by Rosie James
Gladys Matthews spread some marmalade onto her toast before replying, then she looked up. She’d always believed that, wherever possible, it was right to give children a direct answer to a direct question, and this child, with her unquenchable curiosity about the world and everything in it, deserved to be told something of the truth. She put down her knife.
‘Yes, that is what the factory is there for, Emily,’ she began, and Emily stared at her.
‘Do you mean that Mummy is making guns and bullets to kill people with? But that’s horrible!’
‘But Mummy and Eileen and Carrie are not doing it for that,’ Gladys Matthews said. ‘That is not the point.’
‘Well, why are they doing it, then?’ Emily said. ‘Mummy would never want to kill anybody! And neither would Eileen and Carrie, would they? So, I don’t think they should go there! I don’t want them to go there anymore, Mrs Gladys!’
Eileen’s mother put her hand over Emily’s before she spoke again, knowing that she must find the right words for this child. ‘I do not believe for a single moment that what they are making is meant to hurt or kill anyone, Emily,’ she said. ‘That is not why they’re doing it. But the factories in Germany that are making the bombs they’ve been dropping on us here in Bristol, must be put out of action as soon as possible so that they can’t make any more. Do you see? Our ammunition is to stop the factories from being able to work. And I’m sure the people there will hear the sirens and run into their shelters, like we’ve had to do.’
Gladys Matthews paused, hoping that her explanation would satisfy Emily. ‘And remember, Emily,’ she went on, ‘Adolf Hitler started this war. Our government tried to stop it, but he wouldn’t listen, so the only thing we can do is spoil his plans by destroying the German bombs before they’re sent over here to hurt us! And that’s what Mummy and Eileen and Carrie are doing and we should be very proud of them, Emily. It is people like them who will bring this war to an end.’
Emily, who hadn’t touched her breakfast, picked up her toast and took a reluctant bite. ‘Are you sure they don’t mean to kill people … Children and babies and dogs and cats and—’
‘Absolutely positive,’ Gladys Matthews said. ‘Neither of them would wish to kill even a mouse or a spider, would they?’
A few days later as they were in the kitchen together, Emily said to Eileen’s mother, ‘I’ve thought up a poem, Mrs Gladys. Would you help me to write it down? I think I can do it by myself, but I might not be able to spell everything because there’s one word I don’t know how to do properly.’
‘Of course I will help you, Emily.’
‘I’ve made it up for Mummy and Eileen and Carrie,’ Emily said, ‘and I want to read it to them when they come home. And when I’ve written it out, I want to draw flowers all around the edges of the page, and colour them in so it’s pretty,’ she added.
Gladys Matthews took down a bottle of orange squash and poured out two glasses. ‘This all sounds very interesting, Emily,’ she said. ‘What have you called your poem?’
‘It’s called “The War Girls”,’ Emily announced importantly. ‘I remembered what you said the other day about why they’re going to that place and that we should be proud.’ She sipped from her glass. ‘Do you want to hear it?’
‘I do, very much.’
Emily cleared her throat and, raising her voice slightly, she began.
‘The War Girls, by Emily Grace Wilson.
‘Our war girls are so good and brave
‘They go to work each day
‘They’re doing it to end – this – war
‘So hip, hip, hip hooray!’
Emily looked at Eileen’s mother earnestly. ‘I’m going to colour “end this war” in red to make it stand out – but does it sound all right to you, Mrs Gladys? Do you think Mummy would like it?’
Gladys Matthews pulled Emily towards her and hugged her tightly. ‘She is going to love it, Emily,’ she said.
December 1941
Gladys Matthews took down all her Christmas cards from the mantelpiece and slowly began to wipe the surface free from dust. Then, one by one, she put them all back, putting Abigail’s where it had been before, right there in the centre. Because just to gaze at the beautiful scene depicted – glistening snow covering field and church, the striking red of berries on the holly bush, tiny figures carrying lanterns – yes, a traditional picture repeated many times, but this one had been Abigail’s very own creation, as had been the ones she’d given them all last year too. None of them had realised that drawing and painting had been Abigail’s lifelong hobby, though as she pointed out, there was not that much time to indulge her interest these days.
Anyway, here we are again, Gladys Matthews thought as she finished what she was doing. Another Christmas almost upon us. But what a sad festival for the American bereaved who had just lost their sons, brothers, fathers and in a manner no one could possibly have imagined.
Last week, and out of the blue, Japan’s kamikaze pilots had flown over and aimed their machines directly at the American fleet at anchor in Pearl Harbor, destroying all the ships and condemning the unsuspecting sailors to a watery grave. Hundreds and hundreds of them would never see another day.
For most, the terrible news was heard with horror and disbelief, but for Winston Churchill and the allies the awful tragedy came with a small ray of hope. Perhaps now America would add its weight in routing Hitler once and for all.
The catastrophe of Pearl Harbor was naturally the news most spoken about, read about, talked about – but for Gladys Matthews and those living at number six, together with Jonathan Waters and his family at All Saints, Christmas must be celebrated in the usual way. There would still be the carol service and a Christmas tree. There was no other answer. Life just had to go on.
1942 began cold and dry, thankfully not a repeat of last year’s ice and snow. And even more thankfully, air raids in Bristol had more or less ceased.
And it was after yet another of Emily’s exciting birthday parties that Eileen told Abigail her mother had especially asked to speak to Abigail on her own.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ Eileen teased. ‘My mother is not an ogre, as you very well know.’
After a short tap on the door, Abigail went into Mrs Matthews’ room. She was sitting in her chair with a book on her lap, the glow from the table lamp beside her casting a strange shadow on the wall beyond. She looked up.
‘Come in, Abigail, and sit down,’ she said. ‘I should think you’re just about ready for bed, aren’t you, my dear? What a day you’ve had, organising Emily’s party and having to go to work as well.’
There was a short silence, then: ‘Eileen said that you wanted to talk to me about something, Mrs Matthews,’ Abigail said, and Gladys Matthews smiled.
‘Yes, Abigail.’ She leaned forward. ‘Now, I don’t wish to interfere in your life in any way at all, my dear,’ she said quietly, ‘and of course it’s entirely up to you, but your little girl is more than ready to start school. She is now five years old and should really begin her formal education.’
Abigail looked away for a moment, admitting that she had refused to think too much about this thing she’d been dreading for so long, and Mrs Matthews spoke again.
‘From the moment I met you both, it was quite clear that Emily is advanced well beyond her years. Her understanding of speech, her ability to converse without any prompting, is exceptional. And more lately, I have found her quickness to grasp simple sums as remarkable.’ Eileen’s mother paused. ‘All this, of course, is thanks to you, Abigail. From all I have learned about you, you have never failed to give your child your love and total attention, answering every question she has thrown at you with commendable patience – and there will have been many, many questions! As I know to my cost! Emily’s wish to know everything is unstoppable. She has been the centre of your world,’ Gladys Matthews said. ‘And Emily has become the centre of mine too. And she is revelling in it. She is matching us, Abigail, and is becoming a
young adult before her time.’
Abigail’s eyes were pensive as she listened. Of course it was all too true. Emily had been doted on from the moment of her birth but who else was there more suited than her mother to do that? And who else had there been to do it? No father, no grandparents, no loving aunties and uncles.
Gladys Matthews glanced at Abigail shrewdly. It hadn’t taken Eileen’s mother long to fully comprehend the possessive tie which held this young mother to her little girl so closely. Mrs Mathews paused before going on.
‘Now why don’t you think about letting Emily start at the little school up here on the Wells Road – just a few moments’ walk away – which would be very convenient. It has a good reputation, and I have known the Head for many years.’
Abigail sighed. The thing she had dreaded most was coming home to roost. She had always known that this moment would arrive, and she’d been deliberately pushing it from her mind. She could not bear to think of Emily being without her mother in a strange place, and among the unkindness of other children.
Gladys Matthews interrupted Abigail’s thoughts. ‘It’s not just Emily’s education,’ Eileen’s mother said. ‘It’s in her own interest to be with others of her own age. To play and learn to hold her own. It’s all very well experiencing the happiness she feels at being with adults all the time, but there is more for her to enjoy. Much more, and she must not be held back.’
‘Of course, I understand all you are saying, Mrs Matthews,’ Abigail said slowly, ‘and you are right. And I admit that I have kept putting the matter of Emily’s first school days to the back of my mind. Trying not to think too much about it,’ she added.
‘That’s quite understandable, Abigail,’ Mrs Matthews said. ‘You have had many other things to think about. Leaving your home without the support of your husband was very brave of you, and you have taken great strides into your future. But you can’t do everything at once, none of us can.’
Abigail stood up. ‘Thank you for the benefit of your wisdom, Mrs Matthews,’ she said. ‘And I will speak to Emily and see what her reaction is. But would you let me have the name of the school and the person I should approach?’
‘I will certainly do that,’ Gladys Matthews said, ‘and you and Emily could visit and see what you think about it. Get the feel of the place.’ She paused. ‘The school year begins in September – as I’m sure you realise – but Emily might even like to start after the Easter holiday. It will be up to you, and to her, what is decided.’
Abigail turned to leave and Mrs Matthews stopped her for a second. ‘By the way, Abigail, Emily told me that her birthday card from you was another of your handmade and handpainted ones, and you should be congratulated.’ Eileen’s mother smiled. ‘It’s a beautiful little card, one to keep.’
Abigail coloured up at the compliment. ‘I do love drawing and painting,’ she said. ‘I think I explained that it was something my father taught me a long time ago.’
Chapter 28
With the New Year well under way, work at the Royal Ordnance Factory went on as usual, as did the endless clearing of debris in the city’s streets and the demolition of houses which were no longer safe to live in.
To their own amazement, Abigail, Eileen and Carrie had become more or less accustomed to the grisly work they were doing each day, helped by the fact that they were doing it together and could chat, now and then, about other things.
‘So,’ Eileen said one day to Abigail, ‘my mother tells me that Emily Grace Wilson seems to like the idea of going to school.’
‘Yes, she seems to,’ Abigail replied. ‘And typical of my daughter, she listened very carefully when I explained what ought to happen but didn’t have very much to say until I mentioned that Mrs Matthews thought it was a good idea. That was all it needed, because then she agreed that she’d think about it. Of course, it helped that Mrs Matthews came with us to see the place and we were introduced to the headmaster – Mr Thomas. He was very polite to Emily, shaking her by the hand and saying that he would very much like to have her there.’ Abigail smiled. ‘It also helped when she was shown the school uniform – royal blue and white, very smart – because she thought it would suit her very well.’
Stopping briefly to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand, Abigail went on. ‘But of course, it’s only possible because Mrs Matthews has insisted that she is quite capable of taking Emily to and from the school each day.’
‘Yes,’ Eileen said, ‘she’s told me all about that. She will take the pushchair to lean on, and after all it’s no more than a five-minute walk, is it? And by that time the weather should be fine.’ Eileen glanced up. ‘My mother is sure that it’s going to do her good to get out each day – and I think she’s probably right,’ Eileen added.
Just then, Mr Reynolds came over. ‘Everything all right, girls?’ he said.
‘Perfectly, thank you, Mr Reynolds,’ Eileen said. ‘We’ve nearly finished this tray.’
The superintendent moved away and Eileen said, ‘P’raps he doesn’t like us talking – but too bad.’
‘Anyway,’ Abigail went on, ‘as you already know, Emily is starting straight after the Easter holidays. But before that we shall go into town to the school shop to buy her uniform. I did point out that there was a little pocket in the skirt for dolly, but my daughter greeted that remark with derision!’
One Friday morning in March, Eileen, Carrie and Abigail were just finishing their last shift before lunch when there was a commotion further up the line, and they heard a young woman screaming for help. Startled, they looked over just as Mr Reynolds ran past them, waving his arms and shouting instructions and pushing a trolley in front of him.
‘Out of the way, out of the way!’ he yelled, and everyone scattered. Then, with the help of two other men, the superintendent lifted the distraught woman, still screaming, on to the trolley and dashed along the line and out of the building towards the medical centre.
It was terrifying, and Abigail was trembling from head to foot and Carrie looked close to tears. What on earth could have happened? Eileen put an arm around both of them.
‘Hang on, she’ll be all right in a minute,’ but Eileen’s mouth had gone completely dry. After all, every one of the girls took great care – but how could you be sure you’d taken the right sort of care? They all knew they were working with deadly material, and so far nothing too awful had happened, but that young woman was in agony and at the moment seemed to have completely lost her self-control. What had she done – or not done?
They were soon to find out that she’d slipped while holding a can of hot TNT and that it had been thrown all over her face, clinging to her hair and eyelashes and eyebrows.
Now thoroughly shaken, all the girls went to the break room for their sandwiches and coffee.
‘That poor girl,’ Abigail said as they sat at the table. ‘That could have happened to any one of us, couldn’t it? I mean, just to lose your footing for a split second and end up with that stuff all over you.’ She shuddered. ‘I don’t feel like anything to eat now …’
Daisy, their new friend, sat down alongside them. ‘Blimey O’Reilly,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t that ever terrible! I nearly dropped me whole tray of bullets!’ She leaned forward, taking a bite of sandwich. ‘D’you think she’s gonna die?’
‘Certainly not,’ Eileen said briskly. ‘I’m sure she’s made of sterner stuff than that.’
Much later, an hour before they were due to clock off, and to cheers from all the others, the victim came back in, doing her best to look nonchalant. Then she returned to her shop and continued with her work as if nothing had happened. But it had taken several hours for the TNT to set before it could be scraped painfully from her skin.
‘Poor girl – poor brave girl,’ Eileen said as they watched her walk back. ‘She won’t be sleeping very well tonight.’
In the van going home later, Abigail said, ‘Do you think we could go to the cinema tomorrow?’ She made a face. ‘I don’t know about you, b
ut after what happened, I feel like some cheering up. And I would love to take Emily to see Pinocchio. I saw in Mrs Matthews’ Evening Post that it’s on at The Embassy.’
Then Eileen said, ‘Or the other one that’s being shouted about is Mrs Miniver with Greer Garson, It’s on at The Whiteladies.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I know! Let’s ask my mother to take Emily to the matinee of Pinocchio and we three could bunk off later to The Whiteladies!’
Abigail hesitated. ‘Are you sure Mrs Matthews would really want to see Pinocchio, Eileen?’ and Eileen chortled.
‘My mother would be in her seventh heaven to sit watching a children’s film with Emily Grace Wilson sitting next to her! I’ll fix it – leave it all to me!’
Chapter 29
On Monday the 13th April, straight after the Easter break, it was going to be Emily’s first day at school. And the night before, Abigail could hardly sleep a wink, going over and over everything and worrying about her little girl having to face a totally new environment by herself. Emily had never been without the company of a caring adult to protect her, and the very worst thing was, Abigail thought now as she plumped up her pillow for the hundredth time, she was not going to be there to see Emily through those school gates. Surely that was what every mother wanted, no, expected to do? But this mother would already be at the factory bench, filling and stamping those bombs.
Abigail turned over restlessly, smiling as she thought about yesterday evening, which had been such fun, because they’d played cards, Eileen teaching Emily two new tricks and then, as a little party to celebrate Emily about to be a grown-up schoolgirl, they’d had her favourite fish and chip supper. And as they’d all sat together around the kitchen table – with Carrie there too of course – Mrs Matthews had said, ‘Emily and I are really looking forward to Monday, aren’t we, Emily?’
