Rosie Goes to War

by Alison Knight

As I get a bit closer to them I hear May say to Nelly: ‘You shouldn’t say things like that, not on the bus. Someone might report us and then we’ll have the men from the Ministry knocking on the door. She ain’t no spy, she’s just a country bumpkin. Give her a couple of weeks to settle in and she’ll be just like us.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Nelly. ‘She ain’t nothing like me. And why shouldn’t I say it if I’m thinking it? And maybe they should come round. If she don’t know the difference between a penny and an ha’penny, she might well be a spy. Better to have someone checking up on her than letting her get away with murder.’

  I’ve had enough of this. ‘I’m not a spy,’ I shout. That gets their attention. They stop and turn round. ‘Look, I know you don’t like me, but give me a break. I’m just tired, OK?’

  ‘Don’t mind Nell, Queenie, she don’t mean it.’ Typical Gran – trying to keep the peace. I’m not so sure, and I can see Nelly is definitely not joking about this.

  ‘Bit soft for a country girl, ain’t you?’ she sneers. ‘I’ll bet you won’t last more than a week round here. The only reason I reckon you ain’t a spy is ’cause you’re too bleeding daft.’

  I open my mouth to tell her to shut up, I’m not soft, I’m a time traveller and I’ve got more important things to worry about than what she thinks of me. But I don’t say anything. What can I say that won’t make things worse?

  Anyway, she’s not interested, she’s already turned round and is heading off at full speed again. I can hear May saying: ‘Oh Nell, be nice, eh? It’ll be right miserable at home if you two don’t get on.’

  I slow down again, not wanting to hear any more. I’m suddenly scared, more scared than I’ve ever been, even than when I realised I was in 1940. If they check on me, they might find out I don’t exist here in 1940, and think I really am a spy. I’m in the middle of a war. They shot spies in those days, didn’t they? What if I can’t convince them I’m OK? Should I tell them I’m from the future? What will happen to me if I do?

  ‘Oi! Queenie!’ They are standing at another corner, waiting for me. ‘Get a move on!’

  I want to run in the other direction, but then May giggles and I remember she’s my gran, and anyway I don’t have anywhere else to go, do I? OK, deep breath, keep calm. That’s it. Keep Calm and Carry On.

  I walk towards them.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It’s barely light when we arrive at the factory. Our breath is coming out in little clouds in the cold air, but I’m pretty warm after having to jog to keep up with the sisters.

  Cohen’s Outfitters Limited is in an old building down a narrow lane in Whitechapel. The red brickwork is almost black with soot, and the windows are filthy and criss-crossed with tape like just about every other building I’ve seen so far. I imagine it’s going to be like something out of a Dickens adaptation inside – all dark and miserable. I really don’t fancy working here, it must be so depressing.

  Nelly tells May to take me to the office. She glares at me with her schoolteacher look and says, ‘Behave yourself, and watch that mouth of yours,’ and then stalks off. I want to poke my tongue out at her, but as she’s not looking it would be a bit pointless.

  May takes me up some old wooden stairs. I can hear the hum of machinery from somewhere down below, and in the office there’s a lady bashing away at a really old typewriter. Weird. She’s using all of her fingers to type, like Mum does. She tried to teach me, but I couldn’t be bothered. Maybe I should have had a go – this lady is typing really quick, even on the dinosaur machine. It looks impressive.

  Everything is old and shabby in here, even the woman at the desk. She’s got grey hair done up in a bun and some of those glasses that sit on the end of your nose so it looks like you’re not even using them. The only colour in the room is the red lipstick she’s wearing on her thin lips.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Blenkinsopp,’ says May. ‘This is the new girl what’s been billeted with us.’

  Mrs Blenkinsopp stops typing and looks at us over the top of her glasses. ‘Name?’

  ‘Rose Smith,’ I say, before May calls me Queenie.

  ‘Papers please.’

  ‘What papers?’ I ask.

  ‘I need to check your identity card, and your appointment letter from the Ministry of Works.’

  ‘Oh, right. I left them in my suitcase.’

  Mrs Blenkinsopp looks cross. ‘You should have your identity card with you at all times. It’s the law.’

  Oh crap. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot. Can I bring them in tomorrow?’ With any luck I’ll be gone by then.

  ‘I’ll make sure she brings them, Mrs Blenkinsopp,’ says May. ‘It was a bit of a rush this morning, what with being up most of the night with the raid and all.’

  Mrs Blenkinsopp sighs. ‘Very well. But don’t leave the house without your identity card again. Bring it with your letter tomorrow morning without fail.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Blenkinsopp,’ I say. ‘I won’t forget.’

  We clatter down the stairs and May takes me to the cloakroom where we leave our stuff. I put on the overalls that May has lent me. If I stay around I’ll probably have to buy some. Luckily May and I are about the same size, except I’m a little bit taller, so these fit fine. In fact, we look more like sisters than May and Nelly do. It’s in the genes, I suppose. I can’t help smiling, thinking how May would freak out if she knew I was her granddaughter.

  My smile slips a bit as I follow her through the door into the workshop. The noise hits me first – an angry buzz like a million gigantic bees. The air smells of machine oil and there’s cotton dust everywhere. The room is filled with row after row of sewing machines, with great big spools of cotton spinning away above them, reminding me of surgical drips over patients’ beds. There’s a woman at each machine, hard at work, their hands guiding khaki cloth through the machines, snipping the threads as they get to the end of the seam, and then throwing their work into a large basket one side of their workstation. Then they pick up the next pieces from an identical basket on the other side and sew the same seams. They work quickly, not stopping to chat. As the baskets fill, a couple of young boys run amongst them, picking the piles of work out of baskets and moving them along to the next row. I spot Nelly towards the back of the room, head down, the cloth shooting through her machine like lightening.

  May grabs my arm and drags me over to the desk at the front where the supervisor is sitting. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they don’t seem to have any trouble communicating. I realise they’re probably lip-reading, which I can’t do, so I have no idea what’s going on. May shouts in my ear. ‘Mrs Bloomfield will show you what to do.’ She gives me a thumbs up and walks over to a machine half way down the room, waving to a couple of other girls as she goes. I stand there, not sure what to do. Mrs Bloomfield is talking to me but the noise is crazy in here.

  ‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’ I ask.

  She leans closer. ‘I said, you done any sewing before?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  She shakes her head and mutters something. She gestures for me to sit at an empty workstation at the front of the room. Mrs Bloomfield leans over and flicks a switch. The motor starts to vibrate, and a light comes on, illuminating the area where the cloth goes under the needle.

  ‘Here, try this.’ She gives me a piece of scrap cloth, shouting in my ear. ‘Just try and sew a straight line for starters.’

  I look around at the others, trying to work out how they do it. The girl sitting next to me gives me a friendly smile before she turns back to her work. As I watch she pushes a lever up to raise the metal foot which holds the material in place, and pulls it down again to secure the next piece.

  OK, I can do this. I do exactly what the other girl did. But once I’ve got the material in place I can’t for the life of me figure out how to make the machine work. I look at the girl again, but have no idea how she’s doing it.

  ‘Use your foot,’ Mrs Bloomfield shouts in my ear, making me jump. She poin
ts to the floor.

  Oh, I see now. There’s a metal plate down there, like an oversized foot pedal for a car. A quick glance to the side and I see how the other girls are operating their machines by pressing down on it. I have a go, but pull back with a scream as my machine roars into life, shooting the material out of my hands. Whoa, that was fast! There’s a lull around me as the others lifted their feet, leaving their machines idling as they stop to watch the new girl making a mess of her first attempt at sewing. A couple of the girls, including May, look sympathetic, others giggle. The older women smirk and get back to their work. I’ll bet Nelly is having a right laugh at me. But I won’t look – I won’t give her the satisfaction. I’m embarrassed enough as it is.

  ‘Here, I’ll show you. Shift your backside,’ says Mrs Bloomfield. I get up and she sits down. ‘Watch what I do. Then you can spend half an hour practicing with scraps. Once you get the hang of it, I’ll give you your first batch of seams to do.’

  I watch carefully as she shows me how to control the material as it goes under the needle while using her foot to control the speed of the machine.

  ‘Got that? Right, work on them scraps in the bin there. Mind you don’t get too close to the needle – we’re too busy to waste time taking you to the hospital to get a punctured finger sorted out. Give us a shout when you run out of thread, and I’ll show you how to put a new reel and bobbin on.’

  Left alone, I slowly get the hang of the machine. I reckon if I treat it like a computer game, it’ll be easier. I just have to keep my eye on the needle and concentrate on coordinating my hands and feet. That’s it, easy. I block out the noise and distractions and soon I’m sewing straight lines of neat stitches.

  By the time we stop for a tea break, I’m well into my first batch of seams. I’m not sure where the small pieces of fabric will end up on a soldier’s uniform, but I’m quite enjoying myself.

  ‘You getting on all right?’ asks May.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘No worries.’

  ‘Do what? You always talk funny. Anyway, come and meet the girls.’ I follow her to the end of the machine room, where everyone is getting large mugs of tea from a lady with a trolley. I’d rather have a cappuccino, but didn’t dare say so. Instead I drink the tea gratefully. The dust from the cloth, plus the smell of the oil used to grease the machines, has made my throat dry and I’ve got a nasty taste in my mouth. The hot drink, even though it’s that horrible sterilized milk again, makes me feel much better.

  ‘Everyone, this is Queenie,’ May introduces me.

  ‘It’s Rosie actually,’ I say.

  There’s a chorus of groans. ‘Not another one.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s why we’re calling her Queenie,’ says Nelly, and everyone nods.

  ‘Good idea.’

  I give up. I won’t be able to hear anyone call me Queenie at work anyway as it’s so flipping noisy most of the time.

  I soon lose track of all their names. There’s Daisy, the three Roses I’d already been told about, Elsie, Betty, Eileen, Doris, Ivy, Esther and Sadie, and loads more.

  ‘You’ll soon get to know everyone,’ says May.

  They’re a nosy lot – they want to know how old I am, where I come from, have I got a boyfriend? I can feel myself blushing as I think about Simon. Not that he’s my boyfriend, but I have fancied him forever, and he was finally starting to notice me – until Jess got her claws into him. I can’t believe she did that, knowing how much I like him.

  In a way, being here in 1940 is what my Gran would call a Blessing in Disguise. I won’t have to see them, no one can phone me, and Facebook hasn’t even been invented yet so I won’t have to face the humiliation of seeing Jess change her status to ‘in a relationship’ and post loads of pics of her and Simon snogging. Time travel is a seriously drastic way of escaping all that, but I suppose it’s good to have some breathing space until I can come to terms with my best friend’s betrayal and my broken heart.

  But what if I can never see any of them again? Oh crap, isn’t life confusing enough without all this? Someone coughs. They’re all looking at me.

  ‘No, I don’t have a boyfriend,’ I say.

  ‘You can have mine, love,’ says one of the girls. ‘I’ve been trying to get rid of him for ages.’

  ‘Christ, you don’t want him,’ says someone else. ‘He’s barely house-trained.’ Everyone laughs and suggest different potential boyfriends for me.

  ‘My son’s house-trained.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s only twelve.’

  ‘Take my brother – soon as he gets married I get his bedroom. I’m sick of sharing with my dozy sister.’

  ‘I expect you’ve got your eye out for a nice boy in uniform.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass,’ I say.

  The girl who smiled at me earlier is Esther, and she’s the only one apart from me who doesn’t have a Cockney accent. She’s one of the quieter ones. She seems nice though, and laughs with the rest of us. I think she’s foreign, but don’t have time to ask before we have to get back to work.

  A couple of hours later we stop for lunch – a revolting sandwich made of bread that tastes like cardboard and an unidentifiable filling. I decide not to complain though as Nelly made it for me. When she gives it to me she says, ‘I don’t suppose it’s what you’re used to, but it’s all you’re gonna get while we have to manage on rations.’

  I can see she’s waiting for me to moan about it so she can have a go at me. Well I won’t give her the satisfaction. Instead I smile and say ‘Thanks Nelly. It was kind of you to make it for me.’

  Nelly narrows her eyes, still not trusting me. I want to laugh, but just keep on smiling. It feels good to confuse her. I remember how the old Nelly – sorry Eleanor – kept staring at me, making me feel uncomfortable. Well, now it’s my turn and even though Nelly has no idea what’s going on it makes me feel like I’ve got the upper hand for a change.

  I struggle to finish the sandwich though: it really is nasty. I hope it’s not going to be the same every day. I think about the money in the purse. Maybe I can find a shop round here and buy a choccie bar or something? Anything to get rid of the taste of the cardboard.

  ‘How long have we got? Is there time for me to have a walk?’

  ‘What d’you want to go walking for?’ asks Nelly. ‘It’s freezing out there, and anyway, we only get half an hour.’

  I shrug. ‘I just want to get some fresh air. I’ve only been outside in the dark, I’m starting to feel like a vampire.’

  She rolls her eyes and looks up at the clock on the wall. ‘Well you’ve got fifteen minutes, so don’t go far.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’d better get a move on.’ There must be a little shop round here somewhere. I wonder if they had Snickers Bars in 1940? Mmm, my mouth is watering just thinking about it!

  ‘Hang on, Queenie,’ says May. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  We grab our coats as a couple of the older women shout after me. ‘Had enough, Queenie, love?’

  ‘You can’t get rid of me that easy,’ I say over my shoulder, giving them my best Terminator impression. ‘I’ll be back.’ Behind me I can hear them asking each other what I’m like, and Nelly saying ‘I told you she was daft.’ Me and May laugh and keep going. Out on the street, we links arms like we’re besties. It feels good – weird but good.

  We don’t go far. We turn a couple of corners and then stop dead. In front of us are piles and piles of rubble. All the buildings have been destroyed. I can hardly see where the road is. People are milling around, sorting out anything that’s useable. Someone is watching over a bonfire of stuff they can’t save. An old woman is sitting on a chair in the middle of it all, a blanket wrapped round her legs and another round her shoulders. Next to her is a small pile of stuff – clothes, shoes, pictures in cracked frames, a couple of candlesticks. She’s calling out to a younger woman who is searching through the rubble.

  ‘See if you can find a kettle, girl. We need a kettle. And a couple of saucepans.’
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  ‘What’s the point, Ma? We ain’t got a kitchen no more. How we gonna boil a kettle?’

  ‘The Council will rehouse us, don’t you worry. You need to dig out our stuff ready for a new place.’

  The girl stands up and wipes her face with her sleeve. It leaves a dirty mark on her cheek. ‘I told you Ma, everyone round here’s in the same boat. The Council ain’t got enough places for everyone. We’ll have to go to the centre in Bethnal Green, like the neighbours did.’

  The old woman crosses her arms and shakes her head. ‘I heard about that place. It ain’t no better than the workhouse. You go if you want. I’m staying here.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s bleeding freezing, and there ain’t nothing worth staying here for. Come on, Ma. If we don’t hurry up it’ll be full.’

  They look so upset. I can’t imagine what I’d do if our house was wrecked and all my stuff ruined. And I know I’d hate to have to go and stay at some centre with a load of strangers. It must be like a refugee camp or something. I’ve seen loads of those on telly – mainly around Africa or the Middle East. Thousands of tents and people queuing up for food and water, and flies crawling all over starving children. OK, I know it has to be different here – probably a school hall, and you won’t get flies in England at this time of year. But I can still understand why she hates the idea.

  The girl looks like she’s going to cry. She stands in the rubble looking lost. When she sees us staring at her she gets mad and shouts at us to clear off. ‘Who the bloody hell d’you think you are, gawping at us like we’re bloody zoo animals? Sod off!’

  ‘Come on, Queenie,’ says May.

  ‘Can’t we help them?’

  ‘Not much we can do. And anyway, we’ve got to get back to work.’

  ‘I hope they’ll be OK.’

  ‘Yeah. As our old mum used to say, “There but for grace of God go I.” It could be us next.’

  ‘My dad says that too.’ He must have got that from Gran. He says it every time there’s a disaster on the telly. I really wish he was here now.

  We turn round and go back the way we came. I don’t blame the girl for having a go at us. I didn’t mean to be so nosy, but I was just so shocked by the horrible mess the bombs made. This morning it was too dark to see. Or maybe I was so wrapped up in myself that I just didn’t notice. God, that makes me sound really selfish.