The Bomb Girls' Secrets

by Daisy Styles

  ‘Kit’s right,’ Gladys agreed. ‘We hear bad news every day on the radio; only yesterday we heard the bloody Huns are doing everything they can to take Sevastopol. We can do nothing to stop them killing and slaughtering thousands of innocent civilians but what we can do,’ she declared with passion ringing in her voice, ‘is rally the workers: take them out of their miserable, humdrum worlds and allow them to be carefree and happy, even if it is just for a few hours.’

  Violet smiled. ‘Point taken,’ she said, then added as she took a deep breath to steady her nerves, ‘KEEP CALM … AND DANCE!’

  On the morning of their debut, Gladys was thrilled to find a letter from her brother, Les, in her pigeon-hole. It had been opened by the censors, and there was no date or location, but it was full of news and hope.

  Hiya, our kid,

  Well, I don’t know where to start. I’m in a country where I don’t speak the language, but me and our battalion get by and, as you well know, I’m an expert when it comes to smiling at pretty girls!

  ‘Typical!’ giggled Gladys.

  I miss playing in the regimental band with Captain Horrocks directing us. He’s a good bloke – sent us off with a smile and a wave of his baton! I miss home and Ma’s grub and you and Pa but I’m happy fighting for my country and I enjoy the joshing that goes on between me and the lads in between the fighting. When they saw my trumpet in my kit bag they asked could I play. I told ’em I just lugged it round for the fun of it! After I’d entertained them with a few numbers they called me the Yorkshires’ ‘Bugle Boy’! They have me playing regularly, which is good for my practice, they say my music cheers them up when they’re missing their girlfriends! In fact me and a couple of lads who play trombone and guitar do a lot of serenading in between the action. It makes me think of you, our Glad, and the duets we played which drove poor Ma crackers! Hope you’re keeping up with your music and not letting your saxophone grow rusty. Also hope you’re not meeting too many fellas, they’d better not put a foot wrong or I’ll sort ’em out next time I’m home.

  Lots of love,

  Your loving brother,

  Les

  xxxxx

  Gladys hugged the letter to her and she said out loud, ‘Wish me luck, Les. Today’s the big day! Wish you could be here to cheer us on,’ she added wistfully.

  Malc and a group of volunteers had made an attempt to transform the utilitarian canteen into a dance-hall. They’d hung paper decorations around the room, and Malc had somehow got hold of some mirrored silver balls, which twirled and glittered when the lights were dimmed. A makeshift stage had been built at one end of the room and a space cleared for dancing. Hot and cold drinks would be served from the kitchen along with Edna’s tasty meat pies and mushy peas.

  When the big day dawned, the girls hurried home at the end of their shift and shared tepid baths before slipping into clean white overalls.

  ‘I don’t know why we don’t wear our usual overalls,’ Maggie said as she stuffed her thick hair underneath her turban.

  Myrtle rolled her eyes in despair. ‘Think girl – THINK!’ she scolded.

  Seeing Maggie’s blank expression, Myrtle elaborated. ‘You and Nora work with cordite; Gladys and the others work with gunpowder. Particles of explosives remain on your overalls, which would most certainly go up in flames if somebody were to light a cigarette near you.’

  ‘OH!’ Maggie gulped as the penny dropped.

  After helping each other with their hair and make-up the girls made their way to the empty canteen, where they found Arthur and Malc setting up Kit’s drum kit and Myrtle’s piano, which they had just moved from the chapel.

  ‘Thank you for helping us out,’ Gladys said gratefully.

  ‘I hope the move hasn’t made it even more out of tune,’ Myrtle fretted as she ran her fingers along the keys of the ancient piano.

  Arthur’s eyes were on Violet, who, with her silky fine hair flying loose from her turban, was practising her clarinet. His heart ached as he caught sight of the sadness in her eyes as she played. For the hundredth time he wondered what he could do to make her happy. He longed for her to open up to him, trust him, be his friend, but it was like trying to catch a wild bird: the nearer he got to her, the further away she flew.

  ‘That’s beautiful,’ he said as she finished the piece.

  Blushing with pleasure, Violet didn’t hurry away; instead she briefly held his gaze.

  ‘I’m looking forward to hearing you play more later,’ he added softly.

  Malc interrupted their exchange. ‘Come on, Arthur, let’s be having you,’ he called out. ‘Doors open at half past seven, sharp,’ he told the girls as he and Arthur left the room.

  As a warm-up exercise the band played their opening and closing songs; then the canteen doors were thrown open and an eager crowd poured in. Leading them was Mr Featherstone with his plump smiling wife on his arm.

  ‘Good evening – may I introduce you to my wife, Sybil, and these, my dearest, are the Phoenix’s very own swing band.’

  Mrs Featherstone shyly bobbed a curtsey, then followed her husband to a table positioned as close to the stage as possible.

  As the audience drifted around the space, lighting cigarettes, greeting friends and checking out the talent, Myrtle played a light waltz on the piano; then, as people gathered expectantly near the stage, Gladys gave a nod to her fellow musicians. Tapping her right foot, she chanted, ‘A-1, a-2, a-1, 2, 3, 4.’

  And, raising her alto sax to her lips, Gladys played her solo introduction to the Andrews Sisters’ ‘Tuxedo Junction’. The audience, which consisted of female munitions workers and a large local crowd, immediately grabbed partners, male or female, and started to dance. The girls smiled and nodded at their friends in their best dresses with their hair washed and dried, swirling and twirling on the dance floor, happy and lost in the moment, just as Gladys had hoped. As one number followed another, the dancing varied from foxtrot to waltz, then a quick-step followed by a tango, but the all-time favourites were the jive numbers – ‘PEnnsylvania 6-5000’, ‘In the Mood’, ‘Beat Me, Daddy, Eight to the Bar’ all sent the audience wild.

  When the Bomb Girls stopped for a well-deserved break, they were hot and sweaty but very, very happy.

  ‘It’s going well!’ Nora gasped. ‘They like us.’

  ‘They bloody love us!’ laughed Maggie, who’d lost her turban halfway through their first song and had strands of her thick hair flying loose around her glowing face.

  Myrtle rose from the piano and said with almost regal dignity, ‘I must pay a visit to the lavatory.’

  ‘And I must get something to eat,’ said hungry Kit, who could smell Edna’s meat pies from halfway across the canteen.

  After trips to the ladies’ and, in Kit’s case, polishing off one of Edna’s meat pies, the girls reassembled on stage as Malc dimmed the lights for their foxtrot number, ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’. After this the night flew by, and before they knew it they were on their final song, Nora’s all-time favourite, ‘Sing as We Go’. After a rousing introduction from the brass section, the girls broke into song, as did the audience. The canteen echoed with the happy, hopeful sound of young voices, which gave way to applause as Gracie Fields’s spine-tingling song drew to a close.

  ‘MORE! MORE! MORE!’ yelled the audience.

  Gladys winked at the girls. ‘ “Tuxedo Junction” one more time?’ she asked.

  The audience clapped and cheered as they took to the floor, and if it hadn’t been for Mr Featherstone finally calling a close to the proceedings, the Bomb Girls might have been forced to play till dawn.

  ‘That’s enough now,’ said the manager kindly but firmly. ‘These lasses have to be on the bomb line first thing in the morning. Thank you, ladies,’ he said as the lights came up, causing the audience to blink like baby owls startled from their sleep. ‘You’ve done the Phoenix proud. Good night and God bless.’

  As the tired but triumphant musicians packed up their instruments and
collected their music sheets, Arthur appeared again by Violet’s side.

  ‘May I have the honour of walking you home?’ he said as he relieved her of her clarinet case.

  As Violet hesitated, Arthur quickly added, ‘Just a walk up the hill, then I’ll be on my way,’ he promised.

  Seeing the pleading in his dark blue eyes, Violet relented.

  ‘That would be nice,’ she said as she followed him out of the canteen and into the starry night.

  12. The Sisters of Mercy

  Exhausted but happy, Violet, Gladys and Kit fell into their beds, grateful that they had an afternoon shift the next day. As they made their usual breakfast of tea and toast around the wood-burner, Gladys and Kit teased Violet about walking home with Arthur.

  ‘He was the perfect gent,’ Violet cried. ‘Never laid a hand on me.’

  ‘He’s been after you since the first time he set eyes on you,’ Kit giggled. ‘I think he’s lovely, and good-looking too.’

  ‘With his looks he could have any girl in the factory,’ Gladys added.

  ‘It’s not his looks that impress me,’ Violet replied sharply. ‘It’s what’s inside the man that matters.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Kit bitterly.

  After they’d clocked on at the Phoenix, Gladys went to check her pigeon-hole in the hope she’d find another letter from her brother. Finding none, she checked her friends’ pigeon-holes and returned with a letter for Kit, who went as white as a ghost when she saw the Irish stamp and postmark on the envelope. The only person in the world who knew her address in Pendleton was her sister, Rose, who was sworn to secrecy.

  ‘Never, never tell mi da,’ Kit had begged when she’d given it to Rose. ‘And only use it in an emergency.’

  Knowing instinctively that it could only be bad news, Kit’s hands began to shake. Was her mother dead or Billy sick? Hurrying into the ladies’ toilets, she dashed into a cubicle; then, after bolting the door, she ripped open the envelope.

  Dear Kit,

  Come home right away. Da’s got plans for Billy that you must stop. He’ll flay me alive for telling you but I have no choice.

  Your loving sister

  Rosie.

  Sitting on the toilet seat, Kit groaned as she rocked back and forth in a turmoil of fear. What on earth had happened? She felt a visceral need to get home to her darling boy as soon as she possibly could. ‘Blast this war,’ she thought. How would she manage to get time off work and secure an urgent passage to Ireland as quickly as she needed to? She didn’t even know where to start, and the increasing sense of panic she felt wasn’t helping her to think logically.

  ‘EDNA!’ she suddenly thought. ‘Edna will help me.’

  After her shift, Kit stood outside in the wind and the rain waiting for Edna to show up. When she caught sight of the blue van, frantic Kit ran in front of it to flag it down.

  ‘God Almighty!’ cried Edna as she slammed on the brakes.

  Sobbing uncontrollably, Kit showed Edna her sister’s letter. Staying calm and focused Edna said, ‘I’ll sort out your travel arrangements; your priority is to get compassionate leave off Mr Featherstone.’

  ‘I can’t tell him I’ve got a baby!’ Kit gasped.

  ‘Tell him the truth – your mam’s dying.’

  ‘He might sack me and not let me come back,’ Kit fretted.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Edna chided gently. ‘Everyone’s entitled to compassionate leave, especially in these circumstances.’

  So Kit, a shaking nervous wreck, went to see Mr Featherstone in his office the next morning before her shift started. First, she had to circumnavigate his officious, bossy secretary, Marjorie, who kept her waiting in the cold corridor a good half-hour before she could tremblingly present her case to Mr Featherstone in his cosy office, where a fire crackled in the hearth and tea and biscuits were served to him by the devoted Marjorie.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve got to go home – Ma’s dying, as we speak.’

  Seeing the poor girl weeping and distraught, Mr Featherstone granted her leave.

  ‘But only for three days, mind,’ he said as he helped himself to a second biscuit. ‘We need you back on the bomb line ASAP.’

  Grateful for anything, despite knowing the travelling time would take up much of those three days, Kit ran back to her digs, where she frantically packed a few belongings and some of the money she’d saved into her old suitcase. She left a brief note on the dining table for Violet and Gladys, who had already left for work.

  Bad news from home. Got three days of compassionate leave.

  Love,

  Kit.

  Breathless, she ran down the hill into Pendleton, where she banged on Edna’s shop door. When it was thrown open, Kit fell into Edna’s arms.

  ‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ the older woman soothed as she led Kit into the back of the shop, where she made her a cup of tea. ‘I’ve booked your passage and here’s your train ticket to Heysham,’ she said as she handed Kit a ticket.

  ‘Thank you, oh, thank you,’ gasped Kit. ‘I’ll pay you back; I’ve got plenty of money saved up.’

  Kit waved goodbye to Edna at Clitheroe Station. As the plumes of sooty black smoke enveloped the platform, Kit slumped wearily into an empty seat. What could her father be planning to do with her son, she wondered as the train gathered speed. What was it that had frightened her sister so much she’d disobeyed her father just to inform her? Kit shuddered in dreadful foreboding; a terrifying urgency suddenly gripped her and she willed the train to go faster and faster, for she knew with overwhelming certainty that if she didn’t get to Billy soon it would be too late.

  ‘Holy Mother of God!’ she prayed out loud. ‘Please take care of my son.’

  In the Phoenix canteen there was much discussion about the Germans’ strategic bombing of Britain’s cathedral cities, which had systematically been targeted by the Luftwaffe since April.

  ‘The brutes have studied their guide books and ticked off the oldest and most historical English cathedrals, then bombed them into the ground,’ Myrtle sighed with tears in her eyes. ‘Ancient buildings which have stood as a symbol of our Christian faith for over a thousand years are going up in flames.’

  ‘As if it’s not enough for the Third Reich to slaughter our brave lads – now they’re hell-bent on destroying our national landmarks,’ Gladys seethed as she pulled Myrtle’s newspaper closer so that she and Violet could see the black-and-white photograph of Exeter Cathedral.

  ‘Coventry’s been bombed over and over again,’ said Violet as she recalled the tragic sight of her city’s cathedral destroyed by repeated German bombing attacks.

  ‘It looks like it took another beating last night,’ Gladys said as she pointed to a boldly headlined article lower down the page: COVENTRY’S WOOD END STREET AND RESIDENTS BLASTED!

  Violet’s eyes widened as she read the article.

  Wood End, with its engineering works and factories, has yet again been targeted by enemy bombers who dropped high-explosive bombs on Tuesday night whilst innocent civilians slept in their beds. Utilities were knocked out, the water supply, electricity network, telephones and gas mains; many roads in the area were cratered. One entire street, Sawley Avenue, was wiped off the map. Fire workers are sifting through the wreckage, but ambulance crews have stated there are no survivors in the tragic ruins of Sawley Avenue; all seventy-two residents, including innocent women, children and babies, all perished.

  Violet caught her breath. ‘Sweet Jesus!’ she gasped.

  Her friends turned to her in alarm.

  ‘What’s the matter, Vi?’ Gladys asked.

  Hating herself for lying to her friend, Violet prevaricated.

  ‘I just can’t believe these terrible pictures,’ she said as she pointed to the photographs of the bombed cathedral cities.

  She was relieved when the hooter went and she could return to the filling shed; she automatically filled dozens of fuses with gunpowder, all the time thinking, ‘My
neighbours, my friends. And Ronnie.’ Dare she really hope that Ronnie was dead? Blown up along with everybody else in Sawley Avenue? They had said there were no survivors. They must have checked; they wouldn’t publish something like that without being sure of their facts. Her heart ached for all her former neighbours – mothers, sisters and fiancées of lads who had joined up. She’d known them all, and they’d been kind to her, even though they knew her husband was a liar and a coward. They’d seen her cuts and bruises after his savage attacks and understood all too well what went on behind closed doors. Even though Violet grieved for the innocent civilians, she couldn’t help but feel the beginning of a flame of hope licking through her. Could it be that, at last, God had released her? Could she really be FREE of Ronnie?

  Her eyes turned to Arthur, who was checking the fuses in the trays waiting to be collected.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he said cheerily.

  Not wanting anybody to know the teeming conflicting thoughts in her head, Violet gave a little shrug. She was anything but all right; in fact, she didn’t know whether to laugh with guilty relief at the thought of her possible freedom or weep with grief at the loss of so many innocent lives. Keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the fuse cases she was packing, Violet answered guardedly, ‘Everything’s fine!’

  After yet another nightmare journey across the Irish Sea, with an agonizing sense of impatience at every small hold-up that delayed her journey home, Kit finally landed in Dublin. In a frenzy now to get where she needed to be, Kit ran straight for the bus to Chapelizod, drumming her fingers on her small travel bag as she willed the driver to go faster. When it finally pulled up, she grabbed her belongings and raced down the lane to the gates of the vast Fitzwilliam estate, shuddering as she recalled her rapist’s bloated face and stinking breath.

  ‘Surely no day could ever be worse than that day?’ she muttered to herself as she crossed the park to her former home, hoping against all hope that this would prove to be the case.