Elizabeth Elgin - Turn Left at the Daffodils

Carrie remembered that night in vivid detail. A vase of roses on the little table beneath the window, petals reflected pink against the dark wood. An old copper jamming pan, placed on the hearth in the ingle fireplace, full of greenery. The soft armchairs, none of them matching. The fat cushions, made by her mother from remnants of bright material. She even remembered gazing at the ink stain they hadn’t quite been able to remove from the hearthrug.

He mother had gone very pale, then moaned softly, a bewildered look on her face. Carrie thought she would faint, but then she had gasped,

‘Oh, Carrie – such deceit. How could you? Why did you do it? I don’t understand.’

Her distress had been genuine. Carrie laid an arm around her shoulders, but her mother had shrugged it off.

‘You forged my signature, didn’t you, on the form?’

‘Yes, I did…’

‘Then I shall tell them about it; that it’s all been a mistake and you won’t have to go!’

‘It would be a waste of time, mother. I’ll be twenty-one long before it’s sorted.’ Carrie’s distress had been genuine, too.

‘So tell me, Caroline, just what happened to make you do such a foolish thing, and to be so underhanded about it, too.’

‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t. It was everything in general, sort of, and nothing in particular.’

Which was true, Carrie supposed, even though she had felt vague unease for a long time about the way her life was. And as for nothing in particular – she knew exactly what it was; the instinctive need to get away and have time to think; make sure that what her mother and Jeffrey’s mother wanted was what she, Carrie, wanted too. The doubts first surfaced the night her mother had gone out to play whist, there was no denying it.

‘You are all I have in the whole world, Carrie. Your place is at home, with me. And what am I to tell the village?’

‘I don’t think it’s anything to do with them. It’s between you and me and – and Jeffrey, I suppose…’

‘Then tell me what I am to say to Ethel Frobisher? How will I be able to look her in the face?’

‘You won’t have to. I’ll tell Jeffrey’s mother. And as for the wedding – well, nothing was planned exactly. ’

‘No, but it was understood, I would have thought, the day Jeffrey gave you an engagement ring. Weddings usually follow, you know. And I don’t feel at all well.’

She hadn’t looked so good, Carrie recalled. That evening, there was genuine need for aspirin and a hot drink and it had been awful, afterwards, to lie awake, listening to her mother’s sobs.

‘Won’t be a minute.’ Carrie cleared her head of thoughts, making for the kitchen. And when she came back she said,

‘Put your slippers on, Nan. That stone floor is cold! And I’ll set the alarm for seven – that all right with you, Evie?’

And Evie said it was, but would they mind if she closed her bedroom door, and they said it was fine by them. After all, she did have a stripe up!

They didn’t talk, though. Nan curled up in her bed like a contented puppy and was quickly asleep. Which left Carrie to wonder about what was to come and when she and Jeffrey would be able to arrange leaves to allow a wedding – because they would get married, she was as sure of it as she could be. Yet only when she had laid out her thoughts and doubts, and only when Jeffrey had truly understood and promised to talk about things, so that everything would come right for them. Then Caroline Tiptree – Frobisher - would have Evie’s look of love in her eyes, too, when she spoke of her sailor husband.

She thumped her pillow peevishly, then settled down to listen to the night sounds because she knew sleep would not come easily. It never did, when you were desperately tired and in need of it.

She tried to think of Jeffrey, still in Plymouth barracks waiting for a draft to a ship, but could not, so instead she turned on her back and stared at the ceiling, telling herself that tomorrow was another day, a bright new start to her life as W/462523 Tiptree C. because that was who she was, now, for as long as the war lasted. A name and number.

Yet instead she sighed deeply and tried hard not to think of Jackmans Cottage and her bedroom with the sloping roof and tiny window – and the pigeon that nested in the tree in the lane outside and made a terrible noise as soon as daylight came.

A tear slipped from her eye and trickled down her cheek and into her ear. It made her annoyed to realize it was the first she had shed since leaving home almost two months ago.

She was not, she supposed, as tough as she had thought!

Carrie, in search of Corporal Finnigan, found the motor pool in what had once been Heronflete’s stable block. Three-sided, with a cobbled yard and approached through gateposts without gates, of course. On her right was what could only be stabling for several horses; ahead, a coach house with massive, wide-open doors; to her left a drab building with small windows and a low, narrow door. Had grooms once lived there, Carrie wondered, and ostlers and stable lads in the old glory days?

She heard the clump of boots and turned to see the driver of yesterday’s transport who had warned them they were going to get the shock of their lives. He looked more human in grease-stained overalls.

‘Corporal Finnigan? I – I’m the new driver.’

‘You’ll be Tiptree C, then?’

‘Yes, Corporal. Carrie. And you were right, yesterday. This place was a shock, but a nice one.’

‘Nice? Stuck at the back of beyond, living in civilian houses and a motor pool that would make a cat laugh! Take a look at that!’ He jabbed a finger into the deeps of the coach house. ‘One pesky transport, one car – officers-for-the-use-of – and one pick-up truck. You’ll be driving that round the estate, Tiptree, collecting girls for shifts, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Yes, Corporal.’ It was all she could think of to say.

‘And you might as well know that when I arrived here, two weeks ago, I had seen better vehicles in museums! But I didn’t let them beat me. “I’ll have that lot up to scratch, or my name isn’t Frederick Finnigan,” I said. Know anything about engine maintenance, Tiptree?’

‘Sorry – no. But I can change a wheel and I know about keeping spark plugs clean and what to do if a fan belt snaps. Not a lot, but I want to learn.’ She truly did.

‘Then you’ve come to the right place. We’ll soon take care of them lilywhite hands! Mind, I never yet met a woman as made a good motor mechanic. Haven’t got the strength, see, in their arms. We’ve got a mechanic here, by the way, only he’s gone to sick bay. Toothache driving him mad.

‘So here are the rules. You will provide tea, drive when required to, and call me corporal at all times, ’cept when the three of us is alone, when you call me Freddy and him at sick bay is Norman. Norm. Any questions?’

‘N-no. Should I nip back to the billet and get into my overalls?’

‘No point. Do it when we knock off for grub.’

‘So when do I make tea?’

‘Every other hour, on the hour. Next brew at ten.’

‘That’s a lot of tea, corporal. Do the rations stand up to it,’ Carrie frowned.

‘No. Leastways, not the pesky pittance we get from Stores. But me and the sergeant cook have come to an understanding. You take the small enamel pot to the cookhouse and tell them you’ve come for Freddy’s tea. And it’ll help if you smile sweetly.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Exactly like that, girl. So till then, you’d better take the pick-up for a bit of a run – on the estate roads, I mean. And you’ll have to crank it up. Give it a good swing.’