A Grave Death

by Wendy Cartmell

  ‘Oh, alright then,’ Paul’s shoulders drooped.

  ‘And she’ll keep you up to date with the investigation.’

  ‘I said alright!’

  ‘Of course. Thank you.’ Derek decided it was best they leave for now and motioned to Crane. ‘I’ll be along later. Or I’ll ring if I can’t get away.’

  Paul nodded, but didn’t rise from his seat. Derek put an understanding hand on his friend’s shoulder and then followed Crane out of the house.

  Once outside, Crane said, ‘I thought you wanted a copy of Kevin’s will?’

  ‘I do. I just didn’t think it was the right time to ask.’

  ‘No, I think that was wise. Paul Dean was trying very hard to be reasonable but not always achieving it. It seems to me I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of his temper.’

  Derek silently agreed but wasn’t about to voice his opinion. He wanted Crane onside not working against him. All he said was, ‘I can get copies from the family solicitor if necessary. Come on, let’s see how the Major is getting on.’

  9

  Anne

  February 1942

  Dear Ada,

  You’ll never believe it! Those buildings I was telling you about have turned out to be an American Army base! One night I awoke to the sound of vehicles thundering through the street. It felt like an earthquake! Although I don’t have any experience of one of those, of course. But the ground seemed to shake and the trinkets on my chest of drawers jingled and jiggled, so I knew something big was happening. There were no explosions, so it couldn’t have been bombs. Excitement grabbed me. At last, I thought, something different in my hum drum life. And boy was I right.

  Anyway, back to my story. Throwing on my dressing gown I rattled down the stairs, desperate to see what on earth was happening. I threw open the front door of our tiny, two-up and two-down house, to the sight of hundreds of soldiers driving through the town, hanging out of lorries, jeeps and tanks, shouting, whistling and throwing cigarettes and chocolate to the people lining the street as they went past. I shouted and waved with the others who’d been drawn out of their houses to view the spectacle and managed to grab a couple of packs of cigarettes and a bar of chocolate, quickly stuffing them into the pockets of my dressing gown before my landlady could see them. A bit selfish of me I’m sure, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a bar of chocolate, never mind eaten one and the thought of American tailor-made cigarettes made me swoon.

  Anyway, I must have looked a right sight, with my winceyette nightie hanging below my candlewick dressing gown, topped off with rollers in my hair, covered by a hairnet. But I wasn’t the only one. A couple of the older women had shiny faces where their cold cream had sunk into their skin, most had rollers in, just like me. I swear every woman in the street, no matter what their age, was smiling and blushing at the sight of so many rampant males.

  A couple of days later, posters started appearing in the streets advertising a ‘Welcome to England’ dance at the new base. Of course, I was determined to go. Wild horses wouldn’t have stopped me! Buses were laid on to take us factory girls to the base. I thought the Yanks (as everyone calls them now) might make our little dances at the town hall look rather dowdy and how right I was. The hall was decorated with flags and bunting. Tables groaned with lots of food and drink, the like of which I haven’t seen for two years. But do you know what the best thing was? The music. Oh, Ada, you’ve never heard anything like it. It’s called R&B, Blues or Jazz or some such and is nothing like what you hear on the BBC radio. It’s new, fresh and what people describe as, ‘edgy’. Trust me, you’ll love it. And the dancing! The Jitterbug they call it, or Lindy Hop. It’s fast and above all such great fun. The whole thing really has brightened our drab existence. It’s all we talk about in the factory now. One of the amazing things (one of many!) was that the men danced as energetically as the woman, in some cases more so. Spinning, jiving, pulling girls between their legs, tipping them over their shoulder – it’s mad! Us English girls are more used to the Waltz or at the most a Quick Step.

  I suppose the only downside is some of the soldiers themselves. They’re pretty brash, full of themselves, and I get the feeling that most of them look down their noses at us. As though we’re some sort of numpties who live in a backward country. They’re always boasting about how great America is and it gets up your nose a bit, you know? But not everyone feels the same way as I do. It’s true they are very generous and that is definitely turning heads here. Some of the girls have gone quite mad. They’ve never had such a good time. They’ve never been with fellows who had so much money. I know I haven’t either, but somehow the soldiers don’t seem very genuine, you know? It’s difficult to explain, but it’s as though they are determined to take advantage of everything life has to offer. And that includes us factory girls. They don’t seem to be interested in us, in our stories, only wanting to tell us about theirs. Even if they begin to listen, they soon take over the conversation again with yet more facts and stories about themselves.

  Because many of the US servicemen have never been abroad before, the War Department has sent with them a pamphlet called Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain. Some of the lads had copies with them and I grabbed one to read. The pamphlet is designed to familiarise them with life in Britain, the history, culture, and even the slang. The pamphlet also encourages the men to get along with the British to help defeat Hitler. It is filled with advice like, ‘Don’t be a show off,’ ‘NEVER criticize the King or Queen,’ and ‘The British don’t know how to make a good cup of coffee. You don’t know how to make a good cup of tea. It’s an even swap.’ The pamphlet concludes by telling the servicemen that while in Great Britain, their slogan should be, ‘It is always impolite to criticise your hosts; it is militarily stupid to criticise your allies.’

  I think some of them better read it several times, so it actually sinks in and they follow the suggestions! Anyway, even though they are rather shallow, they’re a lot more interesting than the locals!

  Your dear friend, Anne

  10

  Anne

  February 1942

  Dear Mum

  Well, I’ve been here a while now. The work’s hard, but I’m getting used to it. Mind you, there was no training when we arrived, no real explanation of what we were making and how it actually worked. We were put into what they call small shops, where we make different sizes of bullets and shells and the like. We were just told what to do, which was to fill them with that horrible, smelly stuff, called TNT.

  Mind you, I’ve since found out that there’s a lot involved in making the munitions and that you have to be very accurate. The cylinders are filled to a certain level with TNT and then you have to put a tube in which will hold a detonator. Afterwards the innards are cleaned and scraped until everything is exactly the right height inside the casing.

  It is quite heavy work, not the making of the shells themselves, but collecting the stuff to put inside them. We go to where there is a big cement mixer type of thing and in it is hot TNT, which is mixed by turning a large wheel on the side of the mixer. A man is responsible for turning it and I don’t know how he stands the smell. I’d have a peg over my nose or something, but he doesn’t seem bothered. I guess it’s what you get used to. But to me the smell is something terrible. I go to the mixer with a big pail, the size of a large watering can, I suppose. There is a chap working on the mixer who tilts it and fills your big can, just like pouring concrete into a wheelbarrow. Unfortunately, the cans don’t have wheels and I carry it back to where I am working and then fill the bullets from that.

  I did have a bit of an accident the other day, not surprising being me! I slipped on the floor with one of these big cans in my arms. Well, I managed to tip the can up as I fell backwards, and the hot TNT went all over me. It was on my face, in my eyes, and even up my nose! It was everywhere. Some of the chaps got hold of me and put me onto a trolley and took me to the medical unit where I had to wait for
the hot stuff to set on my face, so they could peel it off like a face mask. I had quite a job getting it off my eyelashes, and then of course my face was red and scalded by the hot TNT. They let me rest on the bed for an hour or so, with a cup of sweet tea for the shock and then it was straight back to work after that. I was a bit shaken up, you know. But the red skin went down after a few days. The landlady very kindly gave me some cream to put on it. I don’t know what it was. She said it was a secret family recipe, but it did the job. It really soothed it, so that was nice. Maybe she’s not so bad after all!

  Anyway, that’s all for now, I’ll write again soon.

  Your loving daughter Anne.

  11

  Anne

  April 1942

  Dear Ada

  Well, things are getting more interesting here. Yet more American soldiers have arrived, but this time they’re black. Yes black! But there does seem to be some segregation between the black and white American soldiers, which isn’t something I can buy into. It causes tension, especially at the dances, or in the pubs in town. The first thing you notice is that the white soldiers will set themselves up on one side of the pub, with the black ones being on the other side. I guess it’s supposed to stop trouble, but to be honest it doesn’t seem to.

  I know I don’t quite understand how these things work, the dynamics of it all if you like, but this segregation between the blacks and whites, as far as I’m concerned, is inhumane.

  It seems strange to me, with the country gripped in a life or death fight for freedom against fascism and dictatorship, that there should be conflict between the American soldiers themselves. Let’s face it we’re all in it together and surely we should be pulling in the same direction, not tearing each other apart. Segregation and bullying doesn’t sit well with me, nor with the majority of the people in this Lancashire town.

  The other night dozens of locals fought alongside black soldiers against the white Military Police officers, who were harassing them outside a pub. You could say that ordinary citizens actively supported the black American troops stationed amongst us, in stark contrast to the vicious racist abuse they received from their fellow countrymen. I truly believe that the way the American whites treat the blacks is just downright disgusting.

  The story goes that two white military policemen were sent to arrest several black soldiers who were absent from the base without passes. When the MPs tried to arrest the men, the British civilians in the pub stood up for the black soldiers and the MPs left. But then when the black soldiers left the pub to return to their barracks, a group of white MPs ambushed them, and a fight broke out with stones and bottles being thrown. Shots were fired, and a black soldier was hit in the neck. That’s when the word went out that the MPs were gunning for black soldiers. Throughout the night, white Britons attacked American military police and the fighting only ended when the American MPs showed up with an armoured car, complete with machine gun! We’ve never seen the like and it’s still the talk of the town a week later!

  I expect you want to know why I’m such a staunch supporter of the black soldiers. Well it’s because I’ve become quite friendly with one of them. Well, really friendly to be honest. Memphis is unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. He’s kind and gentle, respectful and generous and talks in a honey coated southern American accent which makes me melt! I’d love you to meet him, but I know that’s not going to be possible. He can’t get any leave and is only able to slip into town infrequently in the evenings. Lots of the girls are stepping out with the American service men, but not so many with a black one. I’ve been subjected to a bit of cat calling and had abuse shouted at me, but it’s a small price to pay for being lucky enough to be on Memphis’ arm!

  I can hear you groan, Ada. I know, I know, I’ve always been one to challenge archaic rules and old-fashioned perceptions. I’ve not had much opportunity to do anything about them before, only talk until I’m blue in the face. But now I do. No one is going to make me stop seeing Memphis. Mind you, we look a right pair. Me with my yellow skin from the TNT and his the colour of ebony. Still, they say love is blind!

  And on that note, that’s all for now as I need to get ready for work. I promise to write soon. Don’t forget to reply and let me have all your news.

  Take care of yourself out there,

  Love Anne.

  12

  Anne

  April 1942

  Dear Mum

  This shift work is exhausting. For some of us it means a 12-hour working day for those who need to travel to work two hours each way by foot, bus and train. When you think of it, I suppose thousands of single women have been sent off to work in armament factories, some in far-flung locations, to live in purpose-built hostels for munitions workers or in local billets.

  In some way I am better in a billet, but in another I think I’d quite like to have been with a group of girls. We do have a laugh, well let’s face it you have to, otherwise I think we’d all go mad! The responsibility of it all! Sometimes we feel the weight of the war upon our shoulders. I mean, no bullets and bombs for the lads to use, would mean we’d soon lose the war and England would become a little part of the German empire. It doesn’t bear thinking about. So we toil away, doing the best we can.

  I must say that leaving home was a shock, finding myself living in a strange house in a different part of the country. I miss my family all the time. At times I hate the noisy factory and the night shifts. It is so very tiring. In my break I sometimes go into the toilets and fall asleep for 15 minutes or so, no pillow or anything. That's how exhausted I am!

  I really miss your home cooking. The food the landlady serves up isn’t a patch on yours. But I know it isn’t really her fault - there is a war on. She just has to make do with what there is, as I do. But I’m losing a lot of weight.

  I just had to tell you this. Once on night shift I yawned without thinking and a piece of copper spat on to my tongue. I went to see the nurse, who sent me away with a flea in my ear. 'Drink milk,' was all she said and sent me back to the factory floor. Everyone around me thought it was funny. 'That'll teach you to open your big mouth,' they joked. Cheeky buggers!

  But it wasn’t quite a laughing matter when I saw for myself the severe consequences of ignoring the safety rules.

  This girl who worked near me would never tuck her hair under her hat as she was told to. One day I saw her bend over to look at something and the machine she was working on caught her hair. She screamed the place down, and there was blood everywhere. Someone managed to stop the machine but not before the drill had yanked her hair out by the roots. It had literally scalped her, so it’s never going to grow again.

  The ambulance came and took her away. She was sobbing and holding a big bit of gauze to the side of her head. We all wished her well and offered to take her out for a drink that night, but we never saw her again. She just disappeared. I guess she went back home.

  All of us that work in the factory are fast coming to the conclusion that we’re very much like a hidden army. Unlike others in the Forces or the Home Front we are not distinguished by a uniform, so covert is the nature of wartime munitions work. Other than you and dad we’re not allowed to tell anyone where we work. Yet the danger we face each day in the factories and even on our way to work during night time bombing raids in the blackout, is huge.

  In a vast munitions factory complex safety rules and regulations dominate everything. Every person working on the factory floor risks their health and their life working with highly toxic chemicals. One tiny mistake or slip-up at work, could blow everyone to smithereens and wreck Britain's war effort. Each day carries the risk of sudden, accidental explosions, causing disfigurement, blindness, loss of limbs or worse.

  We handle chemicals that turn our skin yellow, discolouring our hair or causing rashes, breathing problems and asthma. Some go home with acid burns. An unlucky few go off to work in the morning but don’t come back at all.

  When you sign up they really didn't tell you too muc
h. They told us we'd be earning £2 a week which is a lot more than I've ever earned.

  When you arrive at work you go into a special area to change into white jacket and trousers, a white turban and rubber boots or Wellingtons, summer or winter. You can’t leave the plant in your wellies and there are lots of things you are forbidden to take into the building. No metal anywhere, no safety pins, hairpins, no matches, no cigarettes, as the tiniest spark puts everyone at risk from explosion.

  I’m seriously not sure how much more I can take. How I can carry on. Please God let the war end soon.

  Hope you are well and staying safe.

  Love Anne

  13

  ‘Where to?’ Crane asked as he clicked his seatbelt closed.

  ‘I just said. Go back to the graveside.’

  ‘Why?’ Crane started the car and pulled slowly away from Paul Dean’s house on the gravel drive, not wanting to spray his car with stones and chip the paintwork.

  ‘Because I want to see Jill in situ. Not just from photographs.’

  ‘Why?’ Crane looked both ways for traffic before turning onto the road.

  ‘Because it may tell us something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fucked if I know, just leave me be.’

  ‘Are you sure you should be doing this, Derek?’

  ‘Oh what? So you’re pulling the ‘you’re too close to the investigation’ crap are you? I’m on this case and staying on it.’ Derek folded his arms over his chest, his tweed jacket getting creased in the process.