Girls on the Home Front

by Annie Clarke

  Now we come to Turing and Welchman’s crucial Bombe (computer) which they created at Bletchley to trawl at speed through the millions of possible alternative settings to find the right one, which could then be distributed and each intercept decoded. This became vital as the war progressed, because the setting seemed to be changed daily. Stunning, brilliant men.

  But why not find your way to Bletchley Park, which is open to the public? Go and see the Bombe, visit the huts where the decoders worked, so too the translators and the clerks … and I expect you can tell me far more about it than I know.

  December 1941

  Fran Hall stood on the back step of her family’s colliery house in Massingham, wrapping her woollen scarf over her head and round her neck before tucking the ends down inside her shabby mac. The scarf was all sorts of colours, and the latest her mam had knitted, the one her da had liked because he said that it was cheery as the days drew in. She looked down at the old chair beside the step beneath which her da’s boots should have been. Aye well, they wouldn’t be, not any more.

  She stepped out into the yard, leaving the Proggy Rug Co-operative as they called themselves busy around the kitchen table. ‘You be good, ladies,’ she called. ‘Not too much fun and games; you’ve fresh orders to finish for the department store, remember.’

  She heard her mam’s strained laugh. ‘Howay with you, pet. Don’t teach us oldies to suck eggs. You just keep wrapped up and enjoy your time with the others at the beck.’ The rest of the co-op women would all be working – not just at their rugs – but at keeping things normal for her mam, and Sarah Bedley’s. Their fathers had been laid to rest the day before, following a fatal accident in the mine.

  She shut the door behind her. Well, keeping things normal was about right, for there had to be a new normality in the Hall and Bedley homes now. But they weren’t the first in the pit village to suffer painful losses, and they wouldn’t be the last.

  ‘Aye,’ she whispered to herself, looking skywards, her breath puffing out into the cold. She was a pitman’s daughter and would get used to her da being up there on that great grey cloud which had settled over the pit village during the night, heralding rain later in the day. He’d be dangling his legs over the side, alongside Sarah’s father, their bodies all mended after the roof fall, chatting over their big day yesterday; tucked up safe in their caskets while their sons and their marrers took their weight on the haul up the hill to St Oswald’s. She reckoned they’d be laughing at the memory of the lads panting, longing for a Woodbine as they coughed and spluttered beneath the weight.

  She laughed too, imagining them, two old friends – no, three, for Beth’s da, Tubby Smith, would be there too – and whispered towards the cloud. ‘Bad do, you old beggers chewing the cud, while you’ve left our Stan to take your place in the canary shed. Mark you, Da, it’s the beer he’ll have with Simon Parrot that’s made your eldest lad take it up with a smile on his face, leaving me to do the hens. Oh, and don’t either of you be worrying about a roof over our heads: the boss, Mr Massingham, says the houses are ours for as long as we need ’em.’

  She stopped by the hen coop on the left-hand side of the yard, scooped out grain from the covered bucket, and chucked it through the chicken wire as they clucked about. ‘Young Ben’ll maybe help me, but not Mam, so don’t be worrying, eh? We’ll be keeping an eye on her, every minute, making sure she gets over this, like she did the babe. Don’t want you pushing your nib in, checking up one dark night, and frightening everyone to death. You just rest, you’ve done your bit.’

  Her voice faltered on the last word, but she was a pitman’s daughter so swallowed and pushed back her shoulders. She put the lid back on the bucket before walking to the gate and lifting the sneck to head for the Bedleys’ house where she’d pick up the girls, and Davey, her beloved lad.

  She strode along the back lane, quiet now except for the workings of Auld Hilda. She stopped, breathing in the sulphur, the air of her home town, and watched the wind whipping up the slag heap. All the same, but not the same.

  She turned, looked back at the pithead, and whispered, ‘You keep our Stan safe when he’s back wi’ yer, Auld Hilda, because you didn’t do too good a job with our Da, did you? Better ratchet up yer game—’ She stopped because at least her da hadn’t died of Black Lung, which was his and Tom’s fear. No, it was Tubby, Beth’s da, who had died of that. She said now, but quietly, ‘Ah well, maybe you did us a favour after all, Hilda. Da’s cough was getting worse, so I’ll let yer off this once. But don’t you dare tek our Stan, you hear me?’

  She hurried on, thinking that if anyone heard her, they’d think she’d gone mad. It was nine a.m. and the fore-shift had clip-clopped in their boots along the back alley long before it was light, their murmuring drowned by the hooter as their six a.m. shift approached. Would the seam her da and Tom had been checking when the wall and roof caved in be re-opened as planned? It had only been half worked out so was good for a few more tons once they shoved up more props. So probably – after all, wars needed coal.

  What would the investigation reveal? Who knew?

  She turned up her mac collar and turned right at the top of the road. Ahead was the bus shelter where she, Sarah and Beth would normally queue for the bus for their shift at the munitions factory. It would have left earlier, much earlier even than the fore-shift at the mine; four a.m. to be precise. Beth should have gone into work today, for Tubby had died a bit before so she’d had a couple of days off back then, but Miss Ellington the senior SO had given dispensation.

  ‘Of course she had,’ Fran muttered to herself. ‘We three come as a package, just as the three fathers did.’

  In the bag Fran carried on her shoulder were spam sandwiches left over from the funeral tea; the corners were curling, but they’d been left outside the house in the meat safe, where the bitter cold of mid-December would keep the spam fresh enough. She turned right into Sarah’s back alley, her boots clopping on the cobbles, wishing Stan, her elder brother, hadn’t taken her bike to Sarah’s earlier along with his own, eager to comfort the love of his life. He was all of a dither in his grief, wanting to help but not knowing how, so he’d just taken it. Daft beggar.

  Ben, their twelve-year-old brother would meet them by the turning which led out of Massingham towards the beck. He was at his marrer’s right this minute trying to crack a crossword that Davey had set to keep the lad’s mind away from sadness, and to keep things as normal as possible.

  There it was again, that word. It was normal that her mam was a widow, now. It was normal that her da was safe, out of the pit. She looked up at the clouds, grinned and shouted, ‘You behave yourselves, you lot, and don’t you be throwing any snow down, just out of devilment.’

  She stopped because Davey, her Davey, had swung out of his back gate, and was running towards her. When he reached her he stood there for a moment, hesitating, before gripping her hands when normally he’d hug her to him. But he was grieving too, it was no more or less than that. Surely? ‘Bonny bonny lass,’ he muttered. ‘God, I wish I could stay and never leave. I’d give anything not to get on that train today. Come on, they’re waiting for us inside.’ Although Davey’s words were kindly meant, what she truly wanted was real words of love.

  They walked on back to the Bedley house as he asked, ‘Who were you talking to just now?’

  Fran shrugged, knowing she’d feel a fool with anyone, except him. Well, at least she would normally, for that’s how it had been before he left for his war work. Normally? Lord, she was growing to hate that word. ‘I was chatting to your da, my da and Beth’s. Telling them not to throw any snow down, out of devilment.’

  Davey swung round surprised and laughed, a great booming laugh, his real laugh, the first since he’d rushed back from Bletchley Park. ‘Aye, right enough. Devilment, eh. Careful what you say, or St Paul’s likely to banish them all down to where it’s dark and fiery.’

  ‘Aye, well, they’ll feel right at home there, eh?’ They looked at on
e another, laughing, recognising the pain, the misery, but also the joy and it was again as it used to be. Or almost.

  He pushed open the gate, and entered his da’s, no – she stopped the thought, his mam’s yard. Stan was by the bikes which leaned against the rusted downpipe on the back wall. He was smoking, watching Sarah as though he was taking a long drink, something which would sustain him through the day as she pulled the scarf up over Beth’s ears, and her woollen hat down, until only Beth’s eyes and nose showed. Sarah almost crooned, ‘There you go, pet. Might not be the best look in the world, and you could rob a bank and not be identified, but at least you won’t catch your death—’

  Stan interrupted, ‘We’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.’ All three girls and the lads smiled faintly. Beth said, ‘What, robbing a bank?’

  Sarah elbowed her. ‘Aye, that’ll be it.’

  Stan dragged out his Woodbines and waved them. Davey took one, cupped his hands round Stan’s match, and both lads drew on the cigarettes.

  Fran looked around; here they all were, the gang that had been formed years ago, but it was almost as though they were floating, or so they’d all said to one another the evening before whilst the neighbours were scoffing the spam tea at the club. Things weren’t quite real, and that’s probably all it was that was wrong with Davey. It couldn’t still be the trouble caused by Mr Massingham’s son Ralph, who’d chased long and hard after Fran; hadn’t she explained already how she had put a stop to it? She heard the question in her own thoughts.

  The three girls waited like this, together, quiet, with linked arms, watching the two men, Woodbines in the corner of their mouths, untangling the bikes as they discussed how much time they had before Davey left for his train back down to the south. As the girls’ breath mingled, Fran knew that even when Davey went the three of them had one another, and Ralph would continue to leave her be. She shivered at the very thought of his unwelcome advances which had tormented both her, and Davey. How could one tell the owner’s son to ‘shove off’, especially after his threat to tell his father of her own da’s poaching of a sheep? The price for his silence had been her ‘friendliness’ towards him, though that’s all it had been, she’d at least seen to that.

  She felt Sarah’s arm around her. ‘Are you thinking of Ralph?’ Sarah whispered.

  Beth muttered, ‘Don’t, bonny lass. He’s no hold over you now.’

  Fran looked from one to the other of her friends. ‘But does Davey really believe in the truth of it? He’s been so different, so distant, as though he still blames me.’

  Sarah pulled her close, whispering, ‘Or he’s just bereft? Aye, well he would be, our da’s just died, daft girl. We’re all bliddy well struggling, all finding our way, but we’re not alone, and aye, we’re so lucky in that. And we’ve a good job an’ all. With good money, which is useful to the war.’

  Beth muttered, ‘Oh aye, and detonators that can blow our hands off at any time, and bliddy Mr Swinton being bossy enough to stop the bliddy Nazis in their tracks.’

  Fran joined in, ‘No, he wouldn’t do that, he is a bliddy Nazi, the way he behaves.’ They were laughing again and for a moment Fran rested her head against Sarah’s. ‘We’ll all be fine, of course we will.’ And Fran knew they would because she’d taken on Ralph outside St Oswald’s when she’d told him his hold over her had died, along with her da. He couldn’t hurt her now. She then told his father, who had attended the funeral, the truth of the sheep incident which she had just learned from her mam: that the sheep was already dead, hit by a bus, so if Mr Massingham was missing one, his pit village had eaten it.

  She watched Davey as the lads ground their dog ends into the ground, seeing Stan punch him lightly on the shoulder, and heard her brother say, ‘Come on, man, you’ve only a few hours with us, so perk up and join in. We’re the cream yer know, not like that crowd yer running with down south.’

  At his words she saw Davey’s face stiffen, and fear washed over her. What if his distance had nothing to do with Ralph after all? Had he met someone else down in Buckinghamshire? Someone smarter, more interesting. Perhaps his time away had made him realise how small Massingham was, how boring, and she along with it …

  Pulling Fran close to her, Beth muttered, ‘Stop mithering it in yer head, Fran. I can see it writ all over your face. He knows you had nowhere to turn with the beggar. Stan’s tired, and grumpy, so’s Davey. Everyone’s in a do, everyone here that is …’

  Fran took her bike from Stan, while Davey dragged her bag from her shoulder. ‘Lord above, what’s in this, Franny? It’s heavy enough to be the crown jewels.’

  Sarah smiled, ‘Close, Davey; it’s delicious and delightful spam sandwiches, and our Fran did as she said and snuck out some sherry, and a bottle of beer from the tea, just for us. Our Fran always does as she says, you know. You can trust her in a way you canna trust most people.’

  Davey nodded, and looked down at his feet on the ground either side of the pedals while Stan held open the gate and waved them through. ‘Get a move on then, sooner we get there, the sooner we can have some, eh Davey?’

  The three girls rode side by side along the alley, Fran in the middle, their breath huffing out into the air, while Beth talked of the letter she’d received from her husband, Bob, who was somewhere he could not talk about, doing something he could not talk about either, but at least he was safe. ‘A lot of blacked out words, but they left in, With love, Bob.’

  They were laughing again.

  Bob was safe, Fran thought. Be safe, that’s what the wives of pitmen in Massingham Pit village said as their men headed out of the door. Be safe, be safe, for no one truly was. But at least her da and Sarah’s had been with one another, marrers in life and death, and the three mothers would carry that fear no more as they went above and beyond to keep ranges burning. Or the Home Fires, as Ivor Novello had written in the Great War.

  She hummed as she pedalled, keeping pace with the other two girls as Beth said, her voice juddering as she cycled over the frozen clods of earth that had dropped from the farmer’s tractor wheels, ‘I wonder how the others are getting on at the Factory?’ which is what they called where they worked. Davey had come up with the codename himself. So much war work was a big fat secret, including their own at the munitions factory.

  Sarah smiled. ‘We’ve only been away for a couple of days, so pretty much the same, I reckon. But I wonder how Miss Poshness, our Amelia, is getting on now she’s managed to get off the factory floor and into the office. Is she looking down her nose at us all, but still wanting to sing with us? Especially now Miss Ellington is arranging some canteen Christmas concerts. That’s what Miss Ellington said, isn’t it, at the funeral?’

  Beth nodded, saying, ‘By, I don’t know about that Amelia, she had me right fooled, she did. So timid when she were new, but look how pushy she turned out to be, and snobby when the Workers’ Playtime lot came along and we were the ones chosen to sing, not her. I wish we’d never helped her in her early days, that I do.’

  Fran pedalled harder as they struggled up the incline out of Massingham, heading for the beck. ‘Well, wouldn’t surprise me if she managed to get a group together and sing instead of us. It’s just something Miss Ellington said, a sort of warning about keeping a step ahead of the competition, with a nod towards Amelia.’

  The other two girls gaped. ‘She wouldn’t?’ Beth gasped.

  Sarah ducked as a crow swooped, then flew on. Sarah shouted, ‘I bet she bliddy would. There’s a new intake, isn’t there, so she’ll be sniffing out some talent while we’re away.’ Her voice was almost a howl. ‘She’s a fast worker, and howay, she’s so desperate to get into the bigtime, like that loudmouth on the wireless Playtime crew promised. We’d better practise, and hard. I’m not having her shoving us off the stage, no I’m bliddy not.’

  Fran and Beth laughed, and Fran said, ‘Then we will practise, right now.’ She burst into song, there and then, as they swooped round a bend, ‘You better watch out, You better
not cry …’ The girls joined in, and as they felt the wind shift and get behind them, the men hurried to catch up, joining in the chorus. ‘Santa Claus is coming to town.’

  Fran heard Davey getting louder and louder, and turned to look. He was pushing down on the pedals until he was alongside her, his blue eyes smiling, his blond hair, the same colour as Sarah’s, but not tinged with green as Sarah’s was from the chemicals. She dropped behind the two girls as he rode no-hands, sitting up straight, his cap tilted to the right, grinning as he always had. He reached out his hand. She took it, and together they rode on as Ben swooped out of the turn to his marrer’s house, and joined in, calling, ‘I could hear the racket miles away, you daft lot.’

  Davey yelled, ‘Enough of that. Have you two sorted the crossword I set yer?’

  Ben came alongside, and all three of them rode along while seagulls pecked at the furrowed fields, cracking the ice. The wind was almost slicing through as Ben panted, ‘Course we did. Even got the coded bit.’ He overtook them, and scooted past the other two girls, yelling, ‘Stop yer racket, save yer breath and catch me up, I dare yer.’

  He set off on his bike, inherited from Bob, Beth’s husband, and Stan tore after him, head down, shouting, ‘Race you, little toerag.’

  Ben’s laugh was shrill, not quite right, but not too bad, considering he was only twelve and his da would not be coming home.

  Davey reached the beck, still hand in hand with Fran, and all he wanted to do was hold her in his arms and never leave. Never ever leave and go back to that place, and Daisy.

  Stan leaned his bike up against the leafless hedge where battered birds’ nests hung, abandoned until the spring. Davey took Fran’s and did the same, while the girls collected dead and rotting sticks for the fire. Davey pulled newspaper he had knotted to imitate kindling and placed it on the bank, burned black from the fire they had set just before he went to Bletchley Park. Davey built the fire with the wood the girls brought back, while Stan lit it. Beth and Ben ran over the bridge to the rope hanging from the oak; it hung motionless on the sheltered bank.