‘I’m not used to getting up in the middle of the night, and I’m not at all sure I want to get used to it,’ Jenny griped as she hoisted herself out of her seat to join the queue of girls jamming the train aisles.
‘It gets better,’ Myrtle said kindly as she moved in behind her.
‘How long have you been working here?’
‘Six months.’
‘I’ll never last that long.’
The train doors opened and cool air blew in. After the close, fetid stuffiness of the carriages it had the bracing effect of an Arctic breeze. They moved forward slowly, shuffling off the train, along the platform and into the huge sheds that housed the changing rooms. Men through one entrance, women another. Jenny had been amazed by the size of the women’s cloakroom which was divided into two sides by a high barrier: a ‘dirty side’ to house their streetwear, and a ‘clean side’ where their work clothes were kept.
The girls ranged up in front of rails of coat-hangers and started undressing. Coats, jackets, skirts, blouses, dresses, shoes and jewellery were hung away in lockers. Jenny let down her waist-length hair, meticulously careful, after heavy warnings about the catastrophic damage just one stray spark from a metal object could cause, to pull out every hairpin. Crossing the barrier to the ‘clean’ side, she took down the trousered, sludge-coloured overalls she’d been issued with on her arrival, pulled them on and fastened the row of rubber buttons. Even the belt had a rubber buckle. The cloth was thick, heavy and itchy like Welsh flannel, and about as glamorous in her eyes. Tying her hair back with ribbons, she tucked it into her equally drab dust hat. The last thing she did was lace up the rubber-soled shoes that looked even more cumbersome than army boots.
‘Stunning,’ Judy mocked.
‘All I can say is I’m glad there aren’t many men around to see me.’
‘We’re here to work, and meet production targets,’ a forewoman’s voice barked from the back of the cloakroom, ‘not attract men.’
‘Not that there’s any around here worth attracting,’ Judy retorted.
‘You say something, Crofter?’
‘Not me, Miss.’
Walking into the factory area, Jenny was struck by the same low level of noise she’d noticed on the introductory tour the day before. The only sounds were the radio playing softly in the background, and the small clicks as shells were picked up and put down. Going into the work cubicle designated as hers, she sat behind the screen designed to protect her face and body from the worst effects of possible explosion, picked up a pair of tongs and began the slow, laborious process of pouring powder into caps. It was tedious and repetitive with none of the aura of excitement she’d associated with the manufacture of munitions when she’d volunteered for the work.
Long before the bell signalled tea-break she longed to tear down the screen, abandon the tongs, bring the caps closer and use her hands to pour the powder. Her supervisor, Myrtle Rees, recognised the danger signs of impatience and walked up behind her.
‘You’re doing great, Jenny. Slow and steady does it. It’s the careful ones like you who are best for this work.’
‘Thanks, Myrtle, I needed that.’ She pushed back a stray hair that had escaped the confines of her cap.
Myrtle walked on down the line. She hadn’t looked for or wanted promotion, preferring to be at the cutting edge of the job actually making shells. But now, when she was actively involved in the training of so many raw recruits, she could see how her experience could help others, and in the long run increase production.
She reached the end of the line and glanced across the factory floor. Through a glass partition she could see Wyn standing with a group of men, taking instruction from Erik who was showing them how to operate the machine that pressed out the metal casings for the largest shells. The one thing all the workers, men and women, had in common was the desire to turn out as many top-quality bullets, bombs and shells as they could to aid the war effort.
She knew Wyn: he would make a careful and conscientious machine operator. She only hoped the other men would realise that and respect him for wanting to contribute despite his disability.
But even her concern for her brother couldn’t entirely spoil her delicious sense of anticipation at the evening that lay head. It sparkled like a magical fairy on top of a Christmas tree, only this fairy was actually within reach. She’d never been happier. There were just three more things she wished for: her father to mellow, Wyn to be left alone, and for Huw to ask her to be his wife.
*……*……*
‘Drink after work?’ Judy asked Jenny and Myrtle as they sank into seats in the train carriage at the end of their shift.
‘Drink? You mean a coffee in Ronconi’s?’ Myrtle asked.
‘No, I mean a beer in the White Hart. My throat is drier than a sandbag in a chapel.’
Myrtle was visibly shocked by the suggestion.
‘Don’t give me that look: a load of us are going.’
‘Girls?’ Jenny asked doubtfully.
‘You don’t think women should go into pubs?’
‘My mother would spin in her grave at the thought.’
‘Your mother never slaved all day in a factory doing a man’s job. Come on, we work bloody hard and we’ve earned a break. Our money is as good as the men’s any day. In fact it’s a damned sight better than the miners’, because there’s more of it.’
‘I can’t go, I’m meeting someone.’ Myrtle was glad she had an excuse.
‘Ooh, don’t tell me it’s the copper …’
‘And I have to check on the shop,’ Jenny broke in, seeing Myrtle flinch.
‘I thought Freda was looking after it for you.’
‘She is.’
‘Well then, she’s done it before. You haven’t got a secret man tucked away waiting for you to come home, have you?’
‘No,’ Jenny snapped.
‘Don’t you think it’s time you looked for one?’
‘I’ve only just lost Eddie.’
‘Can’t live in the past.’ Judy cut her short, not wanting to talk about the dead or Dunkirk. Four families in Leyshon Street had lost sons, and there’d been a sort of understanding between her and one of the boys that she’d rather not think about. ‘Come on, just one drink. Sally and the others will be going, won’t you, Sal?’
‘Who’s taking my name in vain?’ Sally shouted from the corridor.
‘Drink? White Hart?’
‘You bet. We’ve persuaded a couple of the boys to go, including that really nice young one with the Liverpool accent. He sends shivers down my spine every time he says hello.’
Judy dug Jenny in the ribs. ‘First round’s on you. Mine’s a pint of bitter.’
‘A pint?’ Jenny echoed, shocked but also excited by the sheer outrageousness of exploring the forbidden, male territory of a pub.
‘I had no idea things had changed so much in Pontypridd,’ Ronnie commented to Tina as she brought her and William’s tea tray into the café. ‘I just saw Judy Crofter, Jenny Powell and a crowd of women walk into the White Hart.’
‘Some of the munitions workers drink there after work.’
‘Women in pubs?’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘Why not? Women work at least as hard as the men these days, and in some cases harder. They’re making their own money, why shouldn’t they spend it where they want?’
‘Do you go into pubs?’ he asked, stunned by the idea of his sisters drinking in a bar.
‘I have done once or twice,’ she confessed breezily, ‘when Gina’s taken over here for me.’
‘And William approves?’
‘William hasn’t got a say in the matter.’
‘What haven’t I got a say in?’ William walked down the stairs behind her.
‘Whether or not I drink in the White Hart.’
‘You go into pubs by yourself!’
‘Not by myself. With Jenny, Judy and that lot.’
‘Women in pubs?’ He crossed his arms and looked at her. �
��The sooner the war’s over and I put you back in the kitchen where you belong, the better.’
‘I’d like to see you try,’ Tina retorted fiercely.
‘Unusual to see you two out and about,’ Ronnie commented in an attempt to deflect the argument.
‘Don’t get your hopes up, we’re going to the pictures,’ Tina informed him crisply.
‘And there’s me thinking that you were going to relieve me so I could have an early night. What are you going to see?’
‘Robert Taylor in Flight Command, although why I have to go and watch the RAF …’
‘You’ll go because I want you to take me,’ Tina said hotly, still burning with indignation.
‘I suppose that’s a good enough reason.’ William offered her his arm.
‘Enjoy yourselves,’ Ronnie called after them. ‘Do you want me to keep you anything back for supper?’
‘After what he’s just said, we’re going the whole hog,’ Tina answered as William opened the door for her. ‘Drink in the New Inn afterwards and fish and chips on the way home.’
Ronnie looked around the deserted café. Too early for the people coming out of the theatres, pictures and pubs, and too late for shoppers, it was a dull and dreary time of day. He wiped down the counter, swept the floor, then sat in a chair with an old copy of the Observer he’d found in the kitchen. Just as he’d begun to scan an editorial threatening all manner of vague punishments for people who persisted in spreading pessimistic and groundless, anti-patriotic rumours, the door opened and Jenny Powell walked in. She took her coat off, and meandered unsteadily to his table.
‘Enjoy your drink?’
‘Not really. Two sherries on an empty stomach is as much as I can take.’
‘I thought you got free meals in the factory canteen?’
‘Not free, tenpence for three courses, and they all tasted like greasy rubber today.’ She took the chair opposite his. ‘So I thought I’d treat myself to tea here instead of going home to cook it.’
‘Looks like you’re finding it hard work.’ Giving up on the article, he folded the paper away.
‘It’s more monotonous than I thought it would be. What are you serving?’
‘Baked beans on toast without butter, Welsh rarebit without much cheese or egg, beans and chips, sausage and chips, dried egg and chips …’
‘What are the sausages like?’
‘Great as long as you don’t want to know what’s in them. If you do, I suggest pastie and chips. The pasties aren’t up to Alma’s standard, but I guarantee there is some meat in them.’
‘What part of the animal?’
‘Ears, hooves and tail. That’s all that’s left after the army has taken its cut.’
‘Lambs’ or cows’ ears?’
‘Donkeys’, they’re larger.’
‘You’ve persuaded me: pastie and chips. I don’t suppose you could add beans to that as well?’
‘Only if you promise to hide them under your bread and butter. You know the rules.’
‘I’ll eat them so quickly no one will know they were there.’
He went behind the counter, opened the hatch and shouted through the order. ‘I miss not having a waitress to boss around but trade just doesn’t warrant employing one any more.’
‘I doubt you’d find one. I was lucky to get Freda to take over the shop for me.’
‘Do you still want her to?’
‘After all I said about wanting to help the war effort, my pride wouldn’t let me walk out of the factory.’
‘You really do look as though you’re sleeping on your feet.’
‘That’s because I’m not used to the hours. I made the mistake of staying up to listen to It’s That Man Again last night, and there was a request show afterwards. I didn’t get to bed until ten, which was fine when I could lie in until six. Four o’clock is positively uncivilised. Are you working here every night now?’
‘Only until William goes back, then Tina will want to take over again.’
‘I had hoped to invite you for tea one day this week.’
‘Not this week, I’m afraid.’
‘William goes back on Saturday, doesn’t he?’
‘Unless Tina refuses to let him go.’
‘I drew the long straw in work when it came to days off. My first one is next Sunday. I never bother to cook for myself, but I would if I had company. How about dinner then? You’d be doing me a favour.’
He hesitated. She broadened her smile.
‘Sunday will be fine,’ he agreed, wishing he could think of an excuse not to go, but with Tina working, and Gina busy with housework, evacuees and her husband, Sunday was no different to any other day.
‘One o’clock.’ She watched him as he opened the hatch and shouted at the cook to hurry her order. A week without Alexander nagging her to go out with him, or get engaged or married, had been lonely, but there’d also been a wonderful feeling of relief. Knowing he no longer had her key and couldn’t walk into her house unannounced again had brought a sense of freedom.
She should never have become embroiled with a man who wanted so much from her. Ronnie was still mourning Maud, and he had made it perfectly clear in Bethan’s that he didn’t want to get involved with another woman again, but like her, he must miss the physical side of marriage. Probably more – weren’t men supposed to set greater store by it than women?
Thin and wounded, he was still handsome and he was already looking a lot better than when he had arrived. He also knew how to conduct an affair. Hadn’t he proved that by carrying on with Alma all those years and not marrying her? Alexander didn’t know it yet, and neither did Ronnie but she had made up her mind. Soon Ronnie would be visiting her for more than just a meal.
‘You look smart,’ Diana complimented Myrtle as she walked into the living room.
‘Do you think so?’ Myrtle surveyed her image anxiously in the mirror. Her skirt and blouse were neatly pressed but old, her lightweight, summer coat pre-war. She’d done her best with the parazone and Miner’s liquid make-up that the advertisement recommended for munitions workers, and had used up more of her precious cologne, but she still didn’t feel as well turned out as she would have liked.
‘Meeting anyone?’
‘A couple of the girls. We’re going to the theatre.’
‘Gadding about again?’ her father complained from his sofa. ‘You were out all day yesterday.’
‘It was my day off.’
‘Your mother would shake her head at the way you’ve turned out, my girl. If only she knew how you were neglecting your duty. I’m beginning to wonder why I even bothered to have a daughter. All that suffering to bring you into the world, only for you to farm me out to strangers.’
‘Hardly strangers, Mr Rees,’ Megan intervened briskly.
‘Going out twice in one week indeed,’ he continued as though Megan hadn’t spoken. ‘And to a theatre! When was the last time you set foot in chapel, that’s what I’d like to know? The minister was here today. He’s disgusted with the way people are ignoring their spiritual lives, turning aside from worship, just when their prayers are needed most.’
‘I told you, Dad, we hold services in the factory.’
‘The Sabbath is a day of rest.’
‘Not for Hitler and his Nazis.’ Megan pointed at the door behind the old man’s back. ‘Have a good time, love.’
‘Mind if I walk part of the way with you?’ Diana asked. ‘I told Wyn I’d meet him in the New Theatre shop.’
‘I’m only going as far as the Town Hall,’ Myrtle said quickly not sure how much, if anything, her brother had told Diana about her and Huw.
‘It’s better to have company part of the way than none. I’ll get my coat.’
‘Goodnight, Dad.’ Myrtle kissed his withered cheek.
‘I’m not feeling well,’ he snivelled peevishly.
‘Then I’ll give you one of those special pills the doctor left for you,’ Megan offered.
‘It’s not that I
need. I’m cold.’
‘Then have some hot soup. 'Bye, Myrtle.’ Leaving her knitting, Megan opened the door for her.
‘You don’t have to keep it from us.’ Diana linked her arm into Myrtle’s as they walked down the road.
‘Wyn told you?’
‘Wyn’s said nothing, but I was talking to my mother earlier. And don’t worry, it was out of your father’s earshot. All this parazoning, make-up, scent and care with your clothes. There has to be a man.’
‘You sure Wyn hasn’t said anything?’
‘No, but if you’ve told him, you can tell me. I promise not to whisper a word, except to my mother.’ Diana was glad to have something other than her own problems to think about.
‘You won’t say anything to my father? You saw how he was tonight when he thought I was going out with the girls. I don’t know what he’d do if he knew I was seeing a man.’
‘What could he do?’ Diana asked practically.
‘Make life very difficult.’
‘Myrtle, you’re over thirty.’
‘Thirty-eight. ‘
‘Whatever, you’re a grown woman. You hold down a responsible, well-paid job.’
‘Which he hates because he thinks I should be looking after him.’
‘My mother’s glad to do it. It makes her feel she’s doing her bit. She’s nowhere near strong enough to work the hours you do in munitions, so freeing you makes her feel that she’s contributing to the war effort too. But going back to your father, don’t you think it’s time to tell him that you’re old enough to run your own life?’
‘He’d only get upset. He could even have a relapse.’
‘Haven’t you noticed he only has those when he doesn’t get his own way.’
‘I hate rows, and he wouldn’t approve.’
‘Of the man? Is it someone you’ve met in the factory?’
‘No.’
‘Who is it? I’m dying of curiosity, and if Wyn knows he’ll tell me if I ask.’
‘This is only the second time he’s asked me out. It’s probably nothing. Just friendship.’
‘But you like him and hope it’s more?’
‘Yes,’ Myrtle conceded.
‘Then tell.’
‘Promise not to laugh?’ Myrtle finally realised Diana wouldn’t give her any peace until she told her.
Past Remembering Page 23
