“Don’t be silly,” said Sheila, listening across the bench. “You don’t take out a rupture, you undo it or something.”
“Oh, don’t you then?” said Reenie. “Then what’s she got in a bottle on her bedroom mantelpiece, I’d like to know?”
“Oh, where is Edward?” said Paddy, turning up the collar of her overall, as Charlie slid the doors even wider apart to admit a minute trolley with a load of rags.
“Can I help you?” asked Madeleine, leaning over her and breathing down her neck. She hated to see Paddy in a temper. She knew what it was to be so worried that sometimes you hardly knew what you were saying. She herself had been quite rude to Kitty yesterday, pretending not to hear her friendly chattering because it made her head ache. She had been prostrate with remorse five minutes later and had had to pretend she didn’t want a cake at tea so that the child could have two, only to find that Kitty didn’t even want one as she had brought something from home. Which showed how much easier it was to commit a wrong than right it.
“I want Edward too,” she said sympathetically. “I’m worried about this Mod. 229. I never seem to know if it should be in or not. It’s terribly confusing.”
“It isn’t a bit,” said Paddy, who had taught her the fuel pump. “Honestly, Mad, I’ve explained it a million times.”
“I know, you’ve been very patient, but I’ve got such a silly memory these days. I had a wonderful head when I was your age though. In the factory I was in in the last War, I had it all at my finger tips, you wouldn’t believe.”
It had all been so different in the Ordnance Factory. Was it only because she was younger that the work had seemed easier and she had loved every day of it and had such fun? Nowadays, everything was so much more complicated and scientific, with people trying to teach you to read micrometers, and even the girls seemed to be different from what she and her contemporaries had been. They had never had these off days and moods and complicated temperaments that had to be humoured. They had grumbled, of course, but only in fun. They had been such a jolly lot. She remembered how they used to sing choruses while they worked.
She had suggested this one day and the girls had looked at her blankly.
“Sing what?” Dinah had asked, breaking off the snatch of crooning that had reminded Madeleine of the old days in the cheerful Filling Shop.
“Well, you know—choruses dear. We always used to in the last War, and a fine row we made too. The foreman used to come and tell us to be quiet, he couldn’t hear the machines. But we didn’t take much notice, I’m afraid. We were regular terrors for mischief.”
But girls these days were funny. If one did start to sing, as like as not another would start a different song in another key. The rage was all for being different. They even chopped and gathered and pleated their grey overalls to make them look unalike. At the Ordnance Factory, she remembered how proud they had been of looking like an army in their brown overalls and scarves. She could see herself now, short and neat—not so fat in those days. Funny, she hadn’t even met John then, and as for Martin, he wasn’t even thought of. A all the same. Ian along thought struck her. Life did go in cycles. She was back again now where she had been more than twenty years ago, in a factory, with neither John nor Martin—well, as good as no Martin. All that had happened in between had not led anywhere except round in a circle. Perhaps she would go through another cycle of years as eventful—two years of John and twenty years of Martin—and still come round to a factory again at—let’s see—sixty-five she’d be.
“Did you see that piece in the paper,” she said chattily to the bench at large, “about the Granny who works in a factory up North? Worker of the Week, she was. She made a record—turned out more screws on her machine than anyone ever had before. It said how she got a medal and the Queen stopped and spoke to her when she was going round the factory.”
“Fat lot of good that did her,” said Freda.
“I bet she was on piece work,” said Dinah.
“You girls always scoff at everything so,” said Madeleine. “I know you don’t mean it, but——”
“That’s to disguise the fullness of our hearts,” said Paddy, “Oh Edward, where are you?”
“Tea up!” shouted someone and everyone dropped what they were doing, grabbed their mugs and made a dash for the tea trolley being trundled down the gangway by Hilda from the canteen, in an overcoat and a crooked Nippy’s cap. Charlie was there first, with a mug the size of a small bucket. Wendy Holt was last in the queue and there were no rolls left. She had had no breakfast, as there was only just enough bread for her father, so she took an enormous stale bun and retired to her stool, holding both hands round her mug to revive her dead fingers.
“That settles it,” said Dinah. “Ed must be locked in the Gents’. I’ve never known him miss his tea.”
Edward, however, was not locked in the Gents’. He was locked in solemn conference with Dick Bennett in the Final Assembly Shop.
Edward leaned on the cylinder cover of the engine that Dick was assembling, while Dick fitted priming pipes on the opposite side. Each engine was assembled by two men, working as a team. Dick’s mate, a leathery gnome called Joseph, did the fiddling jobs while Dick did the reaching and heavy stuff. Joseph was squatting out of sight at the moment, doing things to the bottom of the supercharger.
“Advertise,” Edward was saying. “That’s what we’ve got to do. There must be lots of breeders in Collis Park. It’s only a question of bringing them together. I wonder nobody thought of starting a Club here before.”
“You want to be careful who you get mixed up with,” said Dick. “We don’t want any of these crook dealers.” He was a huge, slow man, who breathed heavily through his nose and put down his words with the same weighty deliberation as his feet. He was as keen as Edward about this Rabbit Club, but he had to raise objections from time to time to stop Edward going too fast.
“The Pros won’t join,” said Edward. “Why should they? They get their commercial bran ration and they’ve already got their markets. It’s the little fanciers we’re after. Once we’ve got enough members to get registered with the B.R.C., we’ll get the bran and an assured price for the stock we sell for flesh.” He spoke eagerly, jabbing at the cylinder cover with his forefinger.
Dick Bennett tigh all the same. Ian alongtened a nut, wiped it with a rag, re-tightened it, wiped the spanner and applied it again with the whole force of his great shoulders until the crankcase rocked in its cradle and the nut creaked round another ten-thousandth of an inch. Aircraftmen all over the world were in danger of rupture from undoing engines which Dick Bennett had assembled. He hammered the lockwasher tight, wiped the nut again and spoke.
“But look here, old man,” he said. “I don’t breed for flesh. I breed for showing and to sell to breeders. There’s twice the money in that as breeding for flesh. Besides, people don’t like rabbit. My missus can’t even cook it without she heaves.”
Edward leaned forward. “You know what you’re doing? You’re drowning Merchant Seamen. And there’s lots of people like you,” he went on quickly, before Dick’s chesty protest could reach his lips. “That’s why every district ought to have a Domestic Club. It benefits the fancier and saves shipping by increasing the meat supply.”
“Here,” said Dick, with sudden perspicacity, “what’ve you been reading?”
Edward pulled his folded copy of Backyard Breeding out of his overall pocket, opened it on the cylinder cover and, folding it again in a well-worn crease, began to read while Dick pitted his strength against another tiny nut.
“Your Wallop at Hitler.” He looked up to see whether Dick were listening and met his face across the top of the engine, purple, with staring eyeballs. Dick grunted, relaxed, wiped his hand and stopped work to listen. “Britain,” continued Edward, “has not enough feeding-stuffs to breed more cattle and sheep. She must therefore find a substitute, and what will fill the bill better than the humble rabbit? This country is still not rabbit conscious.
It is the business of every fancier to forswear selfish breeding and to play his part in this vital section of the Home Front. Keep a nucleus of your best stock for show-breeding so that when the piping times of peace come once more you can keep your place in the show ring, but meanwhile, join Domestic Rabbit Clubs and obtain foodstuffs which will provide you with bran on your pledge to sell half your stock for flesh. It is your duty for the honour of the Fancy.”
“Who wrote that?” asked Dick.
“Allan Colley.”
“Ah,” said Dick, impressed. Like all Flemish breeders, Allan Colley was his God. “Then there’s a poem,” went on Edward, “‘Sent to me,’ he says, ‘by a reader from Woolbeeding.’ Shall I read it?” Dick nodded. He was fond of poetry.
“I’ll starve them all put, said Hitler the Hun,
With my U-boats and E-boats and eighty-eight gun.
So long live our Clubs and pay up our subs.
He’s forgotten Brer Rabbit and Bernard the Bun.”
Joseph’s head appeared under Dick’s left arm. “Can we have the job over?” he said. “I want to get at the top of the blower.” Other people turned the engine upside down to get at the bottom of it ; Joseph had to have it upside down to get at the top.
“Stand away then, Ted,” said Dick and swung the engine over in its cradle as easily as if it were a toy. Joseph squatted down like a happy native. He preferred squatting to standing, which didn’t make him much taller anyway. After years of working at knee-level, he could recognise people by their trousers and could say : “Morning, Mr. Gurley,” or “How’s the gardenwww.bloomsbury.com/MonicaDickens. b, Alf?” without looking up.
Dick Bennett, now presented with the underneath of the crankcase, contemplated it for a few moments as if he had never seen it before, and finally took the oil pressure pump from the trolley behind him and lowered it carefully on to its studs.
“You do see how important this Club is, don’t you?” persisted Edward, putting Backyard Breeding back into his pocket. Dick was looking for nuts on the trolley. He was maddeningly difficult to rouse. If Edward had not known that he was really as enthusiastic as himself, he would have ceased trying long ago and gone ahead with plans for the Club on his own. But he needed Dick’s technical knowledge, and there had to be two people to start it—one to be Treasurer and one Secretary. Dick was going to be Treasurer because he had a head for figures ; he kept his wife’s accounts for her down to the last halfpenny of bus fare in a series of red threepenny cash books. There were two boxfuls of them dating back over the last ten years, and mountains of old bills threaded on wire in the cupboard under the stairs, all of which Dick refused to send for salvage, because you never knew.
Edward was to be Secretary of the Club, because he could write a bit. Unknown to Connie, he had written a few short stories from time to time. He received them back from the magazines to which he sent them with no surprise and put them carefully in a drawer until it was their turn to venture out again. His favourite story, The End of a Perfect Day, had been travelling through the post at intervals for years. He renovated it every so often when it was getting old-fashioned before sending it to the next paper on his list. It was going now to wildly unsuitable trade papers in the North of Ireland and Parish Magazines in Lincolnshire. It would soon be time to start again with the big Dailies.
Edward was to be Secretary of the Club, and when they had got some members, one of them would be made Secretary and Edward would become President. If they ever got big enough to have a line or two in the “Domestic Club Doings” of Backyard Breeding, that would be made a Presidential not a Secretarial duty. His dreams were a long way ahead of Dick Bennett’s, which were still churning over the amount of the subscription.
Edward was already planning a Club Show and had marked down the hall in which it would be held. They would have a guest judge, someone like—well, not Allan Colley, of course, he wouldn’t look at a potty little show like theirs, but someone with a name in the Fancy, who would make a speech which might be reported in Backyard Breeding even if the results of the classes were not.
Dick had found his nuts and were screwing them on to the studs by hand, preparatory to the straining process with the spanner.
“I must get back to my section,” said Edward, “or those girls will be getting into trouble. Is that understood then? I’ll write the advertisement and get it in Backyard Breeding and the local paper, and you’ll definitely back me up if we get any response at all. You won’t let me down?” he persisted, as there was no reply from Dick. “You do want to be in on this, don’t you?”
Dick rested both hands on the belly of the crankcase, breathed heavily and said : “I don’t mind.” He had not been so enthusiastic about anything for years.
“Good,” said Edward. “I’ll send off the advertisement tonight, then.”
Dick called ,” he saidan alonghim back as he was walking away. “We’ll pay for it,” he said importantly, “out of funds, when we get the first subscriptions in. Let me know how much it is meanwhile, so I can enter it on the books.”
As he came off the track into the Inspection Shop, Edward’s eyes went at once to his bench of girls. He was beginning to feel quite possessive about them. They were in his charge, and if the A.I.D. threatened to make trouble for one of their mistakes, Edward would cover up for them and make excuses and even put the blame on himself, if necessary. After all, you had to make allowances for girls. It was not like working with men. Girls had nerves, which were always playing them up. He knew that from Connie.
“Edward!” called Paddy, sighting him. “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been wanting you for hours. You are a—pest,” she added when he was close enough for her to lower her voice. He didn’t mind them abusing him. It was all in fun, really, and meant that they felt they knew him so well that they didn’t mind what they said to him. It was funny, but they talked to him more familiarly than Connie—his own wife. Not that he wanted her to swear ; it would sound wrong on her lips, but these girls somehow made it sound friendly. His eye took in the whole benchful of them as he approached, smiling. It always intrigued him to think of the ten of them, day after day, clocking in and clocking out, their factory life running like a machine irrespective of the course of their private life. Anything might have happened to them the night before, yet there they were, perching on their stools at seven-thirty, caught up in unsought intimacy until the bell scattered them to their separate fates at six o’clock. Sometimes Edward used to make up little stories about them, imagining what their real lives were like. He was as intimate with them as sixty hours a week could make him, and yet the part of their life he knew was only an interlude. One day he was going to write a story about them. They intrigued him.
He didn’t go straight home that night. He had an idea.
Don Derris’s barrage balloon was tethered on Collis Common. Don and the boys lived in a semi-circular tin hut, ridged like a sandwich loaf, surrounded by a narrow area of cultivation. It was this allotment that had given Edward his idea. If the balloon’s crew had time to dig and hoe, they also had time to keep rabbits, and furthermore the cabbages and potatoes with which to feed them. Allan Colley had said that it was the duty of the initiated to inspire the uninitiated, so Edward was going on a trolley bus to inspire Don and the boys. It would make an interesting little letter for “The Fancy’s Forum” :
“Dear Sir,
“I wonder how many Domestic Clubs can claim as members the crew of a barrage balloon? In the Collis Park Club, whose membership incidentally has just reached the so-and-so mark. Etc., etc.”
Collis Common was a stretch of dingy grassland between three arterial roads. Besides the balloon site, it held two football fields, one of which was now cut up into allotments, several wooden benches, a couple of shelters facing the wind and a shallow pond, gradually silting up with leaves and sodden refuse. Getting off the trolley bus at the corner, Edward struck across the grass in the waning light, turning up the collar of his macki
ntosh, for it was windy on the open ground. The balloon was not up, and he could just see it, straining and wallowing like a sick elephant trying to rise in its stall. Two squares of light fell on the ground from the windows of the tin hut, but as Edward approached, skirting the white rail of the pond, first one and then the other was blowww.bloomsbury.com/MonicaDickens. btted out. The little settlement wore an air of desolation ; the tethered monster struggled and moaned in an agony of abandonment.
As Edward approached the barbed wire, a grey figure detached itself from the greyness on the other side and began to loaf towards the hut. Edward kept pace outside the wire, peering to see who it was. It was too fat for Don, and had not his swaggering walk. Edward cleared his throat.
“Excuse me,” he said diffidently—he never knew whether these visits were officially allowed——” excuse me, but could I possibly speak to Corporal Derris, if he’s there?”
“Sure,” said the stout figure, “he’s inside. Hang on and I’ll give him a shout.” Edward had not yet thought what he was going to say to Don. He would be sure to laugh at first, because he laughed at Edward’s own rabbits, but he might eventually take to the idea out of boredom, especially if the business side of it were made clear. The door of the hut opened and Don came out, dropping casually down the steps and sauntering over to the barbed wire, kicking at the grass.
“Hi, Ed,” he said, facing him across the wire with his hands in his pockets. “You’ve heard the news then?”
“News? What news?”
“Oh, I thought you’d come to offer your condolences. You haven’t heard then that little Don’s all set for the great open spaces? No more will Collis Common resound to the clink of beer bottles and the gurgle of ale in the airman’s throat. No, everywhere there will be the rustle of skirts, the tantalizing glimpse of a dainty ankle and the exotic scent of perfoom.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You mean you haven’t heard that the knell has been struck, the last post sounded, the hammer of doom, the finger of fate——”
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