‘Harriet’s unexpected retirement has placed me in somewhat of a quandary.’ Arthur Whitman shook his head, a frown coming to nestle between straight black eyebrows. ‘The employment office tells me they have no one of her experience. In fact they have no more workers to offer for the factory floor either.’ The frown deepened. ‘The government is taking men and women into the forces more quickly than they can be replaced by youngsters leaving school, and heaven knows every man and woman capable of walking has already returned to work. Those in Whitehall seem not to know . . .’ He shook his head again, ‘If the drain of employees goes on then the whole factory will come to a halt, and not only this one, but many more in Wednesbury and Darlaston. We all want to do our best but without the manpower our best will not be good enough to win this war. Sorry!’ Arthur Whitman’s tired eyes smiled from a face lined with weariness. ‘I didn’t mean to go on like that, I meant only to say thank you for a job well done.’
A job well done! That was it? She had hoped, she deserved to become Harriet Simpson’s successor, yet Whitman had applied for someone else to fill that position.
Anger catching at her throat, Katrin kept her glance several moments longer on her hands. She would not let him see the resentment now icing inside.
‘I am glad I was able to be of help, Mr Whitman.’
It had all been for nothing! Returning to her desk, Katrin fumed inwardly. She had been every bit as efficient as Harriet Simpson, foremen of both the day and night shifts had remarked upon deliveries coming on time, of shipments smoothly collected, in fact everyone had congratulated her on her management of the office side of it all, but congratulation was insignificant compared to what she had intended. She had opened the letter from the Employment Office and read the contents before carefully resealing the envelope, so she had known there was no candidate for Harriet Simpson’s post. Yet even with the assurance that she could do the job equally well, Arthur Whitman had not offered it to her. Why? Unless Arthur Whitman already had someone else in mind.
‘Jacob Hawley, Violet Elizabeth Hawley.’
Violet looked at the books lying on the kitchen table. Her husband did not know she had bought stolen ration books; no one did, except for Jim Slater, and he was hardly going to tell anyone. But registering for meat and groceries in Wednesbury would be risky, she might be observed going into different shops. No, she must take these books out of town, Bilston maybe, or Darlaston. That was the nearer, she could register with Peark’s or the Maypole for groceries and with Frank White or even Boynton’s for meat. Yes, she would go to Darlaston.
The decision made, Violet slipped the precious books into her bag and carried it into the hall. She need not wait any longer, the hue and cry over that theft from the Town Hall had long since died down and with the imprisoning of that girl Freda Evans police enquiries had ceased. Five years! Violet felt her blood chill. Five years locked away in gaol, the disgrace of it! But it would be the derision of neighbours, the acrimony of those who had once been friends would prove the hardest to bear. Poor girl, she had probably been the pawn in some man’s game, that man being Jim Slater or another he was in league with. And what of herself? Was she not as guilty as Freda Evans? Yes, every bit as guilty but there was one difference between herself and that girl: Violet Hawley would not have kept silent on where and how she had come by those stolen books. She would have made sure Jim Slater went down alongside her. But that danger was passed, now she could begin to reap the harvest her five pounds had sown.
Reaching for the coat that hung from a lovingly polished brass hook, Violet’s hand stilled at a sharp knock to the door. Slater? No, he had been once today he would not risk a second visit. Jacob then, or Katrin, had an accident befallen either of them, had the factory sent a messenger to fetch her? Anxiety replacing conjecture, Violet opened the door, her heart retching into her mouth as she saw who stood there.
‘Sorry to have to call on you this way.’
Violet felt her whole body chill.
‘Might I step inside, Mrs Hawley, it will be more private.’
Private! Violet’s brain jerked from its stupor her glance raking the windows of the houses opposite. Who had seen the man now standing on her doorstep?
She motioned the tall figure inside, closing the door sharply behind him. He was from the Civil Defence, someone with a message for Jacob. That’s what she’d say to anyone who might enquire about her visitor. Violet’s mind supplied the plausible answer. For a moment her world settled back into place, but that illusion shattered as he eased the strap from beneath his chin then removed the definitive helmet from his head, a helmet whose badge proclaimed him a member of His Majesty’s Police Force.
The police! They must know what had lain hidden in the house, what was now in her bag!
Violet’s agitated glance slid to the handbag on the hall table. Would he ask to see the contents? Would he search the whole house? Of course he would, those ration books could be the only cause of his coming here. But who had informed the police of her purchase? Not Slater. His informing against her would not only put an end to his highly illegal business but would see him behind bars for a very long time.
Dread shivered its way along Violet’s spine. Freda Evans was behind bars. Had she talked? Had she decided not to bear the brunt alone? Had she divulged the name of a customer her fickle boyfriend had also supplied with stolen ration books?
She could deny it! The only proof lay in that bag, if she could get rid of the books then the police have no grounds upon which to base any charge. But to do that the policeman must be led away from the hall.
‘Come . . .’ The frightened quiver of her mouth strangled the effort to speak. She coughed then began again. ‘Come into the sitting room.’
‘No need for that, Mrs Hawley,’ the policeman said politely. ‘This business will only take a minute.’
Violet swallowed the sour taste of sickness rising in her throat.
‘It has been reported to the station . . .’
Reported! Someone had informed against her!
‘. . . therefore it is my duty . . .’
Drawn as though by a magnet, Violet’s trapped gaze followed the hand raised to release the gleaming brass button of a pocket on his dark blue uniform.
‘. . . in accordance with this . . .’
He held a fawn envelope.
‘. . . I must ask you to accompany me to the station.’
7
Alice had delivered her ultimatum; allow her to volunteer for one of the Women’s Auxiliary Forces or have a complete withdrawal of labour on her hands. Immersed in her thoughts, Alice paid no attention to the night foreman carefully measuring the dimensions of a screw she had cut from the length of revolving steel.
The reaction had been as she had expected. Her mother had refused in no uncertain terms. ‘No daughter of mine be goin’ to live along of a load o’ men; there’s never been a trollop in the family and it don’t be a child o’ mine be breakin’ the mould.’
The words had been flung at her, her mother’s face red with anger. But anger at what? Alice fed steel through the jaws of the machine, clamping them fast with a vicious push to a lever. At losing a daughter? No! More like losing a slave; the hours spent cleaning and polishing, ironing the mountain of laundry she had helped wash, getting older brothers’ bait tins packed of a morning with sandwiches and bottles of tea to take with them to work and seeing younger ones washed and into bed of an evening: that and the wage packet she brought home each Friday.
Isaac Eldon touched her shoulder, an upraised thumb signalling approval of her work before placing the screw he had scrutinised into a box on one side.
At least somebody was satisfied!
Isaac replaced the micrometer in the pocket of his brown overall and pointed to the watch on his wrist. ‘Five minutes.’ He mouthed the words, exaggerating each in order to convey them clearly over the noise of machinery, repeating them once more before moving on to the next machine.
; She would get what she wanted. Alice felt a swift surge of determination. Her mother could continue to withhold her pocket money, she could continue with her threats of ‘not another stitch d’you get wi’ my buyin’, not another thing ’til y’ comes to your senses.’
I won’t be missing much! The mental retort had Alice’s clenched teeth press harder with frustration. She hadn’t had anything except what she bought for herself since she was fourteen years old so what was there to miss? What else could her mother deny her?
Slurry oil spilled onto revolving steel showering a thousand milk white droplets. Alice stared at the delicate snowy ballet dancing over the metal, each pearly drop leaping back into the air like some tiny gossamer-winged creature. Choice. Choice was what could be denied her. Until she was twenty-one choice was what her mother decided; she could and would exercise that in a manner to suit herself. Control! At fourteen she had to work for her living, at eighteen she must play her part in fighting this war yet not for another three years could Alice make decisions for herself.
At the nightly signal denoting completed armaments were to be removed from the factory, Alice switched off her own machine. In one minute the rest would fall silent. Shaking her head at Becky’s call to come into the canteen, she wiped her hands on a cloth already stained with oil then took her packed lunch to where she could watch the proceedings. This was a saving grace of working through the night; here she would watch a dance of a different kind, a lumbering yet somehow graceful dance.
Alice’s spine tingled. This was as good as going to the pictures, it was better than watching any gangster film.
Biting into her bread and margarine – canteen lunches cost money her mother said they could not afford – the blood in her veins chilled into delicious ice. There in the almost blackness came the sound of something moving, something which growled deep and ominous.
Perched on her wooden crate, Alice pressed into the shadows. If Isaac Eldon spotted her he would order her away to take her lunch break with the rest of the workforce in the canteen.
At the further end of the workshop, veiled in mysterious darkness the sound of movement came again.
Almost afraid to blink lest it be heard above, that harsh whoosh of breath drawn into massive lungs, that deep animalistic threat as it was exhaled, Alice felt her senses jar. Bread sat unswallowed on her tongue. Soon would come that slithering swish which in her mind became the sliding of some gigantic reptilian body, a gorgon such as she had trembled at when listening to the story of Medusa, a grotesque demon capable of killing her with a glance. Fuelled by fantasy, an exquisite thrill of fear rushed through her. Yes, this was definitely the equal of sitting in that flea pit of a cinema unrealistically called ‘The Odeon’. Odeon! She giggled almost choking on a lump of bread, odious would be far more apt.
A few yards away Isaac Eldon called an instruction and moments later came the creak of doors being pushed open. Despite herself, Alice drew a sharp breath. It always affected her this way. It seemed the whole end wall of the workshop slowly vanished allowing moonlight to cast its magic over silent machines, to touch levers and pulleys until they appeared to float in a world of silver, a world revealed to her only through the darkness of war.
Sandwich lying forgotten in her hand, Alice slipped into a half forgotten world of softly silvered stillness, the world of childhood, of sitting at a bedroom window staring into the hush of a summer night, breathing the scent of sleeping gardens that for those precious moments overcame the smell of coke-fired furnaces and factory smoke. It had been a world of hope, the years ahead a blank canvas on which she would design a beautiful life.
‘All set this end.’
The call acted swiftly on Alice, winging her from childhood into the present.
Turning her glance from the velvety patch of moon filled sky she peered into the depth of shadow clouding the opposite end of the dim lit workshop.
Now! It would be now!
‘Right Harry . . .’
Isaac Eldon’s quiet instruction echoed on the following moment of silence, on a peace she knew would soon be shattered.
‘. . . bring ’er up.’
Then she saw it. Looming out of the shadows, red eyes blinking, lungs belching, a huge body dragging toward her. For a long, heart-stopping moment it seemed the red eyes looked directly at her, that the growl of approval was a threat intended for her. The delicious thrill suddenly became genuine alarm. Any interruption in its progress would bring Eldon to find the reason and that reason would be her! That would lead to more than a telling off: she could possibly be sacked. Isaac Eldon was a fair man in his dealings with the factory hands, he had a ready smile and a cheering word, sometimes even turning a blind eye to some prank, unlike his counterpart Bert Langford; but safety regulations were something he would not suffer to be flaunted and her being here right now was a breach of regulations.
The sack! What would her mother have to say about that? About the shame of having a member of the family dismissed from their job?
This could have proved one caper too many, putting her job at risk simply to observe the ‘steamboat’ in action. Alice allowed herself a smile of relief. The creature of her lurid imagination was none other than the ‘steamboat’, the huge steam-operated crane used to lift and carry crates of large shell forgings and cartridge cases out onto waiting transport. Shrouded in secrecy, the removal of armaments taking place only at night under the protective cover of darkness had earned the works the unofficial title of ‘Shadow Factory’. That secrecy was paramount if German spotter planes were not to discover the location of the town’s heavy industrial plants, and secrecy was the more observed by workers being required to take their longer meal break at the time of equipment transportation. ‘What was not seen could not be talked about’ was the criterion by which the ‘Shadow Factory’ was run, and it would be better for her should Isaac Eldon not find out what Alice Butler had seen.
She had not told Jacob about being taken to the police station nor had she mentioned it to Katrin. Now she would not have to. Back in her living room Violet looked at the letter on her lap. It was no use trying to deny having received it: that trick had brought a visit from the police. Try it again and she would go to prison. Those had been the words of the magistrate she had been summoned to appear before.
‘I recognise the distress appearing before this Bench is causing you . . .’
Iron grey hair, horn-rimmed spectacles which he had peered over more than through, the magistrate had looked at her from a table set on a dais, his voice firm yet not without sympathy.
‘. . . I understand your anxiety . . .’
How could he possibly understand how it felt? What being taken to the police station by a uniformed policeman did to a woman like her, the wife of a works manager. She had tried not to see the stares of people they had passed on that walk along Spring Head, tried to ignore the gossip as she had crossed the Market Place, but every step had been utterly humiliating. Then, a week later she had been summoned to attend the Magistrates’ Court at Wolverhampton.
‘. . . now you too must understand . . .’
Words which had burned like living flame in her mind flared again.
‘. . . you have three times been notified of compulsory registration for ancillary duty, for work outside of your home and which for reasons we need no further discuss you failed to do. Therefore, it is now my duty to inform you, Mrs Hawley . . . that should you fail to comply with the order issued by this court then I will have no other option than to have you confined to prison for the duration of the war.’
The order had come yesterday. Violet touched the envelope lying in her lap.
‘. . . you are ordered to report . . .’
Each word was like some physical entity imprisoning her limbs so she could not move. There was no mistake.
‘. . . you are ordered to report . . .’
There was no need to check again, the words of the official document danced on her vision.
&
nbsp; ‘. . . to the Personnel department of . . . TITAN ENGINEERING, DARLASTON.’
How could the government send her there? How could they expect her to work in a place that would have her clothes stinking like those of women she was sometimes forced to stand alongside when they had dashed from the factory to the shop during their midday break? It was intolerable. But to reject this order would result in a far more dreadful penalty.
Perhaps she should explain, should write to the magistrate asking to be assigned some other place of work, to any factory other than TITAN ENGINEERING, the factory where her husband was manager.
8
Isaac Eldon! Temper lending speed to her feet, Katrin walked quickly along Lower High Street.
Why had Arthur Whitman thought to bring that man to management?
She almost spat the question aloud.
‘You have done a valiant job, Miss Hawley.’ Arthur had smiled at her across his wide-topped desk. ‘But it is one I cannot ask you continue.’
She had done a valiant job but she could not continue!
Had he seen the consternation in her eyes? That sense of shock turning to anger, a cold vicious anger which deepened when he had gone on to say . . . ‘the responsibility is too much for a woman as young as yourself to carry and with the continuation of war then the burden can only increase, therefore I have asked Isaac Eldon to take on the post of works manager.’
A Step Too Far Page 6
