by Annie Clarke
Gaines was approaching. ‘Did I say you could talk?’
Quickly, Fran replied, ‘We thought you were done, Mr Gaines. Just on our way, Mr Gaines. Won’t be no trouble, Mr Gaines.’
Beth moved her along. ‘Shut up,’ she whispered as he said to Viola, ‘Miss Viola Ross? If you can sew, you can fill detonators.’
At that, everyone stopped dead, turned and looked at him. Miss Ellington forced her way through. She took hold of Viola’s wrist, showing Gaines the half-amputated hand, still bandaged. ‘You know perfectly well, because Mr Swinton and I told you, and even Mr Bolton had it on the list he gave you, that this young woman has already paid the price for working with explosives, and therefore she is not suited for anything but the sewing workshop. Just as I can no longer work as an operative.’ She waggled her handless arm in his face. ‘It was blown off in a detonator shop. This lass cannot afford to lose another.’
Mr Gaines held steady, gimlet-eyed, his voice grim. ‘That’s as maybe, but we’re short, and targets—’
From the doorway came Mr Bolton’s voice. ‘I do believe I’m correct, am I not, Mr Gaines, that Viola is for the moment incapacitated. I admire zeal, but only in its place.’
Viola spoke up. ‘But mebbe Mr Gaines is right, if I can sew—’
‘You can’t work with detonators,’ Fran insisted, unable to bear the thought of her friend at risk and she, Fran Hall, doing and saying nothing. ‘Not yet, it’s too soon, you know perfectly well it hurts. You will shake, you will wince, something will go wrong, and I’m not bliddy having another—’ Fran stopped dead. ‘I just think it’s too soon.’
Mr Gaines coughed; it was an ineffectual noise, and his colour was high as he nodded. ‘Perhaps I can find someone else for the detonators. Off you go, all of you, and to the sewing workshop with you, Miss Ross.’
His capitulation was so sudden, Fran thought. Was he embarrassed? Couldn’t admit it? But then they were all hustled along to their workstations, the four girls wearing non-spark felt shoes.
CHAPTER TEN
As they headed down the corridor, Beth patted the wall and the posters that were stuck all along it, and whispered, ‘You behave, wall. No bulging. Not that it were your fault. Explosions do that to walls.’
Sarah laughed. ‘Give it a pat for me and all, pet.’
Fran nudged her. ‘And one for me and Sandra.’
Beth slapped each poster four times. Valerie joined them as she was for the detonator workshop too, with Mrs Oborne some way behind.
‘By,’ said Sarah, ‘I can still picture that wall bulging, then returning. Like a bliddy wave coming in and going out.’
‘And the floor lifting, tossing us about. How many other workers will be hurt before the war is over? How many will suffer from breathing in the chemicals?’ whispered Valerie.
Who knew, Beth thought. Best not to think about it.
‘I hate the rash from the fulminate of mercury especially,’ Sarah said suddenly.
Beth smiled. ‘At least you’ve got your Stan to scratch your back these days.’
Sarah flushed. ‘Oh Beth …’
‘And so far,’ murmured Valerie, ‘we’re not mad like hatters from the mercury.’
Fran grinned. ‘Ah, that’s what you think, but how would we know, for we’ll all go daft together.’
Beth listened, but didn’t respond, because she was thinking of Stan, scratching Sarah’s back, and why, oh why hadn’t Bob been in touch? She missed him terribly, and felt a fool waiting in the cold for a whole hour last night before traipsing home, trying to pretend it didn’t matter, shaking her head at her mam, who had said, ‘He’ll have written, pet, saying he’s been sent to sea. You know what the post’s like.’
She sighed, hating the detonators: the tiny copper caps used to initiate a weapon’s triggering process. Well, it wasn’t so much the copper tiddlers she hated as the disgusting, highly sensitive lead azide, which looked so like sugar, and the fulminate of mercury that was so sensitive it was like Amelia. She laughed to herself. Oh aye, that lass was sensitive, but happy to put the boot in whenever she pleased. Beth smiled again. Well, that really was mercury to a T.
They entered the silent room to take the place of the night shift. The women who were leaving had tiredness writ large on their faces, scratching themselves through their clothes because they must not touch their skin. It was so quiet. No footfall, only the soft swish of felt shoes. No talking, only whispering. No music, just danger. As they passed, everyone ignored the girls’ bumps and bruises just as they had done yesterday, knowing sympathy was not needed. They waited for Swinton to reach them, never before thinking they’d be pleased and relieved to see him. Beth tried to concentrate on him, not the fulminate of mercury that could break down and leak into their skin or be breathed into their lungs … She could feel the itching increase at the very thought.
She felt her split lips, touched her sore nose and half-closed eyes, for she must not touch them again while in here. It was this she would think about, her safety here and Bob’s at sea, for that must be where he was, and she must stop being so bliddy selfish and mithering about a letter and a phone call.
‘Maintenance repaired everything so quickly after the explosion. It just took a few days to get it all back up and running again,’ whispered Fran.
Sarah nudged her. ‘Aye, well, we have targets, just as the pitmen have. Look how quick they cleared Bell Seam, eh. Stan—’
‘Oh, here we go, back to Stan,’ Fran whispered, winking at Beth. Then she grew serious, her voice little more than a breath. ‘You have to concentrate, our Sarah. No mooning over me brother. You too, Beth. No worrying about Bob.’
Swinton had reached them. He held up a finger, his voice so quiet they had to lean in towards him. ‘No more talking, not even whispering. Remember, it has been outlawed in detonators since the accident.’
They followed him to the workbench and stood by the stainless-steel barriers with the Perspex windows. Beth loathed the masks they had to wear, because the cotton-wool wadding grew hot and itched.
‘On you go, lasses,’ Swinton whispered, ‘and be safe.’
The pitman’s prayer, eh, thought Beth, from the mouth of Swinton who had never been … She stopped. Or had he once been a pitman? She looked closely and there, just showing above the collar of his overalls, was the blue scar she was seeking.
‘Oh, I never thought …’ she whispered. ‘You were one of us?’
‘Oh aye, till I hurt me back too bad, so then I went into the chemical factory. That’s why I’m here. Now, you know the drill, but I will tell you again: concentrate, concentrate, concentrate. I’ll be here. Patrick’s in pellets.’ Beth watched as he moved on to the rest of the shift, giving the same instructions.
The girl who stood next to Fran breathed quietly, ‘Come on, no loitering, we’ve targets, you know.’
‘Uh-oh,’ Sarah whispered.
Fran merely pulled down her mask and whispered to the girl, ‘Teaching your grandma to suck eggs, eh.’ With a snap she returned the mask to its rightful position. The girl began to work, realising any more comments would not be a good idea. Sandra, further along, nodded and her black eyes crinkled. By, that must have hurt, thought Beth.
They collected their small containers of fulminate of mercury from the hatch and carried them back to the workbench; at first the containers had been carried in through the external door, but that had proved too dangerous. The belt brought along the first tray of copper caps and Beth lifted it onto the side and sprinkled mercury into them one by one, using the spoon thingy, as they called it. As always, Beth’s head began to ache but it didn’t stop her working quickly, far quicker than the bossyboots next to Fran, for they were the cream of Swinton’s workers.
She smiled, for she was the cream of women in Bob’s eyes too, and he loved her as much as she loved him. She stopped, the spoon full of chemicals held above the detonator caps, the copper glinting, her breath uneven, for she realised that Bob had not said a
t the wedding tea that he loved her. He’d just said that he knew she loved him. Or was she wrong? She tried to think.
‘Beth,’ whispered Fran, ‘don’t stop, we’ve targets.’
She nodded and worked on, and in spite of the mask could almost feel the powder seeping into her split lips, into her lungs. And from her lungs to the rest of her organs, not to mention into her skin. She’d itch tonight worse than ever, but as long as she didn’t make a mistake, as long as there wasn’t an explosion, she’d be alive enough to scratch. If Bob was here, he could scratch for her, or rub in lavender grease. If. If. Where was he? At sea? On shore, as he’d said? Where? Why no word? Why no words of love at the wedding, for she truly couldn’t remember a single one.
As she placed the copper cap in its stand, she decided she would go again to the telephone box at nine, and the next night, and the next. He’d said he was in refit. He hadn’t said he loved her, but his eyes had, hadn’t they? She shook her head. Work. Concentrate.
She sprinkled more powder on more copper caps as the hours passed, then returned each tray to the hatch. She finished another tray, took another from the belt as it trundled along. Was Fran right? she wondered. Did the hatters really know they were going mad, or was it just everyone around them who saw?
Be quiet. Concentrate. She sprinkled the powder. Was her headache improving? She felt a cough coming. She lay down the powder container and spoon and stepped back, coughing. Sarah worked on, as did Fran, who turned briefly to check her. Beth nodded. Fran’s eyes crinkled.
She was a good one was Fran, always there for you, but Sarah had a lot of gumption too, for she’d held Fran and the others together in the explosion at the Scottish factory. Or so Fran had said. Aye, she’d kept them saying their times tables as they lay under the bricks that took Viola’s hand. But no, it was the machine that had done that, sliced right through.
Sarah stepped back from the bench now, coughing alongside Beth, whispering, ‘I always think it’s the bliddy powder, but I expect it’s because my throat’s dry and I need a drink. If I start swinging from the ceiling lights, you’ll know I’ve gone mad.’
They laughed so quietly it was little more than silence, and then stepped back to the bench. On they worked until their break was called. The girl who had told them to ‘Come on, no loitering,’ looked at Fran as they walked to the door. ‘I need to learn to keep me mouth shut. You’re all much quicker, cleaner, sharper than me.’
Fran shook her head as they left the workshop. ‘Howay, lass, you will be grand.’ It was enough, for the lass was part of the team and they needed to stick together.
At lunchtime they joined Mrs Oborne, Valerie, Maisie and Viola in the queue for shepherd’s pie, having first washed their hands. Clean hands, clean everything, Beth thought. She looked down at the shepherd’s pie, which seemed to be mostly carrots and potatoes, but hot, though the plates were cold. They sat at their usual table as they wolfed it down, their turbans dusty with chemicals, their overalls too, but they’d shake them out, hang them up, and they would be washed. As they ate it was good to hear music being played over the tannoy. Mrs Oborne wondered aloud if there was more news of Ralph. Who knew? Beth thought, and shrugged along with the others.
Valerie asked if there was news of Bob. There wasn’t. ‘Perhaps he’s gone to sea,’ Beth said. ‘He went in such a rush we didn’t have time to say much except what a bugger the war is. ’Tis all so complicated, or something like that, he said.’
Maisie laughed and her eyes sparkled, her freckles seemed to dance. ‘Aye, that’s true enough. Here we are, working where we could get blown up, and itching like a cloud of midges have got at us, but on the other hand we’re taking home enough to pay the rent and not worry about where the next penny’s coming from, so ’tis good in a way.’
‘Aye, till we get blown up, or lose a hand or …’ Sandra stopped and looked at Viola, avoiding staring at her damaged hand. ‘Strange old world,’ she ended up, embarrassed.
Mrs Oborne stepped into the breach. ‘But enough of that. What are you Factory Girls singing at the Rising Sun?’
Cyn Ellington came along at that moment. ‘Hush up, Tilly. If I heard that, so did others, and Bert said to keep it quiet in case Amelia, Brenda and Rosie get wind of it and muscle in on the booking.’
Sarah shook her head. ‘My Stan said that wouldn’t happen. Stevie and Mildred are wise to her now and would elbow her back where she came from, but I reckon we should rehearse. We’ve done nowt. Can we use the storeroom, Miss Ellington?’
‘No sign of Gaines,’ said Miss Ellington, ‘so why not skedaddle there while you have the chance. If he appears, or Miss high-heels Amelia clippity-clops along, we’ll give you a knock.’
The three girls looked at Viola. Fran said, ‘You’ll sing, or play too, of course, so up you get. You’re one of The Factory Girls now, so no slouching. Aye, and the fee will go four ways.’
Beth scraped her pudding bowl, then pushed back her chair as Fran headed for the storeroom, disappearing inside. Beth held back the others. ‘We need to spring a surprise song on her and Davey at the wedding, so keep an eye on which one is her favourite, eh.’
‘Aye, that’ll please ’em,’ Sarah agreed.
They hurried after Fran, with Beth saying, ‘Bob’s favourite is “Ten Cents a Dance”. Who knows, he might come if it turns out he is in refit. It needs a saxophone too, Viola, if your hand’s up to it.’
They entered the storeroom, its shelves full of cleaning materials, mops and buckets resting against the grubby whitewashed walls. Fran conducted them into the two they liked best: ‘Embraceable You’ and ‘Putting on the Ritz’, both of which they had prepared for New Year’s Eve at the Rising Sun. Viola followed them, picking up the words. They ran through them a second time, and grinned at one another. Beth nodded. ‘Aye, I reckon we’ve got those nailed, eh?’
There was a knock on the storeroom door. ‘Time’s up, girls.’ It was Tilly Oborne. ‘Make sure you sing “My Baby Just Cares For Me”. My old bugger likes it, and I have to give him a treat from time to time. Not enough to spoil him, mind.’
They were laughing as they rejoined the clatter of cutlery and the chatter that drowned out the tannoy. There was the scrape of chairs as women saw the time and rushed to place their dirty plates on the trolley. The girls hurried back to their table and drank up their glasses of water. For a moment, as they headed for the door, Sarah linked arms with Fran. ‘Any other favourites?’
‘I love “It Had to Be You”,’ said Fran. ‘It’s what I think of Davey, you see. I’ve thought it since we were wee bairns, and now I’m the most beautiful woman …’
The nearest tables heard and clapped. Fran curtsied. Someone else called out, ‘What about “On the Sunny Side of the Street”?’
Miss Ellington had locked the storeroom door and joined them, saying quietly, ‘“My Baby Just Cares for Me” is a favourite of someone I know.’ She raised her eyebrows and her pale skin flushed, her face alive with fun.
‘That wouldn’t be a certain Mr Parrot, would it? He who lets you give his canaries some chickweed from time to time if you’re very good? That certain Simon Parrot who runs the Canary Club now Beth, Sarah and Fran’s fathers are on their cloud?’ It was Viola who said this.
Miss Ellington winked at Beth. ‘Aye, this Viola’s turned into one of you, no doubt about that. But why not, when she’s living with Fran. You have moved in, haven’t you? Makes sense, for otherwise there’s too many women bossing our Stan around.’
They were all sniggering, but Miss Ellington looked at the clock above the door and became serious. ‘Back to work now. All of you, concentrate, eh? And Viola, make sure Mrs Oborne’s written her measurements for the wedding dresses and ’tis kept safe, for we’ll need them for the cut-outs. Best to bring in the material soon, while Barry and Harry are on the fore shift.’
Viola set off across the canteen to the sewing room, waving, and it was only then that the others saw the bloodstained bandage around
her hand.
‘I’ll just go and fix that,’ muttered Miss Ellington, ‘but she’s not really right. It’s the repetitive work on the sewing machines that does it, and we mustn’t have it going septic. It gets no time to heal, you see.’
Fran shook her head, saying as they headed to the detonators, ‘She insists on working, says she needs to pay her way at the house, but Mam says we can manage. Too bliddy proud, that’s what she is.’
‘No, we’d all feel the same,’ said Sarah, ‘but we need to keep that hand properly bandaged.’
Maisie was whistling as she came along the corridor behind them and Beth asked, ‘Does your mam need help in the shop, Maisie?’
Maisie shook her head. ‘This Emily seems to be working out well. Why, are you thinking of moving jobs, our Beth?’ She was laughing.
Beth just shrugged. ‘We’re worried about Viola working with that hand.’ They walked on, Beth touching the posters, muttering each time, ‘You behave, wall.’
Fran looked thoughtful. ‘Mam was saying that eleven bairns are too many for Sophia to manage, and the co-op are all on the lookout for someone to help out. I wonder about Viola. What d’you all think?’
‘Good idea,’ Beth muttered. ‘They’ll pay well too, I reckon, and she’d be good with bairns.’
‘I’ll give Viola a nudge when I get home, on the quiet,’ said Fran.
Beth pulled a face. ‘As long as she doesn’t think you’re trying to get rid of her, for divint forget she’ll have to live at Massingham Hall.’
‘Ah, aye, you’re right.’
They all fell silent.
‘We’ll box clever then,’ suggested Sarah. ‘Just say poor Sophia is looking for someone, and maybe she’ll take the bait.’
As they neared the workshop they heard Mrs Oborne panting up behind them. She tapped Sarah on the shoulder. ‘I heard all that, and don’t you worry. You work on Viola, and the co-op will set to work on Sophia.’ Mrs Oborne’s laugh was hearty.
All four were standing in the corridor as the workers returned, because they could tell Mrs Oborne hadn’t finished. ‘Mark you,’ she continued, ‘they’ll get to work on Viola too, make her feel sorry for Sophia. Aye, we can start that on the bus, all of us. Poor wee thing, we can say, with all them bairns and the worry of Ralph, and there’s Mr Massingham right busy, and how can she manage when the nanny went months ago after making a fuss about a few wet beds? I mean to say, what if Sophia breaks in half, eh? What happens to the bairns then? It would be our faults for not doing more …’
