Wedding Bells on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  She looked sideways to the girls, who nodded. She knocked, waited. No one came. She had braced her shoulders, but now she let them slump and almost walked away.

  ‘Give it a bliddy whack with your knuckles, pet,’ called Fran. ‘Think of Amelia, eh?’

  Beth felt the laughter then, and heard it, high-pitched, almost hysterical, and it was from deep inside her. She pursed her lips. It stopped.

  She beat on the door with her knuckles, and again she waited. She heard footsteps, but they weren’t Bob’s. His landlady’s, then, but the woman would know where he was.

  The door opened. A young pregnant woman stood there, frowning. She looked tired. ‘Yes?’

  Beth said, ‘I’m right sorry to disturb you, but I wondered if Bob Jones was in? I know he lodges with you and …’

  The woman stared at Beth, looking from her hair to her face. ‘You’re yellow. You’re Beth.’

  Beth smiled with relief, for Bob had talked of her. ‘Oh aye,’ she said. ‘But it’ll be gone when the war’s over. It’s just—’

  ‘Why are you here?’ the woman interrupted.

  Beth saw movement from the left; it was Fran and Sarah edging just a bit closer. She shook her head, annoyed, for what business was it of Bob’s landlady? ‘I need to see me husband, that’s all,’ she snapped. ‘But it’s no business of yours, really.’

  The woman sighed. ‘Oh, I think you’ll find it is.’ She turned and called, ‘Bob, you said you’d sorted it and here’s Beth on the doorstep, and how the hell she got our address, heaven only knows.’

  Our address …? Beth felt the pavement tilt, just for a second. She reached out, and there was Fran, moving like lightning, gripping her hand, and Sarah, skirting round, linking her arm through hers.

  ‘She knows because Bob wrote to her,’ said Fran, ‘saying he wanted a divorce, something about—’

  Beth interrupted. ‘Thanks, Fran, but I will speak. My husband said something about war being complicated, about meeting others, about wanting a divorce. Something about a nurse. Nothing about a baby. He hadn’t the courage to come and say it to my yellow factory face. No, he wrote it in his royal blue ink.’

  The woman stepped back, flushing, and shouted again. ‘Bob, get down here and sort this out.’

  Bob almost tumbled down the stairs, looking as though he’d just woken up. ‘What’s the noise about? You know I’m on duty again tonight.’

  He stared at the three girls. Patting her belly, the woman turned back to Beth. ‘We need a divorce because we need the allotment from his pay. The allotment that you receive at the moment. I need to be his wife, see.’

  She turned on her heel and pushed past Bob, muttering, ‘This isn’t fair on her, or me. You said you’d sort it properly.’

  Bob stood in the doorway, his feet bare. He just nodded.

  What the hell does a nod mean? Beth wondered. She said quietly, ‘You need to shave, bonny lad, if you’re to keep up with your nurse, who sounds as though she’s practising to be a matron. You look a right mess.’

  He reached out. ‘I’m sorry, lass. It’s wartime, things happen. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  Beth was ice-cold, but clear in her mind. She kept her voice level. ‘Now, I have to decide whether to divorce you or not, and I’ll take me time. And I’ll put your clothes into the Salvation Army, and anything else I find that is yours, for you’ve nowt I want.’

  Bob looked from her to the other two. ‘Reason with her, Fran. I wouldn’t have let this happen for the world, but war’s—’

  ‘—complicated,’ Fran finished for him. ‘Aye, you’re right, it is, lad, for factory girls an’ all, especially when they’re sorting out your weapons for you. They get steeped in the yellow, you see, they itch, they lose hands, feet, lives even, if things go wrong. You might remember Viola, who played at our Sarah’s wedding. Our Sarah, not yours, not any more. You might remember Ralph, who’s just driven into a tree rather than hit us or hurt us more’n we were when the bus lost a tyre. He’s in a coma. You might remember Sandra dancing at Sarah’s wedding. She’s in hospital now. There will be more of us hurt.’

  Sarah spoke. ‘So don’t you talk to us of complicated, and not your nurse, neither, as mentioned in the letter—’

  Bob exploded at Beth. ‘You showed them?’

  Sarah let go of Beth’s arm and stepped forward, but it was Beth who said, ‘Howay, you daft lad, tuck your outrage in your pocket and take these few minutes like a man, for ’tis the last time you’ll be seeing us. I thought I’d sort it by coming, I thought you’d see what you were throwing away. I thought you’d just lost yourself for a bit. Aye, well, maybe you have, but I see you standing there, hiding behind “complicated”, when what it is, is that you couldn’t keep your willy in your drawers. Nowt complicated about that, eh? So here we are. You stuck with a bairn on the way, and her with no wedding ring, so no allotment. Aye, that’s complicated. As for me? I’m seeing you as you are. ’Tis not a pretty sight, lad. And trust me, I’ll keep that allotment for now at least. You should have thought of such consequences earlier.’

  She looked at the other two. ‘Let’s go home, to our people, who cope with complications, eh? Who dig the coal, and fight the war too.’ She began to walk away, her head held high, hearing Fran and Sarah clattering along behind her.

  Fran stopped and called back, ‘You’re a fool, Bob.’

  ‘I’ll not give up,’ he called. ‘That allotment money’s mine by rights.’

  The woman shouted then. ‘Just give us the divorce. Is that too much to ask?’

  The three of them walked on, heads up, striding, laughing as though they hadn’t a care in the world, and it was only when they turned the corner that Sarah and Fran linked arms and let Beth cry.

  ‘Oh Beth,’ whispered Fran, ‘you were grand. I’m so sorry.’

  When the train finally reached Massingham at eleven that night, they almost staggered down onto the platform, sick with tiredness, following their fellow passengers as they headed towards the ticket collector. She was home, Beth thought, but they were empty words, for she would never again be here with him, never bear his bairn, never …

  They walked past the bench beneath the waiting-room overhang. Men sat there, their cigarettes glowing. What train were they waiting for?

  ‘Howay,’ one of them said, ‘we thought you’d run off to Australia.’ It was Sid. He stood and joined them, and so too did Stan and Norm.

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ said Fran, ‘and you should be in your beds, lads.’

  They all walked towards the queue. ‘And let you three run amok on your bikes?’ said Sid. ‘Oh, I reckon not.’

  The ticket collector took their tickets. ‘Cycle safely. You take care, our Beth, for the lads have shared your news.’

  Beth thought she would cry again, but she must not. Instead, she said, ‘Aye, you take care an’ all.’

  As they headed for the bikes she heard Stan tell Sarah that they’d waited from six o’clock, for there was no way the lasses were cycling back alone. ‘We’re a gang, and we won’t ever let that stop.’

  Beth nodded slightly. Aye, a gang would wait, and it touched her heart, for she had hurt Stan when Bob had started to call and they’d played about behind his back, yet still they protected her. Still they were here for her. She cycled with Sid alongside as they all shepherded her to her house.

  Her mam was up. She took her into the warm kitchen, sat her in Beth’s da’s armchair, and then waved her marrers on their way. But all Beth wanted was something to stop the pain, for she had acted as though she was strong for hours and didn’t know how she could continue for a second longer.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Monday, 16 March

  Fran woke the following day and groaned at the thought of work. Bleary-eyed, she rolled out of bed as her mam banged on the bedroom door, calling, ‘Get yerself up and downstairs or you’ll miss your bus, and if there’s a dress fitting, you’ll miss that an’ all. I’ve Viola standing by the ba
ck door, holding your bag at the ready. Bert’ll be raging. When are you due on the aft shift? You should be on that soon, surely?’

  Fran dressed quickly and ran down the stairs, past Viola, who called, ‘I’ve let the hens out, and fed them.’ Fran slammed the netty door behind her.

  Once she’d washed in the scullery, the pair of them ran towards Main Street, for it was four in the morning and Bert would be revving. She shouted to Viola as they turned towards the bus stop, ‘Not sure if Beth’ll be here, for how she’ll get herself out of bed I canna imagine.’

  There was no queue at the bus stop. Bert was pulling away, changing gear and leaning on the horn. Sid, Norm and Stan were clipping along ahead of the bus. Stan saw them and waved Bert down, shouting at the pair of them, ‘By, here come the weaklings. T’other two are on board.’

  ‘Beth deserves a bliddy medal,’ panted Viola. ‘Not sure I’d be up and at it.’

  Bert jerked to a stop, calling through the cab window, ‘Get yourselves on this bus right now, and if it were anyone else I’d have gone, so I want no spam sandwiches at your wedding tea, our Franny, just piles of pheasant, and afters would be good an’ all.’

  As Fran and Viola hurried up the aisle, Mrs Oborne yelled, ‘Howay, you old beggar, stop your mithering and get your foot down. You’ll be lucky to get anything other than a thick ear at the tea, if you go on like this.’

  Fran and Viola sank onto the back seat with the other two. Sarah looked half asleep still, and said, ‘I haven’t even had a cup of tea, and my throat’s as rough as the bottom of one of the Canary Club’s cages.’

  Fran was sitting next to Beth. ‘Aye, I overslept and didn’t have time to eat either. What about you, Beth?’

  Beth smiled slightly. ‘I were fine. It’s my fault you didn’t.’

  Mrs Oborne swung round. ‘Nowt’s your fault, our Beth. Nowt, you hear, none of it. Bob’s behaviour is his own, and if Fran had wanted some toast, t’was up to her to get up.’

  Fran rolled her eyes. ‘How do you know what’s happened?’

  Viola grinned. ‘I bet it’s something to do with those three pitmen heading for the pit right this minute. One’s your brother, married to our Sarah, and they’ve all got big gobs and were on the platform to meet you.’ She reached across Fran and squeezed Beth’s leg.

  Beth just smiled. It was all she could summon because her courage had seeped from her, and the loneliness, pain and shame had begun. For of course she must agree to a divorce – how could a baby be born illegitimate? Her mam would post Beth’s letter to Bob today.

  The guards raised the red and white pole when the girls arrived at the Factory, and once they’d been checked, they walked along the wide roadway, which as always seemed to go on for miles, then turned left into their sector. Ahead, they saw Swinton at the double doors. He was smiling. Beth smiled back as Fran said, ‘Cheerful, eh. I reckon it’s because Gaines has given him a tick in the report.’

  He ushered them in, and once everyone was there, he followed them to the changing rooms, his clipboard at the ready.

  He called, ‘Before we begin,’ he called, ‘’tis the sewing room for you today, Beth, with Viola Ross. Fran and Sarah will be in the stemming room, I’m afraid. I’m right sorry, but you’re my clever lasses and able to be moved about.’ He put up his hand. ‘Aye, I know, I’ll try to move you tomorrow. Can’t have you bright yellow and clashing with your dresses.’ He read out the week’s allocations for the rest of the women. Then he read through the safety and security regulations, and all the time Miss Ellington stood beside him, with yet another new security officer.

  Beth just kept thinking, with a sinking heart, that she was in the sewing room when all she wanted was to die, but just her, no one else. With detonators she could have done it – perhaps.

  The hands on the clock were ticking away the seconds, the minutes, and were nearing six o’clock. She needed to sit down, to lie down, for her legs were weak and her body too heavy to be supported. At last Mr Swinton rose on his toes, nodded, smiling fit to burst, then swept out, calling, ‘Best hurry and change. Fittings in the sewing room at lunchtime, Fran and Sarah. Beth and Viola will already be there, of course. Best have a wash, for you don’t want to be putting powder on your finery. Indeed not.’

  The door closed on him. Miss Ellington gestured to the new security officer. ‘Miss Jenkins from Cardiff.’

  The two security officers moved amongst them as the girls donned their overalls. Beth put on her trousers, hiding the backs of her legs, which still had seam lines. How stupid she felt now, for why would an expectant father be interested in lippy, rouge and pencilled seams?

  Miss Ellington stopped next to her. ‘Turn around for me, lass, though no grips will matter today. Mr Swinton wants to give you a rest till your mind’s on its feet, if you see what he means. You’re all – every one of you – too important to put in danger.’

  ‘Too important?’ Beth whispered.

  ‘Oh aye, you’re all the salt of the earth, and don’t you forget it, not for a moment.’

  ‘Salt, eh?’ Beth whispered again, sounding like an echo. But there were no spare words, no real words, and her legs ached, and she was too heavy for them. She put out a hand. Miss Ellington held it.

  ‘Your life isn’t over,’ Miss Ellington said quietly. ‘It’s just beginning. Now you’re to find out just who you are, like I had to.’ She held up her handless arm, whispering, ‘I lost my hand, and you think you’ve lost your heart. We both lost our men and are not the only ones. Look at our Maisie, making a life for herself.’

  ‘I divint know you’d lost your man.’

  ‘Aye, he didn’t like me hand being gone, so he went too.’

  Beth closed her eyes. Oh, poor Cyn, but she hadn’t shamed her family. ‘Ah, but I’ve lost my reputation,’ she said. ‘A widow’s summat different to one who is divorced. There’s shame with it, you see. A family’s shame.’

  Miss Ellington looked shocked and could find no words, but then Mrs Oborne, having wound her way through the girls, joined them. ‘Why’s the auld devil so chipper, our Miss Ellington?’

  ‘He’s been congratulated by Bolton because Gaines said nice things in his report.’

  Mrs Oborne crossed her arms and said, ‘Oh, and about everyone?’

  Miss Ellington nodded. ‘Aye, we all did well, or so Bolton said. There were one or two problems, but he didn’t say what, and he wasn’t about to, either.’

  ‘By the way,’ called Fran, ‘Mam asked me when I returned last night to remind everyone to keep checking their hospital visiting time on the rota. There’s still not the improvement we’d all like to see, so we have to keep trying. We’re off on Wednesday.’

  ‘Right you are,’ called Maisie. ‘I’m going with Valerie and Susie tomorrow.’

  After one final check, Miss Ellington flapped them out of the changing room and sent them on their way.

  Fran and Sarah headed off to the stemming workshop, pulling down the turbans they had made with their scarves to try to cover their hair, for any strands that escaped would suck up the yellow and stain. Once they’d taken the place of the night shift, they resumed where those girls had left off, first adjusting their masks, then tipping the powder from a big box into the top of a machine, pulling the handle, shutting their eyes as the powder whooshed out of the funnel into the rubbery container beneath, which they all called the ‘thingummybob’.

  As it whooshed, clouds of the chemicals puffed into the air. When the rubber containers were full, they were moved along the belt to who knew where, to be mixed with who knew what, for they were never told, and knew better than to ask. The powder wasn’t explosive in itself, but became so once added to something else. Or so it was said.

  Fran tried not to think about it, or of the stemming sheets they’d need on their beds tonight. Or the worsening rash. By, she hoped it really was just one day, for imagine the wedding night, the yellow seeping into the sheets. What romance was there in that? To stop herself think
ing of it, she said, ‘I wonder if we’ll ever be told what the powder is, and what it does to us.’

  Sarah shook her head, the yellow dusting her eyelashes and eyebrows. ‘Probably not, and do we want to know, for it must come from our innards through our skin onto the sheets?’

  Fran looked at her. They smiled beneath their masks, pulled their handles and out whooshed the powder. Mindless work, but that was the problem, for it couldn’t be mindless. You had to think, to concentrate. Sarah’s hair was showing below her turban. Fran called a warning across the music that was playing over the tannoy. Sarah pulled the turban down rather than push up her hair, for she mustn’t touch her skin.

  Fran tried to think of Clive, the sailor on the train, and not the powder that made them feel sick and dizzy by the end of the shift because some filtered through their masks, and was breathed in. Where was he going? Would he survive? Then her mind strayed to Bob. Aye, lad, she thought, this is the powder that helps your shells explode and makes your wife yellow, while your nurse stays pale and unblemished. She thought of Ralph. Would he have more colour when they went to visit on Wednesday? Would he react? Oh Lord, she hoped so.

  ‘I can feel me rash spreading,’ muttered Sarah. ‘It’s not yet, but I feel as though it is.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Fran.

  They might chat, but they never stopped working, hour after hour, and it was only when they were told it was the meal break that they stretched, eased their backs, went to the washroom and could finally scratch their scalps, their arms and their hands, and then wash again, for their fingers came away from their scalps covered in powder. They hung their heads over the basins and scratched until the loose powder lined the ceramic bowls. They ran water, sluicing the powder down the plughole, hating it.

  Lunch was the familiar grey meat, but at least it was hot. They queued and barely smiled as it was slopped onto their plates and they headed for their usual table. Beth was already there, clean, tired and smiling a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, but why would it? It would be a while yet, and Fran thought of how she’d felt when she thought she’d lost Davey. She sat down next to Beth and stared at the mince.