Girls on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  ‘Did you hear me, Fran?’

  ‘Aye, we’ll just have to sing up because we’ve got to do it, everyone’s worked so hard.’ She pasted another fluted paper.

  When their break was called they gulped their dinner because the performances would begin any minute, though Fran left most of hers because her mouth ulcers were so bad. After pudding, it was time for the start of this sector’s programme of performers and they listened to the groups, all of whom sounded too good, too professional. They all wondered if they should sing it just like an ordinary choir, no humming, no drums, but it was too late and they were called forward a mere ten minutes before they all had to return to work. They trooped up on stage and Fran and Sarah stood at the front of the choir, gazing out over the workers, still sitting, some smoking, some still eating.

  Fran and Sarah exchanged looks, acute tiredness dragging at them. Fran thought of a twist of tea, a twist of pellet – what the hell was it all about? For Beth should have been here and suddenly it seemed silly and pointless. Were Beth and her mam alone in the house, just the two of them now? Had Tubby really gone with the dawn?

  Mrs Oborne bustled to stand in front of the choir. She had wanted a pencil to use as a baton but had no way of obtaining one. She had wondered about a knife from their canteen table but had been shouted down. She said quietly, ‘Reet, we are one short, so we will sing, though our hearts are full to bursting, for Beth and her family.’

  Fran straightened, pushed her shoulders back, and next to her, and behind her, all the women did the same. Miss Ellington asked, ‘What are you calling yourselves?’ No one said a word, and then Sarah nudged Fran, for Amelia had entered with the office girls’ choir, all smart, all in suits and high heels. Fran straightened her shoulders even more and answered, ‘The Factory Girls, Miss Ellington.’

  Miss Ellington wrote this down, grinning to herself. Mrs Oborne’s eyes gleamed, she smiled, then asked to borrow Miss Ellington’s pencil. Miss Ellington reached up to the stage from the canteen floor. ‘I’ll have it back immediately, you know the rules. You can’t take it back with you to pellets.’

  Mrs Oborne held up the pencil, nodded at Fran and only then did she count them in, conducting with crisp moves, dead on the beat. The choir hummed and then the sopranos came in, and then the contraltos, and then Mrs Oborne stabbing her pencil towards Valerie and Marjorie, and in they came as drums. It should all have been ridiculous – from the pencil baton through to the humming and the drumbeats – but it was grand. Mrs Oborne stabbed the pencil at Fran and Sarah, and they stepped forward and sang for their friend Beth, and for Mr Smith, and for all those in peril.

  On they sang, until Mrs Oborne drew in everyone, including the drums, and then swept them to a clean stop, dropping her hand to her side. The choir stood, unmoving, watching the tears running down Mrs Oborne’s cheeks. There was silence and the choir didn’t care if no one thought they were worth even a clap, for they all knew they’d done their bliddy best for one of their team.

  The applause began then, long, loud, and some of the women stood and cheered as Mrs Oborne dragged her sleeve across her eyes, turned to face the audience and bowed, as did the choir. They traipsed off, and suddenly everything was all right. They had done their best for Beth and it didn’t matter if they didn’t win. Over by the wall, Amelia forced a smile and a wave. Miss Oborne murmured, ‘Well, I didn’t like to say before, but I heard tell she was offered a return to the floor, but she said no, and were a mite rude about us an’ all, or so I’m told. But on t’other hand, she were good when needed. Strange old world.’

  Miss Ellington was running after them. ‘Pencil.’ It was an order.

  They headed from the canteen back to the workshop. They talked, feeling excited and pleased with themselves, pasting, wrapping, heedless of the yellow and the itching, and Fran and Sarah no longer felt tired, but could have danced around the workroom. They reached their target by two and stepped away so the new shift could take over. Mrs Oborne led their team out, past Miss Ellington, who was cursorily checking them for pellets, as it was deemed more sensible than in the changing rooms.

  ‘It makes one wonder just how much work Miss Smith does, if the target is reached so easily. Perhaps we have no need of her,’ muttered Mr Swinton.

  The shift didn’t have time to respond because Miss Ellington snapped, ‘Don’t be absurd, Mr Swinton, or would you like me to go now and relay your opinion to management that we should operate with an inadequate number of personnel? And it’s time you stopped using this team to fill in here and there all over the ruddy place. I see you’ve marked them for stemming next week, and it isn’t right.’

  Mr Swinton waved the women on. ‘Hurry up, the next shift is already operating.’

  Miss Ellington, who was gripping her clipboard under her handless arm, looked as though she wanted to use it to belt him around his lugs, thought Fran. She called down the corridor after the girls, ‘The votes of the supervisors and security staff will be cast and added to the workers’ and you will all hear the results tomorrow. And please convey my regards to Beth and her family. And just to let you know, we hope for more workers soon.’

  So had Mr Smith really passed and yes, new workers might happen, but might not and what could they do about that? What could they do about anything? the women wondered in the changing rooms. In the car park, Bert was revving the bus and everyone clambered on. Amelia sat across the aisle from Sarah and Fran. ‘I’ve the afternoon off,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d like to see if I could help at Beth’s in case Mr Smith died today.’ Those who had heard nodded, confused because they didn’t know where they were with this girl, for they too had heard the recent rumours of her latest views of the shop floor girls. But Fran and Sarah were too tired and at last slept.

  When Bert pulled in at Massingham, Ralph was waiting. Fran and Sarah walked firmly past him, even though he called after Fran. Maisie and Mrs Oborne followed, and it was Mrs Oborne who said, ‘Mr Smith will have passed today, but thank you for your concern.’

  She too swept on and he called after them, ‘I was bringing the news, so how did you know?’

  Mrs Oborne called back, ‘He will have gone with the ending of the night, reet enough, or the coming of dawn, whichever way you want to put it.’

  Amelia hurried after Fran and Sarah.

  At Mrs Smith’s they almost tiptoed across the yard, and tapped on the door. Beth opened it, shutting it behind her, and came to them. She hugged Fran and Sarah, and nodded to Amelia. ‘He went with the dawn, and it were best. He can breathe easy at last. I put brown paper and goose grease round his chest last night, and he didn’t grumble. He just lay back and smiled, and said, “Thank ye, lass. I does love you, and always will. Take care of your mam, and she’ll take care of ye.”’

  ‘Shall we stay?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘No, go home, but be with me for the funeral, eh? We’ll have it on the Sunday. You come too, Amelia. If you wish.’

  The girls left, and walked Amelia to the bus shelter; there was a regular bus, not a works one, due soon for Sledgeford. They waited with her, and as the wind grew fierce their headaches worsened and no one said anything, for what was there to say. They waved her off, and returned to their homes. Fran lifted the sneck, opened the gate and clumped across the yard, into the kitchen, too tired to remove her shoes. She tried to pull the chair out from the table but felt the air leaving her body, and the floor lift to meet her. The last thing she heard was her mam calling, ‘Fran? Oh, Fran.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fran lay on the floor. She knew she must go to bed, but her head was heavy and she just wanted to sleep where she was. But the itching from the paste wouldn’t stop, and her head was pounding. She heard the back door slam and Ben’s panicked ‘Mam?’

  ‘It’s all right, she’s tired and had a tumble. Help me get her to her feet.’

  Fran lifted her head. ‘I’m better. I just felt a bit odd. I’m better.’

  ‘You look a bliddy sight,’
Ben said. ‘A bit yellow, and that rash’s back on yer hands. Time you was where they put you to get you right. It’s that bugger Swinton, in’t it?’ He grabbed her under her right arm, her mam under her left, and as they got her to her feet she thought, how does he know about Swinton? Well, the beggar lives local, so of course it’s known. The back door opened, letting in the cold.

  ‘What the hell?’ shouted Da.

  It’s like a game, Fran thought, but she was thinking that a lot as her thoughts chased one another around, day after day. Doors, revolving doors. Pellets, stemming. Stemming, pellets detonators, bullets. Ben. Da. Poor Mr Smith, and Davey, her lovely Davey, and strange Amelia.

  Mam said, ‘She’s worn out. I expect it’s the same with Sarah. Give us a hand up with her, Joe.’

  Fran shook herself free and sat with a thump on her kitchen chair. ‘I tripped, that’s all. Thought I’d take a minute to check the dust under the table. By, Mam, you should do summat about it.’

  Ben laughed; her parents didn’t. Her mam snapped at no one in particular, ‘She could do with a good supper, that she could, but I’ve only a piece of cheese, and your veggies, Joe. Thank heavens for those. I’ll get cooking. She can have it on a tray like Lady Muck, and a cuppa, so I’ll get a pan on while your da gets you up them stairs, eh?’

  ‘Oh, Mam, don’t fuss.’ Fran stood, her legs like water. She remembered then that she had barely bothered to eat at the Factory because her mouth was sore, but at least her itching wasn’t worse. Poor Sarah’s was right bad on her back.

  Fran reached the door to the hall, realised her da was behind her and turned. His hands were either side of her in case she fell. It comforted her as she climbed the stairs. He stood helplessly as she reached the bed, and said, ‘I don’t want you to be working like this, on a wee piece of cheese. Why the hell couldn’t you work in the bliddy office, like I wanted?’

  Fran turned and grasped one of his hands in both of hers. ‘Oh Da, because I want to help win this war. You might not like it, but I’m not going to stop, and I eat the same as you an’ all, probably better what with the canteen, so stop with your mithering. Me money helps Mam with the laundry, and makes life easier for Madge too. Sarah gives hers to her mam for the savings jar, because who knows what might happen in the future, and Beth’s done it too. It’s only what we’re all doing.’

  Her da took hold of her hands now. ‘But you need a break from it. Get back into the sewing, eh, pet?’

  Fran fought against her tiredness. ‘We are just needed as cover for the moment, that’s all. The flu is a beggar, and some have been transferred to other factories to cover there. We’ll be getting more workers soon, Miss Ellington told us, and then we can rotate to a clean place, but you know I can’t talk about it.’

  Her mam came in then. ‘Off you go, Joe. Keep an eye on the vegetables. I’ll be down in a minute. You, Frances Hall, get into that bed.’

  Fran undressed, and her mam saw her hives. ‘I didn’t know,’ she murmured. She hurried downstairs and came back with her lavender mixture, which she created from marinating the crushed flower spikes and leaves in goose grease. She rubbed it on gently. ‘You silly girl,’ her mam said. ‘Silly girl, you should have told me. I think this will be better than the moss, but we can move on to that when this improves. What about your hands? Moss or lavender? I’ll do a mouthwash of hot salt water for your ulcers, eh?’

  They decided on lavender for her hands, which would help Fran sleep too. Her mam smiled. ‘Lavender is the cure for all diseases.’ Fran thought, no, that’s death, but knew she must shake herself free of such meanderings.

  ‘Mam, don’t fret,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t notice after a while.’ She pulled her nightgown down and settled back against her raised pillows. She wondered where Davey was, and the longing tore at her.

  There was clumping on the stairs and Ben came in with a tray on which were piled vegetables, chopped cheese, a bit of spam and dripping, a cup of tea, a mug of salted water for afterwards, and a spit bowl. He set it on her knees. ‘Eat it, our da says, and you’d better, because you’ve our share of cheese. I had some when I was at Farmer Newton’s with the evacuee, Bobby, doing the bliddy great pile of crosswords that Davey left us. He’s going to send us others.’

  Her mam sighed. ‘Language, Ben, if you don’t mind. Once your sister’s eaten she’ll sleep, so don’t go on for hours.’

  Fran laughed and began to eat. ‘Sit down, Ben, talk a bit, then I want to sleep for weeks, but a night will be grand, and let’s not forget Mam was up all night too.’

  Her mam stood by the door. ‘Aye, maybe, but I had a snooze in t’day and I’m not doing heaven knows what with that little Hitler, Swinton, breathing down me neck.’

  ‘Mam, you shouldn’t say that. You know better than to name names.’

  ‘Oh, aye, walls have ears. It’s only in here we say anything about it, so rest easy.’

  She shut the door gently while Ben threw himself onto the bed, jogging the tray and slopping the tea. ‘Tell me about London. I know you can’t tell me about his job, but what’s London like, our Fran?’

  She told him about the pigeons that still settled on Trafalgar Square, about Piccadilly Circus with Eros all boarded up, and the bomb damage, and the meal that Mr Massingham had paid for. ‘It was a thick slice of lamb,’ she said. ‘With potatoes roasted in dripping, and vegetables and gravy, and it was brought to us all posh like, along with mint sauce.’

  Ben just stared. ‘A whole slice each? Was it really a thick one?’

  She nodded. She could taste it now. Would Davey be settling in? Were there girls there? Would it change his love for her?

  She looked at the plate, no longer hungry and her ulcers hurting. Ben smacked her legs, jogging the tray again. ‘You best eat it or our mam’ll be up the stairs, and Stan right after her when he gets in. I bet right now he’s fussing round at Sarah’s. He’s soft over her, the lad is.’

  Fran burst out laughing. ‘Oh, the lad is, is he, old man?’

  ‘Aye,’ Ben said, as she pushed her tray towards him. ‘Help me out, I don’t want a lathering for being a bad girl.’

  He winked and gobbled the plate clean, picking up the tray and looking down at her. ‘And Mam said you needn’t wash tonight, or do your teeth, because they won’t rot missing just one night. Go to sleep, and stop being so soft, eh?’

  He headed for the door, calling to her, but not looking round. ‘You be safe, our Fran. We does love you, daft lass.’

  He balanced the tray with one hand and opened the door, calling back, ‘And don’t you fret, cos our Davey’s soft about you too, always has been, and always will be, daft buggers the lot of you.’

  He shut the door as she shouted, ‘Language.’

  As she slid down the bed she heard his laugh. She was alive and Ben was right, she and Davey had one another, for ever. It was only then she thought of the singing competition, and went to sleep hearing their choir, and seeing Mrs Oborne’s tears and knew she’d be better in the morning.

  At her home, Mrs Oborne tucked herself into bed beside her old bugger, feeling the pencil in her hand, seeing the choir, her choir, again, hearing them singing their hearts out, sending their words up to poor old Tubby, and she didn’t know if her tears were for Tubby, the beauty of the choir, or because her rash was so bad it was driving her right barmy. She too slept.

  Joe Hall poked at his tiny bit of chopped cheese and finally finished it. He rose from the table, snatched up his cap and headed out of the door, stopping to kiss the top of Annie’s head. ‘Going to check on me birds, bonny lass.’

  ‘Aye, you do that.’ As Joe left he heard his Annie say to Ben, ‘You get on with your homework. If Stan can get a scholarship, and your sister can pass her typing exams, you can do well too. I’m not having you with black lung after a lifetime in t’pit, and that’s that. Just think on, young Ben, we’ve a funeral on Sunday.’

  Joe stifled a cough as he tied up the laces on his boots out in the dark of the ya
rd. Poor old Tubby. Not that he was tubby by the end. He moved the brick off the lid of the hen feed and threw seed to supplement the cabbage leaves. Fifty wasn’t old, but Tubby’d wanted to go when he couldn’t get his breath proper any more. Could you will yourself to die? He bloody well hoped so. Joe slammed the yard gate behind him.

  He passed Stan on his way back from Sarah’s. ‘’Ow do, lad. Sarah all reet?’

  ‘She’s about all in, sallow, itching, not herself, had a bit of a tumble.’

  ‘Same as your sister. Mam’s sent her to bed. I reckon she had a faint. But the pair of them were up all night, your Sarah and our Fran.’

  Stan sank his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Aye, and Mam an’ all. They’re just weary, but they’re not bothered cos it’s the same for ’em all. I reckon they’re proud of themselves. Sarah’s da’s gone to check the canaries. Simon’s got beer on the go, so Tom said. Not sure if it’s his own or a jug from the club.’

  Joe nodded, and walked on. Course Si had beer, he always had, using the pennies in the divvy pot they held at the shed. Not that the beer at the club was up to much, bit thin it seemed, but rations were rations. It wasn’t anyone’s business that they brewed their own as well. He didn’t ask where Simon got the yeast, but it could be true that once yeast started brewing it just went on growing like a plant if you fed it. He supposed Si used honey, not the sugar ration, or his missus would skelp him.

  In the shed the oil lamp was lit, the boards were up at the window, and the smell of birds and feed was soft and comforting. He took his place beside the other two, already perched on upturned barrels, and nodded his thanks to Simon for the tin mug he’d pressed into his hand. Simon said, ‘Us’ll get a jug of the beer from the club tomorrow, eh? Manage wi’ our own tonight to set our Tubby on his way.’

  They raised their mugs and muttered, ‘Tubby, God rest his soul.’

  Simon added, ‘Lord, let me go under a pile of rock, or when I’m eighty in me sleep, but, for the love of Mike, not coughing me lungs up till I canna breathe no more.’