Starshine

by John Wilcox

  She carefully replaced both letters in their envelopes, held them both to her lips, put them in her handbag and stood to complete her toilet. Looking at herself in the mirror on the marble-topped washstand, she mouthed a prayer to God, asking Him to look after her boys. For a moment, she regarded herself critically. The face was long – too long and the chin perhaps a bit too square. But the cheekbones were satisfyingly high and the eyes shone this morning, now that she had heard from them. She pulled a green woollen dress over her head – the colour was supposed to match her eyes but it was too dark, she knew that now – shook her hair free and brushed it quickly. She applied a little face powder and rouge (no lipstick; at eighteen she felt still a bit too young for that and, anyway, she disliked its artificiality), grabbed her bag with its precious cargo and launched herself down the stairs, two at a time.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, girl,’ chided her mother. ‘Sit down properly and eat your bacon sandwich.’

  ‘No time, Mum. Can you wrap it up for me and I’ll eat it on the tram?’

  Mrs Johnson sighed. ‘That’s no way to have your food. Give me a minute, then, and drink your tea. What did your letters say? Are they all right?’

  Polly nodded, picked up a cup and took a sip. ‘Yes. Jim’s got a lance corporal’s stripe already and Bertie’s shot a sniper, whatever that is.’

  ‘Golly! Ah well, everyone says they’ll be home by Christmas.’

  ‘No, Mum. For goodness’ sake, it’s November now and it looks as though we’ve lost two battles already.’ Polly read the Birmingham Mail closely and she knew that the BEF and the French had been in severe fighting. It was clear that the Germans were not going to be the pushover that ‘everyone’ had claimed. ‘It’s not going to be as easy as that,’ she said, struggling into her coat. ‘Can’t stop.’ She grabbed the sandwich in its waxed-paper covering. ‘Thanks. See you tonight.’

  Once on the tram, she wolfed down the sandwich, pulled her coat around her against the cold of the morning and read both letters again, snuggling around them as though they themselves would keep her warm. Then she tucked them away carefully and looked unseeingly out of the window, her mind once again addressing the question that consumed most of her waking moments: which one?

  Immediately, Bertie’s face appeared before her, his red hair tumbling over his forehead, his round face grinning and those ridiculously blue eyes looking into hers with a love that was unquestioning and promising her a warmth that she could feel even now, on this cold November morning. Bertie was no sleeping volcano. On the contrary, he erupted every time the two were alone – which was rare, in that the three of them had been inseparable until, that is, the Kaiser had marched into Belgium. The little Irishman made no secret of his love. He proposed a future with him that waved aside the unimportant matter that he had no proper job nor qualifications that might bring security or prosperity. Of course, he had not proposed marriage. He simply insisted that they would marry when she was ready to have him and, in the meantime, the trio would continue to live in warm proximity and he would press his lips to hers and fondle her enticing breasts whenever they were alone. Ah, Bertie … She smiled and brushed away the tear that came whenever she thought of him, warm, passionate and vulnerable out there, in the trenches. She just hoped that Jim would be able to look after him …

  Jim, ‘her affectionate friend’! Jim: tall, quiet, capable, deep. The only time he had kissed her was on the platform at New Street Station when she had waved them goodbye. Then, when Bertie had pushed her lips apart and thrust his tongue through to mingle fiercely with hers, Jim had kissed her hard but chastely on the lips and held her tightly, but briefly. How strange that the fates had thrust the three of them together, living cheek by jowl through childhood. Jim, so very different from Bertie, and yet just as attractive in his own way. He would enfold her in his competence and equally deep love. Oh, she knew that he loved her, even though he never said so. Women knew these things. She swayed as the tram traversed a line crossing on its way up Newtown Row. When was it that she realised that her feelings about them had changed from that of admiring chum to something more warm and deeply unsettling? And why had they both emerged equally as potential lovers at the same time? She sighed. It would have been so much easier, so much more convenient, had one or the other surged ahead in attraction. But no. They marched together in early manhood, as in childhood and teens, as her boon companions; inseparable, the only men she could ever contemplate giving herself to – the only men she fiercely wished to give herself to. But damn and blast it, she couldn’t have them both! Which one, for God’s sake?

  Then her heart lurched as she realised once again that perhaps God would take that decision for her; that a German bullet or shell would kill either one of them or even, horror of horror, kill them both. She bit her lip. She had two much older brothers serving somewhere in France, yet the thought of losing them brought nothing like the agony of being parted from Jim and Bertie. For a moment she felt guilty about that. Then she turned and looked at the shopfronts rattling by and shook her head at her reflection in the tram window. She could not feel ashamed at facing up to her preference. She loved the two of them with a passion that could not be suppressed.

  Polly had left school at thirteen – the same infants and junior school where she had played tomboyishly with her two boys – and she had been an undistinguished scholar. Yet she was no fool. Possessing a strong imagination, she had consumed all the news about Germany’s strong naval and military build-up with a growing dread. It would lead to war, she could see that plainly. And the assassination of that remote archduke at Sarajevo was merely the accidental spark that fired the conflagration. It would be war and her two boys would fight in it.

  She had not for one moment subscribed to the popular myth that it would be a short-lived affair, over in a few short months. The build-up of forces in Germany, France, Russia, Austria and, to a lesser extent, in Britain, must surely lead to a more titanic struggle, lasting for two years, at least. Please God her two boys would come through it safely, leaving her with this sweetly agonising decision to take when she was older and, of course, wiser.

  Polly reported for duty at the Beehive, the old-fashioned drapers in the heart of Birmingham where she worked, only two minutes late. Not enough to earn the disapproval of Mr Bulstrode, the stout and stern general manager. She knew that she had a credit balance with him, for she was good at her job – better, in fact, much better than the stately spinsters whom the world had passed by and who made up the rest of the staff serving in the shop. For Polly not only knew all the merchandise – prices, quality, quantity – intimately, without having to consult the cards, but also had a fashion sense that could advise the customer at the other side of the counter about which cloth and colour would be right for her and the drive to sell it to her with charm. Ah yes, Polly knew that she would be allowed the odd indulgence, for she was irreplaceable.

  Yet, after five years of loyal service in the Beehive, Polly was becoming restless.

  The war was going to continue, she knew that. The men were going to the front now in increasing numbers. Kitchener’s giant, moustached face loomed at her from hundreds of posters, urging young men to answer the call of King and country. There was, as yet, no balancing call to women, for they could not fight. But perhaps that would come, in some way or another. She fretted through that day as she sold cotton reels, strings of bright ribbons and packages of knitting wools. This was all so unimportant, so peripheral. Her boys were doing their bit. Why shouldn’t she?

  As five-thirty came and she headed home, she remained two stops on the tram beyond her normal destination and alighted near Kymestons, the gloomy factory in Witton where she knew that munitions were made. At the weekend she had walked by and seen a notice, advertising the need for workers. She had paid no particular attention to it and therefore had no idea if it was only men they needed. Surely it would be, for women were never used for this kind of work. But perhaps the call to men to join Kitchener
’s Army had had the effect of reversing that policy? She therefore felt a thrill of expectation as she hurried through the drizzle to the work gates.

  The notice remained. It made a direct call to patriotism:

  DO YOUR BIT TO SUPPORT THE LADS AT THE FRONT!

  MEN – AND WOMEN – NEEDED FOR IMPORTANT WAR WORK. LONG HOURS BUT GOOD PAY.

  APPLY WITHIN AND DO YOUR BIT TO DEFEAT KAISER BILL!

  Polly tingled. War work! What did Kymestons make? She had no idea, but Jim had written about being subjected to German shelling. How appropriate if this company made shells – shells that would help to counter the German bombardment and make Jim and Bertie safer. She could do nothing more appropriate to help them. It wouldn’t matter that she would get her hands dirty and work longer hours. She was tired of being ladylike in a fusty old shop, dealing with matrons who didn’t know a mauve from a magenta. This would be striking out for a new kind of independence; something that would match the sacrifices that Jim and Bertie were making out there, in the Flemish muck and fire.

  She made a resolution and immediately spun on her heel and walked back to Turners Lane with a new sense of purpose. There was no chance of gaining time off from the Beehive to apply for the job, so tomorrow she would just have to be ill. And become a war worker!

  She decided that she would tell her parents nothing of this, for they still cherished the thought that by working in a respectable draper’s shop Polly had attained complete fulfilment. So she left at the usual time the next morning but dressed with rather more care. She explained to her mother that the fact that she wore her best hat – a black straw boater trimmed with red roses made of gauze – was ‘just for a change’ and pulled on her best white gloves from her bag once out of the house. As an afterthought, she had put a copy of her birth certificate in her bag.

  It was easy walking distance to Kymestons and, on arrival, she stood outside the grimy building for a moment. Her eye followed the high grey-brick walls that fronted directly onto the street and seemed to march for miles. There was no break in them, apart from the open iron gates where she stood, and the place looked more like a prison than a workplace. She licked her lips and felt immediately that her sweet little straw boater was out of place. Then she settled her shoulders. To hell with it! They would have to take her as they found her: determined.

  A commissionaire wearing what surely must have been Zulu war medal ribbons directed her to an office entrance and Polly found herself speaking through a hole in a glass partition to a severe woman wearing spectacles.

  ‘You are applying for work?’ the woman asked, eyeing the hat with disapproval.

  ‘Yes, please. I want to do war work.’

  ‘We do not take young ladies under the age of eighteen.’

  ‘I am eighteen. I have my birth certificate here.’ (What a stroke of luck that she had the foresight to bring it with her!)

  ‘Very well. Please wait on that bench over there.’

  It was all of ten minutes before a door opened and a large, bluff man in a khaki-coloured duster coat bustled through. ‘Yes, good morning, Miss … er …?’

  ‘Johnson. Polly Johnson.’

  ‘You are looking for work, Miss Johnson?’

  ‘Yes. But only war work,’ she added hurriedly.

  The man chuckled. ‘That’s the only work we do ’ere, miss. Come along, then. Just follow me.’

  They went through a door, down a corridor and then through another door into another universe. Polly’s jaw dropped. The room was vast – it was called a ‘shop’ she was to learn later – and seemed to stretch for hundreds of feet. It was also high, at least fifty feet, she guessed, and lined with cranes at one end that towered to the ceiling and fringed one wall. For as far as the eye could see stood ammunition shells of various sizes, perched tightly together vertically, some moving very slowly on conveyor belts and being tended by men and women wearing identical brown-coloured duster coats. She noticed that all the women had their hair tied up in turban-like scarves. It was noisy but not intrusively so and the atmosphere was one of cheerful concentration. It was the smell, however, that hit Polly. It was clinical and difficult to define. Chemical, certainly, and rather acidic.

  ‘War work, all right, luv,’ said the man. ‘Shells for our troops out in France.’

  Polly licked her lips and wished she hadn’t worn her hat. ‘Will some of them go to Belgium – to Flanders?’ she enquired hesitantly.

  ‘Oh yes, lass. They’ll go there all right.’ He gave her a quizzical glance. ‘Got a special interest in Flanders, then, have we?’

  ‘Well yes. I have two friends fighting out there.’

  ‘Good for you. Well rest assured, luv, we ’ere at Kymestons are doin’ our very best to supply them. Now, come on through to the office.’

  They went into a glass-panelled room, looking out over the vast factory floor, and Polly was offered a dusty seat in a chair facing a desk overflowing with charts and papers. The man sat facing her and cleared away some of the papers and put his elbows on the surface.

  He had kindly eyes, and a nose and a complexion that had clearly benefited from good ale. He smiled at her. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘My name’s Miller and I’m the manager for this section here. It is true that we are looking to take on additional labour and, given the fact that so many young men are – quite rightly – volunteering for the forces, we have decided that we will take on women to do work that previously lads had done.

  ‘But I must say that you do look a bit young, lass, and I … er … can’t ’elp wondering whether this kind of work wouldn’t be a bit, well, hard for you. You are over eighteen, are you?’

  Polly immediately reached up, removed the long pin that secured her hat to her piled-up hair and put the boater on her lap. A strand of soft brown hair escaped and fell down to her shoulders. She gave Mr Miller her best smile.

  ‘Oh yes. I have my birth certificate here if you would like to see it.’

  Miller held out his hand. ‘I believe you, lass, but better see it, I suppose. It’s required by this new Ministry of Munitions, you see.’

  He studied it perfunctorily and handed it back. ‘That’s fine. I would like to take you on, but …’ His voice tailed away as he took in her small hands and trim ankles. ‘The truth is I really don’t think that what I could offer you would suit a nice young lady like you.’

  Polly widened her eyes. ‘Oh, but Mr Miller! I do want so much to do war work. I am a good worker and can bring a good reference from my present job, I know I could. It is true that I have only worked in a draper’s shop but I am strong and very willing.’

  Miller gave a wan smile. ‘I don’t suppose for a moment that you can drive a motor car, can you? No. Silly to ask. Course you can’t.’

  ‘No, but I can ride a bike.’

  He was silent for a moment. Then: ‘Do you have a head for heights?’

  ‘Er … well, yes. I’ve climbed the Lickey Hills.’

  His smile widened. ‘Look Miss … er … Johnson. Let me tell you what we do here. In this particular part of Kymestons we fill ammunition shells, of all shapes and sizes. That means we put in the timing devices but also the explosives that make ’em go off. We stuff ’em with a chemical called amatol. Yellow stuff. We’ve got quite a few girls doing this and we’re probably going to have to recruit more as the lads go away to the front. It’s not very pleasant because it’s long hours and smelly work. After a time the chemical gives the girls’ faces and teeth a sort of yellowish tinge, like. They get called “canaries” as a result.’ He gave an apologetic shrug.

  ‘Trouble is that I couldn’t offer you a job doing that because we’ve no vacancies at the moment. In fact, the only vacancy just now wouldn’t suit you at all …’

  ‘How do you know? What is it?’

  He smiled. ‘It’s sitting in a little glass box near the ceiling of the assembly shop and driving one of the overhead cranes that lifts the completed shells in pallets and swings ’em from the line to the despat
ch area.’

  Polly’s face dropped. ‘What, sitting up at the top there?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve got one lass doing it already, but it’s really a man’s job.’

  Polly jumped to her feet. ‘No. No. Mr Miller, if you’ve got one girl doing it, then I can do it too. I’m good with my hands and … er … what d’you call it? Coordination. That’s it. And I don’t mind heights. Please, Mr Miller. Let me give it a try, at least.’ She gave a self-deprecatory cough. ‘I do so want to do work that will help the lads out there.’

  Miller regarded her with a half smile, then slowly nodded his head. ‘All right, lass. I admire your spirit. We’ll give you a trial of a month. When can you start?’

  ‘I have to give a week’s notice.’

  ‘Right. Now you should know about the conditions. First of all, what are you earning now?’

  ‘Eighteen shillings a week.’

  ‘Well, we can start you at twenty-two bob. But it’s long hours. We are working eight-hour shifts at the moment, but the demand from the front has meant that we have to change to twelve hours, starting in a week’s time. That will be twelve hours Monday to Saturday, then, on Saturday, changing to eighteen hours. That means going on duty at six o’clock Saturday evening and working to midday Sunday, when the opposite shift would take over and work through until Monday at six a.m. when we will resume twelve-hour shifts. Bit confusing, I’m afraid, and it cuts down on the dancing, too, love. Can you do it?’