handed her the tin. ‘I was thinking, Mum, we should definitely ask Great-gran about those photos, and find out who the third girl really is. I mean, I’m sure it’s the Joan who wrote her name on my bedroom wall but I guess only Great-gran would know for certain. But more than that—I’d like to research the whole family tree. Ask her about her parents and grandparents. She’d probably remember her grandparents, and wow, just think about it—they’d be my great-great-great-grandparents. That’s way back! So, like, can we go and see her, and ask her stuff?’
It was an interesting idea. Ali had often wondered about researching the family tree. So many people did it these days, and there was lots of information online, but nothing beat starting with your own elderly relatives and capturing their memories before they were gone for good. ‘I think that’s a lovely idea, Kelly. But your great-gran’s not been too well lately. She’s had a chest infection, which has laid her low. We’ll need to wait a bit, until she’s stronger, before we go bothering her too much. I won’t be able to help you with it—I’ve not enough time as it is, what with having to work full time since your dad was made redundant.’ She tipped the peeled potatoes into the tray, drizzled olive oil over them and popped them into the oven. ‘There. Right then, what other veg shall we have?’
‘Dunno.’ Kelly shrugged. ‘Hey, I know. Now we’ve got a decent-sized garden, can we grow our own? We could put a vegetable plot down the end, and plant carrots and beans and stuff. I bet Great-gran’s family had a veg plot during the war. All that dig for victory stuff.’
‘That’ll be one more thing to ask her, then. Perhaps you should start a list.’ Ali began peeling and chopping some carrots. ‘But remember, she didn’t get on with Betty or her father much, so she might not want to answer all your questions.’
‘Can try though, can’t we, when she’s better?’ Kelly grinned, stealing a chunk of raw carrot before waltzing out of the room, singing a jazzed-up version of ‘White Cliffs of Dover’. Presumably an Amelia Fay song, Ali thought.
January 1944
‘You wash; I’ll dry,’ said Joan. She tugged a tea towel off the drying rack hanging over the kitchen table and stood ready to deal with the breakfast dishes. Elizabeth began running water into the sink. ‘Are you helping at the WVS today as well, Betty? Mags and I are.’
‘No, my next shift isn’t until Monday,’ answered Elizabeth. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to be there when you two giggling schoolgirls are around. Pass me those dirty plates.’
‘We’re hardly schoolgirls. Mags has been working for two years now. Even I’ve left school. Besides we work really hard at the WVS. You ask Mrs Atkins. She’ll tell you.’ Joan rubbed at a plate and stacked it with the others in a cupboard.
‘You’ve left school, but you’re not yet earning. That makes you no better than a schoolgirl, in my opinion.’
It was just like Elizabeth to try to put her down. Joan pouted. ‘It’s not my fault I haven’t got a job. I wanted to go and be a land girl last harvest time but Father wouldn’t let me. Even now he won’t let me go out to look for work. He says I’m too young.’
‘You should have stayed at school as he wanted, and learned to type.’ Elizabeth sniffed as she placed a teacup on the draining board. ‘Then you might have got a proper job.’
‘Who wants a proper job?’ said Father. ‘I’m in need of my second cup of tea. Is there any more in the pot?’
‘Sorry, Father, no. I emptied it, just now.’ How was Joan to know he hadn’t had his second cup? He usually poured it before leaving the breakfast table at the weekend, and took it through to his study to drink while he read the paper.
‘You threw it away? Aren’t you aware there’s a war on, and tea is rationed along with everything else, girl?’
‘Yes, Father; sorry, Father. I thought you’d already—’
‘Well, I hadn’t, and you didn’t think to come and check. Now what about answering my question? Who’s wanting a proper job? Elizabeth my dear, I assume it isn’t you, for you already hold a splendid position at the bank.’
‘No, Father,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘We were talking about Joan and that time she said it was her dream to join the land army.’
Father glared at Joan. ‘No daughter of mine is going to work in the fields. There are far better jobs to be had than that. Besides, dreaming is a waste of time, as I’ve told you before.’
Joan tried to stop herself from answering back but it was no good. She’d always been the defiant one, and it had always got her into trouble, but sometimes she just couldn’t help herself. ‘But Father, what job could be more important than raising crops and gathering in the harvest? England has to feed herself. The men are all at war so the women and girls must step in to help on the land.’
‘Let the working class girls work on the land. You are not of that class, and I won’t have you doing that sort of work. Look at Elizabeth—she does a useful job at the bank, which is befitting of a girl of her station. Elizabeth, ask at the bank if they can find a position for your sister. Not as a counter clerk—I won’t have her dealing with the public. But perhaps there’s something she could do in the back offices.’
‘I will. I’ll ask on Monday.’
‘Thank you. I suppose I shall have to do without that second cup of tea.’ Father dropped his cup in the washing-up water and left the room.
Joan carried on drying up in silence. She could think of nothing more dull than working in a stuffy bank, with stuck-up Betty breathing down her neck. Well, maybe something else would come up. But it would be nice to have a proper full-time job, rather than just staying at home to help Mother with the housework. And if she was earning money, she’d be able to go to more dances, like the one last week. She had put the incident with Freddie out of her mind. She would never let herself get into that situation again. The rest of the evening had been fun. For a moment she found herself wondering what that boy, Jack, who’d walked her home, was doing now.
Half an hour later Joan and Mags arrived at the church hall, which was currently home to the WVS. Mags was put to work in the kitchen making huge pots of soup to sustain the air-raid wardens who would be on shift that evening and Joan was asked to sort some bags of donated children’s clothes. She followed the ample girth of Mrs Atkins through to a small room off the main hall, where several piles of clothes stood waiting.
‘Sort them by age and sex,’ said Mrs Atkins. ‘Then we can send them out to the county villages that took in evacuees. They’ll be needing more warm items now the weather’s turned so cold.’ She turned to go. ‘Oh, and anything that’s dirty, put it in a pile over there and I’ll take it home to wash before we send it away.’
‘All right. Thanks, Mrs Atkins. I’ll get this done quickly.’ Joan spread out the first pile on a trestle table and began sorting through. It was easy work, though she hadn’t much idea of children’s sizes or what clothes would fit each age group. She wondered about the evacuee children. There were none in the town itself but the outlying farms and villages, away from the danger of bombs, had all taken some children who’d been sent down from London. It must be awful to be sent away from your family like that, especially for the little ones. Although she had to admit, she wouldn’t have much minded being sent away from her father. He was just so bossy and controlling. It was all right for Betty, his favourite, but life with him was hard for herself and Mags. He never let her do anything or go anywhere.
She was holding up a girl’s smock and deciding whether to put it in the five-to-six pile or the seven-to-eight pile, when she heard Mrs Atkins’s strident tones in the main hall.
‘Miss Perkins is busy at the moment. I’m afraid she can’t come out right now. Besides, you haven’t