“I daren’t touch her head, but this really needs a splint,” said Mrs. Morris, accepting without question both the presence of her assistant and the roll of bandage offered by Miss Seeton when the older woman tested Betty’s arm. “Strap it to the side—isn’t that the way to do it?”
“In the absence of a doctor, I believe so,” Miss Seeton agreed. “But let us hope Dr. Huxter arrives soon—we can hardly leave her here for very long, but to risk moving her without expert advice ...”
“What do you say, Mr. Coleman?” Mrs. Morris gave the manager a chance to wield his authority. “Should we strap her ready to be lifted on a stretcher, or just try to stop the bleeding?”
Mr. Coleman opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, and they had to strain to hear him. “I couldn’t—above so much noise, I didn’t quite catch ...”
“We can’t just leave her like this!” Mrs. Morris almost shouted the words at him as she gestured to the helpless, motionless figure on the floor. “How long did the doctor say he would be?”
Above the racket of the machines it was difficult to make out the manager’s reply, and Mrs. Morris was about to ask again when the foreman, who had been tramping up and down the lines of drills and lathes watching the girls at work, waved a thankful hand and roared a greeting.
“Hey, Doc—over here!”
The large figure of Dr. Huxter, nimble in pinstripes, advanced briskly between the piles of metal sheets and plates that stood in rows on the floor between the different machines. Not a girl raised her head as he passed by: they were desperately trying to catch up on the valuable minutes they had lost immediately after Betty’s accident.
“Well, what happened?” enquired the doctor as he opened his black bag. “The message said a drive belt broke—is that right?”
“Slashed her across the front and threw her backwards,” the foreman told him as Mrs. Morris and Miss Seeton rose to their feet and moved quickly aside. “Poor kid cracked her head on number-six lathe and knocked herself right out—she didn’t stand a chance. Whipped her to shreds, if I’m not mistaken ...”
“You aren’t,” muttered the doctor, though only Miss Seeton was near enough to hear him, and perhaps only her quick eye saw that the syringe he was busy preparing bore a label identifying the contents as morphia.
He looked up. “You haven’t moved her?” he demanded as he rolled up Betty’s sleeve.
“No bloody fear!” exclaimed the foreman, and then flushed for the unhappy choice of words. “Leave you to it,” he said, and returned promptly to his supervisory tramping up and down.
Miss Seeton shut her eyes as the needle went into the blue-white flesh of Betty’s arm, but reproached herself for her weakness and opened them in time for the doctor, glancing up, to notice her and smile. It was a fleeting smile, but encouraging; and Miss Seeton managed a shaky smile in return as she asked if there was any way either she or Mrs. Morris could be of assistance.
“Not you,” said Dr. Huxter. “Too small.” He looked from Mrs. Morris to Mr. Coleman. “But if you other two could get a stretcher ...”
It seemed an eternity before the ambulance drove off towards the hospital, with Dr. Huxter following in his car. In an emergency, Miss Seeton noted, his driving seemed less erratic than at other times. He was, she decided, one of those people who thrived on a challenge ...
Mr. Coleman watched them through the gates, sighed, and then asked Miss Seeton to take Mrs. Morris back to the Welfare Office to make her a cup of strong, sweet tea and never mind the ration.
“Th-thank you,” said Mrs. Morris, who had only allowed the shock to affect her once Betty was out of sight. “B-but my—my hands ...”
“We’ll go to the cloakroom first,” Miss Seeton reassured her, and ventured a comforting pat on the shoulder as the bloody fingers writhed together.
It was not until Miss Seeton was drinking her own, half-strength cup of tea—sugared, though lightly, as it would be foolish to deny she was a little shaken by recent events—it was not until then that she could reflect on how factory security was not quite as ... well, as secure as she had been led to believe. Jemima Wilkes had been adamant that no unauthorised person was allowed to wander around as he pleased: yet Dr. Huxter had appeared in the Machine Shop without (as far as she had noticed) an escort.
Miss Seeton wondered whether the presence of herself, Mr. Coleman, and Mrs. Morris counted as an escort on the way out of the shop, and supposed that it must.
But—what about the escort on the way in?
Miss Seeton wondered whether Lord Beaverbrook’s private army was less dedicated to its appointed task than his lordship believed ...
The atmosphere on that afternoon’s homeward bus was subdued. Muriel was not the only traveller who had witnessed Betty’s accident, and even those who worked elsewhere on the premises knew every grisly detail, as well as a few more, by the time they had clocked out, changed their clothes, and walked to the factory gate.
Miss Seeton was quite as subdued as any. She was, she had to admit, exhausted. Mrs. Morris had continued in a state of mild shock for most of the morning, having after a few feeble attempts to assert herself left the younger woman to answer the telephone, to take messages, and even to make a few decisions on her own. The office had been busy, very busy—and so had Miss Seeton. Mrs. Morris (resolved her now harried assistant) could be indulged until what was nominally the midday break, although none of the workers ever took it; after which hour, Miss Seeton would administer a dose of the common sense that used to stand her in good stead with hysterical schoolgirls—not that Mrs. Morris was hysterical—and urge her superior to forget her own, mild affliction in the interests of the general morale.
Yet she would not have been human had she not been glad of the chance to prove herself to the older woman. While the dreadful circumstances of that chance must be deplored, they might, in the end, be somehow turned to good. Nobody, not even the normally efficient Mrs. Morris, could expect to solve alone the many problems of a workers’ Welfare Office for a factory this size. Suppose (mused Miss Seeton as she made neat, quick notes on a scrap of paper) Mrs. Morris were to fall ill? Or (and here Miss Seeton had to control both her memory and her imagination) have an accident? Until now, the utter busyness of the office had not been clear to one who had most of the time been banished with her sketchbook well beyond interference range. Now, however, that Miss Seeton understood better what Mrs. Morris had to do, her conscience would not permit her to leave the older woman to cope with the work on her own.
When in the end it dawned on Mrs. Morris that Miss Seeton was coping more than adequately on her behalf, the welfare officer rallied. She could not bring herself to thank her assistant for the effort she had made, but she did not throw her out as she had done the day before. The sketchbook and pencils stayed in their corner as Miss Seeton continued, with discretion, to lift some of the administrative weight from the shoulders of Susan Morris.
By clocking-off time Miss Seeton’s brain was dulled by the unaccustomed work. Sick notes, budgets, billeting problems, and ration books were very different from the sketches, paintings, and collages of her teaching days. As Miss Seeton said her goodbyes and headed for the bus, she regarded her superior with renewed respect. To have held down this job for so many months without help showed remarkable strength of will—a strength Miss Seeton doubted that she herself possessed.
But there was a war on: and crisis will often bring out the best in people, as it seemed to have done with Dr. Huxter and his driving. Hidden depths ...
Miss Seeton smothered a yawn. Her eyelids drooped. In the muted, stifling heat of the bus, she could very easily find herself asleep ...
“We’re here, Emily!” Beryl and Ruby were shaking her awake, the shaking on Ruby’s part in concert with the faint rhythmic jangles of a blue linen bag. “Come on!”
Miss Seeton snapped out of her daydream, gathered up her belongings, and followed the sisters from the bus. Sh
e was glad it was only a short walk to the house; she was glad of the cup of tea Tilly Beamish soon brewed in exchange for an account of Betty’s accident the other girls were happy to provide. Miss Seeton expressed her regrets, gave nothing away, and, after a light supper, had an early night.
“You look as if you didn’t sleep too well, dear,” was the welcome from Tilly next morning. “Bad dreams?” It was clear she hoped the answer would be yes, so that she could dwell again on the details of what had happened to Betty, how much worse it might have been, and what could yet be to come. Troubles never come singly, Mrs. Beamish had warned her lodgers the previous night. Mark my words, it won’t be long before the bombs are back ...
“I slept very well, thank you,” countered Miss Seeton a little stiffly, and again promised her troublesome conscience that she would behave better in the future. She had not slept well: her dreams had been bad. Red, furious, violent visions had repeatedly woken her as Betty’s broken body crumpled time after time to the floor of the Machine Shop, her skull smashed by the flailing canvas whiplash of the broken drive belt against the unrelenting metal of the neighbouring lathe, the blood streaming from her lacerated face and hands and skull in a slow, sticky stain.
The fourth time the nightmares woke her, Miss Seeton was wrapped in a tangle of heated sheets, with her heart thumping and the back of her neck as sticky with perspiration as the back of Betty’s head had been sticky with blood. Miss Seeton untangled herself, slipped out of bed, and once her eyes had grown used to the darkness, padded on bare feet across cool linoleum to the open window, where she stood breathing deeply for some minutes, gazing at the peaceful valley, listening for the drone of approaching enemy aircraft, and wondering if tonight would be the night when the silence was broken, not by desynchronised engines and ack-ack fire, but by church bells ringing the invasion alarm—the night when England fought, perhaps, her final battle.
“ ‘Blood, toil, tears and sweat,’ ” quoted Miss Seeton in a regretful murmur. When it came to the point—nobody now could realistically think the point would not come, even if that realism was never voiced aloud—when it came to the point would she, daughter of a soldier, be able to kill in cold—or even in hot—blood?
Blood ...
Death ...
“I slept very well, thank you,” said Miss Seeton, hoping her blushes did not show. She was thankful indeed when Beryl and Ruby arrived with their new hairstyles and changed the subject.
The workbound bus was still a touch subdued as it rattled its way to the factory, although red-haired Muriel seemed to have taken to heart the example set by Miss Seeton the previous day and soon began imitating Lord Haw-Haw with almost as much enthusiasm as on other occasions. While telephones were few in private homes, there was a box on the village green, from which a torchlit call to the hospital just before bed had reassured Betty’s best friend that the girl was thought to be out of danger, even if she would bear the scars and feel the pain for many days to come.
The news had cheered the other girls, but they giggled rather than laughed at Muriel’s clowning, and a few voices questioned the reliability of the hospital statement on the grounds that if Betty had in fact died, nobody would admit it for fear of lowering morale.
“Accidents can happen, we all know that,” someone with greater faith in Authority retorted.
“Well, who’s to say it was an accident?” someone else rejoined with scorn.
Everyone hushed her before the dread word sabotage could reach the ears of the driver. Miss Seeton wondered whether she, as assistant welfare officer, should say or do something to distract them, but feared her own authority was not so great and, having hesitated, was lost.
Young Muriel had seen her hesitate and, guessing at part of the dilemma faced by her newfound ally, threw herself with yet more enthusiasm into her Lord Haw-Haw act. “The women and girls of Britain”—she sneered—“are so fearful of being injured by splinters from Jairman bombs that they now insist their milliners should fashion the season’s new hats out of very thin tin plate, which will be covered with silk, velvet, or other draping material.”
Ruby and Betty, former apprentice milliners, joined in the uneasy screams of mirth as Miss Seeton threw the child—not only a wonderful mimic, but blessed with an excellent, if perhaps in this instance unfortunate, memory—a grateful smile, and made a mental note to commend her to her superior as worth watching.
“Where is the Ark Royal?” hooted Muriel, realising that Betty’s accident was preying on her mind. With imaginary binoculars she peered at an invisible ship on a horizon that, through the antiblast mesh on the windows of the bus, was equally invisible. “Ship ahoy! Full speed ahead!”
A squeal from the brakes of the bus was echoed by a shriek from young Muriel, who was jerked off her feet and sat down in a hurry. The driver cursed. Those seated nearest the front tried to see what had surprised him.
“There you are!” cried the scornful one after a moment. “I told you it wasn’t an accident!”
Everyone jumped to her feet and headed for the door to see what had prompted this remark. Miss Seeton, more level-headed, stood on tiptoe and applied one eye to the small unmeshed diamond that was the bus company’s sole concession to the idea that passengers might wish to know where they were without having to bother the driver.
The scornful one, decided Miss Seeton with a sinking heart, must be right. If Betty’s accident had indeed been an accident ...
Why were so many police cars parked in the factory yard?
chapter
~ 21 ~
MISS SEETON, THE FIRST to be checked through the gates, had to blink and blink again as the face of “Day” George scowled down at her with dark fire in his eyes, an angry twist to his mouth, and—good gracious—no nose.
But then she blinked and realised with some relief that George’s resentment must be directed against, not herself, but (or so she suspected) the police. His nose was out of joint, poor man, although what investigations he could have expected to carry out concerning young Betty’s accident she had no idea. The gate, after all, must be guarded. There was a war on. Miss Seeton directed a quick, sympathetic smile towards the now normal-featured George, and hurried on her way to the administration block. An assistant welfare officer should set an example. In their confused eagerness to learn what was going on, the morning shift had crowded out of the bus to pester the waiting night shift about what had happened. Miss Seeton privately lamented the curiosity that would make the girls late clocking on ... but had to concede that, if anyone were to tell her what there was to know, she could not help but be interested.
A sudden swift patter of feet sounded behind her, accompanied by a rhythmic jangle. “Emily!” cried a voice Miss Seeton knew must be Ruby’s. “Oh, Emily—Miss Seeton!”
Miss Seeton turned to wait for Ruby to reach her, and saw that Beryl was in close pursuit of her sister. Both girls were pale and seemed breathless with more than the exertion of the chase; their grey eyes looked almost black and were huge in the white, strained faces.
“Oh, Emily,” Ruby said with a gasp as she skidded to a halt beside Miss Seeton and brandished the jangling linen bag wildly in the air. “Oh, it—it’s awful!”
As she burst into tears her sister arrived. “Don’t,” begged Beryl, thumping Ruby on the shoulder. “Don’t, Ruby, or you’ll make me, too ...”
Schoolteacher Seeton took automatic command. “Now then, Ruby, crying never helped anyone,” she told the sobbing girl with stern kindness. “And the same goes for you, my dear,” she added as Beryl gulped once or twice and sniffed. “Take a deep breath, both of you, and tell me—no, Ruby, you tell me—what has happened to poor Betty.”
“B-Betty? Oh!” Ruby uttered a little cry and hurled the linen bag to the ground. “Oh, no ...”
Despite herself, Miss Seeton gulped. There was a quiver in her voice as she forced the question: “Is she ... worse?”
“She—she ... isn’t,” Beryl managed to bring out a
s her sister sobbed all the more. “Isn’t ... d-dead, I mean, but—oh, Emily, but he is!”
“He? Who?” enquired Miss Seeton. “And ... dead?”
“M-m-murdered, they say.” Not unnaturally, Beryl stumbled over the word. “Oh, Emily, he was—they say he was—was h-hit over the h-head ...”
“They say,” echoed Miss Seeton, who after years in the staffroom knew how rumours could start. “Who, exactly?”
Beryl answered the question she supposed Miss Seeton was putting. “R-Ray Raybould,” she said, and began to cry in earnest.
“Another accident,” said Miss Seeton bravely after a horrified pause. “Th-these things happen, girls, especially with everyone so tired, and people will exaggerate ...”
She didn’t sound convincing, even to herself. Had the death of the cleaner—had whatever, in fact, had happened, to whomsoever—been a routine industrial accident, there would surely be no need for the police to be on the factory premises: the cars in the front yard proved that this line of reasoning would not go far. The officers of the law had invaded Lord Beaverbrook’s territory, disturbing his private army in the persons of Day George and the Local Defence Volunteers (or rather the Home Guard) for an incident far more serious than a broken arm, a scarred face, or a cracked skull. Betty, the hospital had said, would pull through. Miss Seeton suspected that the same could not be said for Raymond Raybould ...
But there was a war on, and work to be done. Against the aerial “fury and might” of the Nazis, the Spitfires, as Mr. Churchill had warned, could expect to be launched—and in parts of the country were indeed being launched—at any moment. Those involved, in any capacity, in the manufacture of the lifesaving planes must not be allowed to shirk their obligations, no matter how dramatic the excuse.
“I’ll come to help you clock in,” said Miss Seeton with a final pat on each shoulder as the girls continued to sob. She bent to retrieve the blue linen bag, and as it jangled in her hand she wondered who would collect the sweepings for Tilly Beamish and her housewife friends to sort now that Raymond Raybould was dead.
Miss Seeton's Finest Hour (A Miss Seeton Mystery) Page 18