A Step Too Far

by Meg Hutchinson

  Feed the enthusiasm, give Becky all the rope she needed. Katrin answered. ‘It was nylon, Becky, the girl said the stockings were called nylons.’

  ‘Well, whatever . . . I’d give my eye teeth for a pair.’

  ‘A week’s wages for the teaching of the jitterbug and now your eye teeth for a pair of stockings, wonder what it be you’ll go offerin’ next.’

  ‘Oh you!’ Becky expostulated, ‘You always sees things as don’t be there Alice Butler!’

  Perhaps. Katrin answered silently. But this time Alice was not simply imagining, this time there was definitely something to be seen, all it needed was an outlet . . . maybe she should provide that.

  Innocence personified, Katrin smiled. ‘Why not both go on Saturday, that way you can determine for yourself whether or not these girls were . . .’

  ‘Shootin’ a line!’ Becky put in quickly. ‘That’s what I heard one say the Americans called tarting up the truth, he said it were “shootin’ a line”.’

  ‘Huh!’ Alice retorted. ‘You’ve already got the lingo without being nowhere near that dance hall.’

  ‘But we could, we could go Alice,’ Becky leaned excitedly across the scrubbed bench of a table. ‘So shall we?’

  Alice shook her head. ‘Depends,’ she said doubtfully.

  A breath of exasperation adding to a frown nestling between carefully plucked eyebrows, Becky demanded, ‘Depends on what? There’s neither of us working after six on Saturday.’

  ‘Not so we’ve been told up to yet.’

  ‘All right, then if we don’t get called for extra hours will we go?’

  ‘Going be one thing, but Wolverhampton’s no two minutes away, how do we get back? You know buses run far less frequently after nine o’ clock at night and if there’s an air raid they don’t run at all.’

  ‘We will just have to do what them girls do.’ Becky’s determination was not to be outdone. ‘Make sure we don’t miss the last one, and if there’s a raid we either waits it out or leg it back to Wednesbury, either way it’ll be worth it.’

  Worth a pair of stockings? It would be worth much more to Katrin Hawley if the promise of those words which had echoed in her mind became fulfilled.

  ‘There is one more thing we would like you to do.’

  Miriam Carson’s insides fluttered at the remembered words.

  How could anyone ask such a thing of a boy? Yet Philip Conroy had asked and the glance he had shot to her on hearing the answer had been one of quiet congratulation.

  ‘Mum, granddad . . .’

  Reuben had looked at them both with eyes that tore her heart. ‘. . . before dad went away he told me always try to face up to things, never to run away. I don’t want to run away from this, please let me do it, let me do it for my dad.’

  She had looked to her father for support in saying no, but the same tears of pride had glistened in his eyes as had glittered in her own.

  ‘If there was any other way then we would not ask Reuben to take part . . .’

  We. Just how much thought had the so secretive ‘we’ put into finding some other way?

  ‘. . . believe me Mrs Carson, had we reason to think your son would be in danger . . .’

  How could he not be in danger! Miriam’s mind snapped accusation. It was so easy for Conroy, it was not his son being asked.

  ‘. . . let me do it for my dad.’

  As she nodded to the man adding her work to the large container, Miriam blinked against tears misting the gleaming brass cartridge cases into a glittering golden stream.

  Tom! Deep in the silence of her heart she had cried to the husband who could not help, called to a love which could not hear. Yet in that same silence had come an answer. Trust him Miriam, it had whispered. Trust our son.

  And so she had said yes.

  Philip Conroy had smiled that brief smile which seemed to say he understood her fears; but he didn’t understand, how could he? How could anyone other than a mother know the fear of having her child walk into danger? This was no game he was about to play, no chat with a school friend. If discovered, then retaliation would be no tap on the wrist.

  Trust our son! It was as if Tom had spoken to her. Tom telling her he had trust. And so she had kept her fears locked inside.

  ‘Before I say what it is we would ask you to do, let us go over things one more time.’

  ‘It was not like the little ’uns in junior school do . . .’ Reuben had smiled at Conroy. ‘. . . you know, they collect newspapers, and depending on how many they bring in, are awarded a paper badge which says “corporal, sergeant” or whatever. Well, we were no longer juniors, Mr Browne said, collecting newspapers was not proof of quality of leadership. An officer, a good officer, needed knowledge of terrain, of what it held and where. If it were an industrial town what was its major source of industry? Where were those sources located? How were they transported? How well were they defended? Mr Browne said knowledge of geographical location was an important aspect, one any officer would familiarise himself thoroughly with when out on field expeditions, and though we couldn’t do that, we could, by means of a project, demonstrate our ability for leadership as a school prefect. I wasn’t all that interested until he explained that for the duration of the war the term “prefect” was to be replaced by similar rank of officer in the armed forces . . . and like I told my dad I wanted some day to be a lieutenant. I wanted to be like him and this seemed a good way to start so I did a project on Wednesbury.’

  ‘That is the one we have here?’

  The signal for the end of her shift sounded over the noise of machinery and Miriam murmured goodnight to the young woman waiting to take over, but her mind did not so easily relinquish its hold on the past, did not blot out the question pointed at her son.

  Reuben had shaken his head.

  ‘No, Mr Browne said the work I handed in was good, good enough even for Sergeant Major but if I could put a little more into it then it could warrant commission as lieutenant.’

  ‘Did Mr Browne suggest what form those additions might take?’

  ‘Yes.’ Reuben had answered immediately. ‘He told me to consider, should rail or road transportation be impeded, was there some other way materials might have of reaching their destination. That was when I remembered the canal and thought how the “Shadow Factory” must be shipping stuff out.’

  ‘Shadow Factory!’ Concern and curiosity had combined in Isaac’s exclamation. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘It’s what folk are calling Prodor.’ Reuben had looked at his grandfather. ‘They say it’s on account of it being so well camouflaged that from above it must seem like a shadow on the land and what with bringing armaments out only at night . . .’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  Washing her hands, Miriam looked at the grease-stained lather but saw only her father’s troubled look, felt her heart miss as it had missed when he had asked were folk talking of that also?

  ‘I haven’t heard anybody say, and I certainly haven’t asked.’ Reuben had smiled.

  ‘Then how do you know?’

  ‘That stuff is brought out at night?’ Reuben had glanced at Philip Conroy, then at herself and his grandfather, before lowering his eyes and confessing sheepishly. ‘Sometimes at night, when you’ve both been on night shift I . . . I’ve left the house; I know I shouldn’t but it somehow felt safer in the places I’d been with granddad, especially our fishing spots, they felt peaceful and friendly, it was while sitting in one of them I saw Prodor’s doors open and the crane load huge cases onto narrow boats drawn up on the canal that runs along the back of the factory.’

  Miriam shrugged into her coat, Philip Conroy’s next question the same lance in her heart it had been when asked.

  ‘And these narrow boats, did you know where they took their load?’

  A moment’s silence had followed, a silence driving into her with the ferocity of any bullet she might make. Leaving her own place of work Miriam looked at the darkened sky. Peaceful and friendly
. . . when would the night ever feel that way again?

  ‘I guessed . . .’

  Reuben’s gaze had lifted, his clear honest eyes begging forgiveness and understanding.

  ‘. . . but I wanted to be a lieutenant, mum, and I knew guessing would not be good enough so . . . so I followed the boats down along the canal. Nobody saw me, I made sure of that.’

  ‘And did those boats go to where you had guessed they might?’

  Walking through the unlit streets Miriam followed the conversation in her mind.

  ‘Mmm.’ Reuben had nodded.

  ‘They went along to Friar Park, they offloaded there.’

  Conroy asked if Reuben had any idea of why those narrow boats should offload after a journey of so few miles?

  ‘I didn’t know for certain what the loads were so that time I just had to guess.’

  ‘So what was your guess?’

  It had not been Philip Conroy’s question had held breath in her throat, it had been Reuben’s answer. Passing along the narrow Kings Cross alleyway leading to Cross Street, Miriam saw in her mind her son’s face, the candid sincerity, the same integrity . . . she had seen the image of Tom, heard his strong truthful voice in the reply.

  ‘Whatever was being put onto them canal boats had no wheels so it was unlikely to be motorised transport of any kind. At the same time I reckoned they were not guns, least not the anti-aircraft type seeing the size of the crates so it seemed fairly safe to assume they were shells.’

  ‘And?’

  It had been asked so calmly yet Philip Conroy’s watchful stare had been riveted to that of Reuben.

  Reuben’s half laugh had carried that note of slight embarrassment, the apology of attempting to ‘teach his grandmother to suck eggs’.

  ‘. . . it’s . . . well, everybody knows shells are useless without the explosive to set them off!’

  He had halted there, but when neither listener made comment he proceeded.

  ‘It was fairly certain that those boats ferrying shells would be taken to a place to be filled with gunpowder.’

  ‘Royal Ordnance Factory.’ Isaac had met the glance switched to him. ‘There be a branch along of Friar Park, the shells we machine at Prodor all goes there to be filled.’

  Had Reuben been too observant? Had his agile mind led him a step too far? Dread which had hung over Miriam the whole day became heavier with the thought. The ‘we’ behind Philip Conroy must be very powerful people, powerful enough to take her son from her if they thought him the least threat.

  ‘One more thing,’ Philip Conroy had accepted the explanation. ‘Tell me Reuben, and please think very carefully, tell me again what you overheard on the afternoon you took your project along to that room; are you certain who it was you heard? And more importantly, the exact words spoken.’

  ‘I know it was Mr Browne I heard, he has such a . . . a thick voice is the best way I can explain the way he sounds . . . and having heard no reply, I reckoned him to be speaking on the telephone.’

  Reuben had paused, frowning as he puzzled to recall every detail.

  ‘. . . The door was shut as always but with everybody except myself gone home the school was silent . . . I had been given permission of my teacher to stay an extra half hour to finish off my project and it seemed the sensible thing to do to hand it in there and then, so I went to Mr Browne’s room and that was when I heard. I couldn’t catch all of what was said but the way he emphasised some of the words they came clear into the corridor; I wasn’t eavesdropping, mum, honest I wasn’t!’

  ‘The words that were emphasised, Reuben?’

  Philip Conroy had brought Reuben back to the question in hand.

  ‘I heard them several times, he repeated them like he sometimes does when he wants to be sure one of us lads has got the point but . . .’

  The frown returned, displaying Reuben’s reluctance to get something wrong, but at his grandfather’s reassuring nod he had gone on.

  ‘I’d decided not to disturb him, that I would hand my project in next day and had begun to walk away when I distinctly heard him say, “Raygenskerm” he stressed that very much and the same with the next thing, “Fine at Price”, and then “Corn”. He wanted whoever he was talking with to be quite sure of what it was he wanted, though I don’t know any corn called Raygenskerm, do you granddad?’

  Had it been an echo of her own fear she had seen in her father’s eyes as he had given that negative shake of the head? Was he also afraid Reuben might be taken from them? She had prayed Philip Conroy would leave without asking any more of Reuben. But not every prayer received the longed for answer.

  ‘Thank you Reuben. Now, this is what we would like you to do . . .’

  Miriam’s mouth trembled against a volley of sobs. Philip Conroy had smiled as if inviting Reuben to a game of chess.

  But it wasn’t chess!

  Miriam winced at the sharp stab of fear.

  Oh Lord . . . it wasn’t chess!

  16

  The works’ canteen was not her favoured choice of meeting place, nor was the company desirable, but she must put preference aside if things were to go as she wanted; she would pretend friendship just as long as it suited her purpose. Glancing at the clock on the wall of her office, Katrin reckoned the minutes from hearing the factory hooter announce midday break. Those two were never slow off the mark, they would have collected their drinks and be sitting at one of the tables. Katrin’s nose wrinkled. Slurry oil had a way of donating its unpleasant smell to the clothes of anyone coming into contact with it and the overalls of the factory girls always carried it. But how else, short of inviting them into her home, could she get to talk to Alice Butler and Becky Turner? That was even more undesirable than speaking to them here. So why speak with them at all? Glancing again at the clock, Katrin walked from the room. Why? Because every inner sense said it would prove to be of benefit for Katrin Hawley.

  ‘Hey, Kate!’

  Leaving the serving counter with a cup of tea, Katrin gritted her teeth. Did the girl have to shout, couldn’t a wave of the hand serve the same purpose? Ignoring stares and none too quietly observed comments regarding the dismissal of Isaac Eldon, she wove her way between tables to Becky and Alice.

  ‘We was just saying what a great time me and Alice had on Saturday; eh Kate, it were smashin’, I wanted it to go on all night.’

  ‘You tried enough to make it last all night, we got that last bus by the skin of our teeth.’ Alice unwrapped a sandwich which had been promised a sliver of cheese and then the promise forgotten.

  ‘Oh, but it were worth it.’ Cornflower blue eyes glistening like azure stars, Becky hunched her shoulders, hugging the memory. ‘It were the best night I ever had.’

  ‘Yes, but did you learn to jitterbug?’

  ‘Not what you would call learn, Kate.’ Becky laughed. ‘Though the fella that danced it with me said I would pick it up proper with a couple more lessons.’

  ‘Was that “shootin’ a line”?’

  ‘Fancy you rememberin’ that.’

  She remembered more than that. She remembered the giggles and suggestive nudges, the half guilty looks which had passed between those girls in that underground shelter.

  ‘I don’t think he was,’ Becky answered, ‘he seemed too nice to be saying anything he didn’t mean.’

  ‘He?’ Katrin forced a smile in to her eyes. ‘Did you dance only with one man?’

  ‘No.’ Becky’s turbaned head shook once. ‘There were others, me and Alice didn’t sit one dance out but . . .’ she paused, colouring slightly, ‘. . . but Earl were different, he was so polite, called me ma’am, every time he asked me for a dance. I tell you Kate, them Americans leave our fellas standing when it comes to manners.’

  ‘Weren’t only lessons in how to jitterbug you was treated to.’ Alice looked over her slice of bread. ‘Show Kate what else you was given.’

  ‘Not only me!’ Becky was defiant.

  ‘No, not only you, but it be you and not me hav
e brought your’n with you. So . . . show Kate, show her what them Americans give us.’

  Carefully shielding her bag from any inquisitive gaze, Becky drew out a small paper bag. ‘I couldn’t believe we might be given some of these.’ She drew out a pale mist of tan, letting it float across the back of her hand. ‘Nylons, Kate,’ she whispered reverently, ‘ain’t they marvellous?’

  ‘Pity you didn’t come, Kate, you would have been sure to have been given a pair; and you would have enjoyed the dancing. Why not come with me and Becky next time?’

  Becky’s pretty mouth drooped. ‘Who said anything about next time?’

  Tingles of alarm flickering in her veins, Katrin put in quickly. ‘But I thought you had enjoyed going.’

  ‘Don’t pay to think.’ Alice shoved her folded lunch paper into her bag. ‘Neither does it do to go setting store by anything ’cos you be like to find somebody’ll tell you no, and that’s what your mother’s done I reckon, told you you can’t go again! Is that right, Becky?’

  Becky stared disconsolately at the sheer mist of stockings before gently returning them to the bag. ‘Mother don’t know I went to Wolverhampton,’ she said, ‘her thought it was the social at Saint Mary’s, her would have a fit if her found out I’d been to the Civic, and if her catches sight of them nylons then Lord only knows what will happen.’

  ‘So tell her you be going to the church social again this Saturday.’

  Becky’s eyes had lost their gleam. ‘Can’t,’ she said miserably, ‘it’s only held once a fortnight, and even if it were more often who wants to go there to dance to records after dancing to a live band? And then there’s the chance of mother hearing on Sunday morning that I hadn’t been at the social at all, her would be wearing my innards for garters.’

  ‘That be it then,’ Alice returned philosophically. ‘I suppose going to that dance once were better than not going at all, at least we knows what we be missing, and we can stick with using sand in place of nylons, least ’til we be twenty one.’