During my three and half years at Portkil, our group's complement remained steady - around eight or nine Wrens, although there were always some transfers and other changes to be expected in a military operation. But there always had to be a cook, a vital part of the outfit.
The first cook I met when I was posted to the out-of-the-way Wren station was a dour, pragmatic Scottish woman in her mid to late thirties. I never called her by her given name, Agnes. She insisted on the naval tradition of using surnames. So, MacDuff is what I called her until her transfer.
At the beginning of our acquaintance, I was rather in awe of this stern female. Then, I found out that she was a wonderful seamstress and would willingly sew on buttons or hem skirts for any of us.
In fact, she taught me how to iron. I know that sounds rather preposterous but I had never learned to iron my own clothes. At home until the war, my mother employed a laundress who came to the house on Mondays to wash the clothes in a huge boiler in the cellar, using a hand-turned wringer to squeeze out the water. On Tuesdays, this same woman would reappear to do the ironing.
We Wrens always hand-washed our 'smalls', underwear, that is. But the naval launch would pick up our dirty laundry - mostly white and blue shirts - when it delivered the week's rations, bringing them back the following week.
There were times, however, when you needed a clean shirt for a dance or date. MacDuff taught me how to iron a shirt the correct way, a skill of which I am still proud.
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