Open Writing

Joining the WRAC was easy. Too easy it seemed to me and, as I sat in the railway carriage on my way to Guilford, I hoped and prayed I was doing the right thing. My father was ill and I told Mum not to bother about seeing me off. The sense of excitement had turned into something feeling suspiciously like a case of the collywobbles - and I didn't want to make an idiot of myself at the railway station.

Later, when I finally arrived at the training centre in Guilford, I was pleasantly surprised. Walking up to the reception office I passed beds of sweet scented lavender, and the barracks appeared well designed and modern. In next to no time I had been completely kitted out, down to four pairs of khaki knickers. I didn't fancy those. I'd hang onto my cami-knickers like grim death for the time being.

For the next six weeks we were to be licked into shape by Sergeant Coyne. She was tiny and neatly made with a pleasant smile and proved to be as tough as a pair of old boots. When it came to drill, because I was tall I was inevitably cast as 'right-marker'.

It wasn't as easy as it looked. At first I managed to get everything wrong, 'camel walked', tripped up and was asked sarcastically if I were in possession of two left feet. By this time I hopefully believed I was, then these feet would walk right out of this nut house and go marching back home.

One morning Sergeant Coyne, instead of bellowing, beamed at us. She didn't actually say "By George they've got it!" but the penny had finally dropped and we were all at last marching in step and behaving like real soldiers.

On my assessment interview I'd said I wanted to be a driver. I imagine everyone said that. I'd been an office machine operator (amongst other things) in civilian life. The powers that be passed me out as an operator office machine in the Army. Which I thought was a pretty wacky title but I suppose it saved time training me to do something else. Three weeks later I was posted with five other girls to the Cavalry Barracks in Hounslow. We would all be working on Hounslow Heath with the Pay Corps.

The only other person I'd ever heard of earning a living on Hounslow Heath had been Dick Turpin, and it hadn't done him much good. It all sounded pretty mundane to me, and it was. Never mind, there would be new faces.

I had made several friends on the training course, and one of them in particular was in the group of six headed for Hounslow. Her name was Gwen Shakespeare - and of course everyone called her Bill. She was the eldest in the group, but certainly didn't look it. With her slim figure, short, dark curly hair and dazzling complexion, she looked about eighteen, not the twenty-eight she really was. Bill's home was in Catford. She had a delightful sense of humour and I was happy we were friends and both heading in the same direction.

Hounslow proved to be another bonus - close to London and on the Underground, which ensured that I would be within easy reach of the pleasures I craved. Places of entertainment such as theatres, museums, art galleries and concert halls could and did open up my life immeasurably in the following months.

Our pay wasn't very much but then the price of a seat in the gallery at Sadler's Wells or the theatre cost very little in those days. Very soon I belonged to the Sadler's Wells Gallery Club and visited there every Saturday night for the operas. That is until one night when the tube train back to Hounslow was running slow, and after racing back from the station I was put on a charge for being five minutes late.

It wasn't the first time, and the punishment was seven days confined to barracks. Which meant exactly that. I was beginning to find, however well I behaved myself, the Army could be a tad petty and unforgiving at times.

Our quarters were comfortable; thank goodness we didn't live in an open barrack room. Bill and I shared a cubicle. It worked out fine, although I would have preferred to have had a room to myself. Luckily we got along very well.

One weekend she took me home to Catford to meet her mother. Mrs Shakespeare was kind and welcomed me like a long lost daughter. It was good to enjoy some home cooking again.

Something happened which puzzled me somewhat. Mrs Shakespeare sent Bill off to see one of the neighbours, and it was obviously to get rid of her while she wangled some time to talk to me on my own. She asked if Bill had been OK healthwise. I said Bill was always well, "Just look at her lovely rosy cheeks."

Her mother still looked anxious. "Betty, rosy cheeks don't mean a thing where Gwen is concerned". I began to think that Bill's mum was a bit of a worrier.
Anyway at that moment Bill bounced back in again, "Come on, Bettina, time to get back."

On the train heading back to Hounslow she asked what her mother had been saying. "Oh she just wanted to know if you'd been feeling OK".

Bill grimaced and said her Mum had always been a worry-guts where health was concerned.

I laughed and said, "Oh aren't they all?" and forgot all about it.