by Daisy Styles
Unable to compose herself a second longer, Rosa crumpled into a heap of helpless sobs. ‘Gabriel, he give his life for ME!’ she wailed in an agony of guilt and hopelessness. ‘Gabriel …’ she continued to wail like her heart would break in two.
Gladys gathered the distraught girl into her arms, where she rocked her like a child. ‘Shssh, shssh,’ she soothed. Waiting until Rosa’s sobs had subsided, Gladys dared to say, ‘Maybe Gabriel escaped too, just like you did?’
‘No!’ Rosa cried. ‘How is possible? He gave all his money to guard for me – to help me. Now he has nothing – no money for … what you call, bribe?’ she questioned.
Gladys nodded grimly. ‘I understand it doesn’t look good for your brother, but you don’t know for sure, it’s not impossible that he’s still alive,’ Gladys gently insisted.
‘People don’t last long in the death camps,’ Rosa answered with a shiver of fear. ‘Especially without money.’
Gladys, desperate to give Rosa hope, was teary too. ‘You mustn’t give up, Rosa!’ she cried. ‘As long as there’s hope, there’s life.’
‘Oh, I wish I could believe that,’ Rosa murmured.
Gladys stared into Rosa’s beautiful tragic face; she’d known from the first moment she’d met her that here was a woman who had suffered.
‘This war is crucifying us – the world is full of pain, degradation and shame,’ Gladys murmured as she reached out to stroke Rosa’s lovely thick hair. She took a deep breath, understanding it would help both women if she shared her own pain. ‘The man in the picture, the one that gave me a fright,’ she said slowly, almost in a whisper. ‘He raped me.’
Startled, Rosa swung her head round so she could face Gladys, whose bottom lip was trembling as she forced herself to speak for the first time about Captain Miles.
‘It was when I was in Naples; the British fleet were in, spirits were high. We were touring the area, entertaining the troops, I was so happy, Rosa – so excited. I loved Italy,’ she said with a small smile. ‘Even though wherever we went was bombed and blasted, I loved the people, the climate, the language, but most of all I loved singing! Nobody could stop me: I drove the other girls mad, forever bursting into song and jiving around with them.’
Rosa shook her head in disbelief. ‘And I have never heard you sing.’
‘It was the singing and entertaining that got me into trouble,’ Gladys continued darkly. ‘One of the naval captains took a fancy to me. It’s not unusual for fellas to fall for the ENSA girls – it goes with the job – but this man was different. First of all, he was a senior officer, so he had more licence to move about. He always seemed to be following me; my friends used to tease me: “Uh-oh, here comes lover boy!” But it wasn’t like that – he was evil.’ Gladys buried her head in her hands.
Seeing Gladys looking drained and white, Rosa sensed her friend had opened up as much as she was able to for now. Taking Gladys’s trembling hand in hers, she gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Leave it, mia cara. I know you have more to say, and I listen when you ready. But I think say enough for now, sì?’ Pausing, and noting the relief in Gladys’s eyes, she continued gently, ‘You home, you safe; now you must think of good things, not bad.’
‘I wish I could,’ Gladys said yearningly. Gripping Rosa’s hand tightly in hers, Gladys said in a weary voice, ‘Between us we carry heavy burdens.’
Rosa nodded her head – nobody could deny that.
‘The world is falling apart around us,’ Gladys continued, now with real passion in her voice. ‘But one day, one wonderful day, the war will end, the fighting will stop, and the time will come to build a new and better world,’ she added fiercely.
‘Please to God,’ Rosa murmured as – emotionally exhausted – she lay back on the sofa and closed her eyes. ‘We must pray that that day is soon …’
Soothed by the glow of the fire, Gladys laid her head on Rosa’s shoulder. ‘You’re right, sweetheart, we can only pray,’ she whispered.
It was as if Rosa’s outpouring had turned on a tap in her brain. In the days that followed, she started to draw again; using bits of pencil stubs she found in drawers in the cowshed and paper she cadged from Malc’s office, Rosa drew everything: Gladys washing her glorious, long, brunette hair in the kitchen sink; Edna’s blue mobile shop in the dark despatch yard; Edna leaning against her van; smoking a Woodbine alongside a gang of laughing munitions girls. She drew Nora and Maggie in the canteen; the girls on the cordite line; Myrtle in the despatch shed; and Kit and Violet in the filling shed. The more Rosa drew, the more she realized that drawing assuaged some of the grief and worry she was always holding in, and she found the process not just pleasing but enormously therapeutic.
It was with trepidation that Rosa finally took out the crumpled black-and-white photograph of her brother. Inspired by the drawings she’d already done, she suddenly had an overwhelming urge to try to capture the image of her beloved Gabriel. No matter how much it pained her to look at his dear face, the photograph was already fading and would surely continue to do so, and she knew she had to keep the image of her brother strong and vibrant, so that if he had indeed been killed she would always have a picture of him when he was a handsome young professor, in the prime of his life.
She was on afternoon shifts when she made this decision, which was fortunate, as the light in the early morning, when she started Gabriel’s drawing, was at its best.
Sitting in an upright chair by the sitting-room window with the photograph pinned to the wall, she started to sketch her brother’s beautiful face: the sweep of his dark hair, the line of his high cheekbones, the distinguished, slightly quizzical eyebrows and long, almost feminine eyelashes. Using only a pencil, and a stubby one at that, she couldn’t reproduce quite the liquid golden-brown of Gabriel’s eyes, but she caught the smile on his full curving lips. As she worked, Rosa’s heart contracted with love.
‘Where are you, my darling?’ she murmured.
Though tears threatened to overcome her, she furiously forced them back. This was an act of love for her brother, not an excuse to weep and lament. Keeping her eyes focused on the photograph, she worked on until it was finished. Gladys, who’d kept herself scarce so as not to interrupt Rosa whilst she was concentrating so hard, waited until Rosa had laid down her pencil and stretched her hands before she cautiously approached. Genuinely stunned at the quality of her work, she exclaimed, ‘Rosa, it’s wonderful!’
Rosa smiled at the black-and-white drawing. ‘My beautiful brother.’
‘We should frame it, Rosa,’ Gladys enthused. ‘We could hang it on the wall, then we’ll always have Gabriel looking at us.’
‘Really?’ Rosa cried. ‘You would not mind?’
‘Mind?’ Gladys laughed. ‘It would be a privilege to have such artistry in the cowshed!’
Rosa walked towards Gladys and hugged her. ‘Thank you, mia cara,’ she said before tentatively producing the portrait she’d drawn of Gladys whilst she was sleeping. ‘This is for you.’
Gladys gazed in delight at the drawing. ‘You have such a gift, Rosa! Thank you,’ she said as she gave her a kiss. ‘I’m going to frame this one too!’
Later on during her tea break at work, Rosa sought out Malc, who, as factory supervisor, could be found in any one of the departments at any time of the day. Eventually after asking her friends where he might be, she tracked him down in the despatch shed. He was deep in conversation with Myrtle, who had a handkerchief to her mouth as if she was trying to stifle the cough that was clearly racking her. Rosa held back until they’d finished their conversation and Myrtle had hurried away. Seeing Rosa hovering, Malc approached her with a worried expression on his face.
‘Yon Myrtle’s not in a good way – coughing her guts up,’ he told Rosa. ‘I’ve sent her home for a lie-down; the sooner she sees the factory doctor, the better.’
Rosa nodded in agreement. She’d overheard a number of women in the factory, who knew Myrtle better than she did, comment on how unwell she looked
these days.
Remembering his manners, Malc quickly said, ‘What can I do for thee, little lass?’
‘I have gift for you,’ Rosa said, as she drew the black-and-white drawing she’d made of Edna and the munitions girls from behind her back where she’d been hiding it. ‘I did this when Edna not looking, I think you like it,’ she added with a shy smile.
A tender smile spread across Malc’s face as he took the paper in his hand. ‘But it’s the spit of my Edna!’ he said in astonishment as he scrutinized the drawing. ‘Thank you, Rosa, thank you very much. This is unbelievably good,’ he exclaimed.
After Rosa had gone back to work, Malc’s eyes returned to her tender portrait of Edna. ‘My word, if you can do this with a stub of a pencil and a sheet of paper, what couldn’t you do with a set of oil paints.’
6. Myrtle
As Rosa’s English improved, so did her passion for singing popular songs. She loved listening to the wireless that played out on the factory loudspeakers, entertaining the munitions girls throughout the day and into the night. On the cordite line, Maggie, Nora and Rosa sang along to their favourites, and Rosa continued to sing, hum or whistle the catchy refrains even when she was back at the cowshed. Whilst she was washing up or making tea, she’d sing out loud, often getting the words in the wrong order or singing the wrong refrain, which set Gladys’s teeth on edge. One evening, as Rosa was washing her smalls in the kitchen sink, she started to sing ‘As Time Goes By’ from her favourite film, Casablanca. Gladys rolled her eyes as Rosa, oblivious to her mistakes, crooned on, but finally, unable to bear it any more, Gladys walked into the kitchen and said, ‘You keep missing out the kiss bit.’
‘What kiss bit?’ Rosa asked.
‘A kiss is just a kiss – that bit,’ Gladys reminded her.
When Rosa looked blank and shook her head, Gladys quite spontaneously sang the song, emphasizing the section that Rosa always forgot. Rosa listened in rapt delight to Gladys’s perfect pitch, and when she’d finished Rosa clapped her hands together, sending bubbles from her washing floating into the air. ‘Sing again, oh, please, Gladeeees, sing for me the song again,’ she implored.
So Gladys sang the whole song through once more, and this time Rosa joined in and got it word perfect. ‘You should sing more, mia cara,’ she enthused as they finished the song. ‘You have the voice of an angel.’
Gladys brusquely shook her head. ‘You know why I’m not keen on all that entertaining stuff any more.’
Determined not to be fobbed off, Rosa wagged her finger at Gladys as if she was a naughty, disobedient child. ‘No, no, no!’ she chided. ‘You tell me to draw my pictures, because you know it helps me, but YOU’ – she gave an irritated, dramatic sigh – ‘YOU – Gladeeees Johnson, you deny your gift from God.’
‘I told you, it got me into trouble,’ Gladys insisted crossly.
‘But you cannot blame your singing – you were just unlucky. And here you safe!’ Rosa exclaimed. ‘There are no men here!’ she cried. ‘Well, there’s Mr Featherstonee, and Malc, who loves his Edna, and Arthur, who loves his beautiful wife. What have you to fear here in Pendleton – we are nowhere in the middle,’ she concluded with a dramatic wave of her hand.
Gladys couldn’t help but smile as she corrected Rosa’s English. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere,’ she said.
Undaunted, Rosa pressed on with her point. ‘Essato! Nothing to hurt you here.’ Suddenly she gave a low throaty laugh. ‘Anyway, I promise I kill anybody who hurt you.’
Seeing the blazing ferocity in her dark eyes, Gladys was quite sure that Rosa would indeed fight to the death to protect her friend. ‘I believe you would!’ Gladys laughed.
‘So now, sing for me like nightingale,’ Rosa pleaded.
‘Maybe …’ Gladys said. ‘Just give me time.’
Gladys left the kitchen and Rosa continued with her washing, and, as she rubbed and scrubbed at her smalls in the sink, a wicked smile lit up her thoughtful face. ‘From now on,’ she thought to herself in Italian, ‘I’ll sing every song backwards! I’ll irritate Gladys so much she’ll be forced to sing, even if it’s only to correct me!’ Checking that the kitchen door was wide open, she started to holler Bing Crosby’s popular hit ‘Don’t Fence Me In’. Making a deliberate mistake that she knew would drive Gladys mad, she crooned, ‘Don’t put me in fences.’ In the next room, Gladys gritted her teeth, then smiled; she was beginning to see that little Rosa with her delicate face and dreamy smile was not a woman to be denied!
Everybody was worried about Myrtle. News of her absence from work quickly got round the factory, and when her friends heard she’d ended up in the Phoenix infirmary they decided to visit her immediately.
‘We can’t all go,’ said thoughtful Kit. ‘It would overwhelm her.’
Maggie nodded her agreement. ‘You three should go,’ she said, gesturing towards Violet, Kit and Gladys. ‘You’ve known her longest. Nora and I will go another time.’
It was tricky arranging a visit around hospital hours, the day nursery and the girls’ shifts, but they managed it, and a few days later, when they saw Myrtle lying in her hospital bed, they bitterly regretted that they hadn’t come sooner. Under the neatly made hospital sheets Myrtle looked half the woman she had been: her usual trim permed hair looked flat and grey, and she wasn’t wearing her signature winged glasses. As Violet, Kit and Gladys approached the bed, they could see Myrtle was dozing; as if sensing their nearness, she stirred and opened her eyes.
‘We didn’t mean to disturb you, lovie,’ Violet whispered.
Breathing heavily and with obvious difficulty, poor Myrtle gazed at her visitors. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ she gasped.
Gladys hurried to take hold of her limp, cold hand. ‘Don’t exert yourself, darling,’ she murmured.
‘I’ve missed you,’ Myrtle wheezed as a single tear slipped down her cheek.
The effort of talking brought on a coughing attack, which caused Myrtle great distress. Hacking and spluttering, she struggled to sit up, and, as her friends helped her into an upright position, they couldn’t help but notice the bloodied handkerchief underneath Myrtle’s pillow. Hearing her patient in distress, the ward sister came swooping towards the women gathered around Myrtle’s bed.
‘No more than two visitors at a time,’ she snapped as she deftly eased the pillows behind Myrtle in order to facilitate her breathing. ‘I think that’s quite enough for now,’ she barked. ‘I need to administer medication right away.’
As the girls backed away Myrtle managed a weak, ‘Please … come back … soon.’
‘Two at a time!’ the sister added as she whisked the curtain around her patient.
Maggie and Nora were the next to visit Myrtle, but the visit devastated poor Nora. ‘I can’t bear to see her so weak and unlike herself. I miss her bossing me about and teasing me for being so daft,’ Nora confessed. ‘She’s been like a mother to me, advising me when I was in a muddle,’ she said as she dabbed her eyes with her usual grubby hankie.
‘I know, sweetheart, but you must remember that seeing you upset will upset Myrtle,’ Kit pointed out. ‘We’ve got to be strong for her sake.’
Furious with herself for appearing so soft and selfish, Nora exclaimed, ‘I know that! I just couldn’t stop myself.’
‘Then you must only visit when you feel strong,’ Violet advised. ‘Otherwise you’re doing Myrtle no favours.’
Gladys contrived to pop into the infirmary once a day, even if it was for only five minutes. It was easier for her, as she had fewer obligations than Kit or Violet, both of whom had hectic family lives. Gladys always tried to bring something to distract Myrtle from the monotony of hospital life. She took Rosa’s black-and-white drawing of herself, which Myrtle was charmed by; she brought some dahlias from Arthur’s garden, an oasis of peace and beauty that Arthur had created from a neglected patch of earth just beyond the despatch yard where he grew vegetables, fruit and flowers, which he generously shared with his friends. Kit sent little fr
uit pies when she had enough ration coupons to buy lard for the pastry, and Edna regularly delivered a little meat-and-potato pasty, which Myrtle relished.
One day when she arrived, Gladys saw Dr Grant beside Myrtle’s bed. Seeing them obviously in confidential mode Gladys immediately backed away, but Myrtle weakly called her name.
‘It’s okay, I’ll come back later,’ Gladys said as she made to leave.
‘I want you to hear what the doctor has to say,’ Myrtle told her firmly. Gladys turned to Dr Grant, who nodded in agreement with Myrtle. ‘If that’s what my patient requests, you may stay,’ he reassured Gladys, who quickly sat down in a chair on the other side of the bed, hoping against hope that it was good news that Dr Grant was going to share. But, seeing the set expression on the doctor’s face as well as Myrtle’s tear-stained one, hope quickly faded. Once Gladys was settled, Dr Grant didn’t beat about the bush.
‘I’m afraid Myrtle has TB. We hoped it was a severe chest infection – they’re fairly common in an explosives factory – but we ran some tests to rule out anything more serious, and I’m so sorry, but Myrtle unquestionably has tuberculosis.’
