keep any more of these?’ She holds out the tin of photographs. ‘Here, why don’t you hang on to them anyway and have a good look through? You might manage to identify a few more faces for me.’
Evelyn accepts the collection, saying, ‘Oh, very well, dear. I’ll try hard to remember some more names for you and the children.’ Or find some more pictures I have to destroy.
10
29 October 1943
My darling man,
I think you would be terribly proud of me! Your little wife is now a qualified ATS driver and authorised to drive various officers to meetings hither and thither in an awfully nice black Humber. I must say it is a much better car than I have ever driven before, although the greatest drawback is that we girls are expected to maintain the vehicles ourselves. I’ve been down in an inspection pit covered in grease for the last two days! Still, I suppose that is going to be something to add to my list of meagre talents, isn’t it, darling?
Although I had already learnt to drive around at Kingsley (Papa let me drive his old Austin up the drive and into the level field in summer, and oh, how I am missing dear Kingsley), that wasn’t good enough for the ATS, so I had to attend a proper driving course near the barracks in Camberley. I certainly got rapped over the knuckles for some of my bad habits (probably acquired from observing you, darling), such as forgetting to look in my mirror before driving off.
Anyway, one of my first missions is to get to know my way around London. My billet is right behind Peter Jones, which is awfully handy and even Mama approves, as she thinks I will be able to dash in any moment she is in need of buttons or silks. I’ve told her several times that I haven’t joined up to simply to run her little errands like that, but she seems to think that this is the only advantage of my signing on. She also doesn’t understand that I can’t use my Humber to nip down to see her whenever she feels lonely. She has no concept of petrol rationing whatsoever, even though whenever I’m missing Kingsley’s gardens and countryside I have to go there by train.
The girls in the billet here are awfully nice and although it is jolly cold (it’s an old Victorian house), we are determined to keep our spirits up. And at least we get plenty to eat, as I suppose they don’t want us ‘gels’ fainting when we are driving our generals hither and thither. And my first proper assignment will be driving down to Portsmouth, so I’m going to study a map now, to make sure I know how to get there and back.
Wish me luck, darling,
Your Evie xxxx
P.S I love you
11
Mrs T-C, 3 November 2016
That’s Torn It
Evelyn is inspecting the snowdrop bulbs, individually planted in pots for the Forest Lawns Christmas fair. Tips of green have just begun to emerge, poking through the dark brown compost. ‘They’re coming on quite nicely, aren’t they?’ she tells Sarah, who organises gardening among many other social activities for the residents. ‘I told you that putting the bulbs in the fridge for a few weeks would fool them into thinking it was winter.’
‘You were absolutely right, Mrs T-C. Do you think they might even be in flower by the time we put them on sale?’
‘It’s doubtful, but we can live in hope.’ Evelyn checks another of the pots, then shivers. The greenhouse is sheltered and there’s a watery sun glimmering on the glass, but there’s no heat. ‘They’re only common snowdrops, Galanthus nivalis,’ she announces with some pride, ‘but they’ll still spread once they’re planted outside. I had wonderful carpets of snowdrops at Kingsley. Such an encouraging sight in the depths of winter. And some very rare specimens among them too. I was quite the galanthophile, you know.’
‘The what, Mrs T-C?’
‘Galanthophile, dear. People who are knowledgeable snowdrop enthusiasts and collectors. The rarest flowers can often change hands for more than a hundred pounds a bulb. But it’s always best to plant them in the green, while they still have their leaves, if you want to be sure of good results.’
‘Well, I never knew that, Mrs T-C. It’s just like tulip fever, isn’t it? I remember we had that in History at my school. You’re a real mine of information, really you are.’
Evelyn smiles to herself. If only the girl knew how