Christmas with the Bomb Girls

by Daisy Styles

  With a look of compete adoration, Arthur gazed into his wife’s beautiful face. ‘I’ve missed you so much, Violet. Lying in that hospital bed, day after day I could think of nothing but how much I loved you and Stevie.’ Hearing his tender words, Violet’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Without you there’s nothing,’ he whispered as he leant to kiss her soft pink lips.

  ‘Don’t say that, sweetheart!’ Violet exclaimed. ‘Please God, we have a long life before us, with more babies,’ she added with a wistful smile. ‘And when the war’s over, we’ll save up and buy ourselves a house, with our own garden, where you can grow fruit and vegetables.’

  Lifting her golden curls to his lips, Arthur smiled too. ‘A house of our own,’ he mused dreamily. ‘I say Amen to that.’

  Gladys spent a few days with her parents, who enjoyed her company, but then, anxious to complete Myrtle’s business before the funeral took place, Gladys took a train to Harrogate, where, after a long walk across the windy common, she found Myrtle’s little house tucked away in a side street. Feeling like an intruder, Gladys cautiously opened the front door and stepped inside. Shivering with cold, she realized the place had obviously not been lived in for a very long time. Gladys walked around the house, which Myrtle had left neat and tidy. There was an old-fashioned candlestick phone with a separate mouthpiece on a dusty wooden table in the hall, beside which stood a sepia photograph in a large ornate frame. It showed a laughing little girl sitting on her mother’s lap. Though the photograph must have been taken over forty years ago, the child was unquestionably Myrtle. Her hair in those days was dark and lay in fat ringlets around her bonny face; her mother was in a long skirt and a lace blouse buttoned up almost to her chin. The woman was struggling to keep her irrepressible offspring on her knee. Gladys smiled in wonder – could the mischievous child really be prim Myrtle? There were more pictures of Myrtle dotted around the sitting room: with her mother on a windy promenade; as a bridesmaid; as the schoolgirl wearing a smart blazer with a trim boater; and as a young pianist sitting upright at a concert piano. When Gladys saw a black-and-white photograph of Myrtle’s parents on their wedding day, she wondered why there were no photographs of her with her father. When she saw a sepia photograph of him in military uniform, with the words ‘1916, the Somme’ at the bottom, Gladys assumed that Myrtle’s father, like so many millions of other young men, never came home and she grew up an only precious child with a doting mother.

  Feeling more of an intruder than ever, Gladys crept up the dark stairs to Myrtle’s bedroom, which was at the back of the house, overlooking the wildly overgrown garden. Gladys stroked the mauve sateen eiderdown that covered the single bed, which Myrtle must have slept in for most of her life. There was a picture of the Good Shepherd above it and on the other side of the room there was a large dressing table with three bevelled mirrors. Gladys sat on the padded velvet stool and gazed into the mirror that Myrtle must have gazed into a thousand times. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m snooping, dear friend,’ Gladys said as she nervously slid open the small drawers that ran down both sides of the dressing table. She smiled when she saw Myrtle’s jewellery, and with tears in her eyes she recalled her words, ‘Jewellery has always been my weakness.’

  There were necklaces, brooches and earrings, including a number of diamanté pieces; a three-strand necklace of pearls with matching drop earrings in a pretty, heart-shaped leather box; a solid silver bangle; and, best of all, a gold charm bracelet with a heart-shaped lock with Myrtle’s initials engraved on it. Gladys gripped the bracelet in her hand as she fought back tears; these things were so precious and personal they totally overwhelmed her. She glanced into the mirror – was she imagining that Myrtle was watching over her?

  When she unclenched her hand from around the bracelet, Gladys gasped in delight: on close examination she saw that every one of the little glittering charms was a perfectly crafted musical instrument. A trumpet, saxophone, violin, flute, a little drum and a piano! Enchanted, Gladys put the bracelet on her wrist and jiggled it just for the pleasure of hearing the charms tinkle together. Remembering Myrtle’s instructions to share all of the jewellery amongst the girls, Gladys swallowed her grief. Following Myrtles’ instructions, she carefully placed the leather box containing the pearl necklace and earrings, which Myrtle had specified were for Nora, into her handbag along with the precious bracelets, necklaces, brooches and earrings. Snapping the clasp of her handbag shut, Gladys turned to go, but as she did so her eyes fell on a cut-glass crystal perfume sprayer. She squeezed it and deeply inhaled: it was Myrtle’s characteristic fragrance, crisp and sharp Lily of the Valley. The fresh intensity of the fragrance immediately summoned up Myrtle, making Gladys shiver as if she’d just entered the room. Laying the bottle in her bag alongside the jewellery, Gladys returned downstairs, where she stood at the door and surveyed what had been Myrtle’s home. How different life must have been once Myrtle was conscripted. Taken away from her cosy middle-class home, thrown into a bomb-making factory with hundreds of noisy women, sharing communal lavatories and bathrooms, working all the hours that God sent and living off rationed food – how had a genteel, very private person like Myrtle ever adapted? But she had – she’d given her all to the war effort, and miraculously she’d joined a band of riotous young women who had set their hearts on becoming a swing band. ‘My God …’ Gladys said out loud. The qualities she brought to the table with her: manners, knowledge, tolerance, compassion, maturity, a penetrating sense of humour and, last and most precious of all, her skill at the piano. As Gladys closed the door on the cold, empty house, she whispered, ‘Thank you, Myrtle, for putting up with us and,’ she added as she blew a kiss down the empty hallway, ‘for all your wonderful gifts. They will help us feel close to you every single day.’

  A few days later, just before the funeral, Gladys joined her friends in the canteen.

  ‘Oi, missis!’ Maggie bawled. ‘You’re supposed to be on sick leave.’

  ‘I’m sick of sick leave,’ Gladys joked as she plonked her mug of canteen tea on the table around which all her friends were gathered. ‘Wish I was back at work with all of you,’ she admitted.

  ‘You must be mad, not with the state of your hands,’ Kit exclaimed as she closely examined them. ‘They don’t look much improved,’ she added bluntly.

  Gladys grimaced. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t come back here.’

  ‘You could rejoin ENSA,’ Nora suggested in all innocence.

  Gladys quickly changed the subject by tipping all of Myrtle’s jewellery on to the table. There was a pause as the girls goggled at the glittering pile.

  ‘Where did it all come from?’ Violet cried in amazement.

  ‘It’s Myrtle’s. She asked me to collect it from her home in Harrogate and share it out amongst all of us, her friends,’ Gladys explained.

  Gladys purposefully didn’t mention that the proceeds from Myrtle’s house sale would eventually be distributed among them all, as the solicitor had told her that the sale might take a while, there being a war on and money short. She didn’t want to make an announcement and raise everybody’s hopes if that were the case.

  ‘Myrtle wanted each of us to have some of her jewellery to remember her by, so pick what you like,’ Gladys said. ‘But, first, I have to give this to you, Nora: Myrtle’s specific instructions,’ she added with a smile.

  Nora gaped at the heart-shaped leather jewellery box for several seconds before she vehemently shook her head. ‘No, that’s too posh for me.’

  ‘Myrtle thought otherwise,’ Gladys said firmly, as she dropped the gift on to Nora’s lap. ‘Go on, open it,’ she urged.

  Nora nervously eased open the clasp, then gazed in utter wonder at the pearls lying on white satin inside the box. ‘Oh, my God!’ she gasped in shock. ‘I’ve never worn pearls in my life.’

  ‘There’s always a first time for everything,’ giggled Maggie, as she draped the three strands of pearls around Nora’s neck. Even in her grubby white overalls, Nora
looked stunning: the creaminess of the pearls brought out the delicacy of her fair complexion and enhanced the glow of her red hair. ‘Earrings too!’ Maggie exclaimed.

  The girls carefully chose their own individual pieces: Kit asked if she could have Myrtle’s second set of pearls, the ones she wore for all their concerts, her ‘Pendleton Pearls’, as Kit called them. Maggie loved the diamanté jewellery, and Violet was charmed by the old-fashioned brooches. Gladys asked if she could have the charm bracelet, and at everybody’s insistence Rosa took the solid silver bangle.

  ‘It feels wrong,’ Rosa protested. ‘I didn’t know Myrtle like you did.’

  ‘Never mind that. Myrtle included you in all her plans – you were one of her girls,’ Gladys said staunchly.

  ‘Now we’ll all have something of Myrtle’s to wear for her funeral,’ Nora said as she dreamily felt the coolness of her new pearls under her fingers.

  As the hooter went calling them all back to work, Kit said with a laugh, ‘For the love of God, take off your jewellery – here comes Malc!’

  Though Myrtle’s funeral was heart-breaking, the fact that she’d asked (in her will) to be buried in Pendleton rather than Harrogate spoke multitudes.

  ‘She wants to be near us,’ Nora wept as they gathered around the freshly dug hole into which the coffin was slowly lowered.

  ‘Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return,’ the vicar mournfully recited from his prayer book.

  Before they departed, each of the girls dropped a clod of earth into the grave and blew a kiss. ‘Goodbye, Myrtle, we’ll never forget you,’ they each murmured in turn.

  Though many Bomb Girls had lined the route that the cortège took, bowing their heads in respect and sometimes crossing themselves, not many were able to take time off work for the simple wake, which Edna and Gladys had set up in the cowshed. Even Myrtle’s closest friends had to rush back to work, and quite suddenly Gladys found herself alone in the cowshed, surrounded by cold cups of tea and empty plates. Feeling unbearably sad, she stepped outside to breathe in the damp autumn air. Pulling her cardigan tightly around her body, Gladys gazed up at the stars that came and went as storm clouds scudded overhead. Sighing miserably, Gladys said out loud, ‘I can’t go on like this. I’ve GOT to get back to work or I’ll just go mad!’

  16. The Phoenix Artist

  Apart from occasionally supplying Rosa with some quality cartridge paper and proper artist’s pencils and crayons, Malc was also Rosa’s greatest fan. Her artistry delighted him; her skilful accuracy and use of colour were impressive enough, but what Malc most admired was the sensitivity of Rosa’s work: the way she could create an image of a woman, in a clattering bomb factory with conveyor-belts trundling overhead and all around, whilst the woman in the centre of the picture remained intent and focused on filling shells. Or a group of women at their ease, heads thrown back, laughing as they relaxed and smoked during their break in a crowded canteen. Or a woman in the packing shed, open to the bitter moorland weather, loading heavy explosives into wooden crates, totally concentrated on despatching artillery to regiments on the front line. Sometimes just looking at Rosa’s drawing brought tears to Malc’s eyes. ‘She’s just got it,’ Edna remarked. ‘No fuss, no bother, just quiet, intense observation; it’s like she’s lost herself in her work.’

  Malc nodded in agreement with his fiancée. ‘I’ve seen her around the building even when she’s not working; she just turns up early with her sketch-pad and pencils and sets to – nobody takes any notice,’ he laughed. ‘It’s not like anybody’s posing for her or showing off; they take her for granted, as if she was part of the furniture!’ he chuckled. ‘And she captures the lasses, always natural like – dirty and grubby, smoking fags, laughing themselves silly, bone weary, but always working, always building bombs.’

  ‘Does Mr Featherstone know he’s got a talented artist in his factory?’ Edna asked.

  Malc shook his head as he stubbed out his cigarette in readiness for helping Edna shut up her van for the night.

  ‘It might be worth a mention,’ Edna remarked. ‘He might sub her a few pencils himself,’ she joked.

  Rosa kept her sketch-book in Malc’s office; it was a convenient arrangement she’d made with him so she could quickly pick up her work and continue with it whenever she had a free moment. One evening, without consulting Rosa, Malc presented the sketch-book to Mr Featherstone.

  ‘Thought you’d like to know we’ve got our very own Phoenix artist!’ he proudly announced.

  Stunned, Mr Featherstone gazed in astonishment at Rosa’s work. ‘They’re very impressive,’ he commented as he polished his glasses, then popped them back on to get an even better look. ‘Who’s the artist?’

  ‘Rosa Falco, on’t cordite line,’ Malc told him.

  ‘The pretty little Italian lass!’ gasped Mr Featherstone, who remembered interviewing her when she had arrived at the Phoenix, hardly able to speak a word of English.

  ‘Aye, before she arrived here she trained as an artist at a proper Italian university,’ Malc replied. ‘She’s right bloody talented if you ask me,’ he added with an even prouder ring in his voice.

  The next morning Mr Featherstone came hurrying across the factory floor to find Malc, who was busy in the despatch shed. ‘Can I have a word?’ he asked.

  Malc nodded and both men hurried into Malc’s office, where they could actually hear themselves speak over the sound of the rattling machinery. ‘I mentioned your news to my wife over our tea last night,’ Mr Featherstone started. ‘She’s a bit of an artist herself; there’s nothing she doesn’t know about the local art world,’ he added rather self-importantly. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘Mrs Featherstone told me about an exhibition due to be launched at a little art gallery in Salford.’

  Malc’s eyes were beginning to glaze over; he knew from years of experience that Mr Featherstone could witter on for England about his wife, and right now he had a despatch that urgently needed loading. Just as he was about to make his excuses, Mr Featherstone got to the point. ‘It’s called “Women at War” and I think little Rosa Falco’s drawings would sit very nicely there.’

  Malc did a startled double-take. ‘Where?’ he asked, making it evident that he hadn’t been listening.

  ‘I’ve just told you, Salford Art Gallery,’ Mr Featherstone said shortly. ‘There’s a prize for the winner, money, I think,’ he added vaguely. ‘If she likes the idea, Mrs Featherstone and I will personally deliver young Rosa and her work to the gallery.’

  It was at this point that Malc’s eyes opened wide; later he indignantly told Edna, there was no way he was going to allow his own little prodigy to be driven to the art gallery by Mr Featherstone and his wife. ‘I told him straight, if anybody’s driving Rosa to the gallery it’ll be me and my fiancée – thank you very much! What I didn’t say to Featherstone was, you and your bloody missis are not taking the credit for our Rosa’s work.’

  Edna laughed at Malc’s outraged expression. ‘He was only trying to be helpful,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Mebbe but it’s me that’s been keeping my eye on the lass, helping out wherever I could.’

  ‘You mean buying black-market artist’s material for your little pet!’ Edna chuckled.

  ‘All in a good cause,’ Malc replied with a wink. ‘No, Edna, love. If anybody’s introducing Rosa to the local art world, it’ll be me and thee!’

  ‘You’d better let Rosa know what’s going on, then,’ Edna advised. ‘She’ll be in for a shock.’

  Rosa was more surprised than shocked when she heard Malc’s news. ‘The sketches – they are nothing special,’ she protested.

  ‘Let’s see what the gallery says, shall we,’ Malc said as he and Edna chatted to her later that day.

  ‘They’re looking for pictures of women at war, and your drawings are all about that,’ Edna pointed out. ‘It’s worth driving over to Salford with a few of your best sketches, just to see what response you get, eh?’

  Rosa smiled; who could re
sist Edna’s warm persuasiveness and Malc’s enthusiasm? ‘You very kind friends,’ she conceded. ‘It would be nice to go with you, if you have time?’

  ‘We’ll make the bloody time!’ Malc answered robustly.

  ‘And you, Mr Malc, you naughty man, stealing my drawings,’ Rosa chided as she wagged her finger at a grinning Malc.

  ‘I knew if I asked you’d just say no,’ he chuckled knowingly.

  ‘Is true,’ Rosa admitted. ‘I never think of these things.’

  ‘Good job somebody round here’s got a few bloody brain cells!’ Malc joked. ‘Right, back to work, young lady, and in between filling shells can you find ten minutes to knock off a few more drawings!’

  It was several days later before they could all spare a few hours to drive over to Salford; in fact, it was the day of Gladys’s third appointment with Dr Grant at the Phoenix Infirmary. Knowing how desperate Gladys was about getting back to work, Rosa suggested that she should cancel the gallery visit and go with Gladys instead.

  ‘He’s got to sign me off this time; it’s been over a month now,’ Gladys said with forced breeziness. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. Off you go – you mustn’t keep Malc and Edna waiting.’

  Gladys waved the excited little party off, then made her way up to the factory, bypassing it as she headed for the newly rebuilt domestic quarters and the infirmary. After a very close examination of both hands, Dr Grant sat back in his chair and stared at Gladys, who knew before he even opened his mouth what he was going to say. ‘It’s bad news,’ he declared. Gladys’s heart sank; she knew her hands weren’t much better than they had been, but they weren’t any worse either. ‘Considering you’ve had so much time off and have avoided any contact with cordite, there’s little sign of improvement. I’m afraid, young lady …’

  Gladys stopped listening. What was she going to do now? Her mind drifted back to when she’d first been conscripted to the Phoenix Factory; after all the fuss she’d made about leaving Leeds and the band she played with at the Locarno dance hall, Gladys had loved her time in Pendleton. She certainly didn’t love the dirty work, but God, how she loved her workmates and the camaraderie they shared, day in and day out. And now she was being forced to leave. Was her life going to be nothing but a series of farewells? She’d left ENSA and now the Phoenix. Where would she go next?