Page 5 of The Island Girls

Would this be a notice of leave for Samuel? Or something much more sinister? She was desperate to open it but knew she shouldn’t. She picked it up again and turned it over, then opened the door a crack to look up and down the street for her mother. There she was, across the road with Mrs Skinner, laughing away, probably both rejoicing in their good fortune at not being hit overnight. Peggy didn’t want to be there to see her mother’s life destroyed if this was the dreaded news that Samuel was hurt, or worse. But she couldn’t go all day without knowing. She shut the door again and made her choice, peeling open the envelope and scanning it quickly, her heart beating as loud as a drum roll all the while.

Samuel’s ship was coming in and he would be home on leave in a couple of weeks’ time, the telegram read. Peggy dropped the message onto the hall stand and buried her face in her hands, sobbing with relief and joy and gratitude for a few precious moments. She still had a brother. Life would go on today.

She dried her face and picked up the telegram, rushing out the door and running across the road to her mother to bring her the good news.

‘Mum! It’s Samuel!’ she called, careful to plaster a big grin in her face so that Mum would know the news was good. ‘He’s coming home to see us, Mum, in two weeks’ time,’ Peggy said as she held out the telegram for her mother to read.

‘Oh, bless my soul, that is wonderful news! Did you hear that, Mrs Skinner? Our Samuel coming back to see us, safe and sound,’ Mrs Symonds cried gleefully. ‘Oh, Peg love, we shall have to save up some rations so we can give him a feast: a cake, at the very least, don’t you think?’

‘We’ll do what we can, Mum, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to just come home and sit by our fire and sleep in his own bed a while,’ said Peggy. ‘Anyway, I’m off to work now, so I’ll see you tonight.’ She gave her mother a peck on the cheek.

Peggy ducked back into the house, put on her gloves, picked up her gas mask and walked out the front door and towards Poole Quay and the Flying Boat offices, happy from the morning’s surprise and bemused at the way things could change. The telegram might just as easily have brought news that her family was about to start falling apart. And now there was cause for celebration. These were the moments that made up their lives, like morsels that were part of a bigger meal. Each bite was to be savoured for what it was.

The bitter wind howled down Ballard Road as Peggy braced herself against its chill, and she pushed her chin down into the folds of her scarf, creating a haven of warm air inside the cavern there with her breath. But she was grateful that she had a scarf, and gloves, and shoes, and work, and a home to go back to this evening where the fire would be roaring. And her brother was still safe and coming home to visit. This was the way to find joy. To feel the gratitude for every small and wonderful blessing, despite the hell of war.

Her cheeks stung and her eyes watered and the cold was so biting, she suspected there might even be ice on the launch boat this morning. But it was early yet, not even seven in the morning. The air was cold, but the sky was clear, and the sun would soon be bright, so at least she wouldn’t have to deal with rain or sleet today.

As Peggy passed around the back of the lifeboat house and looked to her right, up Stanley Road, she saw the rubble where a house had been hit in the night. She heard the fire bell ringing and saw the truck coming down South Road. Peggy paused for a moment, wondering if she should go and help, but then thought of her incoming C-class this morning. She had a flying boat to meet, passengers to fetch and an important duty of her own to carry out.

Peggy walked briskly on, passing the Poole Pottery buildings, and along the quay to the Harbour Office, which now housed the newly installed BOAC offices. She paused to look out over the harbour on the way, pleased to see the stiff breeze was one-directional at least, and not squally. She would know how to handle her launch just fine this morning.

Peggy’s father, Brian, had been taking his children out to fish and row and handle anything necessary on a boat in Poole Harbour ever since they could stand up and hold a rope between their chubby little fingers. She could row herself to Brownsea and back by the time she was twelve and, between them, the three siblings could handle the fishing boat without their dad before they were old enough to legally drink a pint of beer with him in the Jolly Sailor. So, when the call had gone out for workers to operate the launches for BOAC, with all the young men and many of the harbour’s older boatmen away at war, the daughters of Poole fishermen and lifeboat crew were the pick of the crop. Young women like Peggy had lived and breathed the harbour, knew every sandbar, every channel, and could almost find their way from Poole Quay to Pottery Pier on Brownsea Island with their eyes shut – which was sometimes quite necessary in a dense fog.

‘Good morning, Miss Symonds,’ called the bright voice of the harbour master as she pushed open the door into the warmth put out by the little coal fire.

‘Morning, Mr Hewitt. Chilly one today,’ she replied as she went through to the BOAC room and collected the key to her launch and her orders for the day.

‘You’ve got theClarecoming in from Lisbon this morning, Peggy. Twelve passengers aboard and some cargo to unload,’ said Patricia, the traffic manager, as she greeted Peggy. ‘Nora and Eileen are crewing for you today.’

‘Rightio, Pat, see you later,’ called Peggy brightly as she went back out into the cold, across the quay to the ancient Custom House steps on the quayside, and down into her waiting launch. She was pleased to see no ice on the craft, and started the motor to get it warmed up, checking the fuel supplies, when she heard the familiar distant drone of the flying boat coming in over the harbour to land on the trots in the main channel.

Peggy stood upright and turned towards the sound, shielding her eyes against the morning sun, to watch the beautiful sight of the big-bellied flying boat coming in to land. The plane dropped down to what looked from this angle like one end of Brownsea Island and, as she hit the harbour waters, sea spray splashed past the windows, soaking the hull of the vessel up to the wings. Peggy had not yet had the chance to fly in one of these beauties – her job was simply to meet them and help them moor up, take the passengers and crew to and from either the quay or Salterns Marina, and carry any cargo backwards and forwards – but she hankered for the thrill of flying.

‘You’ll get a go one day, for sure, Peggy,’ said Nora as she stepped into the launch and patted Peggy on the shoulder as she passed.

‘Eileen’s going to marry a toff from America and get herself flown over to Hollywood to be in the movies like Maureen O’Hara. Isn’t that right, Eileen?’ and the three girls laughed as they readied the launch to head out to the flying boat as it taxied towards its mooring spot.

Peggy checked that the dock lines were cleared away from the quayside, turned the launch out towards the middle of the harbour and set off at a speed that froze their faces in the chill.

When they reached theClareas she came to the end of the water runway and into her mooring spot, Peggy skilfully manoeuvred the launch in under the wing, close enough for Nora to climb aboard up the rope ladder on the bow, to help the stewardess who waited on board with the mooring line, while Eileen secured the launch to the flying boat at the stern. The stewardess opened the main passenger door and greeted the seawomen with a hearty ‘Good morning, ladies!’ before turning back to help her passengers out.

Eileen slipped on board to start collecting luggage and crates of cargo while Peggy helped all the passengers aboard the launch, and into the covered cabin where they’d be warmer than out on deck. Among the men in smart suits who stepped off the vessel carrying briefcases, which must be full of important documents, there were just two women.

They wore lusciously thick fur coats, had their wavy hair perfectly curled and pinned into place, and their flawless, pale skin was made up with bright-red lipstick and smoky, dark eye makeup. As Peggy held her hand out to help each of them on board, she felt the softness of their delicate leather gloves in her calloused, seawoman’s hands and caught a whiff of what must be an expensive scent – Chanel No.5, Peggy assumed, though she’d only ever read of it in a magazine and never had the chance to smell it. But it smelled like class, and these women reeked of everything Peggy admired that was fabulous and classy and elegant.

She set her shoulders back and turned her head to show the best of her cheekbones in the morning sunlight, conscious that she wanted these women to see her as one of them, and not just some nameless fisherman’s daughter.

Next came the six crew members, each carrying a box or a suitcase, one at a time until everything was unloaded, and the stewardess carried out a case of empty thermos flasks, used to make the serving of hot tea and coffee on demand easier than lighting the galley gas stove on the flying boat every time a passenger fancied a brew.

Peggy caught another scent on the air now, something tropical – oranges and bananas – and there was even a small box of pineapples with their spiky tops and strangely tessellated, prickly skins. She was lost in thought for a moment, wondering exactly which ration coupons would cover such rare and exotic delights, as the captain went through his last few security checks, then with everyone on board, he gave Peggy the nod to head back into the quay.

‘Thank you, Captain, we’re ready when you are,’ he said with a tiny wink that drew Peggy’s warmest smile. She loved the way the pilots treated her with such respect – one captain to another – with no distinction made about class or gender or the size of the vessel in their command. In times not so long ago, it would have seemed impossible that a job as important as ferrying passengers around the harbour to flying boats could have been undertaken by women. This was clearly a man’s role, just like all the other jobs that required the operation of machinery or handling of maritime equipment. But with all the men away at war, and important jobs like this still to be done, the call had gone out to women to do anything they could. This, Peggy felt, was one of the only good things to come of the war. And it was always worth looking for those little highlights to be grateful for.

With practised ease, Peggy turned the launch back towards the quay and brought it in to the Fish Shambles steps, nearest to Poole Pottery. It was unusual for passengers to be brought direct to the quay, as the launches usually took them to Lake Pier in Hamworthy or into Salterns Marina, but the radio call had beenclear: VIP passengers alighting at Poole Quay to be transferred to Poole Railway Station ASAP by BOAC security staff. Waiting for their arrival on the quay stood Major Carter and Rose Stevens from the BOAC security, customs, and immigration control office that was now housed in what had been the Poole Pottery showrooms.

Rose, not nearly so used to the outdoor work that Peggy did, stood cocooned in her long, double-breasted coat, buttoned up to the neck, with her scarf wrapped around her ears. She wore knitted mittens and clapped them together in muffled applause to keep them warm as she stamped her feet on the icy cobblestones. Peggy had known Rose, and her twin sister Daisy, ever since they were schoolgirls together, but among all the women now working in this men’s world there was a shared private agreement that they kept their friendly relationships at bay in front of the men.

Like Peggy, Rose now wore a little cap that bore the ‘Speedbird’ insignia of the British Overseas Airways Corporation. The uniform made them all aware that they were working in a terribly important men’s world now.

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