Secrets of the Railway Girls Read online

  Smiling, Joan stopped to let the happy group pass by. Would that be her and Bob one day? Her skin tingled as self-consciousness washed through her. How lucky she was. Bob was a signalman, but she had met him through being a first-aid volunteer. He was lovely to be with, and no wonder when you thought about the loving family he came from. The Hubbles were good-natured, considerate folk who enjoyed nothing more than being together, and they had welcomed her into their midst. Having the Hubbles made her feel even luckier. She didn’t just have a kind, thoughtful boyfriend, she had gained a whole family.

  She pushed her sack barrow past the long, elegant sweep of woodwork that fronted the line of ticket-office booths and threaded her way through the milling travellers towards the platform where she was scheduled to meet the train from Leeds. She loved helping people with their luggage, but oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if folk got used to the sight of a girl working as a station porter. There had been lady porters for months now, yet there were still far too many passengers who thought it wasn’t proper for girls and women to do the job. Gentlemen passengers often declared it inappropriate that a slip of a thing like Joan should heave their luggage about; sometimes one would even try to do the job for her. It was common for female porters to be referred to as porteresses or porterettes. Why couldn’t they be plain old porters, for heaven’s sake?

  Joan stationed herself halfway along the platform, in front of the empty space where, until last summer, a sign had proudly proclaimed MANCHESTER VICTORIA, before all station platform signs had been painted over or removed – along with road signs – so as to confuse the enemy in the event of invasion. Joan had to suck in her cheeks to quell a grin. Never mind Jerry, the home population was finding it confusing enough.

  Eager to do well in her porter’s job, she had started learning the place names along as many routes out of Victoria as she could, so she would be able to tell passengers, ‘You want the fourth stop, madam,’ and she had felt pleased with herself until Bob’s mum, who had a job working as a lengthman on the permanent way, which was what Joan and her colleagues had learned to call the railway tracks, had pointed out to her, ‘That’s all well and good in broad daylight, love, but it’s not so helpful on a dark winter’s afternoon. What if a train makes an unscheduled stop between stations? In the blackout, the passengers won’t know it’s not a station and goodness alone knows where the ones doing the counting according to Joan Foster will end up.’

  ‘They’ll be lucky not to end up flat on their faces on the embankment,’ said Bob.

  Joan caught her breath. ‘I never thought of that.’

  She was instantly consumed by guilt, but, true to form, the Hubble clan had started chuckling and pretty soon everyone, Joan included, was howling with laughter. Oh, how good it felt to be part of a happy family.

  Her heart lifted now as she caught the sound of the rhythmic chuff … chuff … of the approaching train. Lifting her chin, Joan sniffed like one of the Bisto kids as aromatic white clouds filled the air. The sound stopped as the engine pulling its line of dark red coaches ran alongside the long platform, heading for the buffers. Even as the brakes shrieked, doors were hurled open and passengers were already jumping down and hurrying on their way while the train came to a standstill with an echoing clunk.

  ‘Excuse me, miss. Would you mind?’

  Joan wheeled her barrow to where an elderly couple stood next to a pair of suitcases, which a young Tommy had plonked on the platform for them. Once she had seen the elderly couple to a taxi, she checked the time on one of the huge circular clock faces with Roman numerals that hung from the metal gantry beneath the station’s gently arched canopy. Good: time to clock off. Better still, this was an evening for meeting up with some of her chums in the buffet, which was always a highlight of her day. When they had all started work together back in March, Miss Emery, the assistant welfare supervisor for women and girls of all grades, had given them what had turned out to be the best possible piece of advice: stick together. Regardless of age or class, stick together. Regardless of being assigned vastly different jobs, stick together. And they had.

  It was mainly thanks to the older ladies of the group, who were of an age to be mothers to the younger ones. Joan was always fascinated by mothers. Her own, Estelle, was supposed to be dead. That was what she, Gran and Letitia told anybody who asked. She and Letitia were orphans: that was the official story. The truth, the shocking, shameful truth that they kept to themselves and never shared with anyone, was that years ago, when her daughters were tiny, Joan a baby and Letitia just twelve months older, Estelle had run off with her lover, her fancy man, as Gran called him in a voice that burned with scorn. Even just thinking of it made Joan’s blood turn to sludge in her veins. Estelle had abandoned her children, abandoned her husband, and poor Daddy had ended up dying of a broken heart, leaving Gran to step in and be both mother and father to her darling son’s two babies.

  Anyway, the group of railway girls was led by Dot and Cordelia. Even now Joan felt surprised at how she had taken to using their first names instead of calling them Mrs Green and Mrs Masters. It had been Dot’s idea. If they were to be friends, then using everyone’s first names, however uncomfortable it felt at first, was one way of ensuring closeness. In front of others, they all ‘Miss’d and Mrs’d’ one another, but when it was just them, first names was the rule.

  The other good idea that held them together had come from Cordelia. She had instigated the meetings in the buffet for around six o’clock in the evening. Not all of them could attend every time – in fact, one of them, Colette, hardly ever came at all because she was always met after work by her attentive husband – but the hit-or-miss element made the meetings feel more special. They kept a notebook under the counter in the buffet and the friendly staff had got used to them asking for the book so they could read the messages and add their own as they made their arrangements to meet up.

  Before she entered the buffet, Joan checked that her coat buttons were fastened so that her uniform wasn’t on show. She had exchanged her peaked cap for her felt hat with its shallow crown and narrow brim. Had she still been in her uniform, she wouldn’t have been allowed to sit at the table with her friends in case it looked to the public as if she was slacking. Lizzie had always had to stand in the corner beside their table, but it had been spring and summer back then, so of course Lizzie wouldn’t have worn a coat over her porter’s clobber. Sweet little Lizzie, the baby of the group. Her tragic death had hit them all hard. Was it selfish or big-headed of Joan to imagine that it had hit her, if not hardest, then in an extra way, because she had subsequently been given Lizzie’s job? For weeks beforehand, she had ached for a ‘proper’ railway job instead of sitting behind a typewriter in the charging office – and then her wish had been granted in the most horrible circumstances possible. Bob and his family, especially his mum, had been sensitive and supportive – certainly more sensitive and supportive than Gran, who was sharply disappointed by Joan’s ‘demotion’ to being a mere porter – but it had been Mrs Cooper of all people, Lizzie’s poor, bereaved mum, who had helped Joan the most by telling her she must do her new job in honour of Lizzie’s memory. Whether it was those brave, generous words or the warm hug that had accompanied them that had been the greatest help to Joan, she couldn’t have said. That hug had meant the world to her.

  As the buffet’s quietly busy atmosphere greeted her, she looked around for the others. Yes, there was Cordelia at a table in the corner, with Dot opposite her. The two women couldn’t have been more different: Cordelia with her middle-class poise, her ash-blonde hair perfectly coiffed, looking elegant in her wine-coloured wool coat with its top-stitched collar and buttoned wrist straps, her grey felt hat with its upswept brim tilted fashionably forwards; and Dot in her faithful old overcoat and a hat that had lost whatever crispness of shape it had ever possessed. But it would be a foolish person who underestimated Mrs Dot Green based on her appearance. If she looked a bit run-down, it was because every penny she was able to save went on her family, never on herself. And she didn’t just care about her own folks. She cared about her fellow railway girls too – as Joan had good cause to know.

  At the table with Dot and Cordelia was Alison, and there was no mistaking Mabel, even though she had her back to the room. Her dark brown curls fluffed out prettily below her hat with its jaunty rosette attached to the band.

  Joan bought her cup of tea and wove her way between the tables, taking care not to jolt anybody in passing or trip over their bags. She exchanged smiles with her friends. One of the best things about their group was the feeling that you could just sit down and join in.

  ‘Did you see the bridal couple?’ she asked and, when the others said they hadn’t, went on to describe them.

  ‘How romantic.’ Alison sighed, her brown eyes turning misty.

  ‘That’ll be you and Paul one day,’ said Mabel.

  ‘After waiting to get engaged,’ said Cordelia, ‘I’m sure Alison has planned a bigger wedding than that.’ She smiled. Her smile was cool, as were her grey eyes, but that didn’t mean she was unfeeling. ‘And I’m positive her mother will have.’

  Alison laughed. ‘Definitely! My mother can’t wait for us to make it official. Neither can Paul’s mother.’

  ‘You should get engaged and put them out of their misery,’ said Joan.

  ‘Organising a wedding will cheer them up no end,’ chimed in Mabel. ‘Us too. We can all be your bridesmaids,’ she finished with a laugh.

  Dot placed her hand over Alison’s for a moment. ‘Pay them no heed, love. You do everything in your own good time.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll pop the question at Christmas,’ said Alison. ‘That would be so romantic.’ She looked at Joan and Mabel. ‘Who knows, I might not be the only
one.’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ said Mabel. ‘Harry and I haven’t been seeing each other for more than five minutes.’

  ‘That’s long enough for many couples these days,’ Cordelia observed drily. She looked at Dot. ‘Just like the last war. The world is divided into two types of people: the do-it-now-because-you-never-know brigade and the save-it-up-and-make-it-special people.’

  ‘There are plenty of do-it-now folk around,’ said Dot, ‘and you can see why. All these young couples falling in love and dashing off to the registry office, waving their special licences.’

  ‘Before they have even found out how many sugars their intended takes,’ Cordelia added, ‘or whether they want the same number of children. What a spoilsport I sound. But I do feel concerned about these wartime marriages. What’s going to become of them in the long term?’

  ‘But if you don’t grab your chance while you can …’ said Mabel.

  Joan felt a flutter of apprehension. That was the trouble with being in the save-it-up-and-make-it-special group. You risked the chance that you might not live to see tomorrow.

  In spite of living in a world of danger and uncertainty, she believed in saving up the special things, thereby making them even more special. Her heart beat faster. Even thinking of Bob made her cheeks glow. She hadn’t told him how she felt about him. She was saving it up for Christmas. You had to make everything as meaningful and memorable as you could these days.

  And she was going to tell Bob Hubble that she loved him.

  With their work shifts and their night-time first-aid duties, Joan and Letitia had to plan the evenings out together that they used to take for granted. This evening, they were going dancing as a foursome, Letitia and Steven, Joan and Bob. They got ready together, easing past one another to take turns at the dressing table.

  Putting on her white-spotted navy dress, Joan drew up the concealed zip in the side of the bodice that made the garment a perfect fit. Before joining the LMS Railway, she had worked in the sewing rooms at Ingleby’s, where she had enjoyed sewing made-to-measure garments. She still made her own clothes and Letitia’s. She also made things for Gran occasionally, though it was always disconcerting when Gran’s response to the finished item was ‘It’ll see me out’, as if she was doomed to drop dead next week.

  This evening, a dress that Joan had made for Letitia was to have its first airing – a rayon-crepe garment in green and cream stripes, with elbow-length sleeves, padded shoulders, fitted bodice and a slender belt of self-fabric above a skirt that was a mass of tiny knife pleats. Not long ago, Bob’s mum had speculated about the rules that were bound to be introduced concerning the use of dress fabrics, which had given Joan food for thought and resulted in her determination that her beautiful sister should have a fashionable dress before the new rules came in.

  ‘Some girls wear home-made clothes and you can tell,’ said Letitia. ‘Me, I wear home-made and look like I’ve stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine.’ She kissed Joan’s cheek.

  ‘I could happily make us dresses till the cows come home,’ said Joan, ‘now that Gran lets us wear our hems at the proper length. It was horrid when she made us dress like old biddies.’

  ‘You should make a new dress for yourself next. I could get you the material for Christmas, if you like. We could choose it together.’

  Joan glanced down at her white-spotted navy, with its V-neck and panelled skirt. It suited her, but wouldn’t it be grand to have a brand-new dress for going out? ‘A printed cotton, perhaps, or a silky rayon. That wouldn’t be too frivolous, would it?’

  ‘Frivolous?’ Leaning towards the dressing-table mirror to apply her lipstick, Letitia paused to raise an eyebrow at Joan via her reflection.

  ‘With this being wartime.’

  ‘Nonsense. You still have to have fun. Some would say fun is even more important these days. You need to look your best too. It makes you feel better and it’s your patriotic duty. It shows you’re in good spirits and it gives our servicemen something to feast their eyes on.’

  ‘The only chap I want feasting his eyes on me is Bob.’

  Letitia groaned, but it was only pretend. ‘Likewise for me with Steven.’

  Joan bumped into Letitia as she stepped across to the dressing table at the exact moment that Letitia bent down to pick up her shoes.

  Joan laughed. ‘We could do with a bigger room.’

  ‘I know. Believe me, I’ve tried. I asked Gran if she’d swap with us.’

  Joan stopped in the middle of putting on her necklace, arms raised, fingers not quite meeting at the back of her neck. ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘I jolly well did. Gran having the big front bedroom while we’re crammed into the smaller room was fine when we were kids, but not now, and that’s what I told her.’

  Letitia was much braver than Joan when it came to making suggestions to Gran, but then Letitia could afford to be braver. As the favourite, she was permitted more leeway. She was the clever one who had gone to grammar school; the beautiful one, with the same expressive eyes, narrow face and pointed chin as Daddy. Joan hadn’t progressed beyond elementary school, while her seamstress job, for all that it had filled their wardrobes with well-made garments and resulted in a new lining for their heavy old curtains and fresh piping on their cushions, instead of being praised to the skies by Gran was more likely to be dismissed as Joan being ‘good with her hands’ – in other words, too dim to achieve a place at grammar school.

  As for her looks – well, just where did she get her brown hair and blue eyes, her softly squared jawline? Not from Daddy, as their stunning studio portrait of him testified. In the black-and-white photograph, his hair appeared black, though, according to Gran, it had been the darkest of browns – nothing like Joan’s distinctly ordinary mid-brown hair – and his eyes were dark too. Letitia’s fair colouring couldn’t have been more different, yet the resemblance between them was strong. Joan resembled him in neither her colouring nor the cast of her features.

  Did her looks come from Estelle?

  As a child, she had dared to ask the question, only for it to be brushed aside, not merely with a sharp reply but with a swipe of the hand.

  ‘I don’t recall what your mother looked like,’ had been Gran’s brusque response. ‘I’ve cast her from my mind.’

  Joan fastened her necklace and positioned the silver filigree heart below the dip in her collarbones. ‘What did Gran say?’

  ‘No.’ Letitia plonked herself on the bed and leaned forward to slip on her shoe. ‘She said the head of the household sleeps in the master bedroom.’

  ‘Did she say anything else? Such as she would think about it?’

  Letitia grinned. ‘Only that I shouldn’t push my luck.’ She put on her other shoe and stood up. ‘Let me do your hair.’

  Joan slid her snood off. Gran insisted they wear snoods over their hair every day and also when they were on first-aid duty at night. The only times they were allowed to leave the house without snoods was to attend church or to go out in the evening. Gran wasn’t just strict about behaviour, she was strict about their appearance too. Joan was madly envious of girls who wore their hair free at all times. She had a secret longing to wear her hair in curlers under a turban all day. Never mind made-to-measure clothes in the height of fashion. She couldn’t imagine anything more modern or dashing than a working girl in a turban.

  She wore her hair swept back from her face, tumbling in waves that finished in curled-up ends that brushed her shoulders.

  ‘I see you’re wearing your silver heart,’ Letitia remarked as she combed Joan’s hair.

  ‘Alison, Mabel and Persephone have all asked me whether it was a present from Bob.’

  ‘And you had to say no, it came from your sister when you were sweet sixteen. Poor you!’

  But there might be a piece of jewellery among her Christmas presents …

  ‘Of course,’ Letitia went on, ‘you never know what Bob will get you for Christmas.’

  Heat crept across Joan’s cheeks. Was Letitia a mind-reader?