Wartime Friends, page 1
Margaret Dickinson
Wartime Friends
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
For all my family and friends for their love,
encouragement and help throughout the years
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Even though this is, as always, a work of fiction, I do a great deal of research to try to get the background details as correct as possible. I am always very grateful to everyone who kindly shares their knowledge and expertise with me, and throughout all the years I have been writing, the library services have been unstinting in their support by obtaining unusual – and sometimes out-of-print – books and often actually researching on my behalf. This year I am particularly grateful to the staff of the Lincolnshire and Leicestershire Library Services.
I also wish to thank Peronel Craddock at Bletchley Park Trust; Kathy Phillips, chairman of the Loughborough Library Local Studies Volunteer Group; Lynnette Webster for information on Gibraltar Point, Skegness; Barry Watson for guidance on F. W. Woolworth & Co. Ltd.; and all the staff at Beaumanor Hall in Leicestershire when I visited to carry out research there.
There are many other sources of information, most notably for this novel: England Needs You: The Story of Beaumanor Y station, World War Two by Joan Nicholls (Joan Nicholls, 2000); Skeggy! The Story of an East Coast Town by Winston Kime (Seashell Books, 1969); and The Story of Gibraltar Point by Barrie Wilkinson (Lincolnshire Wildlife Trust, 2018). My love and grateful thanks to Helen Lawton and Pauline Griggs for reading and commenting on the early drafts, and as always to my fabulous agent Darley Anderson and his team, to my lovely editor Trisha Jackson, and to all the wonderful team at Pan Macmillan.
One
Lincolnshire, October 1938
Carolyn cycled along the narrow coast road towards Gibraltar Point. The bicycle wobbled precariously as the wind from the sea buffeted her. Just over the sandhills to her left were salt marshes, dunes and eventually the beach and the North Sea. She held on to the handlebars tightly, ignoring the gusts blowing up the skirt of her maroon uniform. She smiled to herself. At least on this lonely road and at just gone six o’clock in the evening there was no one to see her immodesty. The town was quieter now after the busy summer months; the holidaymakers had all gone and the residents had their town to themselves once more.
‘We’ve got the best of both worlds,’ Carolyn would always say defensively if anyone dared to criticize her home town. ‘Bustling with life and people enjoying themselves in the summer, and peace and quiet in the winter.’
It was over two miles to cycle home from her job at the Woolworth store in the centre of the seaside town of Skegness, but she loved hearing the sound of the sea and breathing in the fresh, salty air. It was not quite as far as she’d had to cycle to attend the town’s grammar school. The school had begun life as the Magdalen College School in Wainfleet, but had transferred to a new building in Skegness in 1933. Carolyn had transferred with it, staying on until she was eighteen to take her Higher Matriculation Certificate, which she’d passed with flying colours. She’d been so proud to wear the green and gold school uniform and even prouder when her younger brother, Tom, had followed her there. He still pedalled the three miles or so to school and back every day, his satchel heavy on his back.
Carolyn Holmes was tall and slim with dark brown hair falling in soft curls and waves to her shoulders, brown eyes that sparkled with mischief and smooth skin that was lightly tanned from the sun and the wind on her cycle rides. She was enjoying her job although she hadn’t expected to do so. She’d wanted to go to a good secretarial college to learn shorthand and typing as her ambition was to work in an office. It was still her dream, but her mother had insisted that she find employment as soon as she left school.
‘Staying on until you’re eighteen, indeed. It’s ridiculous. What good is higher education for a girl who is only going to get married, run a home and bear children? I left school when I was twelve and was working in service by the time I was thirteen, but your father insisted that you should stay on so – for once – I gave way to him.’ Her mother, Lilian, had sniffed disapprovingly. ‘You could’ve been bringing money into the home for the past four years at least, to say nothing of helping me about the house and looking after your grandad.’
Carolyn had held her tongue. It did her no good at all to argue with her mother. She always tried to help with the housework and nearly every day, either before or after work, she cycled to the large farmhouse where her grandfather, Frank Atkinson, still lived, but on his own now since the death of his wife three years earlier. Carolyn took the meals which her mother cooked for him, brought washing home for Lilian to launder every Monday morning and returned it, washed and ironed, later in the week. On Sunday mornings, before attending church with the whole family, she cleaned Frank’s kitchen, living room and bedroom and scrubbed the wooden seat of the outside privy. On her half-day off from work, she either blackleaded the range in Frank’s kitchen or polished the copper pans hanging in a shining row in his scullery. But there was no point in reminding Lilian of these facts. The only answer Carolyn was likely to get was: ‘And so you should’.
Now, she took the right-hand turn to the farm instead of going straight on to her home, which stood at the side of the road, yet still on Frank Atkinson’s land. It was what was known as a tied cottage. It belonged to the farm and was usually occupied by the family of one of the farm’s workers. As indeed, in a way, it still was. Her mother, Lilian, still helped out on the farm at busy times. Carolyn’s father, Eddie, worked for his own father, Norman Holmes, who was the local carpenter and wheelwright. His home and workshop were on the main road leading south out of Skegness towards Boston, but they were within easy reach through the rough tracks across the fields. Frank’s farm was a large one and stretched from the coast road inland to the main road. He employed three farmhands; his own son, Harold, Harold’s son, Adam, and Peter Carter. Peter also lived in a tied cottage on the northern edge of the farm with his widowed mother, Phyllis. She worked in Frank’s dairy and also helped in the farmhouse too. There was an uneasy alliance between Lilian and Phyllis. Lilian suspected that Phyllis was ‘after’ Frank and his money, but what held the two women together was their mutual desire to see Peter and Carolyn marry.
As she neared the farmyard gate, Carolyn could see her uncle, Harold, and her cousin, Adam, locking up the barns, which signalled the end of their working day. Harold had built himself a house at the north end of the farmland, midway between the coast road and the main road, with lanes leading to both.
‘Nah then, lass,’ was his greeting as he clicked the last padlock into place. ‘How’s work gone today?’
‘All right, Uncle Harold, thanks.’ She nodded to Adam, who gave her a cheery wave as he went towards the hen house to secure it from prowling foxes.
‘Not what you want to be doin’, though, is it?’ Harold was tall and broad and always dressed in workaday clothes, except for church on Sunday, when he donned his one and only smart lounge suit. He had an abundance of dark hair for a man approaching his forties with not a strand of grey to be seen, though it was usually covered by his cap.
Carolyn laughed merrily, her eyes dancing. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I consider such work’s beneath me, cos it isn’t. I like the job and the other folk who work there. They’re a great bunch.’ She sighed. ‘But for some reason I don’t quite understand myself, I always fancied working in an office. I went into a solicitor’s in town once and the girls working there, tapping away on their typewriters, just looked so – so . . .’
‘Ladylike?’ her uncle volunteered.
Carolyn threw back her head and roared with laughter. ‘Ladylike? Me? You need your eyesight testing, Uncle Harold.’
Harold chuckled. Her uncle was rather a solemn man, but Carolyn always seemed to get him to smile. ‘You’ve grown into a pretty lass, Carolyn. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different. Now, me an’ Adam had best be getting home, else yar aunt Eve’ll have a ducky fit. Tea’s always on the table at half past six an’ she dun’t like us being late. Ta-ra, love.’
Carolyn’s aunt’s ‘ducky fits’ were legendary though in truth they didn’t frighten any of the family; they were used to them and just waited until they’d blown themselves out, rather like one sat out a thunderstorm. Carolyn loved her Aunty Eve dearly. Despite her fiery temper, Eve was good-hearted and generous. She would help anyone. Carolyn had to admit that she would always rather confide in Aunty Eve than in her own mother. Of medium height and slim with a lovely figure, Eve always dressed smartly, wearing a hint of make-up and a pale pink lipstick even when working around the house and the farm, her short, red hair tamed into neat sausage curls. Her one treat of the week was to go into town for the day every Wednesday to have lunch with a couple of her friends and then go to the cinema. Lilian frequently sniffed her disapproval. ‘She’d do better to stay at home and look after her family instead of gallivanting. She’ll find she hasn’t time to go gadding about once Harold takes over the farm and she has to move into the big house.’
Lilian was bitter about the fact that Harold, even though he was two years younger than she was, would inherit the farm eventually. She would only be left the cottage and a few acres around it where she and her family lived now. Lilian totally ignored the fact that as her husband was an only child he would undoubtedly take over his parents’ house and their business too. It was the perceived unfairness that she resented.
Carolyn leaned her bicycle against the wall of the farmhouse and entered by the back door. She stepped into the washhouse and then into the scullery on the left and from there into the kitchen.
‘Hello, Grandad,’ she greeted the old man sitting beside the roaring fire in the grate of the range. Even though he was small in stature, he was still wiry and strong for his age. His grey, almost white hair was parted in the centre and smoothed back. He was dressed as always in black corduroy trousers, striped shirt and black waistcoat – his working clothes. It was almost a uniform for farmers and their workers; Harold, Adam and Peter always wore similar attire. Only on Sundays did Frank, like the others, change into his one good suit to attend church. He had removed his heavy boots and was toasting his toes in front of the fire, his feet resting on the fender. He glanced up and gave Carolyn a wide grin. Apart from the time when his wife had died, Frank Atkinson was rarely seen without a smile on his wrinkled face and it was always a positive beam when his granddaughter came to visit.
‘Want me to set the table for your tea, Grandad?’
‘Aye, lass. That’d be nice. There’s a meat pie warming in the oven that yar mam brought over this morning.’
While Carolyn busied herself setting a place for him at the table, they chatted.
‘How’s work going?’ he asked.
‘All right. They’re nice people to work with and I enjoy meeting the customers.’ She bit her lip to stop herself saying any more.
‘But it’s not what you wanted, love, is it?’ he said softly, repeating exactly what her uncle had said only moments earlier. ‘You should have gone to that secretarial college in London you told me about. I offered to pay for it, you know, if it’d been needed.’
Carolyn’s eyes widened. This was news. Tears sprang to her eyes at his kindness. ‘That was lovely of you, Grandad.’ She forced a smile. Trust her mother not to tell her that such an offer had been made.
‘Don’t give up hope. Mebbe one day, eh? Keep the Faith.’
Carolyn grimaced. ‘Not if Mam and Mrs Carter get their way.’
‘Don’t you listen to them two old biddies, lass. You carve your own future. If you don’t want to marry young Peter, then don’t. He’s a nice enough lad, a hard worker, and I’m very fond of him, but I wouldn’t want you to marry anyone just to please yar mam.’ He gave a wheezy laugh. ‘But don’t you tell ’er I said so, else there’ll be no more meat pies for me tea.’
Her visit ended on a laugh, but as Carolyn cycled home she was still thinking about her grandfather’s words. Although nothing had ever been voiced, she was pretty sure that her father agreed with the old man. She remembered the arguments there’d been between her parents over her staying on at school into the sixth form. Eddie, a quiet, placid man most of the time and thought by some to be hen-pecked, would stand up to his strong-minded wife when the occasion demanded. He had won that particular round, but he had lost the dispute over the secretarial college. Carolyn lifted her face to the breeze and a small smile played on her mouth. Heartened by Frank’s words, she had hope for the future now. Her future.
Two
When she arrived home, Carolyn found her brother Tom struggling to get a large, oblong box through the back door.
‘That looks heavy. Let me give you a hand.’ She took one end and together they carried it inside.
‘Where do you want it?’
‘In the front room, please, Caro.’
‘Radio parts, is it?’ Carolyn guessed.
‘It’s a wireless set. Mr Fox got it for me.’ George Fox was Tom’s science teacher. He was helping the boy to build a radio transmitting and receiving set. Tom was fast becoming a keen amateur wireless enthusiast. ‘He reckons I’ll have a much wider scope with this one to listen in to transmissions in the North Sea, ships and that. Maybe as far as the countries across the water.’
‘What? Like Holland?’
Tom nodded as they manoeuvred the cumbersome box into position on Lilian’s dining table, now set beneath the window to accommodate Tom’s wireless equipment. ‘Maybe even Germany and Denmark.’
They stood back and looked down at it. ‘Thanks, Caro.’
‘Well? Go on. Open it.’
Together they unpacked the box, carefully setting the oblong-shaped instrument with its strange dials and switches on the table.
‘Is this a new one?’
‘New to me, but it’s not brand new – they cost a fortune – but it is a later model than the one I’ve been using.’
‘D’you know what to do with it all?’
‘Not yet.’ Tom grinned. ‘But I will. Mr Fox said he’ll come out here on Saturday morning and show me how to connect it up and get it working. That’s if Mam doesn’t mind.’
Carolyn gave an unladylike snort of laughter. ‘Mam doesn’t mind anything her blue-eyed boy wants to do. You should know that.’
Tom straightened up and frowned before saying hesitantly, ‘I admit she does spoil me. Does it – does it – upset you?’
Carolyn laughed. ‘Heavens, no. I’m as daft as a brush with you myself. You can twist me round your little finger.’ Then her smile faded as she added, ‘But with Mam, I think it’s a mother-and-son thing. Just mind it doesn’t get worse as you grow up. Mother love is wonderful, but smother love is something completely different.’
Tom glanced at her from behind his round spectacles, his mousy-coloured hair falling over his forehead in an untidy flop. He grinned, his hazel eyes twinkling. ‘No, I won’t let it get out of hand, but at the moment . . .’ He winked broadly and she pretended to be shocked.
‘You young rascal. You’re leading her on, aren’t you, and getting just what you want?’
‘Am I very dreadful?’
‘Course not.’ She leaned towards him as she whispered, ‘I’d do exactly the same, if I could, but it doesn’t work for me.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t seem to get what I want.’
‘I wish I could help.’ He was pensive for a moment before saying slowly, ‘Couldn’t you teach yourself typewriting and Pitman’s shorthand?’
Carolyn pulled a face. ‘I might manage to learn shorthand from books, but I’d need a typewriter.’
‘I reckon Dad – or Grandad – would get you one. Might only be second-hand, but it’d do, wouldn’t it?’
‘Of course. Anything would do to learn on, just so long as it works.’
Tom rubbed his nose; it was a habit he had when he was thinking. ‘Mr Fox’s wife is a secretary. She might know of someone who would teach you. I’ll ask him on Saturday, because you’ll be at work then, won’t you?’
Carolyn nodded. Her half-day off each week was on a Thursday, the town’s early-closing day. On Saturdays she had to work all day for it was one of the store’s busiest days of the week, but she couldn’t help a little thrill of hope running through her. It was worth Tom asking his teacher, even if it came to nothing.
On the Saturday morning, Lilian made a great fuss of Tom’s teacher when he arrived on his bicycle.
