The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Izzie checked her cable for a final time and then stood back from the barrage balloon.

“All right?” asked Alexandra from her station a few feet away.

“I think so,” she said, staring at the balloon. Mere days ago, she wouldn’t have been certain, but now…

“Start up winch!” came the call from Molly, a young Londoner who couldn’t have been more than twenty but who was now in charge, sitting inside the cab of the huge mechanical winch that controlled their balloon from the back of their lorry.

Izzie, Alexandra, and a third woman from their new unit named Grace snapped into action. Grace and Alexandra grabbed the lines tethering the huge balloon to the ground so Izzie could slip the metal hook off the net that spanned the width of the balloon. Their team of three raced to the other two sets of lines on their side of the balloon while, opposite them, Amelia, Nancy, and Lottie, who made up the rest of their unit, did the same. With the last hook released, Izzie could feel the balloon’s steel anchoring wires begin to tighten as it rose skyward.

Izzie, Alexandra, and Grace ducked and scurried off to a safe distance, and Amelia, Nancy, and Lottie came into sight as they rounded the balloon too.

“Engine ready!” shouted Molly.

The engines kicked into gear and began to churn, letting the balloon float out.

After a moment, Molly called, “Balloon flying thirty feet!”

“Stop winch!” shouted Corporal Tennyson, their instructor.

“Stop winch!” Molly repeated.

The balloon hovered in the air, safely anchored on all sides, and she and the other women of her unit all tracked the movement of the balloon in the wind.

Izzie felt triumph fizz up in her. They were supposed to wait for their assessment from Corporal Tennyson, but she knew they’d done a good job. After weeks of lectures on engineering, mechanics, safety, and meteorology not to mention practical classes on ropes, knots, and splicing, it was rewarding to finally have an ascent that had gone without incident.

She’d been shocked when she’d received her orders that she was to join a barrage balloon unit at RAF Titchfield for a ten-week training course. However, there was no arguing with a direct order. Not in the WAAF.

With her kit bag in her hand and Alexandra by her side, she’d boarded an open-backed vehicle driven by a fellow WAAF who had ferried them from Innsworth to the Hampshire base that was to be their temporary home during their additional training. As soon as they’d arrived, they’d been assigned to a modest hut with the rest of the girls in their unit, and then training had begun in earnest.

Izzie had seen barrage balloons dotting strategic places across the London skyline to try to deter Luftwaffe efforts to dive-bomb the city. However, she hadn’t really thought about what went into making one of them fly. The work was physical, done at all hours and in all weather except high wind, and she swiftly learned that the balloons themselves weren’t necessarily a deterrent the way anti-aircraft guns were. Instead, their job was to haul up and down the unmanned balloons to try to make it harder for German bombers to hit their targets accurately. A well-flying balloon could mean the difference between a direct hit and minimal damage.

“Tension four hundred weight. No slack on drum!” Molly called.

“Start winch!” shouted Corporal Tennyson.

“Start winch!” replied Molly. “Haul in winch!”

The winch groaned as it pulled in the balloon’s steel cable.

“All right, ladies. Take her to bed!” shouted Corporal Tennyson.

The girls on the ground lined up to catch the winch cable and wrestle it steady until Grace could secure it to the tether at the back of their balloon vehicle. Then Molly climbed into the lorry’s driver’s seat while the rest of them ran around to the back and caught up the tail rope.

Slowly, Molly steered them into the base’s balloon hangar while the rest of them followed, keeping the balloon from swinging around. As soon as they were in their designated place, they anchored the balloon and began the breakdown process.

When, finally, the balloon was deflated and everything in its place, Corporal Tennyson clapped his hands in front of him.

“Excellent work, ladies. A much smoother ascent and descent than yesterday, and your time has decreased as well. You’ve all earned your cup of tea in the mess today,” he said.

The little group cheered.

Corporal Tennyson allowed them the tiniest of smiles before dismissing them.

As soon as they were released, the merry chatter and laughter that Izzie had come to associate with their unit started up. The seven of them moved in a pack, spilling out of the hangar and onto the tarmac of the airbase. Since arriving, they’d been encouraged to bond as a unit, living together, working together, eating together, and Izzie, much to her surprise, had come to like the other girls. She even managed to get on with Nancy, who probably had the warmest of hearts once you peeled back all of her nettles. However, she would forever be thankful to whichever officer had assigned Alexandra and her to the same unit. In a new group of seven, it felt good to have one friend she’d known from before.

Amelia, as always, forged a path for them at the head of the group, while Alexandra fell into step with Izzie as they walked back together.

“We’re getting better,” said Alexandra.

“That we are,” she agreed, rolling her shoulder.

“Is something the matter?” asked Alexandra with concern.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “I nearly slipped when I was doing my first checks and I had to brace myself on the rope. I feel as though I’ve nearly wrenched my shoulder out of its socket.”

“Nothing a rest and a good cup of tea can’t fix,” said Alexandra.

“It’s funny to think that not long ago the worst injury I could do to myself was run the sewing machine over my finger or cut myself with a pair of shears.”

“Run a sewing machine over your finger? Please don’t tell me you’ve actually done that,” said Alexandra, looking a little green at the thought.

Izzie laughed. “When I was thirteen. The needle went clear through the pad of my index finger. It was my own fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That sounds horrible,” said Alexandra.

She shrugged. “Mum bandaged me up and told me that it was a rite of passage for every seamstress and that I’d never do it again if I had any sense.”

“And did you?” asked Alexandra.

“I always make sure I know where my fingers are these days.”

Ahead of them, Lottie gave a cheery wave to one of the members of the RAF ground crew working on a plane near the entrance to one of the hangars, earning Lottie a gentle smack on the arm from Nancy.

“He didn’t even bother to show up for your date at the NAAFI last week,” Izzie heard Nancy say.

“That was all a misunderstanding. He said that he was made to scrub his barracks floor because he’d failed inspections that morning,” said Lottie.

Nancy spun around, walking backward as she appealed to Izzie and Alexandra. “Can you talk some sense into her?”

Izzie laughed. “We all tried that last week, remember?”

They’d all gathered around a sobbing Lottie who, after being stood up at the NAAFI, had announced to their entire hut that she was never dating another RAF man again. Ever.

“Oh, I was just being silly,” said Lottie.

“I don’t understand why you let those fliers jerk you around,” said Nancy.

“Have you seen Sergeant Johnson?” asked Lottie, her eyes going wide. “He’s so handsome.”

“He’s just like all the rest of those Brylcreem boys. He thinks that just because the RAF lets him wear his hair a little longer than the rest of the services, he’s God’s gift to women. He’s not even a pilot, Lottie!” Nancy cried in frustration as they entered the mess.

“Oh, let her have her fun,” said Alexandra. “At least someone is.”

“I have fun,” said Nancy.

“What are we arguing about now?” Grace asked, looking back as they queued up at the tea urns.

“Nancy’s trying to protect Lottie’s heart from Lottie again,” said Izzie.

“And Nancy insists that she’s capable of having fun, so that must mean she’ll be at the dance this evening to prove it,” said Molly with a grin.

Nancy groaned when the other women gave another cheer.

“Fine. I’ll stay for an hour,” Nancy said.

“And dance at least a half dozen times?” Molly teased.

“Once,” said Nancy.

“Four times,” said Lottie, egging Molly on.

“I’ll dance as many as Izzie does,” said Nancy.

“Why me?” she asked.

“Because you’re the only sensible one around here,” said Nancy.

“Sensible?” She wasn’t entirely certain she liked the idea of that being her reputation. It sounded… well, it sounded boring.

“We’re all going,” said Alexandra, putting a hand on Izzie’s arm. “Isn’t that what we agreed on? ‘One for all and all for one’?”

Amelia scrunched up her nose. “I thought that was The Three Musketeers .”

“Do you want Nancy to go or not?” asked Alexandra as they settled down to a table with their cups of tea.

“?‘One for all and all for one’!” Amelia, Grace, Lottie, and Molly cried in unison.

“I cannot wait to take these boots off,” said Alexandra, stretching her long legs out under the table.

“Corporal Tennyson almost looked proud of us today,” Amelia said.

“Where do you think they’ll send us when we’re done?” asked Grace.

“We still have a lot to learn,” said Nancy, ever practical. But then she added, “I think we’ll become part of the Number Twelve Balloon Squadron. We’re already here for training, why wouldn’t they roll us into one of the Titchfield units?”

“I hope we end up stationed in London,” said Molly. “Then I could see my mum whenever I have an afternoon’s leave.”

Izzie couldn’t have agreed with Molly more. If she was stationed in London—or really anywhere along the Thames estuary—she stood a decent chance at being able to make it back to the shop from time to time. Even staying at RAF Titchfield as Nancy suggested would be fine. It wasn’t exactly close, but she’d still be able to brave the trains and make her way back to base on twenty-four or forty-eight hours’ leave.

“Well, I for one hope that we’re far, far away from London,” announced Alexandra. “It seems a shame not to go somewhere completely different.”

“I heard they’re thinking about sending balloon units to Egypt,” said Grace.

“So far away?” Izzie immediately balked at that idea.

“WAAF balloon units in Egypt?” asked Nancy. “Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“Why not?” asked Amelia.

If they were sent to Egypt, how would she even begin to help Sylvia manage the shop and—

“I’d go,” said Grace.

“Well, it isn’t as though we have much of a choice,” said Nancy.

No, it wasn’t.

“My question is whether the Americans will need balloon girls now that they’ve started arriving,” said Amelia.

“I would have thought they’d have their own balloon units,” said Nancy.

“I’ve never met an American before,” mused Grace. “I wonder what they’re like.”

“Rather like us, I should think,” said Nancy.

“Except with funny accents,” said Molly with a laugh.

“Right,” said Lottie, setting down her empty cup and pushing back from the table. “As fascinating as this conversation is, I’m going to see what I can do about my hair before the dance tonight. Is anyone coming with me?”

“I’ll go with you if you’ll help me put my hair up,” said Amelia.

“Me too,” said Grace.

“Oh, come on. We might as well all go,” said Nancy.

“I still have a bit of tea left,” said Izzie lifting her cup.

“I’ll stay with you,” said Alexandra.

She shook her head. “No, don’t worry about me. I’m just going to finish here and then stop in to see if I have any post.”

“Are you certain?” asked Amelia.

“Positive,” she said.

“Could you see if any letters have come in for me?” asked Grace.

“And me,” said Lottie.

“If you don’t mind, Izzie,” said Molly.

“Why don’t I play postwoman for everyone?” she asked with a smile.

She watched her fellow WAAFs shuffle off, the stream of conversation continuing until she could no longer hear them. Their chatter reminded her of the good days of the shop, when Mum had employed Miss Reid and at least two other seamstresses, with other women coming in to help when times were particularly busy. After feeling rather alone at Innsworth, it had taken coming to RAF Titchfield and being embraced by her unit to make her realize that she’d missed the chatter of women punctuated by whirring sewing machines and the sharp snip of scissors cutting out fabric that she’d grown up with.

However, despite that, she cherished her snatched moments of solitude as well, and living with six other women in a hut didn’t give her many of those.

When she was certain that the other girls were gone, she stood, cleared her cup and saucer, and made for the base’s post office. Unlike at Innsworth, this was a proper post office with two WAAFs sitting behind the counter and no doubt more sorting the post in the back. She had to wait for a few moments behind a couple of men before she could step up to the counter.

“Post for Shelton, Sumner, Reece, Dixon, Harlow, March, and Calpert,” she said.

“You want seven people’s post?” asked the WAAF.

“They’re the other girls in my unit,” she explained.

The WAAF gave her a weary look and handed her a scrap of paper and a pencil. “Could you write those down?”

Izzie dutifully scribbled the names down and then handed over the piece of paper. After a few minutes, the WAAF returned with a bundle of envelopes.

“Thank you,” she said.

She walked away, sorting through the letters until she came to one with her service number and name on it. She paused in the doorway of the post office, her eyes fixed on her sister’s familiar handwriting. After nearly two months of exchanging letters, it still felt strange every single time Sylvia wrote to her, even more so that the letters were filled with news from the shop. Who had come in. Which customer had brought her own fabric to have made up, and who was looking ahead to the next batch of clothing coupons, which would be issued in June, with obvious anticipation.

But it wasn’t just news that came between the crisp sheets of Sylvia’s writing paper. There were worries too. The Board of Trade’s changes were one thing, but Izzie was even more concerned about the bank accounts, the paperwork, the uncollected debts. She would never admit this to Sylvia, but she couldn’t understand how Mum had allowed things to become so lax.

Heat flushed her cheeks as she remembered her swift anger over Sylvia’s letter about forcing Miss Keynes’s hand and making her pay for all of the beautiful things Mum had made for the woman. There was no denying that Sylvia had managed to collect all of the balances owed to them on more accounts than Izzie wished to admit. However, it still felt all wrong. Mum had been so adamant that they not do anything to drive away potential future business—a fact that Sylvia must have remembered from when they were children—and Sylvia had simply walked in and done away with all of that.

Sylvia was meant to be minding the shop, not changing every single thing about it.

A cough and an “Excuse me, Miss” prompted her to look up and realize that she was blocking the way for a senior officer. She saluted him and scrambled to step out of his way while apologizing.

Outside of the post office in the rapidly falling dark, she decided that she didn’t want to open her sister’s letter that evening for fear that it would only make her angry once again. Instead, she would get ready for the dance, enjoy an evening with her friends, and read it first thing in the morning.