Wave Me Goodbye. Ruby Jackson
I thought it would take some time and I could tell you but I went in and there were lots of women and eventually this posh lady asked me my age and did my mother know. I said I didn’t have a mother. You do know it’s jolly hard work? she said after she’d been thinking. I’ve never heard anyone say, jolly hard. Another lady said, See the doctor now. He was in the next room and I was a bit scared as I haven’t ever been seen by a doctor, not ever been ill, proper ill. The doctor looked at me and said, Have you ever been ill, or been in hospital? I wasn’t sure but I don’t think I have and so I said, No, sir, and he said, Why on earth do you want to join? It’s bloody awful work.
Grace stopped and thought hard. Was her simple little tale interesting? Would Mrs Petrie think it odd that the doctor had only asked a few questions and then told her that she would do, whatever that meant, and then had added something about being sure to drink milk?
And how could she explain why she had wanted to join, even knowing that it was ‘bloody awful work’?
It was working in the garden, growing the sprouts and things. It’s hard to explain but, although it was really hard work, I enjoyed it. I felt
She could not explain the pleasure or the satisfaction that growing things had given her and so that effort at a letter ended in the wastebasket, too. She tried to write to Mrs Brewer and four attempts ended beside the others. Grace stared in despair at the wall in front of her but, in her head, saw only the waiting room of the doctor’s surgery in Dartford.
There were several girls and women there, and from their clothes and, in some instances, their voices, Grace realised that they came from what Mr Brewer called ‘all walks of life’, though so far no one had her accent, which, Megan, her half-sister, always said was half-Scot, half-Kent. Grace waited quietly, head down, until she was called.
The doctor was quite old: he had to be older than either Mr Brewer or Mr Petrie and they would soon be fifty. Had all the young doctors been called up?
‘Some simple questions, first, Miss Paterson. Why do you want to join the Land Army?’
‘I like growing things.’
‘Any experience?’
‘I had a little vegetable garden.’
‘Splendid? Any illnesses?’
‘No, not real illness. Measles once.’ Grace had felt the words ‘in the convent’ forming on her lips. Why had she wanted to say that? She had never been in a convent, had she?
‘Height?’
Since the younger Petrie boys had tried stretching her every so often as they grew up, Grace knew exactly how tall she was, but behind her back she crossed her fingers against bad luck and added half an inch. ‘Five feet two and a half inches.’
He looked at her and she breathed in and tried to stretch her neck.
‘You’ll do,’ he said, heavy notes of doubt in his voice. ‘Shoe size?’
Stupid to fib here. ‘Four.’
‘Difficult. Best take all your old socks.’
Grace smiled. Surely that sounded positive, even if her feet were too small to be of any use to the war effort.
‘Do you have varicose veins?’
She hadn’t the slightest idea what a varicose vein was but said, ‘Of course not.’ Her reply seemed both to please and surprise the doctor, who was busily making notes as Grace waited in something approaching terror for the physical examination.
The doctor closed the folder. ‘Thank you, Miss Paterson. Wait outside, please, and, Miss Paterson, be sure to drink all the milk they give you.’
No physical examination; he hadn’t even taken her pulse. If he were to take it now, he would feel it racing.
‘You’ll do. You’ll do.’ The loveliest words in the English language repeated themselves over and over in her head.
‘Still awake? Want some cocoa? We’re making it in the kitchen and they’ve left us some scones – with butter. Amazing how we’re able to squeeze more food in at bedtime just a few hours after a three-course tea.’
One of Grace’s roommates, Olive Turner, was standing in the doorway, and the appetising smell of a freshly baked, and therefore hot, scone wafted across the room.
Grace rose in some relief. ‘It’s hard work and fresh air does it,’ she said. ‘That smells heavenly.’
‘And it’s mine,’ Olive laughed, and together they ran down the three flights of uncarpeted stairs to the kitchen, where several of the other girls were crowded round the long wooden table. A plate, piled high with scones, several little pots of raspberry jam, each with a land girl’s name on it, and each girl’s own rationed pat of butter, were clustered together in the centre of the table.
‘Home sweet home,’ said Olive, as she and Grace found empty chairs.
‘My home was never like this,’ said another girl, Betty Goode, as she bit into her scone.
The others laughed and Grace smiled but said nothing. The trainee land girls drank their hot cocoa and ate scones filled with farm butter and raspberry jam until their supervisor came in to remind them that cows would be waiting to be milked at five o’clock next morning. Groaning, the girls finished their supper, washed up, and made their way back upstairs to bed.
Grace washed and undressed as quickly as possible. The house was large but the third floor, where the girls were housed, was cold.
‘Beds are nice and warm, girls,’ their supervisor had said, ‘and I’m sorry I can’t get any heat up here but the summer class’ll be wishing it was colder; hotter than a glasshouse, this place gets.’
The land girls had rather liked the idea of being in a lovely warm glasshouse, especially now, in February, when icy winds found every chink in the walls or the roof. Some had even perfected the art of dressing and undressing under their covers, not for modesty but for comfort. Grace, having been brought up in an almost dilapidated old house with one working fireplace, was used to discomfort, and dressed and undressed with well-practised speed.
‘Will we ever be warm again, Grace? My feet are like ice.’ Olive, in the next bed, issued her usual nightly complaint.
‘Keep your socks on, stupid,’ the other girls called, but soon, exhausted by their long day of punishing chores, they slept.
Grace appreciated the warm, woollen, knee-length stockings that had been issued to her with the rest of her uniform. She was not quite so fond of the Aertex shirt; it somehow didn’t fit properly and she was glad that, for the present, most of it was hidden under her green issue jumper. She took great care of these clothes. Thanks to Sally’s mother, and Daisy’s, she had had something brand-new every birthday, even if it was a cardigan that had been knitted from wool that had been used previously. The cardigan was made for her and therefore it did not matter that the wool was old. Women like Mrs Brewer and Mrs Petrie had become experts at ‘Make Do and Mend’ long before the government posters had come out asking the people of Britain to be economical.
Loud groans emanated from every bed several hours later as the trainees were awakened by the large metal alarm clock that stood in a tin basin so that it would make even more of a racket as it told the world that it was already four a.m.
‘My God, why didn’t I join the army or become a nurse?’ This question was asked daily.
‘The army never sleeps and bedpans are a great reason for not nursing.’
‘Please, it’s bad enough having to get up before the damn cockerel without having to listen to all the moans.’
Grace smiled. She loved the life; she enjoyed being with women who were all about the same age. If all the farms she would work on during this beastly war were like this one, she saw no reason to complain.
The word she heard most often from the dairyman was ‘cleanliness’.