by Annie Clarke
ANNIE CLARKE
Girls on the
Home Front
Contents
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
About the Author
Annie Clarke’s roots are dug deep into the North East. She draws inspiration from her mother, who was born in a County Durham pit village during the First World War, and went on to became a military nurse during World War Two. Annie and her husband now live a stone’s throw from the pit village where her mother was born. She has written frequently about the North East in novels which she hopes reflect her love and respect for the region’s lost mining communities.
Annie has four adult children and four granddaughters, who fill her and her husband’s days with laughter, endlessly leading these two elders astray.
To Catherine in Thirsk
Sister Newsome – my mum
Betty, my pal, who worked at Bletchley Park
Acknowledgements
Of course there’s a great deal of background reading when writing about the past. So huge thanks to Google and Bomb Girls by Jackie Hyams. Thanks also to a fellow bus passenger who was a bomb girl (filling factory) during the war – fascinating. And my mum’s anecdotes from her time working at the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Newcastle, not just nursing miners, but those whom the nurses felt were munitions girls (this was never confirmed – secrecy was paramount). She also had a couple of pals who were indeed munitions girls, though it was only much later that they felt able to share their reminiscences with me. Thanks also to Michael Rowan for reminding me about papier-mâché footballs.
My fabulous pal Betty was at Bletchley Park during the war and aware of the need for secrecy when I was teaching her writing group way back when, but she finally loosened up and told me much. Oh, how I miss her. She was so clever, and so mischievous. Again, there are many books on the subject: The Secret Life of Bletchley Park by Sinclair McKay and Station X by Michael Smith are just two of them. Him Indoors, a computer buff, has also been really helpful. However for a few years we lived close to Bletchley Park and of course visited, and saw and learned much. Do go if you can. Talking of Him Indoors, he has, as an ex-submariner, been able to bring some sense to the munitions with which the girls worked, and the technology at Bletchley Park, so he may have one of my chocolates. As always, any errors are my own, and my eternal thanks to everyone who has shared their knowledge. I am in awe of their courage, endurance and humour.
Prologue
August 1941, North East England
The bus rattled their bones and teeth, or so thought Fran, but her stomach was rattling enough with nerves anyway as they headed for the Ordnance Factory, which was so secret that it must have no name and never be talked about.
‘Spark Lane sounds about right,’ she murmured to her friend Sarah, sitting next to her.
Sarah muttered, ‘Well, our Davey should be good with codes, thinking of his crossword solving and setting.’
The bus slewed right around a corner, throwing them to the left. Sitting in front of them, Maisie, who had worked at the Factory for a while, braced herself and yelled, ‘Oy, oy, Bert, steady the buffs, lad.’
‘Lad, eh?’ he called back. ‘Wish I were, pet.’
The seats were just wooden slats, and Fran felt the wheels hit every clod thrown from the tractor as the farmhands had roared from one field to another, ploughing while the weather lasted. In the distance she could just see the pitheads of the mines.
‘I’m right nervous,’ Sarah muttered.
Across the aisle, Beth, their other old schoolfriend, gripped her hands together and said quietly, ‘Me an’ all, but we’ll know all about it any minute now.’
Fran peered ahead and there, in the distance, were what looked liked huge air-raid shelters covered in grass, and what seemed like hundreds of one storey brick buildings huddled beneath a lingering mist, the whole of it surrounded by a high wire fence where guards patrolled. Mrs Oborne, who sat next to Maisie, both of them from Massingham pit village too, snatched a look back at Fran and Sarah and whispered, ‘It’s best to have these factories where the bombers can’t find ’em, eh, so most are in misty areas.’
Beth reached across the aisle and pulled at Fran’s sleeve. ‘What did she say?’
Fran repeated Mrs Oborne’s words just as Maisie turned. ‘Aye, same as me last one. Right glad about it we were an’ all when we heard the beggars poking about the skies.’
Beth stared ahead, then at them. ‘Bliddy hell.’
Quite, Fran thought, as all three girls sat back while Bert ground through the gears, almost seeming to feel his way in the deepening mist, until finally he drew into a siding. The bus jerked as he parked. ‘Bliddy old cow,’ he muttered. ‘Needs a new engine.’
Ahead, Fran could see large double gates with security guards on duty and a high fence around the perimeter. She found herself fingering the crisp pass in her pocket, her mouth dry. Suddenly it was real. Now she knew where Mrs Oborne, Maisie and the others were actually going day after day, or night after night, when they just said, ‘the Factory’. For a moment she wished she was still working in the safe but boring office in Gosforn as a shorthand typist.
But last year her mam had lost the baby. Betty was too early, too small, and had drawn breath for only a few minutes before slipping away with the dawn, her da had said when he came down into the kitchen. He had stared at nothing in particular, just stood with his back to the range, then whispered, ‘Who can blame the poor wee lass. We’re a world at war and I reckon she took one look and said what’s the bliddy point?’ He petered out, just went on standing there.
Fran had worked on in the office, but as her mam failed to thrive she’d gone to the Labour Exchange in Gosforn and asked for war work. One where she’d earn decent money, she’d added, having heard the rumours around Massingham about some of the women finding well-paid work in a new factory. Then she’d be able to pay someone to help with the washing and give her mam a break.
In the Labour Exchange they’d told her she had to be over eighteen. She was nineteen. She had to work shifts. She would. Sarah had come with her and as Fran agreed, so had she. The woman had hesitated. ‘It’s dangerous, but no war work is a walk in the park. The pay is good, and trust me, you will be helping.’
Bert cut the bus engine and called, ‘Hoy yourselves ladies. Work awaits.’
The women groaned, rose and started to make their way along the aisle and down into the siding, which was clearly a turning point for all the workers’ buses. Fran, Sarah and Beth followed, glad to be out into the cool, damp air. They walked in a convoy to the gates, showed their passes and were beckoned through. Beth whispered, ‘Why the bliddy hell did I sign up for this?’
The other two sighed and exchanged looks. Fran knew it was what they were all feeling, but trust Beth to actually say it. They followed a guard alo
ng the wide roadway, seeing a stream of women wearing overalls entering the grass-covered mounds over to the left, so perhaps they were actually bunkers, where the more dangerous work was done?
There was no time to watch because the guard was setting a cracking pace, and Fran hurried along with the others, eventually turning left onto a path which led to a large, low brick building, but then they were all large. The guard left them, pointing at a double doorway. Mrs Oborne led the way, calling, ‘Follow yer leader, pets.’
The women laughed as they passed into a corridor and then turned into a windowless room lit by a couple of bare light bulbs There were two women and a man standing at the far end, the women wearing black overalls, the man green, all of which contrasted with the whitewashed bricks. Fran’s heart sank just as Sarah nudged her, for the man was Mr Swinton, a dour bullying crosspatch of a Geordie from Sledgeford, near Massingham. He wore a badge that said Foreman. The two women wore black caps and badges that said Security and their names.
One, a woman of about thirty, whose frown was deep, stepped forward. She smiled, and her face was transformed. ‘Welcome, ladies,’ she said. ‘Mrs Raydon and I are security officers. Some of you are new, so will the others forgive me as I go through the usual pep talk, or perhaps that’s too optimistic a description. You see, new girls, I have to tell you what it is you’ve signed up for.’ She held up her hand, only it wasn’t a hand, it was an arm that ended at the wrist. ‘I made a mistake. I became careless and had a mishap with a detonator, and you may well find yourself working with these, so be careful.’
Fran gasped, along with several others. Miss Ellington continued to smile. ‘This is a filling factory, and it is work which is simple, but needs total concentration and steady hands for you will be filling armament cases of varying descriptions with explosive powders. These cases include detonators, shells, bullets, rockets, bombs. You are not only handling these powders, you are breathing them in and they can cause rashes, changes in skin and hair colouring and so on. Not always, but they can. We do our best to transfer you to the sewing shop or somesuch if this becomes a problem to you. Sometimes you feel sick, sometimes you get a bit emotional, sometimes … Well, let’s not dwell on it, but we do what we can to give your bodies a change of scene.’
She pointed to Mr Swinton’s overall. ‘Yes, made by a “resting team”. Not Mr Swinton, just his overall. We had no pattern for Mr Swinton so he created himself, indeed he did.’
As the others laughed, Mrs Oborne whispered, ‘Miss Ellington’s a devil for riling the old bugger. Gets right up Swinton’s nose.’ Fran could see Swinton glowering beneath his bushy, grey-tinged eyebrows as he moved his weight from foot to foot, and then rose on his toes, before subsiding and repeating the pattern.
Mrs Raydon took over. ‘Now, ladies, a few crucial rules. You must not – ever – say where you work, not to your mam or da, not to the lady in the corner shop. Do remember we have to assume that even walls have ears, or so the posters tell us. Also remember that if our troops have no weapons capable of firing, they are in mortal danger, and what’s more, we will lose the war. If you do your work efficiently, diligently, you will be part of the process that allows them to survive and crush the enemy.
‘You need to know very little except your own particular task. The less you know, the less you can inadvertently discuss. Here, in this sector, you are likely to be working with one of the following: a fuse pellet – which helps the detonator to spark the explosive in a shell, or the detonator itself, and not forgetting the explosive, which we call The Yellow. You will come to understand why. All of these are bad-tempered little beggars and need careful handling.’
Mr Swinton now stepped forward. ‘Don’t be fooled. There are those within our own population, our own community, who would do us harm, so if you are vulnerable to flattery, to blabbing, you might be drawn into certain actions, or into explaining how the site is protected. If you do reveal what you are not supposed to, if it is discovered that you have spoken of your work, or helped the enemy in any way at all, you will be arrested and imprisoned.’
Fran thought of how she’d told Davey she had signed up for war work in a factory, and swallowed. She had told him nothing about what it was, or where it was, because she didn’t know. All she’d known was that it was secret and this is what she’d said. It was then that Davey, Sarah’s brother, had come up with the idea of calling it Spark Lane between themselves because the canny lad had guessed. Now, listening to Swinton, she felt it better to just call it ‘the Factory’.
Miss Ellington was speaking again. ‘Of course, there are rumours of our existence as we have so many employees – we Geordies aren’t daft – but no details have been leaked. So make up your own fibs if you have to say anything.’
Miss Ellington then explained that the Factory complex covered hundreds of acres, and that it was none of their business to know how many workers were required, or their tasks. ‘When you arrive at the start of each shift you will come to this room, or one similar, for every section has its own facilities. Once here you will divest yourselves of anything metallic, including wedding rings, and put them in the envelopes provided, and these will be kept safe until you leave at the end of your shift.’
Mrs Raydon took up the thread. ‘You will also leave matches in the envelope provided. You will wear only cotton for fear of static. If you wear even a hairgrip within the working area of your section and it drops, it can cause a spark. If you drop a detonator, if you, well, become in anyway careless …’
On cue, Miss Ellington waggled her arm in the air. Fran thought they had their routine down to a T.
Mrs Raydon nodded. ‘Need I say more?’
Mr Swinton cut across Mrs Raydon. ‘We need a perfect product so if you make a mistake, we must know immediately. We can’t have flawed weapons going to the front. We canna say any of this too often, and you will hear it often, believe me.’
Mrs Raydon explained that all the buildings were well spaced out so an explosion would cause minimum damage to any of the other sectors. Each wall had a strong skeleton structure, but with a centre constructed to give way easily in order to minimise the effect of an explosion. ‘In order for work to continue, in other words.’ There was a pause. Mrs Raydon finished, ‘That’s what’s important, pets. The work must continue, whatever happens.’
Beth muttered, ‘And bugger the workers.’
Fran sighed, but Miss Ellington had heard. ‘Exactly, young lady. An explosion is usually your own mistake, but it might be something worse. If, for instance, you take a hairgrip into a work area, it will in all likelihood be considered sabotage. Therefore, if that grip is discovered upon your person once you are clear of the changing rooms, you will be removed from the premises and will, probably, face serious criminal charges. Throughout the shift, we, or others concerned with security, will float around keeping an eye out for lack of concentration or carelessness. That is our job. We do it well.’
Mr Swinton waved his hand around. ‘While you’re in this sector, this is where you’ll change into the overalls provided, wearing them over your day clothes which should be cotton. Checks will be made. You will don turbans and felt boots, if required, since we can’t have any sparks from shoes. Over there, along that bench against the wall, are the envelopes for your dangerous articles. Place your shoes beneath if you are required to change them. Mebbe in time we’ll get a separate security room for your articles. Miracles happen.’
He coughed. ‘Today the trainees will start in the sewing shop, the others will follow me. Trainees, there’s no need for you to know any more than that they are following me.’
Miss Ellington took over. ‘A hint. If anyone asks, you are working in a factory making thingummybobs, and then change the subject.’ Miss Ellington waved her hand to Mr Swinton, Mrs Raydon and herself, and then encompassed the room – ‘At the start of every week you will be reminded of all that’s been said today. Remember, you know nowt. You say nowt about nowt. You work eight-hour shifts
, or longer if needed. These shifts rotate weekly – mornings, afternoons or nights. You do not complain if we have to work a seven-day week. We have a war to win.’
Mrs Raydon stepped forward. ‘Any questions?’
Valerie, from Sledgeford, where Beth now lived, put up her hand. ‘We get fed, I ’ope, otherwise it’s a bliddy long day. The bus takes near on two hours.’
Miss Ellington grinned. ‘Don’t you worry, you won’t fade away. There’s a canteen.’
Mr Swinton pointed to the clock. Miss Ellington nodded, serious now. ‘Time to get on and take the place of the night shift. Remember: “Be like Dad, keep Mum”, “Walls have ears” and … Well, bear in mind every other poster you’ve seen. And end the war with two hands, I beg you.’
Chapter One
September 1941, Massingham Colliery Village
Fran Hall smiled at her mam, who had emerged from the scullery, wiping her hands.
‘You tek care now, our Fran.’
Fran shrugged into her shabby mackintosh, wound her scarf around her neck, then hugged her mother. ‘I love the way you always smell of soda suds, Mam, it’s right cosy.’
Her mother laughed and patted Fran’s back. ‘Aye, well, that says more about you than it does about me, pet, for I’d like to smell of a bit more’n suds. A dab of French perfume might do it, eh? But maybe for you, pet, it’s all about the washing soda you hope to use when you’re wed to yer man, eh? There’s a time when even ironing his drawers is romantic, but that doesn’t last long, let me tell you.’
The two of them laughed. Fran squeezed her mam and her heart twisted at how thin she still was, but there was no time to dwell on that because the grandfather clock chimed three forty-five. It was the one thing of value that the Hall family had.
‘Pass your plate from the table, Fran Hall, or are you thinking the butler’ll do it? And be quick about it, mind, or you’ll be late for the Factory bus. Then Sarah’ll hang about for you and you’ll both miss a day’s pay. Which’ll please both your das, but let’s not get into that.’