Christmas with the Ops Room Girls Read online

  Christmas with the Ops Room Girls

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  About the Author

  Also by Vicki Beeby

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  To my nieces, Emma and Elena.

  Here’s hoping you prefer it to ‘Makeup on Mars’.

  Chapter One

  Aircraftwoman May Lidford found a strange sight as she drove her truck through the village of Amberton. A large bus was parked outside the village hall, blocking May’s route to the RAF station, and a crowd of children was clustered around the doorway. They huddled together, hands on hats to secure them against the brisk autumn breeze, and all had large labels pinned to their jackets. Suitcases and canvas bags in varying degrees of repair stood at their feet.

  ‘Oh, the poor things!’ May hardly realised she had spoken aloud. These must be evacuees, sent away from their homes and families to keep them safe from the Blitz. May’s attention was caught by one girl in particular who looked to be about ten years old. She stood at the edge of the group, clutching the hand of a little boy. Judging from the way she hovered over him, she was shielding him from being jostled by the older children. Her mousy brown hair might have been in a neat ponytail at the start of the day, but now straggly locks had come free and hung around a pale, thin face. She looked like she had outgrown her skirt a good six months ago, for the hem didn’t quite reach her knees, and May could see it had been let down at least twice. It had been carefully sewn, though, and her clothes were clean and pressed. Clearly she came from a caring family, even if it was a poor one.

  It was clear that it would be some time before the bus moved to allow her past, so she pulled up by the kerb. As she was returning from delivering spare Hurricane parts to a forward station near the coast and was now officially off duty, she felt no rush to get back. She propped her elbow on the steering wheel and watched as a tall, middle-aged woman with immaculately coiffed blonde hair marched around the boys and girls. May vaguely recognised her as Miss Foster, the headmistress of the village school. The woman read the labels pinned to each child’s chest and referred to her clipboard. Then she would beckon to one of the waiting men or women who would lead the child away. May’s heart went out to these poor children, who must be desperately missing their homes and families, and were now being housed by complete strangers.

  ‘Not that some of them won’t be better off away from their families,’ May muttered, remembering her own Birmingham childhood. Leaving her father and brothers to fend for themselves while she joined the WAAF was the best decision she had ever made. Especially now she had such good friends in Jess and Evie. And Peter. As ever, her heart ached when she thought of kind, handsome Peter Travis. She had met him while he was stationed in the Amberton Operations Room, but now he had transferred to active duty at another fighter station. From what she had heard, his squadron was regularly sent to intercept bombing raids. She couldn’t hear of an air raid without picturing Peter doing battle in the night skies, never able to relax until she got another letter from him. Only now could she truly appreciate how her friend Evie had suffered, working in Ops during the Battle of Britain, knowing exactly how much danger her young man was facing.

  May was jolted from her reverie when Miss Foster approached the girl and her brother. She beckoned to one of the women still awaiting her charge. May recognised her as Mrs Evans, who ran the village haberdashery store. She was in her early forties and ran the business and household alone while her husband was away in the Navy. She was also an active member of the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service and the parish council. Whenever May had bought anything from the haberdashery, she had always felt as though Mrs Evans was looking down at her, although whether that was because of her Birmingham accent or the fact that the WAAFs had a reputation of being ‘fast’, she couldn’t tell.

  Mrs Evans took the girl by the hand and moved to lead her away. When the little boy, who could be no more than five, clung to his sister and followed, she shook her head, lips pursed. Then she spoke to Miss Foster. May couldn’t hear what was said, but from the body language it was clear she didn’t want to take the boy as well. Miss Foster crouched down beside the boy and tried to prise him away from his sister. He clung all the more tightly. His round face crumpled.

  Almost without realising it, May flung open her door and was halfway to the boy and girl before she hesitated. What could she do? She was a lowly WAAF, looked down upon by many of the so-called respectable village housewives. What influence did she have here?

  The girl was now clinging to her brother, and May could hear what she was saying. ‘Please, Miss, we’ve got to stay together. I promised!’

  There was something in the girl’s face – a weight of responsibility – that struck a chord with May, who remembered her own childhood, taking care of her frail mother and doing all the cooking and cleaning for her father and brothers. This was a girl with worries and responsibilities beyond her years. Even though she still had no idea how she could help, she knew she had to do what she could.

  She hurried up to the children and crouched down. ‘What are your names?’ she asked.

  The girl, whose label proclaimed her to be Margaret Hardy, looked up. A flare of hope lit her eyes. ‘Are you a police lady? Please don’t let them take my brother away from me. I promised I’d look after him.’

  May’s heart sank. ‘No, I’m—’

  But Mrs Evans cut across her. ‘This is nothing to do with you.’ She tugged the girl’s arm. ‘Say goodbye to your brother, Margaret, and come with me.’

  The girl wrenched her arm free. ‘No one calls me Margaret. I’m Peggy. And I’m not going anywhere without Davey.’ She turned large brown eyes upon May in mute appeal.

  May now regretted getting involved and giving Peggy false hope. She turned to Miss Foster. ‘Isn’t there some way they can be kept together?’

  The headmistress shook her head. ‘I can’t force someone to take more children than they’ve been allocated.’

  ‘Couldn’t you take Davey, too, Mrs Evans?’ May asked.

  ‘Certainly not.’ Mrs Evans fumbled in her pocket and pulled out an official-looking letter. She thrust it in May’s face. ‘I’ve been told to billet one child, and that’s bad enough. Lord knows, it will be a struggle enough to feed one, the way things are going. I haven’t got room for more.’

  Peggy looked at May. ‘What about you? Can’t you take us?’

  For a wild moment, May had a vision of arriving back at the Waafery with two children in tow and had to bite back a smile at the thought of Flight Officer Ellerby’s reaction. She opened her mouth, but Mrs Evans got in first. ‘Lord’s sake, child. You can’t go with her. She’s a WAAF.’ Judging from the expression on her face, she might have said ‘hussy’. May shouldn’t have been surprised by Mrs Evans’ reaction, given that a vocal section of the villagers – mostly the more well-to-do women
– had a poor opinion of the WAAFs. She’d heard the whispers when she’d been to the village: consorting with men in the pub, of all places; I dread to think what they get up to; don’t want them mixing with my daughters. For the most part, May ignored them – they’d not been trapped in a shelter while bombs rained down. They’d not seen dead colleagues pulled from rubble mere feet from them. They didn’t have to watch men who were their friends fly into danger four or five times a day, never knowing if they would come back. No. They just complained about the noise of the Hurricanes and the rowdiness of the men and women of RAF Amberton when they celebrated the fact that they had survived another day.

  A hand fell on May’s shoulder, making her jump. ‘It’s young May Lidford, isn’t it?’ came a booming voice that sounded familiar.

  May twisted around to see the kind farmer who had helped her and Peter when their car had been strafed. His wife stood beside him with two boys. ‘Mr and Mrs Bowes,’ she said with a smile. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘Gathering up a few waifs and strays,’ Mr Bowes said, indicating the boys with a jerk of his head.

  Mrs Bowes stepped forward. ‘Do you need any help, dear? We couldn’t help noticing there seemed to be a bit of an argument.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just these children want to stay together.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Mrs Bowes took in the scene, and a tiny frown puckered her brow when she glanced down at Mrs Evans’ hand tight on Peggy’s arm. ‘I see.’ She bent down to address Peggy. ‘My dear, I wish we could take you both, but we’ve only got the one attic room for the children. It wouldn’t be suitable.’ Something about the way Mrs Bowes regarded Mrs Evans told May the two weren’t friends, and May could sense real regret that Mrs Bowes was unable to billet Peggy. ‘But we’ve got room for your brother, and we promise to take good care of him.’ She turned to Davey. ‘What’s your name?’

  A label with ‘David Hardy’ was pinned to Davey’s chest, but Evie admired how Mrs Bowes addressed the boy with a smile to put him at his ease.

  Loosening his grip on Peggy’s hand, he said, ‘Davey, Miss.’

  ‘Well, then, Davey, do you know these two young lads here?’ She pointed to the boys standing with Mr Bowes. One looked to be about Davey’s age and the other a couple of years older. Both had fair, tufty hair, jackets buttoned up to the chin and shorts revealing knobbly knees and goose pimpled stick-like legs.

  He nodded. ‘Joe and Harry Black, Miss. Joe’s my friend.’

  ‘That’s good, then. Now, Davey, my name is Mrs Bowes, and Mr Bowes and I have a farmhouse with a lovely attic room our own boys used to sleep in before they left home. There are plenty of toys and books. You can share it with Joe and Harry, and you’ll still see your sister at school. If Mrs Evans agrees, Mr Bowes can even bring her to the farm after church on Sundays. How does that sound?’

  ‘Don’t think you’ll be able to take the girl’s rations,’ Mrs Evans snapped, while Davey glanced between Peggy and the Blacks, clearly torn.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Mrs Bowes replied, with an expression of distaste. ‘It’s cruel to separate the pair, so we should both do our bit to make them feel at home.’ She addressed Davey. ‘What do you think? Would you like to stay with us?’

  Davey gave one last look at Peggy then let go of her hand and nodded. It was Peggy whose eyes welled with tears while Davey scampered to the Bowes’ cart, chattering to Joe and admiring the handsome white shire horse in its harness.

  ‘Come on, then, girl,’ snapped Mrs Evans. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  May watched, feeling helpless as Peggy clutched her bag and the food parcel, craning her neck to peer over the top of her burden as she trotted after Mrs Evans. She was sure the girl would be miserable with Mrs Evans. She wished she could speak out, demand that Peggy live with someone else, but who would listen to a WAAF who had no right to be there? After a last glance at Peggy, she returned to the truck.

  * * *

  ‘You should have seen them, Jess. They looked so lost and frightened.’ May stirred the milk in the saucepan too vigorously, slopping some upon the stove top. The smell of burning milk filled the kitchen. When she had returned to High Chalk House that evening, the manor requisitioned to house the WAAFs of RAF Amberton, she had raced straight to the room she now shared with Jess since their other friend, Evie, had left. To her relief, Jess was already there, having been given the night off from her duties in the Operations Room, and she was polishing the buttons on her tunic to a bright shine. May hadn’t been able to get Peggy and Davey out of her mind, and the story had burst out of her before she’d even removed her greatcoat. She had been so worked up that in the end Jess had suggested making cocoa.

  Jess Halloway waved May away. ‘Better let me make the cocoa. If you spill any more there won’t be enough to fill a thimble.’

  The mention of thimbles reminded May of Mrs Evans and her haberdashery shop. She handed her friend the wooden spoon with a scowl then sat at the large wooden table and fiddled with a teaspoon. ‘And I pity that poor girl who’s got to live with Mrs Evans.’

  Jess turned to face her, eyebrows raised. ‘Mrs Evans who runs the haberdashery shop?’ When May nodded, Jess’s pretty face clouded. ‘I ’ate to think of any evacuee in ’er care.’ If May hadn’t been so upset, she would have smiled at the way Jess’s accent had slipped back into her native East End. Jess, who had been an actress before the war, usually spoke in the polished English heard on the BBC. ‘I was in ’er shop the other day, buying a new darning needle,’ Jess went on. ‘She served two people before me, even though I’d got there first, and then she ’ad the cheek to talk to Mrs Stevens in a loud voice about all the WAAFs lowering the tone of the village.’ Jess levered the lid off the tin beside her and spooned cocoa into the steaming milk with a heavy hand. Then she flung the spoon onto the counter with a clatter. ‘The bloody cheek of the woman. We’re the ones keeping her business going. I’ve ’alf a mind to use another ’aberdashery. Even if it does mean trailing all the way to Chichester.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ May said. ‘You only have to see her in the shop. At least you’re excused church parade.’

  Jess poured the cocoa into two chipped enamel mugs, wrinkling her nose. While Jess stirred carefully measured amounts of sugar into each mug, May rose and quickly washed the milk pan and spoons. ‘I can imagine ’er, though,’ Jess muttered, moving to May’s side to rinse the teaspoon. ‘I bet she looks down that long nose at you all and talks to ’er neighbour in a stage whisper about painted Jezebels.’ She glided across the kitchen with a snooty expression, her mouth turned down in such an uncanny impersonation of Mrs Evans that May smiled in spite of herself.

  ‘You could be Mrs Evans herself if you weren’t wearing such a bright shade of lipstick.’

  Jess clapped her hands to her face, her scarlet lips stretched into a wide ‘O’ in mock horror. ‘What? Sully herself with face paint like a cheap actress?’

  ‘Anyway, last week she was even worse. After the service she said to the vicar’s wife in a voice loud enough to be heard in Southampton that she was surprised at the dear vicar for welcoming sinners into the church.’

  Jess snorted. ‘I bet Mrs Grey gave her short shrift.’

  ‘She did. She said that the vicar had to welcome sinners or the church would be standing empty every Sunday.’ May smiled, remembering Mrs Evans’ outraged expression at the implication that she, too, was a sinner.

  However, the laughter faded in May’s heart as she followed Jess up the steep staircase to the former schoolroom – now a cosy sitting room at the top of the house. Her thoughts returned to Peggy and how she was faring in Mrs Evans’ care.

  ‘I should have done something,’ she said once they were curled in their armchairs, cradling their mugs. The WAAFs weren’t supplied enough coal to light a fire in the schoolroom so the grate was empty. Instead the girls were wrapped in blankets they’d taken from their beds in the old nursery next door. ‘It seems so cruel to separate a small
boy from his sister.’

  ‘But what could you have done? Mrs Evans was told she had to billet someone, so if she hadn’t taken Peggy it would have been some other unfortunate child. There was nothing you could have done.’

  ‘I know. It was none of my business.’ Mrs Evans’ words still rankled. Surely it was everyone’s business if a child was suffering. Despite Jess’s words, she couldn’t help feeling she should have done something. If only she was confident like Jess, she could have persisted. Found another family able to take two children. Let Mrs Evans take one of the older girls.

  Jess shook her head. ‘I didn’t say it was none of your business. Look, I don’t get out and about as often as you, but I’ll keep an eye out for the girl. Maybe there will be something we can do later on.’

  Jess drew a letter from her pocket. ‘Here’s something to cheer you up.’

  May brightened. ‘A letter from Evie?’

  ‘Not Evie. Peter. It’s for you.’ She handed the envelope to May. ‘You’d already left when the post arrived, so I picked it up for you.’

  May tore open the envelope, feeling a swell of gratitude at this sign that Peter was still alive and well. She’d been so afraid for him when he had left the relative safety of his job as senior controller in the Ops Room to retrain for operational flying. The last letter she had received told her he had passed and was being posted to Oldbourne near Chichester. It was a comfort to know he was nearby but it meant she now studied the casualty lists with growing dread. When Peter had asked if he could write to her, she had hesitated, not wanting to give him hope that she could ever accept his courtship. Although she couldn’t imagine loving anyone else as deeply as she loved Peter, she didn’t feel able to commit to him. Not when the only example she had of married life was her father’s treatment of her mother.

  Still, she was glad she had agreed they could write to each other. Although she couldn’t commit to him, she couldn’t face breaking off their relationship altogether. She always took great comfort from his letters and enjoyed sharing any simple news that would get past the censor. She quickly scanned the letter now, planning to study every word more thoroughly when she was alone. She’d hardly got past the opening lines when her heart gave a lurch.