Yet her place in Silverdale hadn’t come naturally to her at first either. She had spent her first month onThe Tyketrying and failing to win over the curmudgeonly locals who couldn’t see her as anything but an interloper, homesick for her old life in Bradford. But she had stuck it out, given it her all, and eventually the village had come to feel like home. Why should this feel different?
After thinking it over, Bobby eventually worked out why. It was because in Silverdale, she had had a goal. Her job onThe Tykehad been her chance to make it as a reporter, and she had wanted that enough to bear many trials. More importantly, she had had a choice. Here she was a mere pawn of the war, and the independent spirit within her couldn’t help but rebel at being pushed around by fate. But what could she do? Bobby only hoped that when the war was done with her, she would still remember how to be the woman she had been before.
Basic training, she quickly discovered, mostly covered things such as drilling and parading, RAF protocol, keeping kit and quarters in good order, first aid, personal fitness and, for those not already familiar with them, such delightful domestic tasks as scrubbing latrines, washing dishes and peeling potatoes – the essentials of military life. Specialist training courses relating to their trades would follow once the RAF had turned them from civilians into airwomen. Nevertheless, a small portion of eachday was spent developing trade-related skills, which was how Bobby found herself assigned to clerical duties for the WAAF commandant, Mulligan.
‘How’d you get that job then?’ Dilys demanded when Bobby told the other women.
Bobby blinked. ‘How? I don’t know. The adjutant just told me to report to Stewpot’s office.’
‘Stewpot made a pet of you, has she? I never heard of sprogs doing typing for the big nobs. They’ve got NCOs for that.’
‘I don’t think she’s even noticed me,’ Bobby said truthfully. ‘I’m to share duties with another WAAF: two hours each per day. I imagine they needed a couple of recruits with typing experience and my name was pulled out of a hat.’
Bobby approached her first afternoon’s work alongside ‘Stewpot’ with trepidation, wondering if the officer would remember her from the day of her interview. Unfortunately, she did.
‘Bancroft,’ Squadron Officer Mulligan said when Bobby reported for duty. ‘I thought you weren’t keen on joining us. Postponement refused, was it?’
‘Um, no,’ Bobby said. ‘I mean, no, ma’am. I decided not to apply. Felt I ought to do my bit.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ She took a seat at her desk. ‘But do stop that stuttering and mumbling, girl. We need no “ums” and “ers” in the WAAF. Speak out with confidence and you’ll find people will instinctively respect you.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Sorry.’
There was another desk at a right angle to Mulligan’s bearing a typewriter and various papers, but as Bobby hadn’t been given any order to claim it, she waited to be told to sit down.
‘Be seated,’ Mulligan said, rather impatiently. ‘There are some letters to be typed, and in half an hour I have a meeting with Squadron Leader Gardiner, my RAF opposite number. You will type a transcription in shorthand, then transcribe into longhand for the records.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I must admit, you arrived at a rather opportune time. The corporal who acts as my secretary is on urgent compassionate leave, and WAAF HQ swore they couldn’t spare me a replacement for at least four weeks.’ Mulligan looked rather vague. ‘Husband injured, I believe – or he may have been killed. I was glad to see we had a couple of recruits with shorthand skills who could take over Hudson’s tasks until she was fit to return.’
So that explained Bobby’s assignment. Not a privilege but a necessity. She was glad to be able to justify this apparent special treatment to Dilys – although an afternoon locked in with their stern commandant didn’t seem much like special treatment to her. However, as she hadn’t been asked a question, Bobby merely said again, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Well, get to work then.’
Bobby picked up one of the letters she had been asked to type, pleased to see that Mulligan had a clean, neat hand – a hundred times easier to read than Reg’s – then put it down again.
‘Squadron Officer?’
‘Yes, Bancroft?’
‘Um, I was hoping to have an opportunity to talk to you.’ Bobby flinched, remembering the instruction not to fumble her words. She tried to speak out more confidently. ‘I’d like to request permission to get married, on the 2nd of May. My fiancé can only get leave then. He’s a pilot on operational flying. What do I need to do, please?’
‘You must put your request in writing to the CO, Squadron Leader Gardiner, along with a leave pass form,’ Mulligan saidvaguely. ‘We do try to limit personal commitments during basic training, but if the boy is one of our own then I doubt it will be any trouble. You can hand them in to the station warrant officer.’
‘Thank you.’ Bobby paused. ‘Sorry, but may I ask a question?’
Mulligan looked up. ‘Why are you apologising? Do you want to ask a question or don’t you?’
Bobby blinked. ‘Well, yes, I do.’
‘Would a man say sorry for wanting to ask a question? Or would he just ask permission?’
‘I imagine he’d just ask permission.’
‘Then you do the same. What is it?’
‘I wanted to know…’ Bobby hesitated. ‘I suppose you saw how I did in my tests. And I suppose you know I wanted special duties. I was hoping I could train as a plotter. Why was I assigned to general duties instead?’
