Girls on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  ‘Aye, to that,’ Tom Bedley agreed, as Joe nodded. They sat in silence, watching the birds, then working out which to sell for there was a market coming up, near the Town Moor in Newcastle.

  Si murmured, ‘Wars may come and go, but birds go on for ever.’

  Tom Bedley smiled, sipping his beer. ‘Could do with a bit of extra money, so we could find an ounce or two of meat being offered by some toerag for the women. Don’t hold with it normal, but I don’t give a damn if it’s off the back of a bliddy lorry. Our Sarah’s reet pasty. Them damned chemicals turn ’em to tired old women, yellow, itchy an’ all. And I’m her da, and it’s up to me, but I canna do owt.’

  Joe nodded. ‘I heard Fran tell our Ben that Massingham stood Davey and her a lunch in London.’

  Simon and Tom stared. ‘What, the whelp?’ Tom asked.

  Joe shook his head. ‘Don’t be daft, they’d know better than to tek it from him. He’d want his pound of flesh as a thanks – if not now, sometime, and they’ve had enough of that sort of thing with his hanging about. No, ’twas the old man. Fran told Ben she had a slice of lamb, a whole thick slice. She were right gobsmacked. Yet, before the war she’d not have thought anything to a slice of lamb to herself.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘Think on, lad. You’re forgetting when times were bad we’d have t’choose between lamb or just gravy on a Sunday, or any damned day, come to that.’

  Simon stood and pressed close to the birds’ cage, studying one whose crop was looking too full.

  ‘Leave the lad,’ Tom called.

  Joe lifted his beer, waving it at Simon. ‘Aye, Si, if’n you get that close it’ll keel over from beer fumes, you daft pillock.’

  Simon laughed; the bird fluffed its feathers and hopped along the perch. Joe called, ‘It’s intoxicated, you daft beggar. It’s dancing.’

  Tom, head down, was swilling his beer. Joe asked, ‘Reading the tea leaves, lad? What’s our future then?’

  Tom replied, ‘Best we don’t know, our Joe. Nay, just wondering how the girls will do in this competition of theirs. Would do ’em good to win the beggar, and Lordy, they can sing. I was fair gobsmacked at the beck. Do Beth good an’ all, cheer her on a bit. Our Sarah said they performed today, just when they were all fair whacked, and it went down a treat, but Beth were missed.’

  Sarah ran for the bus the next morning, glad of the long sleep. Snow had fallen in the night and was already a few inches thick, but crunchy, so not a lot of slip sliding. She was even more pleased to see Stan waiting with Fran at the bus shelter, his shoulders hunched against the wind, his muffler tied tight, snow settling on his cap. She looked, and there, as she’d known they would be, were Sid and Norm sheltering in the lee, cupping their hands round a match as they tried to light their cigarettes, but the matches kept being doused by the falling snow.

  Stan hugged her tight, then held her away, studying her closely. ‘Right, you two lasses, you make sure you’ve won the singing and then you can take us all to London, where you’ll be stars and keep us in the lap of luxury. Failin’ that, get moved somewhere to give your bodies a break.’

  More women were arriving, chatting, scratching, and wrapping their scarves tightly round their throats and faces. Mrs Oborne called, ‘Mek way for the workers, lad.’

  Stan called, ‘Mitherers, you mean.’

  He kissed Sarah, ducking Mrs Oborne’s hand, which missed him deliberately, but caught his cap. She tossed it to Maisie, who threw it to Fran, who whirled it above her head, then turned and tossed it to Sid, shouting, ‘Go, fetch, Stan, and put Sarah down or you’ll be late for your shift.’

  He laughed as Bert drove the bus in from Hawton, stopping it with a pumping of the screeching brakes, though it still slid a fraction. Stan cocked a head at the cab. ‘Them brake linings sound in need of a look-see, Bert, and your nearside tyre’s looking a bit worn. Yer need chains if this snow gets worse.’

  Bert leaned out of his cab. ‘There’s a war on, laddie, or hadn’t you noticed down in t’pit? Where do the depot get new tyres before the webbing’s showing? And Gawd knows where the chains are. Come on, ladies, get in, the snow’s getting heavier.’

  Stan waved, kissed Sarah once more and headed off after Sid and Norm, and the three of them jostled one another as the girls watched them take the short cut they usually bypassed because the dogs peed down it, but there was never hide nor hair of them when the snow was falling. Beth came running now, slithering. Sarah watched, her heart going out to her, seeing that she couldn’t have slept from the darkness of her eyes, but, aye, here she was, coming to work. She and Fran waited and they boarded together, Fran sitting with Marjorie, leaving Sarah and Beth to sit together.

  As Bert drew away, Sarah listened to Beth talking of the funeral tea her mam was worrying about, and interrupted. ‘Don’t let her. The co-op ladies are bustling, and not with rugs. They’re pooling their rations and making all sorts.’

  Fran called across the aisle, ‘Aye, me mam’s going round to yer mam to sort it out. She was on her way as I left, then she’ll go on to her ARP thing.’

  Mrs Oborne called then. ‘Aye, don’t let her fret. It’s all taken care of, you can bank on that. I’ve baked a few honey biscuits and added me last capful of sherry to the mix. Fair broke me heart, I can tell you, but I had a good sniff before it went in.’

  Even Beth laughed, and soon she was chatting just as much as before. As they reached the Factory, she shared with Sarah that she’d actually slept really well. Her da’s coughing and choking for weeks before had kept them awake, and she reckoned her mam had slept too.

  They showed their passes at the gates, and moved on to the changing rooms, past the rows of huts, including those underground where the shells were filled. Sarah shuddered.

  In the changing rooms they saw chairs against the wall, and in came two security officers as usual, but they had another six women with them, in flowered overalls. The girls looked at them, but then were distracted as they were checked for contraband by the security officers while the six women waited by the chairs. Then Miss Ellington stuck her head round the door. ‘I’ve said until I’m sick, sore and tired that you should get your hair cut, and have you? No. Today, you will. But in recompense you will no longer have to undress. You’ll merely be checked as usual. It’s time-wasting and undignified and I won’t have it.’

  The bus team looked at one another, then at the chairs, which the women were pulling away from the walls, before drawing out scissors from their pockets, then grinned at Miss Ellington’s news. Mrs Oborne called, ‘We can say no to the hair?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Miss Ellington said. ‘I just thought it would save you all a couple of pennies for it’s free.’

  At that, no one objected, and indeed, they were pleased.

  ‘So,’ Miss Ellington continued, ‘you will sit here, wearing these overalls.’ One of the security officers, a Mrs Gains, held up flowered overalls and a towel, while the other security officer, Mrs Raydon, grinned like the Cheshire cat.

  Miss Ellington went on. ‘Mrs Raydon, over to you. I have others to beard in their changing rooms. Hurry, please. Work to be done, but I will have my girls safe, and if you won’t do it yourselves … By the way, stemming today. Wellingtons please.’

  The cutting was quick: the bits of cut hair which fell down their necks to their backs prickled, but what was another itch on top of those already existing, for heaven’s sake? Once finished, they all fluffed out their hair. Sarah thought it felt good, free somehow. In no time at all they were in their proper overalls, their turbans on, their belts tied tight, and wearing Wellingtons. Amelia caught up to them as they filed out.

  Amelia said, ‘I am available to sing in Beth’s place, should it all be too much. I thought to tell you when I accompanied you to see how Beth was, but I felt perhaps it was inappropriate.’

  ‘Is that reet? Well thank you kindly,’ Mrs Oborne called. ‘But Beth is here, so you go on enjoying the office, and its choir, pet, eh?’

  Th
ey were all being hustled along by Miss Ellington, who had reappeared, and who told each one of them that from next week they’d be in the sewing shop for a good long break. But they’d been promised that before, so they all just smiled.

  At lunch Sarah, Beth and Fran sat together, eating their omelettes, which seemed as rubbery as the thingummybobs they filled with the ‘something’ powder that puffed up into their faces and filled the air. Mrs Oborne was telling them about the wall hanging she was making, going for the looped finish, not the proggy shaggy. As the clock ticked towards the end of their dinner hour, they noticed that the office choir had entered and was standing near the stage. They were followed by Miss Ellington, with her clipboard.

  Mrs Raydon stood by Fran’s table and reached for her pudding spoon to bang on the table. Maisie yelled, ‘Take cover, the flak’s about to fly.’

  Fran grabbed her spoon and licked the rice pudding off it, realising that her ulcers seemed better. Thank you, lavender, she thought. Mrs Raydon took the spoon back, and whacked the table three times. Silence fell. Maisie called out again, this time saying, ‘I’d check that for dents, our Fran.’ The table burst out laughing, but Mrs Raydon shouted, ‘Silence, for Pete’s sake.’

  Amelia was standing close to Miss Ellington, her face set. The light dawned, for of course Amelia would in all likelihood have typed it up, so she already knew. So had The Factory Girls won? Is that why she had made the offer this morning? But no, all the other choirs were so good, so Amelia was just being kind.

  Ellington said, ‘We should have a drum roll. Perhaps Marjorie and Valerie would like to give us one?’ Their table looked at one another, and laughed.

  The canteen laughed, and even the catering team were out from behind their hatch now. Miss Ellington cleared her throat. ‘The judging was difficult, as always, because we wanted you all to win, but nonetheless we collected all the votes from this sector, then collated the figures with the other sectors’ votes. We noted the greatest percentage of votes for any one performance. We then added our own votes and reasons. Just now we mentioned drums. Well, the winners included many ingredients within just the one performance. Music, singing, humming, harmony, and even a pencil.’

  Miss Ellington held up the clipboard. These tables were looking round at one another, then at The Factory Girls. Mrs Oborne muttered, ‘Does she mean what I think she does?’

  Maisie yelled, ‘Who the bliddy hell won, then?’

  Above the laughter, Miss Ellington called out, ‘The Factory Girls.’

  The whole canteen was laughing, cheering and whistling and perhaps it was only Fran and Sarah, and possibly Beth, who noticed Amelia storm from the hall as Maisie put her fingers in her mouth and added a piercing whistle. Mavis from the next table down yelled, ‘Howay, grand drumming, Val and Marjorie, reckon that tipped it.’

  Mrs Oborne called, ‘No, ’twas me waving me pencil about like a a demented canary, so put a sock where it belongs, our Mavis.’

  Everyone was laughing, everyone was proud, the whole damned canteen, it seemed. Finally Miss Ellington waved for silence. ‘Now we wait to see if the wireless is really coming.’

  Mavis pretended to pull a sock out of her mouth and shouted, ‘I reckon we should have a concert even if they don’t, with all, or at least some, of the choirs.’

  Sarah yelled, ‘Aye, and it should be for Christmas, to raise funds for those bombed out. We’ll be working over Christmas anyway, so let’s have some fun. Miss Ellington, can we use the canteen?’

  There were wild cheers as Miss Ellington said she’d try, and then the cheers subsided to chatter. Some of The Factory Girls choir started humming the song, while at other tables they talked of other songs to learn if there was to be a concert. Fran, Beth and Sarah thought it should be carols, and suddenly it was as though life had lifted itself up off the floor again.

  As they wound their way back to the stemming section, Mrs Oborne looked at them all. ‘If the wireless comes, we’ll sing for Mr Smith, and all them miners who haven’t made it through this year, eh?’

  Beth whispered to Sarah, ‘Did you see Amelia leave, and her face?’

  Mrs Oborne heard. ‘Well, she made her bed in the office, so she must lie in it. Beth’s back, so she mustn’t try to muscle in. We can’t be dodging about, can we, and you three make a grand sound? I had hopes for the lass, tis a shame, if she goes back to the way she was.’

  Fran, Beth and Sarah looked at one another. ‘Can’t be dodging about, eh? You can if you’re in someone’s bad books.’

  The rest of them shouted, ‘And we always are.’ The laughter carried on along the corridor as they passed posters that beseeched them to keep mum.

  ‘Not a chance, pet,’ yelled Maisie.

  Somehow the rest of the shift flew by, and the journey home with Bert seemed fast too. They dropped Valerie and the others off at Sledgeford, and continued to Massingham, piling off the bus, still singing, and Maisie almost fell into the arms of Ralph. Sarah closed her eyes and pulled Fran on, but Ralph stepped in front of them. ‘I can walk you home, Fran.’

  Sarah started to say, ‘No—’ but Fran overrode her.

  ‘No, I’m walking with me marrers.’

  Ralph stood his ground. ‘I’m only offering to walk you home.’

  Fran doggedly continued, walking around him and saying, ‘And I’m only telling you I’m walking with me friends.’

  Ralph came alongside Fran. Sarah and Beth snatched looks at one another and Beth slipped behind and eased in between Ralph and Fran. The girls carried on walking and Fran heard Ralph mutter, ‘Davey’s gone, he’s left you here alone. The least I can do is walk you home in his place, since I feel guilty he was hurt because of me. And where’s your lovely hair?’

  Fran just kept walking as she said, ‘Me hair’s gone to keep me safe. Thank you, Mr Massingham, but as I keep saying, there is no need for guilt or the need to make amends, it’s not just having me hair cut that makes me safe. I make meself safe, and as I say, I am to marry Davey, and there is no need for anyone to take his place.’

  Even to her the words sounded like they should be spouted by an actress on a stage. The girls turned down the back lane. Ralph was left standing, while Beth whispered, ‘Guilty, my arse. He just wants to get into yer knickers.’

  The other two laughed. But Sarah said, ‘We ought to tell Stan he’s still trying.’

  Fran walked even more quickly. ‘That’s exactly who we mustn’t tell, because he’ll do something that can’t be undone and then Mr Massingham will have to choose his son above us, and we’ll be out of our house. Ralph’s just being a bliddy nuisance because he thinks Davey’s not here, and that I’ll fall at his feet.’

  Beth said, as though deep in thought, ‘When you think of it, he’s been right snotty since his mam died and his da married the nanny. He’s more’n a bit twisted me da reckoned, a one for holding a grudge …’ She fell silent.

  ‘Well, he’ll not get me,’ Fran muttered, and Sarah was glad it was Davey who’d taken his ball and Fran who was copping it, for Fran was strong enough to stand her ground, whereas she, Davey’s sister, was a little mouse, and she hated herself for it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Davey looked out of his attic-room window, relieved to be there at last. The train had broken down near the station, and had been shunted into a siding until repairs could be carried out. He’d walked along the tracks to the station they’d recently passed through to make a phone call to Mr Massingham, because he didn’t know who else to tell about his delayed arrival at Bletchley Park. He explained to him about the pig’s ear of a journey, and the old boy had said he’d sort it with those expecting him.

  It was only last night that Davey had finally arrived at his village digs, in time to crash into bed in a room shared with another Bletchley worker who had left early for work, it seemed. He looked to the right, down the street, and there, just a few hundred yards away, was a bombed building. So even here they had not escaped.

  He ate
breakfast with his landlady’s young children staring at him from behind their mother’s skirts. He said, ‘Off to school?’

  The boy of about seven said, ‘What’d he say, Mum?’

  The mother, tired, with grey in her hair, was apologetic. ‘Could you speak slowly, Mr Bedley. We’re not used to … Well, the way you speak.’

  He did so. The lad said ‘Yes.’ That was all. Davey finished his toast, drank his tea with no milk. There had been no range spluttering in the kitchen when he’d knocked on the door, but he’d seen a cooker, gas he’d thought, as he was directed by his landlady to the dining room. He checked his watch and said slowly, ‘Aye, I must be off.’

  The woman nodded, looking almost scared, as though he was from another planet. The boy came running after him. ‘Why’ve you got them marks on your hands and face?’ He was pointing to Davey’s blue scars.

  ‘I got them digging for coal,’ he said, again slowly.

  ‘Coal? Where’d you dig for coal?’

  ‘In the ground.’

  ‘You’re stupid, it comes on a lorry.’

  Davey gave up, put on his cap and said, ‘Not sure when I’ll be back, Mrs Siddely.’ When no answer came and the boy ran back down the hall, Davey called slowly, ‘Not sure when I’ll be back.’

  Mrs Siddely came to the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a towel. ‘Right you are.’

  Davey caught the staff bus outside the pub. It would return him, and pick up others for a different shift. He smiled to himself as the thought of Fran doing the same came to him, but the picture tugged at his heart too much, and he turned away from it.

  The bus trundled along the lanes, picking up more people, including a great many women, who moved along the aisle looking for seats that were all taken. He rose, taking his weight on his good leg, and gestured a woman to his seat. She smiled her thanks. He didn’t speak because he couldn’t face the incomprehension. The bus stopped near the gates of Bletchley Park and they all disembarked and made their way up to the guards, showing their passes, and the pole was raised. The drive was concrete to begin with, then turned to gravel. He used his stick because his leg hurt too much to be trusted to take his weight. There were others alongside, and one lad, from Lancashire, said, ‘Haven’t a bloody clue what to do, and where to go. Oxford, were you?’