On their way to work, long shadows followed Phyllis and Bridget across the patch of waste ground locally known as the tip. Even in the full brightness of the day, the gasometer threw a dense shadow that held back the daylight.
‘Well,’ exclaimed Phyllis after Bridget had told her about Lyndon O’Neill. ‘Fancy that! You takin’ a millionaire American around Bristol, and me startin’ my typing course.’
Bridget had sworn her to secrecy. ‘There’s a lot that ties Bristol with America, you know. And that’s all it’s about, but I don’t want everyone to know.’
‘Me neither,’ said Phyllis, as though her own secret was just as exciting. Laughter gurgled in her throat. ‘Robert will kill me when he finds out that I’m going to learn how to type. But there, a girl has to try and better herself. I’m looking forward to getting a job in the office. But I won’t forget me mates though, you do know that don’t you, Bridget?’
The truth was she’d felt a notch above her workmates since enrolling for the typing course, the twelve pounds it cost saved from her wages, and was looking forward to September. Her mother needn’t know and neither did Robert. Working in an office had something glamorous about it. She’d be smartly dressed all the time and not wearing an overall.
That feeling that she was going to better herself had been diminished. A posh car was going to pull up outside Bridget’s house.
‘He was going to travel on to Europe, but it’s getting dangerous even though America is neutral,’ Bridget explained.
Bridget wasn’t crowing. She wasn’t the type, but all the same Phyllis couldn’t help feeling resentful.
‘So they won’t get involved.’ Phyllis tried to sound knowledgeable on current affairs, though she’d never read a newspaper or a book. Magazines that dealt with fashion or film stars were more her cup of tea.
‘They’re keeping out of it,’ returned Bridget, ‘though they started out the same in the Great War.’
‘Still,’ said Phyllis, determined to look on the bright side, ‘we’re not at war yet and I ’ope we never will be.’
She turned her attention to where single-storey concrete buildings were beginning to rise in front of the green gas tank that so dominated the tip. Suddenly the sound of a concrete mixer starting up drowned their ongoing conversation.
‘Air-raid shelters,’ Bridget shouted over the noise.
Phyllis eyed them silently. Once the shattering sound was behind them, they resumed their conversation. Phyllis tried to invite herself round on Saturday morning so she could take a peek at the glamorous American.
Bridget told her not to, but Phyllis had made up her mind. She wanted to take a look, to see what she was missing being engaged to be married and all that.
The truth was that the news had hit her head on and got her questioning whether there was somebody out there better than Robert. What if she ditched him and bade her time? Perhaps getting married at twenty-five?
A few other girls also heading for the factory joined them. There was laughter and conversation, and although Phyllis badly wanted to crow about Bridget’s meeting on Saturday, she kept her mouth firmly shut.
The rumbling of the concrete mixer was replaced with the sound of a different kind of machine assaulting their eardrums, causing all eyes to turn skywards.
‘An aeroplane!’
Hands were pressed against foreheads, everyone awestruck by the course of the modern marvel slicing through the summer sky.
‘First one I’ve ever seen,’ said Phyllis, her voice full of amazement. ‘Makes you wonder how they manage to stay up there.’
‘Aerodynamics,’ said Bridget. ‘That’s what it’s called.’
‘Get you, clever clogs,’ said one of the others.
Bridget remarked that her father had seen them during the Great War and had told her all about dog fights between the old string bags – officially known as Bristol Bulldogs – and the German air force.
Gradually, it faded into the distance. Everyone sighed to see it go but instantly reminded themselves that they were on their way to work and at this rate they’d be late getting there. Footsteps quickened. Stopping to stare had robbed them of valuable minutes.
‘Oi. Fancy going out tonight,’ shouted one of the men building the air-raid shelters.
Unfortunately for the would-be Lotharios, young women were not the only ones taking a shortcut.
‘Love to,’ shouted back Mrs Delaney, who was pushing forty and had ankles like milk bottles that overhung her shoes. ‘Where you taking me?’
Everyone laughed until someone remarked about the connection with the plane flying overhead and the air-raid shelters and the hope that they were never needed.
‘Fingers crossed,’ said Phyllis. ‘Let’s forget about it and go out and enjoy ourselves tonight. I fancy going to the pictures. There’s a comedy on at the Town Hall.’
The Town Hall was the name of the small local cinema just off East Street. It had been there since the twenties so its seating was a bit battered and it didn’t have quite the glamour of newer establishments. The locals referred to it as the Fleapit.
Inside, the tobacco-filled air in the corridor grew warmer and noisier with the sound of the tobacco processing machines as they walked.
Phyllis had to shout to make herself heard. ‘How about we meet outside the London Inn first?’
‘All right by me,’ said Bridget.
The doors of the stripping room opened to the sound of chattering women, a cacophony of voices, scraping chairs and a little light music from the factory wireless. The wireless kept them going for most of the day. Whilst there was music, the sound was turned up. When the God hour or the news was broadcast, it was mostly turned down, the women filling the gap with their own singing.
The wireless interrupted: ‘Here is the news.’
‘Let’s turn it off until there’s music.’
One of the younger women climbed up onto a table to turn it down but met a hail of protest. Nobody would normally have said a word, but this time, a number of the older women protested.
Aggie almost dragged her back down. ‘We wants to know what that old bugger Hitler is up to.’
One of the other older women chimed in, ‘These knows what ’e’s up to, but do that Neville Chamberlain know? Leave it on. Let’s ’ear what the silly old sod is up to now.’
A strange silence fell over the whole room. The stripping still went on, hands working as methodically as the machines that chewed the leaves into tobacco. Everyone was listening.
The underlying message in the BBC newscast was that give Herr Hitler an inch and he’d take a mile. Aggie confirmed the fact in a loud voice.
‘I don’t fink there’s going to be a war,’ said a peroxide blonde called Muriel, who, rumour had it, was having an affair with George Benson, one of the foremen.
‘All a load of fuss about nothing, if you ask me,’ piped up a younger girl.
Aggie slapped her round the head with a palm, made coarse and hard from years of stripping tobacco leaves.
‘Ouch! That ’urt.’ The girl rubbed at the spot where the blow had landed.
‘You won’t be saying that when Hitler’s throwing people off Clifton suspension bridge,’ growled the older woman, a chain smoker with a gravelly voice that struggled to come up her throat.
Bridget and Phyllis exchanged wry smiles at the thought of Adolf Hitler strutting along the length of the Victorian bridge. It seemed comical more so than possible.
From that point on, the subject of conversation barely strayed from what might happen. Everyone had their own concerns.
Aggie broke the stalemate.
‘My brother’s already at sea on the banana boats. So careful what you says. We gets a lot of seamen in the bar of the Llandoger. They got a lot to say about what’s goin’ to ’appen. Shortages of food for a start. We import a lot. It’s got to come in by ship, and if the Germans do like they did in the last war, we’ll be lucky if ’alf of the ships get in. The rest will get sunk. As I said, my brother’s on the banana boats, so no more bananas once war breaks out.’
Another woman, Florence Brown piped up. ‘My boy was called up back in May. Twenty - to twenty-two-year-olds for the reserves and now they reckon it won’t be too long before they’re called up again. A lot of the fellahs in ’ere got made reservists as well. It seemed kind of part-time at first. Even gave those that finished the training a suit.’ Her big bosoms pushed against the buttons of her overall in a big sigh. ‘I thought it was a nice suit ’til I realised what it meant – if there’s a war my boy’ll be one of the first to go.’ The woman’s voice trembled.
As a tear rolled down her cheek, one of the other women patted her fat arm. ‘He’ll be all right, Flo. After all, ’e’s only a reserve. It might not come to anything, and then he’ll be ’ome with you. But there you are. All the young men will be in uniform before very long whether they want to be or not.’
At all this talk of war, Phyllis turned thoughtful. The minuscule diamonds on her engagement ring flashed and twinkled. The captured light drew her attention and gave form to her thoughts. She no longer listened to the banter going on around her. She was thinking of Robert, when he was likely to be called up and how it might affect their relationship. Everyone said they were a well-matched couple and would be downright surprised if she called it off. Doubts had set in, but she turned cold at the thought of telling him to his face that she didn’t want to marry him. If he got called up, she might not need the courage to raise those doubts. The war might make the decision for her.
The weekend was coming and thoughts of Robert were pushed to the back of her mind, replaced by enthusiasm at the thought of going to the pictures with Bridget and Maisie.
‘I’m wearing my blue dress,’ trilled Phyllis. ‘The one with the sweetheart neckline.’
Her high spirits dropped like a stone when she saw Robert outside the factory waiting for her.
Bridget and Maisie came to a halt but were close enough to hear what was said.
Phyllis tried not to sound ungrateful when she asked, ‘What you doin’ ere?’
‘I’ve got these,’ he said, waving tickets of some kind. ‘A mate’s got a dog running up at Whitchurch tonight. Had a couple of spare tickets. Thought I’d better meet you so you could know to get ready. I’ll be round for you after you’ve ’ad your tea.’
‘Well, actually, I did have something planned,’ she said as he took hold of her elbow. ‘I was going to the pictures with the girls. We’ve already made arrangements.’
He was totally dismissive. ‘Well, you ain’t now. You’re going out with me.’
Phyllis winced at the tightness of his hand on her arm and the quickness of his steps as he marched her off up East Street. He totally ignored Bridget and Maisie. Neither did he give her chance to say goodbye. Their arrangements were nowhere near as important as his.
Phyllis did her best to get out of it. ‘Robert, I don’t much like greyhound racing. For a start I’m allergic to dog hair.’
‘You won’t be that close to them, so it don’t matter.’ He gave her arm a squeeze. ‘Gather the rosebuds, Phyllis. Let’s enjoy ourselves whilst we still can. Who knows where we’ll all be this time next year. You could be married to a man in uniform. A bit of the right training and I could be a second officer on a ship – perhaps even a first officer.’
Sheene Road that led into East Street was crowded with more factory girls, some of whom worked at the Robinson paper bag factory. Phyllis smiled and nodded at those she knew, though only briefly. Robert wasn’t giving her chance to linger.
She tried another tack. ‘You’re right, Robert. We should make the most of it. That’s why I wanted to go out with the girls.’
His expression soured. ‘You work with them all day. It’ll do you good to have a change. You can see them tomorrow. Anyways, you better get used to not seeing them. I’ll not ’ave any wife of mine out working. Once we’re married, that’s it. Your job is to run a house and look after me.’
Phyllis immediately thought of the typing course. It seemed to her it was now or never so briskly told him all about it. ‘I know you’ve always tried to better yourself, Robert, and I thought I would do the same. So once we’re married, I might not be working in the factory. I might be working in the office – in the typing pool.’
The very thought of her ambition filled her with excitement. To think that at some point in the future, she, Phyllis Mason, would be going to work wearing smart clothes and not an overall. Surely Robert too would be thrilled at the idea. They’d be climbing the social ladder, both working in offices rather than on the factory floor.
Robert’s response was brusque and his look condemning. ‘I don’t care where it is. No wife of mine is going out to work, no matter where it is.’
She struggled to plead her case, hoping against hope that she could persuade him to let her do what she wanted.
‘But what if there is a war? I might have to go to work.’
He stopped, took hold of her roughly by the shoulders and gave her a shake.
‘Now stop all that stupid talk. I’m telling you, Phyllis. You’re going to be my wife and that’s it.’
Phyllis gulped. Robert had always been controlling, but he’d never laid down the law so vehemently and neither had he gripped her shoulders so tightly.
‘There’s not going to be any war.’ The words tripped reluctantly off her tongue.
He looked pleased, loosened his grip on her shoulders and patted them instead. ‘That’s my girl. Me and you will live in our own little world. We’ll keep all the troubles on the other side of the door.’
Her face felt frozen, too frozen to return his smile. His suggestion filled her with foreboding. It seemed they would live in isolation, in a home chosen by him, somewhere she wouldn’t be able to see her friends, perhaps not even her relatives. The idea alarmed her, and yet she’d not told him so. Why hadn’t she stood up to him? Why did she always compromise and take the easy way out, Phyllis Mason who was always the life and soul of the party?
His expression was one of pure satisfaction as he took her right hand in his and marched her along beside him, looking very pleased with himself.
More visions of their married life popped into her mind: her waving him off to work in the morning, making sure his dinner was set on the table by six on the dot. He’d already told her that he expected his dinner to be waiting for him. His mother did that. Robert had hardly got through the door and hung his coat up when there it was, hot and steaming, ready for him to eat.
Only lately had it come to her that Robert lived to a timetable. Could she live like that and totally conform to what he wanted? She was beginning to think not. In a strange way she wanted this war to happen, for lives to be altered, hers especially. At some point, Robert would be called up. It was only fair to tell him long before that happened, but truth be told, she lacked the courage and truly hoped the war would do it for her. In her case, parting wouldn’t be sweet sorrow, it would be damned welcome!
She sighed, resigned to seeing him tonight rather than her friends. For now, she would let sleeping dogs lie, but in time, one way or another, she had to break off their engagement. It was just a question of when.