sound of her lumbering footstep on the stairs returning to bed.
After waving to old Ted Manners from Dawson’s Dairy as he passed by with the milk cart, his horse raising his head in alarm as a noisy oncoming military truck approached, Florence made for the main street. Ted’s brother Bob had recently started work in the garden for Miss Romily. When he’d applied for the job to replace Elijah for the duration of the war, he had freely admitted that though he might lack youthful energy, he more than made up for it in experience and knowledge. A small, wiry man with bandy legs and a bushy beard and protruding ears, he reminded Florence of a gnarled old leprechaun.
As she crossed the main street, observing the shoppers and tradesfolk going about their business, Florence thought, not for the first time, how few young men were left in the village. It was why Miss Romily had taken on Bob Manners; there simply had not been the luxury of choice. Most of the lads who were left were too young to be trusted to tie their own shoelaces, never mind take charge of a large and beautiful garden.
How many more boys would they lose? Florence pondered sadly. How many more mothers and fathers, wives and girlfriends were going to be left to fret? And for what? Still nothing had really happened, and what had gone on seemed too far away to be of real interest. Many people, believing they’d been conned by the government and that they’d never been in any danger, had begun to flout the blackout, letting lights shine through badly covered windows. Gas masks weren’t being carried like they once had been either; even Florence had forgotten hers today. Mrs Partridge would give her hell when she got back; she was a stickler for keeping to the rules.
A thunderous roar that rumbled right through to the pit of her stomach had Florence looking skywards. The source of the noise came from the east: a squadron of Wellington bombers, presumably from over the North Sea. When the shadow of their formation fell across her, she gave an involuntary shiver, out of awe mostly. The sight of such strength and power never failed to stir her, to make her feel proud of the brave men up there flying those incredible machines. Who knew, she thought, one of those pilots could be Wing Commander Anthony Abbott.
In the weeks that had followed his first visit to Island House, the wing commander had become a regular caller, always bringing with him a present of some sort, whether it was flowers, a pat of rationed butter, a box of chocolates, a book about aircraft for Stanley or a toy for Annelise. During one of his visits he’d rolled up his sleeves and unblocked the sink in the kitchen for Mrs Partridge. From then on she wouldn’t have a word said against him. Prior to that day, she had been hugely suspicious of his visits. ‘He’s got his eye on a wealthy widow, that man, mark my words.’
Florence had thought the same thing initially, but seeing how good he was with the children, especially Stanley, she had decided he simply enjoyed time away from the airfield, and being part of a family, such as it was at Island House.
As for her own family, or more specifically her mother, Florence was determined to push her from her mind; her subconscious mind too. She wasn’t a child in need of a mother; she was a married woman with a husband to care for. A husband who she loved with all her heart, and who loved her.
She passed along Market Lane and turned right for the wool shop. Every spare minute she had was spent knitting, and not just for Billy. At Miss Romily’s suggestion they regularly all sat together in the kitchen of an evening knitting socks, gloves, scarves and balaclavas for the troops. Allegra had surprised them all by being the most proficient; apparently she’d been taught to knit in the orphanage as a young child. She had made some beautiful bonnets, bootees and matinee jackets for her baby, which was due in a matter of weeks. Last night Florence had finished knitting a pullover for Stanley as a surprise present for his tenth birthday today.
