anyway. You’ll just have to accept – well – that -’
‘That I’m illegitimate. A bastard.’
‘Now that’s enough! Whilst you are under my roof, miss, you will not use bad language. And you are not one of those! You were born in wedlock, so that makes you legitimate – in the eyes of the law, anyway!’
‘So my mother wasn’t good enough for my real father – is that it?’
‘I don’t know, I swear it, Nan, so the whole thing is best forgotten.’
‘So if I hadn’t asked about my birth certificate, would you have told me, Auntie Mim?’
‘No. Don’t think I would’ve, if only out of respect for your father – for Will. He was a decent man.’
‘He was. Did any job he could lay his hand to; never had reg’lar work, till the war started. That was when he got a porter’s job at the hospital. That’s why he was killed that night, him and sixty others. I hate Hitler. And I’m sorry I thought wrong about Dad.’
‘Then as long as you think of him as your dad like he intended, I know he’ll forgive you. So how about putting the kettle on? I reckon we deserve a cup of tea after all that soul-searching. Only the little pot – and don’t go mad with the tea leaves.’
Indiscriminate tea drinking was not to be encouraged on the miserly rations folk had to make do with, but tonight it was medicinal, Miriam Simpson decided.
Nan lit the gas with a plop and put the kettle to boil, busying herself with cups and saucers and all the time thinking about that birth certificate and being stupid enough to land herself with another worry. Because being illegitimate was a worry, no matter which way her aunt put it.
‘Y’know – it’s like I said. Once I’m in uniform I’ll be the same as all the others, won’t I?’
‘You will, so don’t be going on about it. None of it was your fault.’ She picked up her knitting. ‘New beginnings for you, that’s what it’ll be. And shift yourself with that tea, lass!’
‘Mother?’ Hesitantly, Carrie Tiptree pushed open the kitchen door. ‘My, but something smells good.’
‘Very little meat and lots of onions.’ She said it without glancing up from the pan she was stirring.
‘Can’t wait. I’m ravenous. Any letters for me?’ She was amazed her voice sounded so normal.
‘There was nothing from Jeffrey, if that’s what you mean, Caroline. But I wrote to him today. I mean, someone has to tell him what you’re thinking of doing. He’s your fiancé – he has a right to know!’
‘But don’t you think you should have let me tell him? And yes, he is my fiancé, but he can’t forbid me to do anything. Not yet. And why is it so awful to think about joining up? Is it wrong, mother, to be patriotic?’
‘Patriotism is all very well, but it didn’t do a lot for your poor father, did it? But I don’t want to talk about it. I had my say last night and I won’t budge. You’re still a minor and I won’t give my permission for you to go.’
‘All right, then. But please, let’s not you and I quarrel. I’m sorry if I have upset you.’
‘Oh, I know you are, darling.’ Janet Tiptree was magnanimous in victory. ‘Just wait till the Government sends for you, eh? After all, you might well be married before your age group comes up for registration and married women can’t be made to do war work.’
‘They can, mother, but they can’t be made to leave home. But I’m going upstairs to take my shoes off. I had to stand all the way home on the bus, and my feet hurt.’
‘Do that dear, and wash your hands. I’m going to dish up, now. And try to understand that I only want what is best for you? You are all I have in the world. Don’t leave me just yet?’
‘I won’t. Not just yet…’ she called.
She took off her shoes and placed them neatly beneath her bedside chair, took off her stockings and wriggled her feet into her slippers. Then she went to the wash basin in the corner of the room and stared into the mirror.
Later, she would tell her mother. She would have to, because she had done something so deceitful that now, when she thought about it, for a few fleeting seconds she wished she had not done it.
But she had done it, and anyway, she shrugged, by the time the ATS got around to sending for her, she would be as near to twenty-one as made no matter, so why was she having second thoughts?
At lunchtime, at the recruiting office, she had had no doubts at all; not until the sergeant had handed back her application form.
‘You will, of course, have to get this countersigned by your next-of-kin. I know you will soon be of age, but it’s best that you do. Just in case we are able to process you fairly quickly, I mean.’
‘H-how quickly,’ Carrie had asked.
‘W-e-e-ll, you did say you can drive and we are recruiting drivers as a matter of priority. That is why we need your father’s signature. Is there anything to prevent you joining within a couple of months, say? Always provided you are medically fit, that is.’
‘N-no. Nothing. And my mother is my next-of-kin.’
‘So take this form home, get her to sign and date it, then post it back to us. I’ll give you an envelope – OK?’
And Caroline Tiptree, of the glib tongue and unflinching gaze, had said that would be fine, and tucked it into her handbag and smiled a goodbye, even though it made her heart thud just to think of what she would do.
Mind, it had taken a little courage, when she got back to the bank, to borrow a colleague’s fountain pen and write Janet L. Tiptree (Mother) beside her own signature, then add the date -13.5.41. And she had slipped out and posted it in the pillar box outside the bank, just in case she had second thoughts.
‘And that,’ she whispered to her flush-faced mirror image, ‘is that.’
No going back, now. The buff envelope with On His Majesty’s Service printed across the top, was already on its way and Caroline Tiptree was a step nearer to joining the Auxiliary Territorial Service.
Now, there was only her mother to tell – and Jeffrey, of course – and that, she thought as she washed and dried her hands, was going to take some doing.
Oh, my word, yes!
Two
Life at Farthing Street could be a whole lot worse Nan was bound to admit, especially since her aunt managed to put a reasonable meal on the table most days.
‘Filling if not fattening,’ she had said of the Woolton pie they ate for supper that evening, made entirely of unrationed ingredients. Packed with vegetables, topped with a crust made from the piece of suet Nan had queued for at the butcher’s on the corner, and moistened with gravy made from an Oxo cube, it was a triumph of ingenuity.
To Miriam Simpson’s delight, Nan was very successful in queues. Since they had decided it wasn’t worth her while looking for a job – for who would employ a young woman, knowing she was soon to be called into the Armed Forces? -she was free to hunt for under-the-counter food. It saved Miriam’s feet and helped pass the days which Nan mentally ticked off as one nearer her entry into the Auxiliary Territorial Service.
‘Shall we have fish and chips tomorrow,’ she asked. ‘I’ll get there good and early.’
Neither fish nor chips were rationed. The government, in one of its wiser moments, had seen to it that they remained so. A housewife who once would never have dreamed of entering a fried fish and chip shop, now queued eagerly for them, especially on Fridays, when rations were running low.
‘And you can go to the butcher’s on Saturday,