The Bomb Girls' Secrets

by Daisy Styles

  ‘Over my dead body!’ he’d roared, then slapped and kicked her until he got bored and went to the pub.

  Violet managed to withstand the beating, safe in the knowledge that when she’d signed on at the Labour Exchange she’d begged the woman behind the desk to help her hide details of her posting from her husband. The middle-aged woman had looked at her through her dark bottle-top glasses before she quietly replied, ‘You’re not the only one, sweetheart.’

  Violet’s pale blue eyes had opened wide in surprise. Could it be that other women were on the run from their abusive husbands?

  ‘I can bury your papers at the back of the filing cabinet; what you say to your husband is down to you,’ the woman added kindly.

  So Violet had lied to Ronnie. If she was ever going to escape him, the time was now. She’d made up a fictitious name and address for an armaments factory in Lincolnshire and planned to tell him she’d been posted there. Knowing how suspicious her husband was, she was sure he’d look it up and investigate its whereabouts in order to track her down, but the wonderful and fortuitous thing that gave Violet the confidence to lie was that the location of armaments factories was kept under wraps by the government. It was thought that spies infiltrating local neighbourhoods could pass on vital information to the Germans, who would happily bomb every munitions factory in Britain. LOOSE LIPS SINKS SHIPS the War Office slogans read, and in the case of bomb factories loose lips really did cost lives, so the less the Germans knew about the numerous munitions factories springing up all over the country the safer the workers were.

  After bathing her wounds, Violet checked her suitcase, which she’d hidden for fear Ronnie would burn the contents. Underneath her clothes and shoes was her mother’s silver clarinet – picking it up, Violet played a few discordant notes which brought tears to her bruised eyes. Maybe one day she’d play it again, when she was free of Ronnie and a hundred miles from Coventry. With her head ringing from her husband’s repeated blows, Violet undressed and crawled into bed, where huddled under the blankets, she counted down the days to her departure. One thing was sure – she was never coming back, unless it was in a coffin.

  5. The Phoenix

  When the bus pulled up in Pendleton town centre, Kit alighted and looked eagerly around. It was a smaller, cleaner place than Manchester, she noted with relief; there was a tidiness to the town, with its rows of identical grey stone terrace houses stacked back to back, row upon row, reaching up to the foothills that dominated the landscape. Though there was a sharp wind blowing down from the Pennines, under which Pendleton nestled, the air felt clean and healthy, and the sky above her was bright and blue.

  The smell of frying chips made Kit’s tummy rumble. In her rush to get out of the city she hadn’t stopped to eat and she was starving hungry. Following the tantalizing aroma, she made her way to a chip shop just off the town square and joined a long queue that snaked all the way from a cotton mill. Customers chatted to each other as they progressed down the line holding tin bowls. As Kit got nearer to the shop entrance, she could see a tall smiling woman behind the counter cheerfully filling the bowls with chips and peas, gravy, potato pie and butter beans. When it was her turn to stand in front of the cooking range from which steam rose in a great cloud, Kit fumbled with her purse. The good-natured, middle-aged woman gave her a knowing look.

  ‘You’re a stranger to these parts,’ she said cheerily. ‘What can I get you?’

  Kit looked at the few pence in her purse before she answered hesitantly, ‘A bag o’ chips please, missis.’

  Seeing a blush spreading across the girl’s thin cheeks, the woman shovelled a generous portion of chips into a greaseproof bag which she lavishly sprinkled with golden scraps, then dolloped the lot with salt and vinegar.

  ‘There you go, lovie,’ she said as she handed the bag to Kit, who was salivating at the sight of so much good food.

  ‘How much?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘Nothing!’ the generous woman laughed. ‘You look like you could do with a hot meal.’

  Kit smiled gratefully before she was jostled away by the next customer. As she walked out of the shop, she gazed up at the board nailed above the steamy shop window: EDNA’S CHIPPIE – BEST IN LANCASHIRE!

  ‘Thanks, Edna,’ Kit murmured as she appreciatively polished off the delicious crispy chips.

  Back in the town square, Kit asked an old man in a flat cap for directions to the Phoenix factory.

  ‘They’ll ’ave for’t walk t’ot top of th’ill up yonder,’ he said in the thickest Lancashire accent Kit had ever heard. ‘It’ll take thee a good ’alf ’our to get theer.’

  Seeing Kit’s confused expression, the old man simply pointed towards a steep cobbled street.

  ‘Go up yon, lass.’

  By the time she was halfway up the street, Kit was panting, but the view as she climbed got better and better. When she reached the top, where the street ended and the moors began, she followed a well-worn track through bracken and heather that led her towards a red-brick factory. Pushing open the heavy double doors, Kit stood in the entrance hall, wondering which way to go. From deep within the building there was a steady clattering noise, which Kit would later discover was the conveyor belt carrying bomb parts around the factory. Kit nervously crept towards a door which stood slightly ajar. Tapping on it gently, she jumped in alarm when a smart, formidable women appeared from behind it. Looking down her long hooked nose at Kit she snapped, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Kit Murphy. I’ve come to sign on.’

  ‘Papers?’

  Kit produced the letter, now creased and dirty, which she’d received from the Labour Exchange. The woman scanned it, then nodded towards the entrance area.

  ‘You’ll find your digs on the noticeboard in the hallway.’ With that she slammed the door hard in Kit’s face.

  After some searching Kit found her name amongst the hundreds of women’s names typed on several long lists.

  ‘Kit Murphy … Moor House Digs’.

  A female worker coming off her shift kindly pointed out the direction of Kit’s new accommodation, which was situated some distance from the Phoenix, on the edge of a moorland track. When she finally found it, Kit tentatively pushed open the front door and gazed in delight at a large spacious sitting room with an old sofa, a couple of chairs and a dining table. There were three very small bedrooms, each with a single bed made up with sheets, blankets and an eiderdown. When Kit walked into the bathroom, which had running hot and cold water, she cried out in delight. And then she caught sight of the indoor privy. This was a place that was fit for the KING!

  There was an old wood-burning stove, which Kit (used to working the black lead range at home) immediately set about cleaning. When that was done, she lit a fire using some wood that had been stacked up by the side of the gable end of the house. When she looked at it from the outside, it became clear to her that the building was a renovated cowshed. Filling the rusty kettle perched on top of the wood-burner, she boiled water for tea, which she had carried from Manchester in a twisted piece of newspaper in her old canvas bag. Holding a tin mug of hot black tea, Kit sat back on the sofa and, as she did so, she felt her whole body relax.

  ‘Holy Mother of God, thank you,’ she said softly and, laying aside her tea, she put her head on the arm of the sofa and fell into the sweetest sleep she’d had in weeks.

  Violet arrived in Pendleton just four hours after Kit. Her journey North had been fraught with fears; her major terror was that Ronnie would turn up at one of the stations the train stopped at and force her to return home with him. Once they’d cleared Stafford, Violet began to feel safer, and, as they approached Manchester and the Pennine Hills loomed up in the far distance, Violet let out a long sigh of relief.

  ‘I’ve made it!’ she murmured incredulously.

  Hours later, when the bus from Manchester finally dropped her off in Pendleton, Violet felt giddy and light-headed. Like a convict released from a long dark imprisonment, she smiled in delig
ht at the bright, rolling countryside. Following the bus driver’s directions, Violet almost skipped up the cobbled street that led on to the moors, where, with only skylarks for company, she laughed with joy as she ran all the way to the Phoenix, a place she prayed would give her shelter from the storm.

  After finding her name on the digs’ rota in the factory, Violet, like Kit before her, made her way along the moorland track to her accommodation, where she found the door standing ajar. Nervous of disturbing anybody who might be sleeping off a long shift, Violet knocked gently, then, after getting no reply, she cautiously pushed the door open. She smiled with pleasure when she saw the sparse but clean sitting room and the crackling wood-burning stove with a little kettle steaming on top. Hurrying towards the heat to warm her chilled hands, Violet stopped in her tracks when she thought she saw a sleeping child curled up on the sofa. When she peered more closely, she realized with a shock that it was in fact a young woman with a mass of long dark hair which fell around her lovely pale face.

  ‘Poor soul,’ she murmured as she gazed at her dirty, ragged clothes and broken shoes.

  Afraid of waking her Violet took a step backwards, but in doing so she caught the side of the table, which scraped on the floor, and Kit jumped up like a startled animal.

  ‘HAHHH!’ she gasped.

  ‘Oh! I’m so, so sorry,’ Violet cried. ‘I never meant to frighten you.’

  Kit gazed in amazement at the tall, slender woman with hair the colour of angels’ wings and eyes as blue as the sky.

  ‘Are you real or am I dreaming?’ she asked as she rubbed her eyes.

  Violet couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

  ‘I’m real all right, and I think I’ll be sharing this place with you,’ she said warmly. ‘I’m Violet Walsh, by the way.’

  Happy to have such delightful company, Kit smiled back.

  ‘I’m Kit Murphy and I swear to God this is an owd cowshed,’ she said in her lilting Irish voice. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she added hastily. ‘It’s far and away the best place I’ve ever lived in. Come and see for yourself,’ she said and, like an eager impulsive child, she took Violet by the hand and led her into the bathroom. ‘Will you be looking at the indoor privy and running hot water and …’ she cried as she pulled Violet into one of the bedrooms. ‘A bedroom all to ourselves,’ she exclaimed in delight.

  Violet’s thoughts flew back to the semi-detached house she’d shared with Ronnie for four nightmare years. It had a tiled pink bathroom, three double bedrooms, fitted carpets and a gas oven; she had fine crockery, good cutlery, clean linen and a full pantry thanks to Ronnie’s under-the-counter dealings. But, for all its apparent luxuries, her former Wood End home in Coventry had been a place of torture and humiliation for her. This clean, airy cowshed open to the sky and the moors was heaven by comparison.

  ‘Will you be after havin’ a cuppa tea?’ Kit asked when they returned to the cosy sitting room.

  The warmth and sincerity of her new housemate brought tears to Violet’s eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied.

  She couldn’t have asked for more.

  6. Raw Recruits

  Though their looks, clothes and backgrounds were vastly different, Violet and Kit instinctively bonded, each unaware that they had one essential thing in common: fear. After several cups of strong black tea, they decided it was time to take a tour of the factory.

  ‘We need to get our bearings,’ Kit said as she pulled a ragged misshapen shawl around her bony shoulders.

  ‘It’s raining,’ Violet said as she pointed to the window, through which they could see a light drizzle falling. ‘You’ll get wet through.’

  Kit shrugged. ‘I’m used to that,’ she said with a laugh. ‘It never stops raining in Ireland!’

  Violet noticed that though Kit had a wide, open smile that revealed her small white teeth, her dark eyes – more black than brown – remained broodingly sad.

  ‘Poor kid,’ Violet thought to herself as she noticed Kit’s pale face and hollow cheekbones. ‘With a bit of food inside her she could be quite a beauty.’

  Grabbing a raincoat from her suitcase, she handed it to Kit, saying, ‘Put that on. I’ve got a coat, and I don’t need both.’

  The black raincoat drowned Kit, but it kept her dry, though the sole on one of her shoes flapped as she walked along, something Violet ignored for fear of further embarrassing Kit.

  Both girls were astonished at the size of the factory complex, which was like a town within a town. In order for the female munitions workers to remain on site, it was essential they had everything they needed to hand. Precious time would be wasted if they had to run up and down the hill into Pendleton to pick up food, go to the dentist or see the doctor. If the three rotating shifts spanning twenty-four hours were to run like clockwork, the world had to come to the Phoenix. The doctor, dentist, nursery, post office, small infirmary, chapel, pub, laundry and cinema were housed in the low camouflaged buildings close to the factory.

  ‘They’ve thought of everything,’ gasped Kit in amazement.

  ‘They’re obviously keen to accommodate us Bomb Girls,’ Violet joked.

  Kit’s eyes flew wide open. ‘Is that what we are, Vi?’ She’d shortened the name within half an hour of meeting Violet, who was surprised how much she liked it. ‘Bomb Girls?’

  ‘For sure,’ Violet replied. ‘We’re here to make bombs for the boys on the front line.’

  More about the work of the Bomb Girls was explained to the recently arrived new recruits by the factory manager later that day. In the massive echoing canteen Mr Featherstone, a little man with a twirly moustache and a little twitch, stood on a metal chair to address the newcomers.

  ‘Welcome, ladies!’ he started.

  Violet and Kit sneaked a look at the other girls assembled in the canteen – one of them, a tall glamorous brunette with a scowl on her face, caught their attention.

  ‘She looks like she’s just walked into a brick wall!’ cheeky Kit remarked.

  ‘Shhh!’ Violet giggled as Mr Featherstone continued with his usual welcoming speech, which always laid great emphasis on factory safety.

  ‘You’ll be working round-the-clock shifts, six in the morning till two in the afternoon, two till ten, then ten till six in the morning. For this you’ll be paid between two pounds and four pounds a week. With overtime and bonuses, your pay packet could amount to nearly eight pounds.’

  Kit’s heart skipped a beat with excitement. If she did get bonuses and overtime, she’d be able to save as much as four pounds a week for herself and Billy, sixteen pounds a month, over two hundred pounds a year! She dragged her attention back to Mr Featherstone.

  ‘You’ll be issued with white overalls and turbans; all jewellery, slides, grips and clips are banned.’

  ‘What about us that’re wed? Can’t we wear our rings?’

  Mr Featherstone nodded. ‘Yes, but they must be securely covered with a sticking plaster. You’ll be working with dangerous materials – cordite, TNT, gunpowder, amatol and fuses. I cannot emphasize enough, ladies, how the tiniest spark could cause an explosion that could take out the entire factory.’ He paused dramatically so that his heavy warning could sink in, then drew the meeting to a close. ‘You’ll find a list of your shifts and your section on the canteen noticeboard.’ Before he clambered off the chair he was standing on, Mr Featherstone concluded with a curt, ‘Thank you for your co-operation.

  Kit and Violet joined other women checking the noticeboard. Tall Violet, who was able to peer over their heads, spotted their names.

  ‘We’re in the filling shed,’ she told Kit. ‘We start on the two o’clock shift.’

  A girl beside them with flaming red hair that tumbled all around her very pretty face introduced herself.

  ‘Hiya, I’m Maggie Yates. Mi sister, Emily, ses the filling shed’s a right mucky job.’

  ‘What’s your section?’ Violet asked curiously.

  ‘I work with mi sister on the cordite line
, filling bombs – that’s mucky too – and it turns your skin yellow!’ Maggie said with a cheerful laugh.

  Kit’s eyes had drifted from the noticeboard to the canteen counter, where a line of women was queuing up for their tea. On the menu were chips, bread and marg, pies and puddings, spam and corned-beef fritters and peas. For most of the workers what was on offer was common enough rationed fare but for Kit, who’d lived on a poor diet most of her life, it was an abundance of food. Sidling away from Violet, she joined the queue at the serving hatch. Ravenous, she picked up two chip butties and two pint-pot mugs of scalding hot tea, then hurried towards Violet, who was talking to the glamorous brunette they’d seen earlier.

  ‘This is Gladys Johnson, Kit,’ Violet explained when Kit joined them. ‘She’s been allocated accommodation with us in the cowshed.’

  With her mouthful of chips, Kit could only mumble, but after she’d swallowed her food she said, ‘Will I get you a chip butty too?’

  Gladys shook her head, smiling. ‘No, thanks, I’m not hungry.’

  ‘This is the second lot of chips I’ve had today,’ Kit confessed. ‘God only knows how many I’ll get through once I start working shifts!’

  Violet got Gladys some tea and they all sat down together. After their meal Violet and Kit lit up Woodbines, which Gladys, a non-smoker, refused.

  ‘I’d have preferred to have done my war work at home in Leeds,’ Gladys confessed without giving a reason why.

  ‘I couldn’t get away from home quick enough,’ Violet confessed.

  Kit’s eyes grew wide with unshed tears; she would have given a limb to have stayed at home with Billy, but that was her secret.

  Violet and Kit helped Gladys carry her luggage to the digs, which she surveyed with undisguised horror.