by Anna King
The Arsenal was a huge place surrounded by a high wall and four gates, with sentries and policemen stationed at each one. Inside the walls lay scores of sheds, buildings, chimneys and even more walls, all covered with thick, black soot. There was a railway just inside No. 4 Gate, and sometimes, fearing they would be late for work, men would climb in between and over the tops of the wagons, risking their lives rather than have their wages docked.
It was a sight that Doris had witnessed for the last eighteen months; a sight she had grown to hate and fear. Caught up in the swarm of her fellow workers, she let herself be carried forward, her mind still back in Fenton Street on the soul-destroying news she had heard there.
Suddenly she was fighting against the tide of bodies, using her elbows and shoulders to forge a way through the crowd. Finding herself safely on the cobbled pavement, she leant back against some old boarding to catch her breath, and it was only when her heart began to beat normally that she made her way to a small café at the side of the road.
Carrying a tray bearing a mug of tea and two slices of toast, she found a vacant table and sat down. She couldn’t face work today, at least not for a while. Perhaps if she felt better after her late breakfast she might return to the factory. It would be madness to attempt to work in the state she was in right now.
Picking up the steaming mug, she was alarmed to see how badly her hands were shaking. Thank goodness she’d had the sense to come here instead of going into work. She could have blown the entire building sky high if she had attempted to carry on as if nothing had happened. But something had happened. Something so… so…
She shook her head slowly, then, aware of curious eyes from the surrounding tables, she picked up a slice of toast and made a great show of normality, even though her stomach was churning and crying out in protest at the intake of the unwanted food. Doris wondered idly how she could eat at a time like this, yet when the toast was consumed she found that she was still hungry and returned to the counter for more.
Her light meal finished, she turned her head and stared out of the window, her mind going back to the scene that had taken place not two hours before. It seemed a lifetime ago, and in a way it was. Another life, another time; a different Doris.
Not wanting to dwell on the painful confrontation with Emily, she tried instead to trace her steps back to the first time she had come to Woolwich. It had been back in July 1915.
On 26th May of that year, a Coalition Government was formed and Lloyd George became Minister of Munitions. Posters and demonstrations, with the added support of the suffragette movement, began a campaign to recruit women for factory work. Caught up in a wave of patriotic fervour, Doris had signed on at Plumstead labour exchange, and had been among the first batch of girls and women to be employed at the Woolwich Arsenal.
Her first job had been working in the Old Fuse Factory, sitting around a long table gauging metal rings, before being taught how to handle the heavy machinery in a separate building. This room was vast, with long, narrow aisles leading between scores of machines, lathes and belts, the first sight of which had turned Doris’s legs to jelly. Soon she was managing a facing machine with ease, turning and facing parts of fuse caps for the big shells destined for the Front. It was dull, repetitive work that she did without complaint for ten hours a day, six days a week. From there she had been put on working a capstan lathe, which was a bit more interesting to start with, but soon, as she became more adept with the machinery, this too had become boring.
After hearing some women on the bus home talking about their day in one of the so-called ‘danger buildings’, Doris had applied for the position of, and been taken on as, a canary.
The money had been the driving force behind her decision to undertake such hazardous work, for with her father unable to work due to his arthritis and bad chest, Doris had become the sole breadwinner. Harry Mitchell hadn’t liked the idea of his daughter working with TNT, and there had been furious rows between the two, with Doris emerging triumphant. And she had enjoyed her work, seeing herself as taking an active and important role in the war.
But since the accident a few months ago, when one of the women had lost two of her fingers while handling a quantity of TNT, Doris had become aware just how dangerous her job really was. She was no coward, but the incident had shaken her badly. From that time on she had begun to think of moving on to another, safer line of work. And with Emily moaning about being stuck as a maid all her life, it had seemed a good idea for them both to start a new career together.
Emily!
As her thoughts returned to the present, Doris’s eyes hardened at the memory of what she had learnt about her so-called friend.
How could she? How could Emily have done such a despicable thing? It would have been different if Emily and Tommy had started up a relationship beforehand. It was something Doris had always feared – Tommy noticing and falling for Emily. Every time they had paired up into a foursome with the Carter boys, Doris had held her breath in agonising anticipation, waiting for the moment when the two people she loved slowly became closer. She had steeled herself for the day they would announce their changed relationship, had rehearsed over and over again in her mind how she would smile and say all the right things, so that they would never suspect her true feelings. But it hadn’t happened. Emily and Tommy had carried on being just good mates and, despite her cautionary attitude, Doris’s hopes had begun to rise.
There had always been the danger that Tommy would meet, and fall for, another woman outside their close circle, but it had been Emily of whom Doris was most afraid. And she had been right.
Emily’s face swam in front of her tortured mind, followed by Tommy, as she had last seen him. Pushing that memory aside, she let her mind wander back down into the past, reliving different stages of her life in the company of Emily and the Carter boys. Then she and Andy disappeared, replaced by a vivid picture of Emily and Tommy together. Smiling at each other, whispering endearments, as they kissed and fondled in front of a roaring fire. She shuddered violently and felt the tears prick at the back of her eyes. She had imagined that scene, or one similar, a hundred times before. Only then she had been the woman in Tommy’s arms.
Her stomach churned, and she felt a strange sensation tightening her chest. It was like a bad dream. Or like the time she’d had a bad case of flu some years back and had lain in a fever for days. She had heard her dad, Emily and Mrs Ford coming in and out of her bedroom, talking, sponging her down and sitting with her throughout the night, but somehow it hadn’t seemed real.
She had forgotten about that, until now. Only this time it would take more than a week in bed to get over it. The way she was feeling now, she couldn’t ever see a time when she would laugh again – or trust anyone again. And she had trusted Emily, trusted and loved her without question. The sense of betrayal continued to swamp her, overriding even her anger, which was at boiling point.
‘You all right, love?’
Startled, Doris jumped, nearly knocking over the now empty mug. Looking up into the concerned face of the canteen waitress she mumbled, ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m all right, thanks. Just having a bit of a day-dream.’ Hurriedly leaving the canteen, she walked out into the street and once more hesitated. What was she to do? She had to go into work, she hadn’t been paid yet, but she still felt shaky.
Spotting a familiar figure hurrying by she called out, ‘Oy, Lucy… Lucy, here a minute.’
A young woman of about Doris’s age hesitated, a wary look stealing over her plain face as she approached the woman in the herringbone coat with a blue scarf tied over her head.
‘Yeah! Wha’dja want, Doris, I’m late.’
‘I know yer late, so am I,’ Doris said impatiently. Then, changing tack, she tugged on the woman’s coat sleeve and said, ‘Look, Lucy, I don’t feel too well. Could yer clock me in? I’ll be all right soon, but if yer could just…’
The woman pulled away in alarm.
‘Leave orf, Doris. I’d get the sack if
I was found out. No, no, I’m sorry, Doris, I can’t take the risk – sorry.’
‘Bleeding hell, I’m only asking yer ter clock me in, not nick the ruddy crown jewels… Oh, go on then, sod off, yer miserable cow.’
The young woman scampered away, and Doris immediately felt ashamed of her outburst.
‘Lucy, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… Oh, bugger it.’
Her head drooped, then almost instantaneously she jerked her chin upwards. What was the matter with her! She was acting like some snivelling kid, hanging about outside the factory, afraid to go in. Well, bugger you, Emily Ford. I ain’t gonna lose me job on your account.
With a determined step, she once again joined the seething mass of people and was soon entering the tall building at the farthest end of the Arsenal.
Once inside the freezing-cold changing-room, Doris quickly stepped into her boiler suit, slipped on her rubber boots and head covering and, grabbing a protective mask from an overhead rack, almost ran to the clocking-in machine.
Punching in her card, she noted with dismay that she was over twenty minutes late. Turning over in her mind possible excuses for the supervisor, she was pushing open the factory door when the explosion happened.
In the space of a split-second she heard an almighty blast, smelt the acrid smoke and heard the women screaming. Then it felt as if a giant hand had lifted her from the ground and thrown her with ease against the far wall.
Her body collided with solid brick, she experienced a sickening lurch of fear – then nothing.
* * *
The smartly dressed middle-aged man sauntered casually down Fenton Street, his shrewd eyes darting from one side of the road to the other, obviously on the look-out for a particular number. Moving around a group of children who were playing hopscotch in the rapidly darkening late afternoon, he gave a grunt of satisfaction as he stopped outside number fifteen. Pausing just long enough to note the crisp, white net curtains and the gleaming ochre front step, the man lifted the brass door knocker and let it fall.
Inside the house Emily and Nellie were busy making some last-minute decorations, hanging paper chains and tinsel, in an effort to instil some Christmas spirit into their hearts. But, after the events of that morning, neither women was feeling in the least bit festive.
‘I wonder who that can be? Were you expecting someone, love?’ Nellie clambered down from the chair she’d been standing on, still holding a row of blue paper chains.
Emily shook her head.
‘No, of course not… unless…’ Her face broke into a wide smile as she hurried towards the door, hoping to find her friend standing sheepishly outside. Throwing open the door, she found herself looking at a stranger.
‘Yes, can I help you?’ she asked, puzzled by the stranger’s presence.
Micky Masters, a senior reporter at the Hackney Gazette, tipped his fedora to the back of his head and emitted a long, low whistle at the sight of the tall, chestnut-haired woman. Confidently leaning against the door-jamb, he gave an engaging smile. That and the whistle always smoothed the way with the ladies.
‘Miss Emily Ford?’ he asked while at the same time moving forward, his foot raised to enter the house.
‘I said, can I help you?’ The icy voice froze him in his tracks for a moment, but not for long. He was too old a hand for anything to faze him for long.
Changing tactics he removed his hat and, holding it between his hands, said apologetically, ‘Sorry, darlin… I mean, Miss,’ he amended hastily, adding, ‘You are Miss Emily Ford, aren’t you?’
Emily looked at him suspiciously.
‘Yes, I am she. What do you want with me?’
Glancing up and down the deserted street, Micky Masters decided to forgo the charm and come straight to the point. She wasn’t what he had expected, not round these parts.
Suddenly he wasn’t so sure of himself. Maybe the office had made a mistake. This snooty little piece didn’t look the sort to have friends working in munitions… Well, not on the factory floor. Though they were all getting into the act these days. Ladies were now working alongside their one-time maids but, as far as he knew, they hadn’t been reduced to living alongside them as well. But his editor wasn’t the type to make mistakes. And Frank Dobson, the head reporter, had been one of the first on the scene after the explosion. He had phoned his report into the office, along with the names of a few women who had been caught up in the accident. By virtue of a discreetly offered banknote, Dobson had obtained not only the names of the munitionettes, but also those of their next of kin. Doris Mitchell’s form had listed two names to be informed in the event of an accident, the first being her father; but it was the friend that Micky Masters was most interested in. He was after a story, and fathers weren’t always aware of what their daughters got up to outside the home, whereas a girlfriend…!
It was a pity it had happened today. Because what with it being Christmas Day tomorrow, no paper would be able to print the story until Boxing Day. But if he played his cards right, he could have a good front-page story for when the paper went to press. It all depended on what he could find out here, and what his fellow reporters dug up about the other women involved in the accident.
‘Look, Mr… whoever you are. Will you kindly state your business. I’m letting all the cold air into the house standing here.’
Micky shivered and thrust his hands into the deep lining of his heavy coat.
‘My name’s Micky Masters. I work fer the Hackney Gazette, an’ I’m covering the story about the accident at the Arsenal munitions factory, and…’
Emily’s eyes widened in shock. Clutching at the door frame, she said hoarsely, ‘Accident, wh… what accident? Oh… oh, come in, please.’
Micky walked gratefully into the warmth of the small house.
‘Mum, Mum, there’s been an accident at Doris’s work.’ Before Nellie could make a reply, Emily turned back to the man who had brought the news. ‘What happened? Is Doris all right? Oh, please, please, sit down, you must be frozen.’
Emily chatted on, afraid to hear what the answer might be. Oh, God, if anything had happened to Doris because of her, she’d never forgive herself. She should have waited before telling Doris, not blurted it out just before her friend went to work. Whatever had she been thinking of. To tell such shattering news to someone just off to a dangerous occupation, where one needed all one’s wits about one, was nothing short of crass stupidity.
Clutching at the front of her dress she stammered, ‘Is she… Is Doris all right, Mr Masters. Please tell me, is my friend alive?’
Seated awkwardly on the edge of a sagging armchair, Micky thought of the best way to handle the situation. When his editor had handed him this address, along with Harry Mitchell’s, he had quickly decided to visit the friend first, hoping that the woman would have some snippets of gossip to impart about Doris Mitchell. He conceded that it was a tacky approach, especially as the woman in question had been engaged in work vital to the war. But human nature being what it is, it was gossip that sold papers, not stories about decent men and women going about their lawful duties. But this young woman watching him so intently, her lovely blue eyes filled with anxiety, didn’t seem the type to engage in idle chit-chat, and even less likely to tell a complete stranger intimate secrets concerning a friend. Still, you never knew with people, they never stopped surprising him.
First off, though, he had better explain his primary reason for being here. Dangling his hat between his knees he said simply, ‘I’m sorry, I thought you might already have heard. There was an explosion at the Arsenal munitions factory this morning. About a dozen women have been taken to hospital. I don’t know the full story yet. Everything’s been a bit of a shambles. The government is trying ter keep a lid on it, ter avoid panic in the other factories, but my editor did manage ter get some of the women’s names. And your name was down in the files as the person ter contact in the event of an accident.’ He stopped here and looked up at the two women. ‘Didn’t yer hear anythin
g… I mean, news like this usually spreads like wildfire.’
Dumbly Emily and Nellie sank down onto the hard-backed chairs, their hands automatically clasping each other across the table for support.
‘You still haven’t told us about Doris. Is she all right? Or have you come to tell us she’s dead?’
‘No… Well, what I mean ter say is, I don’t know. But don’t get your hopes up, love. Like I said, I don’t know the whole story yet, but… Well, I do know one of the women died, but I don’t know her name… I’m sorry, that’s all I can tell yer fer now.’
Emily nodded and squeezed Nellie’s hand tightly, unable to speak. Nellie patted the shaking hand and turned to the man, who had now risen to his feet.
‘If you don’t know anything, then why have you come here? I don’t understand. What do you want of us?’
Micky took a large notepad and pencil from his inside pocket and looked at them expectantly.
‘I was hoping you’d fill me in on Doris’s background. Yer know, the usual things. What she was like, did she have any boyfriends… Oh, and if you have any photographs of her, that’d be great. People like that sort of thing.’
‘You mean, something that will sell newspapers,’ Nellie said, her voice turning cold. ‘I’m afraid you’re wasting your time here, Mr Masters. There’s nothing we can tell you that would be of any interest to your readers. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’d be obliged if you’d leave. This has come as a great shock, and my daughter and I would like to be alone.’
‘I understand how yer feel, Mrs Ford, but… ‘