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Silvertown, West Ham, Essex, England, January 19, 1917
Clara awoke to the biting cold of the January morning. Frost laced her window in a delicate pattern, like those of the cloths that had dressed the tables of the best houses in London she had worked in before the war. If she were willing to forget the frigid fingers that had embroidered the frost on the pane and that encircled her hands and feet now, it would have been pretty. She yawned and her breath exhaled into puffs of smoke like those in the factory. The basin of water beside her bed had frozen during the night. She considered breaking the surface to wash. No, her face would just have to present itself to the world unwashed today. The shock of the icy water would be too much to bear.
Clara's room in the building she shared with the other workers was small, but spacious enough for the few possessions she had. A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She crossed the freezing floor that seeped in through her thin socks to answer it.
“Good morning, Clara,” a girl slightly shorter than her, with rose-tinted cheeks from the cold, greeted her.
“Good morning, Abigail.”
“Clara, would you mind terribly if we switched shifts today? You see, Tommy is leaving soon and I would like to spend the evening with him since he's training during the day. I know it's asking a lot for you to work the night shift,” her voice trailed off, as her yellowed fingers, from the sulfur at the factory, reached up to replace a strayed hair behind her ear. Clara didn't enjoy the night shift. The already unbearable cold was only made more acute with the black of night around her. Walking beside the Thames at night, when drinking escalated the unease of an already jittery splice of society, only made it worse. Seeing Abigail's innocence before her and knowing that thousands of Tommys would not return decided for her, though.
“Of course, Abigail.”
“Oh thank you, Clara! If I find any good bread, you can have my share.”
Clara nodded with a smile and climbed back into bed, puling the covers over her head and curling up to try to stay warm. Quickly she began to doze, dreaming of white bread, instead of the awful black mess that could only be found now.
It was late in the afternoon when Clara awoke. Long slanted rays of sunlight striped across the floor, making the most of its final moments before slumbering for the night. Dressing quickly and hastily eating, for sustenance— not enjoyment because food lacked all essence of flavor in this utilitarian form, she readied herself for the shift. She bundled warmly and set off in the east London evening on her way to the factory. Clara had worked here since its conversion in 1915 to a TNT producing facility. The heavy stench of chemicals, which had first appeared here in the end of last century, assaulted her nose now. It was difficult to think of a time when this had been marshland— which she knew had been only a couple of generations ago— before the docks were opened, bringing the new industrialized way of life with them. How wonderful it would be to walk among the reeds, hearing the birds above now! With each step toward the factory, the rising tide of nausea strengthened in anticipation of the chemicals' hold. Other girls she worked with suffered from chest pains and, given the choice, Clara was glad to only suffer with an upset stomach.
The factory, nestled among housing and other factories producing all manner of goods, came into sight. As she saw the flour factory now, she was reminded of Abigail's promise of bread. Her stomach lurched forward, up-churning bile in protest at her thought of food. She swallowed and diverted her mind to other things. Some of the girls greeted her as she entered the factory and took her place among the hundreds who worked here. Despite the many difficulties, it was comforting to know she was helping her country and doing her part in bringing men like Tommy home.
Her back ached from bending over her work, as if the elephant she had seen at London zoo when she was young were sitting on her. Already her fingers were cramping in the cold air. She paused momentarily and stretched them. Glancing up at the clock, she was surprised that the hands seemed to be moving so slow.
“Only ten to seven,” she whispered in disbelief.
“Did you say something, Clara?” the girl beside her asked.
“Just surprised at the time.”
The girl looked up now and said,
“Yes, only nine to seven. I'd have sworn I'd been here longer.”
Clara nodded wearily and the girls returned to their work. To help pass the time, Clara conjured memories of her childhood. She was seven, no eight, and she was at Grandfather's house in the country. It was the most beautiful day of spring and the flowers peeked their yellow bonnets and blue hats out among the field of luscious green onlookers, jealous of the flowers' splendor. Grandmother served tea cakes in the garden that tasted of sugar and rosewater. Her stomach lurched forward again. Perhaps, she had better leave the garden behind for now. In her memory, she stepped through their doorway and was met by a thousand delights to discover. Sparkling silver and finely carved wood presented themselves in pristine form, bristling in pride for the young Clara to inspect them. Her eyes traveled over the walls, amazed at— KABOOM!
Roaring thunder, empowered with the machinery of hell's fury unleashed its anger. Ashen soot and burning cinders charred the ground around her. Gripped by panic, Clara had no chance to plan what to do or to figure out what had happened. Only a second had passed since the explosive noise, but already it was too late. Knocked to the ground, Clara watched as the factory rained down around her. On the floor of Silvertown's ammunition factory, Clara felt the world fall on her, until everything was swallowed in black.
***
EDWARD PAUSED IN HIS dusting. What was that? His ears must be playing tricks on him again. It sounded like the earth had shook, but earthquakes didn't occur here in England. Besides, he felt sturdy on his feet. He brushed it aside, thinking nothing of it, and continued dusting off the objects on the shelf. He stood back to admire his work. It was shaping up nicely and beginning to look like a real home or, much to Edward's delight, a successful antique business.
Of course, he couldn't open shop yet. There was a war going on and everyone's mind was far removed from adding to their collections of attractive curios. Edward, for his own salvation and peace of mind, had to dwell beyond the war. Sequestered from the winter's harsh extremes and even bleaker reality that lay across the sea to the east, Edward thrived in his muffled world. Much as his hearing was muted, his acceptance of all that had happened was as well. Ignoring the pain of the horror, he sought solace in the comfort of the old.
Agnes, haunted by her own ghosts of war, born of her suppositions and worries rather than experience as Edward's were, attempted to draw him from his solitude whenever possible.
“Let's go to the pictures,” she had suggested one recent Saturday afternoon. The suggestion caught Edward off guard and no reason to decline was readily forthcoming, so he had no choice but to oblige her. As they sat there side-by-side, newsreels began to flash onto the screen. Music played somberly in accompaniment from the young girl seated at the piano, as Edward sat transfixed by the sterile black and white of war. Many in the audience gasped in horror, but for Edward it was merely a shadow of truth like Plato's in the allegorical cave. The public had first been exposed to such images this past summer during the earliest weeks of Edward's own Battle of the Somme.
Agnes reached across to slip her small ivory hand into his larger calloused hand.
“Is that how it is?” she whispered, not wanting to arouse pain but unable to silence her internal screams and pleadings for information on George and John.
No, it's a hundred thousand times worse. Everything is in color—vital red turned to deathly crimson, blue skies turned to impending gray. No melodic notes accompany the scene, only the piercing cries, agonizing screams, and thunderous explosions. The air does not smell of the delicate rosewater worn by the women around you. It reeks of mud, mold, and putrid flesh. And it's personal, so painfully heart-wrenchingly personal. They are not strangers; they are the men you eat with, sleep with, fight with. They are James.
The thoughts erupted in his head like molten lava, which had bubbled uneasily to the top, but Edward, stoic and steady, swallowed them all, dismissing them from duty and from reality.
“Yes, it's like that,” he said, simply.
Agnes's fingers clenched around his own, as she squeezed his hand, half to comfort him and half to console herself. She reached into her pocket and retrieved a lace-edged handkerchief to dab at her moistening eyes. For her, this version of reality, diluted and cheapened, was difficult enough to bear.
Broken from the memory, he was returned to his house and the rumble through the room. Under the weight of too high a stack of books, the shelf he had just dusted gave way and tottered uneasily. He reached out quickly to steady it. When he had returned it to its rightful place, his hand lingered there for a moment. He felt strangely off-balance himself. Maybe something wild was happening and there really was an earthquake. No, the ground was steady. It was Edward who was off-balance. He knew that balance was affected by the inner ear. Perhaps, his was simply readjusting with his changing levels of hearing.
Regaining his balance, he looked up, spying the girl's portrait in the mirror. He had hung her above the fireplace, because she seemed to demand attention. There was something pleasantly bossy in her demeanor that commanded respect and recognition.
“Why did you lie?”
Edward's brow furrowed. Who was talking to him? He turned, expecting to find Agnes. No one was there.
“I must have imagined it,” he muttered into the empty room. He had just been thinking about Agnes and her voice resonated within his head. His ears had only been confused. It was really in his mind. Yes, that had to be it. Speaking of Agnes, the hour was getting quite late and it was high time to return to her home for dinner. No doubt she'd call out a search party, if he did not soon return. He locked up his house for the night, leaving it and all its secrets unturned and in the dark.
***
A THROBBING, LIKE SOMEONE had jammed a metal helmet down too tightly on her head, confronted Clara now.
“Ohh,” she moaned, not at all sure what had happened. Her eyes opened slowly. It was dark, but a huge glare flooded the darkness in a burning glow. Cold air nipped at her now. “What am I doing outside?” she thought. She really wasn't sure what was going on, but whatever it was she had an acute awareness that being outside now was something out of the ordinary. As her eyes opened more, people materialized before her. They darted about, most looking shocked or greatly distressed. Red dripped from some of them. They had certainly made a mess of rolling around in the cherries. No. That wasn't cherries. That was blood. Suddenly, a great unease filled Clara. She lifted her eyes and saw a huge fire with leaping flames off to the side in the distance. Buildings around this central furnace shot into flames, as char and embers sparked and threw their fiery tongues to all within reach. Voices cried frantically in pain and desperation to locate others.
“Jane?”
“Sarah?”
“Elizabeth?”
“Where are you?”
“Can someone help?” Clara shook her head to try to loosen the iron fingers causing the aching in her head, but to no avail. From a few feet away, a woman met Clara's eyes and approached her now. Her hair, graying but full, was drawn back in a tight bun. Little wisps of stubborn hair jetted out, unwilling to remain captive. There was a sturdiness in her build and a determination in her cornflower blue eyes.
“Hello, dearie.”
It took Clara a minute to realize she was the one being addressed. Clara attempted to stand, but a rush of dizziness overcame her.
“Perhaps, you best not rush it,” the woman said.
Clara had no idea who she was or if she were supposed to know her. She took a paper and pen from her pocket now.
“Well, dearie, why don't you tell me your name and then I'll get you a nice cuppa.”
Clara thought tea a funny suggestion with such chaos around her, but decided that the woman must just be trying to put her at ease. At least, she knew that she wasn't supposed to know who the other woman was, but— she was supposed to know who she was. Clara opened her mouth to speak.
“I...I...”
“Yes, dearie, what's your name, love?” she coaxed gently.
“I... I don't know.”