The Amazing Story of Jane Doe

The Woman Who Never Was

CHAPTER TWO

BARBARA'S WAR
1939 – 1945

“It is with regret that I have to tell you that England is now at war with Germany”. Neville Chamberlain's solemn voice crackled across the airwaves, sending out the chilling news to every British household in possession of a wireless receiver. Those without broadcasting equipment made their way to friends' or neighbours' houses so that they could hear the latest on the grave and growing conflict with Germany. Rumours had been rife for days. When the news finally came through, some were shocked, some had expected it, many just could not believe it, but all had hoped and prayed that day would never come. Women wept in secret, fearful of the future as their menfolk prepared themselves for what turned out to be a bloody and gruesome conflict that lasted for six years.

A very different kind of war was about to be waged in my personal life as a young and vital Barbara Hall, but mine was to continue inexorably throughout my lifetime. Aged just sixteen years and four months when World War II began, two memorable events were to take place in my life before the fighting ceased. Young and innocent, I was blissfully unaware of the devastating turmoil which lay ahead and which would eventually destroy my peace of mind and test my sanity to the limit.

Nearly four weeks on from the declaration of war, in common with the rest of the population, I was issued with a National Identity Card. However, it appeared from the outset to be a fabrication, as the numbers on it seemed to have no connection with me at all. The ID cards were supposed to correspond with details such as the area you came from, your place of birth and the number of siblings you had. The number given to me, RMCU74/4, apparently made no sense whatsoever. Not that I was aware of anything being wrong at the time; it was discovered many years later that this had been just one among countless similar instances, of being issued with identifying documents which were false and therefore meaningless. They were also worthless and proved nothing.

There was also considerable conflict relating to my home and family life at this time. From the age of nearly five, when I had been taken from a loving home by gypsies purporting to be my parents, I had suffered mental, physical and sexual abuse at the hands of both so-called parents and my half-sister, Lily. Now in my mid-teens, I was only too glad of the opportunity to go out and earn a living. For the first time in my life, I was to have a taste of freedom. In common with all wage-earners of the day, I was of course restricted by rules and disciplines of working practice, but at least I was out during the day, enjoying some respite from the oppressive atmosphere at home.

I was employed at Nottingham Castle, packing airforce uniforms. It is very telling that for the duration of my time there, I was never allowed to open my own wage packet. It had to be delivered up to Violet (my so-called mother), who would open it, take out my hard-earned cash and keep it all, just occasionally handing back two shillings for stockings, or whatever, if she happened to feel in a generous mood.

At seventeen, I volunteered for the Land Army and was sent to work at Somer Leyton in Suffolk. At first, I found it very difficult to settle down there. I was a rather timid and reserved teenager, and didn't socialise very much to begin with and I was also very nervous of the cows - well, frightened to death of them, to be honest! However, after a week or so, I did relax a little more and began to enjoy the life but, true to form, my ‘family’ soon managed to sour things for me. I had not been there long when a telegram came from my father requesting, “COME HOME AT ONCE STOP VIOLET ILL STOP”. This was a typical example of the family disrupting my life. It was always happening and really got me down at times. I very much doubted whether there was any truth in the telegram but felt unable to ignore it, so I packed my kit bag and walked to the station. I had no money as I had not yet been paid, so I had to explain matters to the Station Master, showing him the telegram from home. He took pity on me, saying that he thought I looked very troubled, and he issued me with a warrant to travel. He told me it was wrong that so pretty a young girl should wear such a sad look. “Cheer up, do,” he called out as I boarded the train. “It may never happen!” I was never contacted again by the Land Army - for one thing I had not been recorded as ever being there. Barbara Hall was not on record. Barbara Hall has never been on record!

Of course, when I arrived home and, as I had suspected all along, Violet was not ill. She was her normal selfish, greedy self. The Ministry of Defence at Nottingham Castle where I had worked packing uniforms had written, explaining that I had some tax to be refunded amounting to about £20 and, as the Inland Revenue required my signature – a tax rebate was, after all, an official document - only I could claim it. So, frustrated that she could not get her own hands on it first, Violet sent me up there to collect it and then immediately took it from me, leaving me with half a crown in the world to my name and no job. This was a mere fraction of the emotional and mental pain I had endured for twelve years at the hands of this tyrannical family I had been forced to become a part of as a little girl. These deeply wounding episodes have collectively heaped severe detrimental effects on my mental and physical health and are documented in the chapters of this book.

Shortly after leaving the Land Army, I went to work at Luxfers bomb-filling factory. I had a good job driving the dillies carrying the loaded bombs and had to be issued with a pass as only restricted personnel were allowed in to that area. I remember a cheerful young man of similar age to myself called John, with whom I worked. He rode at the back of the dilly and as we drove around with our hazardous cargo, we would be singing together the popular wartime songs. I was still only about eighteen and found myself in a position which demanded responsibility and reliability and I felt quite a sense of pride. I began to gain more self-confidence and extended my interests as I realised that the big world outside of the prison of my home had much to offer. Having tasted freedom, I found it to my liking and, naturally, desired much more of it.

When I was about nineteen, I met a Canadian Petty Officer called Frank Gibbons, and we began to go out together. On one occasion we went to a dance hall in Sheffield and, as it was very late when we came out - past midnight, Frank suggested that we stay overnight in a hotel. I agreed after a bit of discussion, but in any case there didn't seem to be much choice at that time of night – it was no good even thinking about trying to get home and if I had, I would have found myself firmly locked and bolted out. We spent the night in a double bed and I kept most of my clothes on all night.

“Do you always sleep in your clothes, Barbara?” Frank asked me. I couldn't begin to explain. After the sexual abuse I had suffered earlier at the hands of Robert Hall, my so-called father, I was just too frightened to do otherwise. Frank said he wanted to marry me and take me back to Canada when the war was over and even gave me a lovely ring which had once belonged to his mother. The ring was most unusual - I had never seen one like it and haven't done so since. Set in gold, the stone was like an emblem and changed colour. I was fascinated by it and wore it all the time. Then one day I took the ring off at home to wash my hands and never saw it again. I knew that Robert had taken it to finance his gambling habit, but I also knew that it was pointless to accuse him, or indeed anyone else in the house, of taking it.

Early in 1945, I met George Worrall, the man who was to become my first husband. He was in the navy. I used to go to a pub near Victoria Station, called the Foresters Arms, with my work colleagues. George had three sisters, Renee, Ivy and Joyce. This particular evening, they all happened to be in the pub with George and I was there having a drink with my mates before going to work on the night shift at Luxfers. One of the sisters, Renee, invited me over to join them. My mates did without me that night, and I spent a happy, sociable evening with the Worralls. They persuaded me to take the night off work - I was late home that night and had to sleep in the toilet as I had been locked out.

After that first meeting, George and I began to see each other regularly and in a matter of weeks, he had asked me to marry him. I realised later that he was on the rebound following a broken romance, but at the time I was unaware of it and accepted him immediately, overjoyed at the prospect of not only having someone in my life to love me at last, but also of finally being free from the wretched prison-like existence which was all I had known since my childhood days. Little did I realise then that my forthcoming marriage was to be a catalyst for the life sentence I would have to serve.

The first sign of trouble was apparent when I went to publish the Banns. George had just returned from South Africa and his ship was docked at Bristol, but as he was unable to get immediate leave, he asked me if I could take care of the arrangements from Nottingham. I foresaw no problems at all and made my way to the Registry Office in Shakespeare Street and proceeded to give the Registrar our names - Barbara Hall and George Worrall. I was then asked for my birth certificate.

“What do you want my birth certificate for?” I enquired, quite innocently. “I am nearly twenty-two years old. In any case, I haven't got a birth certificate”.

I remember the Registrar looking me up and down two or three times, making me feel very uncomfortable. I was very petite and, I suppose, did look younger than my years.

“You don't look twenty-two. You look very young to me. I must verify your age as well as your identity. I can't proceed until you bring your birth certificate.” He clattered shut the heavy book that he had begun to write in, then leaned across the desk and in almost a whisper, added “You had better bring a parent with you.”

This made me feel perplexed and anxious. It was all going wrong again. When was anything ever going to work out in my favour? I blinked back the hot, stabbing tears.

“But I don't need my parents' consent. I am over twenty-one!” The registrar was unmoved and insisted that until I returned with my birth certificate and a parent, he could not proceed further with the matter.

When I reached home, Robert and Violet were sitting at the table and ignored my presence, as usual. I was used to being invisible to them most of the time, but when I blurted out, “I am going to get married and I need my birth certificate!”, Violet's head jerked round so violently that it was a wonder she didn't sustain a serious neck injury. As for Robert, he shot up from his seat at the table like a startled hare, scraping the chair across the linoleum and upsetting a jug of milk all over the table.

“What did you say - married? Who would want to marry you?” Violet curled her lip and spat the words at me venomously. She then turned her attention to Robert, who had now recovered his composure and stood leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, defensively.

“Now what are we going to do?” she screeched at him in her rough, rasping voice. “I knew we'd get caught out one day, I knew we would!” Almost hysterical, Violet was violently thumping the table with both fists, making the teacups and saucers rattle and shake on the milk-sodden lace tablecloth.

Robert moved to face Violet and, bending so that their faces were level, he said in a quiet voice, which belied his anxiety, “Look, there's no need to worry. I'll soon sort this out. I'll go with her and get it settled. It'll be alright - you'll see”.

No more time was wasted and I made a second journey to Shakespeare Street, this time accompanied by Robert, and desperately hoping that he had meant it when he said it would be alright. We walked into the office and the Registrar looked up from a desk in the corner.

“Ah, you are back, and this is your father?”

“I am her father”, put in Robert before I had a chance to answer for myself. The Registrar, a gaunt, skeletal individual, coughed nervously and breathed on his spectacles, polishing them with a snowy white handkerchief, which he replaced in his breast pocket, before giving me his fish-eye stare.

“Now then, Barbara, I want you to go and sit outside for a few minutes while I, er, just have a few words with your father. It won't take long.” He indicated the door with the palm of his hand and I meekly did as he asked and went and sat outside in the corridor. I hadn't really any choice in the matter. I wondered why I was being kept in the dark when, after all, it was me they were discussing, and my business, not Robert and Violet Hall's. What could they be saying about me behind the closed door and behind my back? I sighed deeply. It was all most unsettling. But as long as I was still going to be able to continue with my plans and marry George, I didn't really care - after all, if it was bad, and it probably was, I couldn't hear them. I just wanted to get it all sorted out as quickly as possible.

After about twenty minutes, which to me seemed more like a lifetime, the Registrar came out.

“I am going to let the Banns go ahead”, he said. Then, wagging his bony index finger menacingly at me, “But you must promise never to say anything to anyone, or you will get me and your father six months”. I was rather startled by his thinly veiled threat, but didn't really want to think about it at the time. To my mind, the whole episode had been unnecessary and a complete waste of time. All I wanted to do was to get out of there, go to George in Bristol, marry him and lead a new life.

But there was more trouble ahead.

On 4th May, 1945 I travelled down to Bristol where arrangements were at last in place for us to get married. George was given leave to meet me at Templemead Station. We spent about two hours together, then he booked me into a women's hostel for the night and returned to his ship until the following day - our wedding day.

The lads on board helped George celebrate his last night as a bachelor and helped him into his bunk in the wee small hours. I didn't sleep much that night either. The journey had been tedious and tiring, but I really felt too excited to relax. I was going to be George's wife tomorrow - a married woman. “Mrs. Barbara Worrall”. I kept repeating the name to myself. I would have a new name tomorrow - I would be the same Barbara, of course, but with a different identity and at last I would be able to live a normal life. I could not have guessed then how ironic my frivolous girlish thinking would turn out to be.

George and I attracted quite a few admiring glances as we made our way to the Registry Office the next morning and I felt like the bee's knees. I expect we did stand out rather, and it must have been obvious that we were on our way to tie the knot. I had chosen a green suit, which suited my colouring. George always said he was attracted by my English rose looks. I wore cream accessories and carried a simple posy of spring flowers. George, proverbially tall, dark and handsome looked stylish and smart in his naval uniform. Passers-by smiled at us, touched probably by our undisguised happiness. However, our joy quickly turned sour when we arrived at the registry office and the Registrar refused to marry us.

“I am very sorry”, he explained, “But I cannot marry you. There is nothing recorded for a marriage to take place between Barbara Hall and George Worrall. You have not resided in the district long enough, and Barbara, you have no birth certificate”.

I was so shocked, I gasped when he said this. I simply could not believe that this was happening to me again. George glanced at me rather crossly - I had assured him that everything was arranged. What on earth was going on now? Fighting back bitter tears, I explained to the Registrar that these matters had already been dealt with by the Registrar in Nottingham.

“That was Nottingham”, he snapped. “This is Bristol”. But I was determined that I would not give in. I'd had to overcome so many obstacles to get this far and I was not going to be denied my one chance of happiness. The thought of having to go back home to Robert and Violet and endure their cruel sarcastic comments was intolerable and made me even more determined to stand up for myself - something which had never come easily to me. But I stood my ground and, after some argument, I eventually persuaded the Registrar to telephone to Nottingham. He grumbled about it all being most irregular and not having the time for all this nonsense, but he did agree to speak to the Nottingham Registry Office, if only to get this pair of nuisances off his back and out of his office. After several minutes, he came back in a huff. Stony-faced, he barked, “Alright. Go and get two witnesses off the street and I will perform the ceremony!”

So it was, that three days before VE Day, on 5th May 1945, I began my new life as Barbara Worrall, and for many years it was a good one. I enjoyed being a home-maker and a mother, and took to my new role very easily and naturally, in spite of a miserable childhood spent mostly on the move with a family that was anything but natural. George and I steadily increased our family until there were eight of us. We had six children to care for - five girls and a boy, and I happily accepted and lovingly carried out my responsibilities as a wife and mother.

What could it have been, then, in 1967 that drove me to walk out on them all, never to return? Why, after twenty-two years of marriage and six children did I make the decision to turn my back on my home and the family that I loved?