Memories of my posting to a billet in Cleethorpes

Ordinary Hero story submitted by Kath O'Sullivan

From Private, W/307782. ATS, Signals Section, 1944.

With my possessions in my kit bag I took the train to Grimsby where soldier from the Royal Engineers met me. ‘You the Signal’s girl?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘Come on then,’ he urged, as he strode off leaving me to heave my kitbag on my shoulder.

He could have helped, I thought as I followed his hasty retreat. He was what Dad would have called a ‘little shufflemuck’, distinguished only by the size of his boots, which were at least size twelve. I followed him quickly. By the time I reached the exit he was seated in a jeep parked by the entrance. I threw my kitbag into the back and climbed in.

‘Sorry to rush you,’ he said, treating me to an angelic smile, a smile that erased all my earlier nasty thoughts, ‘but if I park too long the ruddy bobby takes my number and rings the barracks. I don’t want to find myself on a charge again. 

Corporal Marion said to drop you at the boarding house She’ll see you when she gets off duty,’ he said, as he crunched the gears and shot off with a shriek of tyres. I grabbed the side of the vehicle to save myself. 

‘That’s right, hang on,’ he laughed when he saw how scared I was. ‘I shouldn’t really be doing this, but I couldn’t say no to Marion. I’m supposed to be picking up the M.O. off the London train, but it’s not due in for half hour. I’ve time to drop you off and skedaddle back for him.’

‘I don’t want to get you into trouble,’ I said.

‘And I won’t be get you into trouble,’ he said, leaving no doubt in my mind the sort of trouble he was referring to.

Cheeky beggar, I thought, wonder if they’re all like him?

A few minutes later we were on the promenade. He braked in front of terrace house facing the ocean. Memories of childhood holidays at Bridlington surfaced. It was the sort of house, which used to have a board with ‘Bed and Breakfast’ and a sign in the window, saying ‘vacancy’ or ‘no vacancies’. Missing were the wrought iron gate and railings, they’d have been removed to melt down for munitions.

‘Not bad, eh?’ he said.

‘Looks good to me,’ I grinned. ‘We never stayed in owt as posh as this when I was a kid.

‘Well, you can thank his Majesty.’

‘Yep, ten bob a week and no kids to keep,’ I said, as I got out and pulled my kitbag onto my shoulder again.

‘Thanks,’

‘Ta ra, see you soon,’ he called, as with a crunch of gears he took off. 

Half a dozen steps led to the front door and, as I wondered if they’re expecting me, the door opened and a short stout woman, in her sixties, poked her head out and called, ‘Well, are you coming in or do you intend to camp out on the prom?’

I climbed the steps and said, ‘Hello.’

‘Get inside,’ she said, ‘or we’ll have half the street gawping at us.’

This seemed strange because the other houses seemed to hold themselves aloof and there was nobody strolling the promenade. I dumped my bag in the hall and said, ‘I’m Kathleen Margerison.’

‘Aye, well,’ she replied, ‘I’m Mrs Wrout, and this is my house. I expect you to treat it with respect.’

Crumbs, she sounds grumpy, I thought, as I said, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ and held out my hand. She ignored it and set off down the hall calling, ‘The bedrooms are up here.’ 

I followed her up a red-carpeted staircase, past a small landing. She threw open the door of the large front bedroom and I saw it held a single and double bed, a dressing table and a large standing wardrobe. 

‘You’ll share the double bed with Audrey,’ she said, ‘Marion has the single one.’

I gaped. Share a bed with someone I’d never met? What about army regulations which forbade peculiar friendships amongst women? I kept my mouth shut.

‘Leave your bag. I’ll show you the rest of the house.’

I dumped my bag and followed her. ‘This is your bathroom. One hot bath a week. Careful with the hot water, no more than five inches, please.’

I nodded. I was glad the ancient bath, with claw feet and large brass taps, was extra large. It meant I would be able to stretch out and enjoy a good soak.

I followed her down the stairs and she gestured to the lavatory on the landing. A staircase led down to the basement. ‘Those stairs are private, that’s where my daughter, and family live.’ She led me to a spacious front room. There was a dining suite, settee and two easy chairs. A bay window, which looked out on to the promenade, held a built in seat. ‘This is your sitting and dining room. 

‘It lovely,’ I said, hoping to please her.

‘Hmph,’ she cleared her throat, ‘this has always been a reputable boarding house. If you live here you must obey my rules. The door is locked at eleven pm, unless you have a genuine excuse to remain out later. I expect you girls to refrain from noisy behaviour. Men can call for you at the door, but no followers are to enter the house.’

I nodded, to show I understood, I wondered why the girls had raved about this posting. Mrs Wrout was a bossy old misery.

‘Meals are served on time but if your shift clashes I will keep them warm.’ Then she hissed, ‘No alcohol, this is a decent house. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered.

‘Right, perhaps you’d like to unpack your bag. There’s space in the wardrobe and drawers. Come down in half an hour I’ll have a cup of tea for you.’ She turned and left me.

When I returned she brought a tray holding tea things and a plate of scones. ‘Help yourself,’ she said putting it down on the table, ‘Marion will be here soon, so leave some for her.’ 

Was I mistaken or was there a twinkle in her eye as she said this? She closed the door and I poured myself a cup and tasted one of the scones. If the rest of her food is as good this it’s going to be all right, I thought.