by Annie Clarke
Davey grinned. ‘Nay, lad. Massingham.’
The young man said, ‘Oh, I don’t know that university. Where do you think we go?’
There was an old man standing in front of the grand house, pointing to the right, where there were a number of large huts with concrete walls alongside the hut walls. Perhaps for protection if attacked? Who knew, because Davey certainly didn’t. The lad said, ‘Oh, well, that’s a shame. I thought we’d be swanning about in a stately home, but we’ll just have to get used to it. Would have been nice to be posh for a bit. My mum would have been impressed.’
Davey smiled at him as he limped along. ‘Aye, but you’d not be able to tell her.’
The young man laughed. ‘Too right. Daniel’s the name, and you’re …?’
‘Davey, Davey Bedley.’
Daniel walked on, as though he was thinking. ‘I say, not the Bedley who sets the crosswords?’
‘Not sure if I’d have to kill you if I said yes?’
Daniel laughed again. ‘Ah yes, indeed.’
They were waved into one of the huts that smelled of fresh paint. With each step, the hut seemed to shake. It was large, with a door at the end of the corridor, and other doors off either side. They opened the door at the end, peering in because they didn’t know if they should. It was a large room, with drawn curtains, even though it was daytime.
To stop peepers? Davey wondered. There were a few men and many women in the room working at strange typing machines housed in heavy wooden boxes, or that’s what they looked like at first sight. The racket was appalling, as keys were pressed relentlessly and things whirred, and clicked. Daniel and he were waved in by an elderly woman standing just inside the door. No one looked up.
The elderly woman, who seemed to be in charge, pointed to two chairs set at a long table, at which women and a few men were already hard at work on the machines. ‘Yours, lads. Put your things there, next to your machines, but don’t get settled. We’ll be on the move in a moment.’
Davey set his pencil case and notebook down next to his machine, not sure what he should have brought, and fascinated by the machine, which had several rows of strange typing keys and what looked like rotar wheels at the top. It reminded him of a shop till, mixed with a typewriter. He thought of Fran tapping away in the office she had worked in, then shut off the thought, because he missed her too much.
A few women came in, some in uniform, some not, and were given places at the table too. ‘I’m Norah,’ the elderly woman said finally. ‘Newcomers, follow me.’ They were taken through a door at the back into a much smaller room where they were given a talk about secrecy, and the honour of working there, and about the fact that they were graduates.
‘I’m not,’ Davey said.
‘Maybe, but you must have skills, so pipe down,’ Norah said.
Davey grinned, and Daniel elbowed him in the ribs. She continued. ‘You will be handling enemy communications so sensitive that it could lose us the war if you speak of them, and now may I remind you that you have signed the Official Secrets Act. Therefore, if you do speak of anything you see or hear at Bletchley Park, you will be dismissed and probably marched straight to prison, whether or not you are a graduate, young man.’ Her gimlet eyes peered at Davey.
She explained that the British had listening stations all over Britain and were able to intercept enemy communications between the enemy’s forces, not to mention the secret services. These intercepts were couriered here, thousands a day, to be decoded.
‘Your machines are copies of the German Enigma coding machine. We are now able to break the settings the Germans use to encipher – don’t ask me how – though what I will tell you is that finer minds than ours have devised a way. It seems the German settings change every twenty-four hours. So every twenty-four hours we adjust our settings to theirs.
Norah was pacing up and down in front of them now, talking as though by rote. ‘You will read the instructions someone will be placing by your machines as we speak …’ she checked her watch. ‘Now. You will adjust your machines according to the daily setting. You will receive endless coded messages. You will punch these into your machine and you will place the decoded messages on a pile, which will go for translation. It is not for you to wonder where. It is not for you to wonder about anything.’ Norah smiled round at them all. ‘However, you might find that you recognise a certain operator’s “signature”. Perhaps he always starts his message in the same way, or ends it thus. It is now that you take note and tell us, but no need to wonder why.’
As she talked, something clicked in Davey’s brain, and he knew that he had found his home, amongst work such as this for he understood why tracing a particular operator was important. Someone, somewhere at Bletchely could track his movements, and those of the outfits he is messaging, and perhaps get an idea of what the troop movements might be.
Eventually Norah stopped pacing, and stood quite still, smiling at them all. ‘Finally, I repeat: none of you will talk of your work, or stray into other huts, or ask questions. This hut is your world, this hut will drive you to aspirin, such is the noise, click click clickety click. Make sure you have some upon your person. Take advantage of the clubs within this world, the grounds are pretty, the lake might freeze if you fancy some skating, there are chess groups, music, start one if there’s not one you wish to join. Remember that intelligence is comprised of bricks, which can create a wonderful structure. Each brick is crucial. You are crucial. But keep your mouths shut.’
Norah stopped, and Davey knew that Fran would love her, because though this woman looked like a granny she had the power of a pitman’s wife.
Norah checked her watch. Motes danced in the air as she rushed on. ‘Now basic housekeeping. You are on the eight to four o’clock shift. Next week it will be four to midnight. The week after, midnight to eight in the morning. There will be a meal break in the canteen. The toilets are outside.’
Just like the netty at home, Davey thought, as Daniel and most of them looked appalled. This was his life now – work, sleep, and remember to speak slowly so people could understand and try and get your bliddy head to stop whirling as you try to understand what the hell she’s talking about. But the thrill of it was, he already did understand.
Fran tied up the belt of her overalls in the changing rooms thinking the dog-end of November was showing itself to be cruel. The snow was already standing in high drifts against walls, but at least Mr Smith’s funeral had taken place before the bitter cold struck and life was back in its routine. Well, she was thinking that, but here was Miss Ellington just telling The Factory Girls that the wireless crew had arrived, as she had warned them they would only a couple of days before, because the later they knew about it, the less chance of idle talk.
Apparently, The Factory Girls would be summoned to the canteen an hour before lunchtime, which was when the half-hour show would be broadcast. Fran’s mam had thought they should use ‘the Co-op Girls’ instead, because their mams were the co-op women. ‘Too late,’ Fran had laughed. ‘It’s decided. You’d best start your own choir, eh?’
Now, here in the canteen, The Factory Girls’ nerves were fraying as the men from the Home Service huddled together, referring to their clipboards while the choir hummed to warm up at the end of the room. They watched as microphones were slung over the steel girders above the stage and left to dangle. The Factory Girls pulled off their turbans, having set their short hair overnight in what rollers they had, patting and fluffing it, but nothing seemed to make anyone’s hair look anything other than a mess, so they replaced the turbans and tried to forget what they looked like.
Miss Ellington came up, waving a sheet of paper. ‘Right, it seems I have drawn the short straw, as apparently the administrative department are far too busy to fiddle about with something as silly as this, though they’ll be here for the performance, or so they say. So, as I’m in charge, and as the kitchen is agreeable, it seems sensible that all of those who can be here as the audience will eat l
unch early, after which the canteen will be cleared of cutlery, plates and anything that rattles. Workers’ Playtime will then be broadcast, and I have been told by those tinpot gods over yonder that you, the choir, must be standing over there, by that table.’
She turned and pointed. ‘Oh,’ she said, sounding surprised, for Amelia was handing round a tray of tea to the ‘gods’, who seemed to own the table. She wore lippy, her long hair was freshly curled and brushed, her smile was broad and her heels high.
Valerie muttered, ‘She was washing her hair last night, and look, she’s wearing stockings with those high heels. She weren’t wearing them on the bus, were she, which she got this morning with us. I wondered what she was up to catching it with me, as she weren’t on till nine, like the rest of the Administration Office.’
Miss Ellington clapped her hands. ‘Come on, pets, let’s try and ignore anything that grates.’
Valerie pursed her lips. ‘Aye, I will in a minute, but I’ve got to tell you all that she said last evening that she’d be more in tune with the wireless people because she’s from the south, and more their sort.’
Mrs Oborne grinned. ‘Aye, don’t fret, she probably doesn’t mean anything by it. It stands to reason they can probably understand her, whereas we’re Geordies from the wild lands of the North, so we probably scare them out of what wits they have.’
The choir laughed. The huddle of clipboards turned and frowned. Amelia tottered over to the serving hatch with the tray of drained cups and saucers. A man with his spectacles on a leather string around his neck clapped his hands, beckoning The Factory Girls to him. Sarah nudged Fran. ‘Reckon we should be in step and salute when we get there, eh?’
The laughter was relaxed as they made their way across in their overalls, still wearing turbans even though they were on sewing machines now. The clean room was putting paid to the itches and hives, but the yellow was taking longer. They stood before the man, whose pot belly was hanging over his trousers. He coughed a small pretend cough as he looked them over, and suddenly Fran was furious. She had listened to her da heading back from the pit yesterday, coughing his lungs up, and they’d only buried Mr Smith ten days ago, and here was this white-collared clipboard king sizing them up.
She turned away, unable to look at him, and saw Amelia making her way over, her smile eager. Mr Pot Belly, whose real name Fran couldn’t remember, explained that once lunch was over there was not to be any crashing and banging.
He hesitated as the women burst out laughing. Mrs Oborne said, ‘Aye, we hope there’s not neither. Who knows which of us’d have our heads blown off if there were.’
Mr Pot Belly looked blank and Fran wondered if the men still huddled together knew what sort of factory this was? It was supposed to be secret after all, but if a bang happened, all would be revealed soon enough. As she thought of secrets, she saw Davey, as clear as day. She had spoken to him on the public telephone yesterday evening and he’d seemed grand, but not too grand, or any happier than she was.
Mr Pot Belly said, ‘I want the four lead singers over here, please.’
Sarah looked from Beth to Fran. ‘Four?’
Amelia reached them. ‘I told Mr Fraser that Beth had been unable to sing for the competition, and he agreed it would be wise to have four of us, just in case Beth was overcome.’
Fran looked at Beth. ‘And are you overcome, Beth?’
Beth shook her head. ‘Never felt more undercome, our Fran.’
The three of them, and the choir, just looked at Amelia. Fran wondered yet again who was the real Amelia? The one who had supported them against Swinton, and worked to reach the target, or this one? Sarah said quietly, ‘If you wanted to be one of the lead singers, Amelia, why didn’t you say? We could all have rehearsed together.’
Amelia shook her head; her hair bounced and gleamed. ‘I didn’t want to intrude, and all I did was mention that Beth had had a recent loss, and he said I should sing too, to support you just in case.’
‘In case what?’ Beth asked quietly.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Amelia snapped. ‘It’s just what he said.’
At that moment the leader of the band called to them. ‘Best have a run-through, girls. The clock’s ticking. Come on over. I’ll count you in, on three. You all right with that?’
Mrs Oborne called, ‘Oh aye, we know our numbers to ten.’
Mr Pot Belly tutted, along with Amelia, but the band roared with laughter as The Factory Girls hurried across. Amelia followed in her high heels, which added two inches, so that she towered over the three lead singers. ‘So, am I to sing with you?’ she asked, tossing her hair.
‘Perhaps she should,’ murmured Beth to Fran and Sarah. ‘She’s obviously practised in Valerie’s mam’s mirror with all this tossing of the locks, so she’s probably practised the song too. Let me check.’ With a voice like ice, she called across to Valerie, who answered that there had been singing from Amelia’s room, and her voice was all right.
The choir had been getting itself together all the time this was going on, and now Mrs Oborne came to stand in front of them near the band – on the floor, not the stage, because there was still so much microphone slinging and stage adjustment going on. She made sure that the contraltos were to the left, the sopranos to the right behind the three, no, four, lead singers.
When she turned to check that the band was ready, the leader was nodding, impressed. ‘Well done. Let’s hope that you sing as well as your Miss Ellington seems to think you do. I’m Stan, by the way.’
‘Like me brother,’ Fran called.
He replied, grinning, his bald head shining, ‘Then I’m Stan Two. I know my place.’ The choir laughed, liking this middle-aged man who seemed to have a wealth of common sense and experience under his belt. Stan 2 called to the band. ‘Ready.’
The saxophonist waved his instrument, the pianist rushed to the piano and waved, the drummer did a rattle on his drums.
‘Howay, drums?’ Mrs Oborne asked.
‘We go on as we’ve rehearsed, Mrs Oborne, with our own too,’ said Fran.
‘On three then,’ Stan 2 said, looking confused at their conversation, so confused clearly that he stopped. ‘What drums?’
Mrs Oborne said, ‘You’ll see, and it’s nothing for you to worry about.’ Stan 2 just nodded. Mrs Oborne put up her finger. ‘Wait one.’
She hurried over to Pot Belly and snatched his pen from his hand. ‘Ta,’ she said, and hurried back. ‘Got me baton,’ she said. The choir grinned and Stan 2 laughed, then counted them in. They were late and petered out while the band played on. Fran felt the sweat break out on her forehead. She braced herself as she looked across at Stan 2, who waved the band to silence.
‘Not a problem, Mrs Oborne. Maybe this time?’
The girls could see that the men in the huddle were shaking their heads and their hearts sank. What if they weren’t on the wireless, with their mams listening, and all their friends too, for of course they had given them the time, said it was the Home Service, and suggested they might hear something interesting. And, Fran thought, when he’d phoned Davey had said he’d get to a wireless too.
The music began again, and this time The Factory Girls were off perfectly: ‘All or nothing at all …’
The choir harmonised like a dream, swaying to the music and following Mrs Oborne, then the quartet came in, and the staccato drums, at which Stan 2 looked around, nodding and grinning, the pianist too. Across the hall, Mr Pot Belly had his hand up, quietening his team while he listened. It was then Fran heard that Amelia was just a beat behind, though not too noticeably. Mrs Oborne gestured the choir in for the second verse, and now they changed from humming to singing, giving it their all. As Fran, Sarah and Beth sang, they could hear the glorious harmonisation, and with a swoop of her arm and Pot Belly’s pen, Mrs Oborne brought them to the quiet penultimate ‘No, no,’ before building to a slow, tender crescendo: ‘All or nothing at all.’
At the end there was silence, and Fran breathed deepl
y as the band members just looked at one another, then over at Mr Pot Belly. The stars had come to the door of the huge store cupboard that was acting as a dressing room. All right, Fran thought in the silence, they’d just do it again until they got it right, and make sure, somehow, that Amelia was actually on the beat.
But then the band applauded, well, everyone did, except the huddle of men, and Mr Pot Belly. Stan 2 grinned. ‘Bit of work’s gone into that, I reckon, and on the replay whoever was a beat behind might just scramble to get on top of it, though with the rest of you so accurate most wouldn’t notice. Also, seems to me that whoever was supposed to be overwhelmed in the lead-singer group was anything but. May I offer my condolences to Beth, who is, I think, the lass who suffered the loss? So, I repeat, Amelia, just get on the beat.’ As he said this he winked at Mrs Oborne.
Amelia blushed and the others relaxed. Stan 2 turned his back, spoke quietly to his band, and they moved on to sort out the rest of their music. As the stars were gathering for their own run-throughs, Amelia drifted back to Mr Pot Belly and his team, a notepad in her hand. The clatter of lunch preparations began, and the choir queued to get theirs first, though they were so nervous they barely ate, each running through the song, repeating it again and again. Amelia, happy to go without food, stuck to Pot Belly like glue.
As the lunch was being cleared away, the choir stood about at the side of the hall. They were ignored by Mr Pot Belly who, it transpired, was the producer or something like that, and was busy virtually stroking the performers. ‘Do they purr, d’you think?’ muttered Maisie.
Amelia was smiling at the group of men from London who still clustered around Pot Belly, all southerners from the sounds of them, all like her. She was making notes on a clipboard she had found somewhere. But, thought Fran, who could blame her? Just as she, Sarah and Beth were amongst their own, so was Amelia at this moment.
