Page 35 of The Island Girls

‘I’ve left some behind. These are some extra personnel files we found from the war years and they were in alphabetical order but I’ve only got A to N here. There must be more, looking at the number there are here, though many of these names are unfamiliar. I haven’t seen them on any other lists of Poole Pottery staff, but I need to look into them, all the same.’

‘I’ll go back down and fetch them if you like – I’ve nothing to do and you’re busy,’ she said and kissed him on the head before she trotted down the stairs. She paused in the corridor to look again at the mesmerising face of the beautiful Margaret Symonds in the old photograph that she’d been fascinated with the weekend before. She was a stunning woman, with curly, fair hair and eyes that stared straight into the lens of the camera with the boldness of a supermodel. There was something so familiar in Margaret’s looks, too.

Rebekah found the storeroom, and the filing cabinet Paul had mostly emptied. At the back of the bottom drawer, there were a few more suspension hangers and in them she found folders that were labelled with surnames from Osmington to Young. These were the missing ones. She pulled them from the drawer and fanned them out as she walked up the stairs and then something caught her eye that stopped her dead. One of the files was labelled:

Symonds, Margaret – B.O.A.C.

Rebekah knelt on the floor right where she was in the middle of the corridor and opened the file. Inside was a copy of the same photograph that was on the wall just a few feet away, and papersrelating to the employment of Margaret as a seawoman working for BOAC – the British Overseas Airways Corporation.

Margaret had lived in Ballard Road, which Rebekah knew was only a few metres away from where she stood right now. The details said she was a seawoman employed to operate a launch, carry out sundry driving duties, and there was a red rubber stamp with the lettersOSAon the bottom of the page, dated March 1941.

Rebekah gathered up the papers and took them up to Paul.

‘I’ve just found something really interesting here,’ she said, kneeling on the floor beside him and putting the other folders down.

‘Oh, great thanks – you’ve got the rest of the alphabet.’

‘Yes, but like you said, I don’t think they are all pottery personnel. Remember that photo we were looking at of that gorgeous girl in the corridor downstairs – the black and white wartime picture?’

Paul nodded. ‘Marion or someone, wasn’t it?’

‘Margaret – Margaret Symonds. Well, here’s her file, and she didn’t work for the pottery; she worked for the flying boats.’

‘That is interesting – I thought all those papers were held with British Airways. They shouldn’t still be here. Let’s have a look.’

‘She was a local girl – very local. Do you know what “OSA” stands for?’ she asked him, holding out the paper with the rubber stamp to show him.

‘Goodness gracious, do I ever!’ he said and carefully took the folder from Rebekah’s hands, as if he were taking a precious and delicate artefact. ‘It stands for Official Secrets Act,’ he explained. ‘This woman was involved with some very sensitive information during the war,’ he said, scanning the document and noting the date, ‘and right here in Poole, so it seems.’

‘Wow! I never knew Poole had anything much at all going on in the war – apart from the refugees they had on the island, of course. I’ve heard about that bit of history, and the fact that Maryland Village was used as a decoy for air raids.’

Paul flicked over a few more papers and then an envelope fell from the folder and into Rebekah’s lap beneath him where she knelt on the floor.

‘Oh, sorry, I dropped something,’ he said as Rebekah picked it up. She read the inscription on the front and frowned up at him. Rebekah showed him the envelope and he read the inscription out loud.

‘Flight Lieutenant Darrell Taylor, care of RAAF 461 Squadron, RAF Hamworthy, Poole.’ He flipped it over and read the back. ‘To be given to Flight Lieutenant Taylor in the event of the death of Peggy Symonds of 11 Ballard Road, Poole. Peggy? Who’sPeggySymonds? Isn’t this the file of Margaret… oh wait… of course,’ he said, slapping his forehead with his palm. He looked up to explain to Rebekah what he’d just realised and saw that she’d gone such a pale shade that she was almost grey.

‘What is it?’ he asked, putting down the folder and cupping her cheek. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Peggy Symonds. Aunty Pig,’ she said and laughed. ‘This is unbelievable, Paul. Peggy Symonds was the name of my neighbour in Brisbane, the one who taught me all about Poole, and the harbour and Brownsea Island. Peggy grew up here. But why is this letter in this person Margaret’s folder? What did Margaret have to do with Peggy? Was Margaret a sister to Peggy, do you think?’

‘No, I don’t think that at all. I think that MargaretisPeggy. It’s a strange thing with old names, and particularly from that era. People were named something quite formal-sounding, like Margaret, for instance, but were always known as a more relaxed nickname. Peggy is a common short name for Margaret. Itprobably started with Maggie, Meggie, then Meg which easily becomes Peg, Peggy,’ he said and then realised she was not listening to a word he said.

‘Peggy – my old, kind, spinster aunty Peggy – worked on the flying boats in this harbour, and signed the Official Secrets Act? She was involved in top-secret activities during the war? That can’t be right. She was just a simple woman, who loved to bake, and care for other people’s children, and feed the birds,’ she said, incredulity in every word.

‘People can have all kinds of dark histories. You’d never imagine some of the stories I’ve uncovered.’ He paused before going on, his thumb tucked under the seal of the letter.

‘Wait a minute,’ she said, sorting through the file for the photo of Margaret again. She studied it carefully. ‘Yes, I can see it now – this is Peggy! My Aunty Peggy, when she was young andverybeautiful. Wow. And so, who on earth was this Flight Lieutenant Darrell Taylor?’ asked Rebekah.

‘Shall we find out?’ he asked, ready to rip open the letter, the secrets within having been sealed for over fifty years.

18

POOLE – MARCH 1941

When Charlie woke the next morning, the smells and sounds that attacked his senses took him immediately back to the Blitz. Even inside his small bedroom, with the window firmly shut against the cold March night air, he could smell smoke that must have come in through the chimney to the little fireplace that had been, and was still, unlit.

The all-clear siren had been sounded some hours earlier, but now there were whistles, and the clanging of the fire-truck bell, and men shouting from all directions. And yet, Charlie thought with an emotionless snort of dry humour, here he still lay: alive, surviving, alone.

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