Turn Left at the Daffodils. Elizabeth Elgin
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she called to the driver. ‘Won’t be long.’
Five minutes later, she swung herself into the back of the transport with the ease of an acrobat.
‘OK, driver. Southgate Lodge!’
They bumped downhill and stopped at an even smaller lodge, standing beside gateposts of stone. It was pretty and ornate and everything the private with the Liverpool accent had ever imagined a country cottage to be. Roses grew around the door; late-flowering honeysuckle wound itself around iron railings.
‘Ar – innit a lovely diddy house.’
‘It’s sort of – cute,’ the lance-corporal was forced to admit. ‘Haven’t ever had a billet like this, before.’
‘Diddy, cute – well, don’t get too fond of it,’ the sergeant snapped.
‘With luck you’ll be in a Nissen hut before so very much longer – where I can keep an eye on the lot of you!’
Instead of, she thought grimly, spread all over the place and out of her reach!
‘Now – this is Southgate Lodge. Up that drive is none of our business, because up that drive leads to Heronflete Priory. The lane to your right takes you to the QM stores, the NAAFI, the cookhouse, the mess hall and the ablutions. Supper at six, then muster immediately after, so unpack your kit and have everything ready in case I decide on an inspection – OK?’
And with that she strode away, arms swinging, heels hitting the ground purposefully, sending dust flying.
‘I think,’ smiled the lance-corporal, ‘that Sergeant James isn’t very happy with the way things are here. And I’m Evelyn Turner, SBO-tele-phones. Evie.’
‘And I’m Nan Morrissey, teleprinters. Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’
‘Caroline Tiptree, driver. Call me Carrie.’
‘Fine! So shall we take a look?’
The squat front door opened directly onto a small room. On two walls were leaded windows; on another, a fireplace. And taking up most of the space were two black iron beds and two brand-new lockers.
Evie opened a door to her left to find an even smaller room with one window, one black iron bed and one brand-new locker.
‘Looks like this one will suit me nicely. You two can kip together. And I get first choice because this,’ she pointed to the stripe on her arm, ‘says that just sometimes I can pull rank!’ She took off her cap and jacket and laid them on the bed. ‘Now – what else have we got?’
A low door led into a very small kitchen. It had two shelves, a corner cupboard and a white sink with a single tap, which she turned. At least there was water.
‘Let’s do a reccy outside.’
At the bottom of a small garden, overgrown with grass and brambles, were two brick sheds. One housed a water closet, the slab floor thick with dead leaves. She pulled the rusted chain and water gushed from the cistern.
‘Good grief,’ Carrie breathed. ‘All mod cons.’
‘At least it works,’ said Nan who was used, anyway, to having an outside toilet.
‘I think, though,’ Caroline frowned, ‘that we’ll be expected to use the ablutions up the lane.’
‘Yes, but this one will be smashin’ for emergencies. I mean, are we expected to hike up that lane for a wee in the blackout an’ all, in winter?’
‘I don’t think we’ll be here, Nan. We’ll be moved to a hut before so very much longer, if the sergeant gets her way.’ Evie pushed open the second door.
It was a coalhouse. In one corner was a pile of logs; in the other, a small heap of coal. A bow saw hung on the wall, a bucket and shovel beneath it. On a shelf, a clutter of dusty jam jars.
‘Hey up! There’s a fireplace in our room,’ Nan beamed. ‘Reckon we’ll be able to have a bit of warmth when the weather gets cold. Will we be allowed to, Evie?’
‘Don’t know, but don’t get too fond of this billet. By the time the cold weather comes we could be in a Nissen hut with a coke stove, if we’re lucky.’
‘Well, I’d rather stay where we are, stove or not,’ Carrie sighed. ‘Southgate Lodge is a lovely little place.’
‘Then let’s wait and see. And don’t say anything about the coal and logs, or someone will have them carted off sharpish!’ Evie said, with a year’s knowledge of Army life behind her. ‘And I think we’d better unpack and make up our beds. We’ve got an hour…’
* * *
‘All right! Settle down, girls.’
Four ATS privates and a lance-corporal, having eaten toad-in-the-hole with onion gravy, followed by sago pudding, were by now nicely relaxed and willing to give the sergeant their full attention.
‘You’ll be thinking, I shouldn’t wonder, that our circumstances are a little – er – different, and they are. We’ve been landed on what was some lord’s private estate – the War Office having turfed him out first.
‘The house is called Heronflete Priory, and before some bright spark asks if you’ll be required to act like nuns, let me assure you that the priory was pulled down over a hundred years ago, when the present place was built.
‘Round about the estate are various houses, all empty now, and a few cottages and lodges once lived in by estate workers. Life will seem a little complicated at first, but things will be sorted, never fear. So – this far – any questions?’
‘Yes, sergeant.’ A tall girl whose uniform was in need of alteration got to her feet. ‘I don’t understand any of it. Just what are we supposed to do, here? What kind of a set-up is this?’
‘It’s – we-e-ll…Now see here, you’re going to have to learn to keep your eyes down and your mouths shut. The set-up, as far as I can make out, commandeered the Heronflete estate in a bit of a hurry. I don’t know who they are, or where they are from; if they were bombed out of London or whether they chose to come here because of the isolation. But the Priory is out of bounds until we are told otherwise. We and the soldiers who guard the place, are here as backup. I’ve been told the switchboard and teleprinters are now installed, so tomorrow we start shifts.’
‘But what is our address? We need to write home.’
‘Address – 4 Platoon, D Company, Royal Corps of Signals, c/o GPO London. No mention of this place, or anything. And you will post your letters in the box provided in the NAAFI, unsealed, so they can be censored and -’
‘Censored? Somebody’s going to read our private mail?’
‘Yes, but the censoring will be confidential, so don’t for a minute think anybody is one bit interested in your love letters, or what you write in them. Nothing will be blue-pencilled unless it refers directly or indirectly to Heronflete. And what is more, you will not discuss this place when you are away from it – not when on leave, nor in pubs, dancehalls or cinemas or anywhere else.’
‘So they’re going to let us out from time to time, sergeant?’
‘Watch it!’ The sergeant did not allow sarcasm. ‘Of course you’ll be let out. You’ll have your time on shift and your free time, and just as any other out-of-the-way unit, transport will be laid on. The only way in which things are different is that this place seems to be a bit of a mystery, as yet.’
‘Seems, Sergeant? Don’t you know, then?’
‘I’ve been told – things – and doubtless I will be told more. But for the time being, watch what you say and what you write. If it’s of any interest, your letters will not need stamps. And that’s just about it for the time being. I’ll show you round. The mess hall and cookhouse you already know, and where the NAAFI is. In the ablutions