They eventually neared the Factory as dawn was threatening to break over the mist-covered acres of buildings that housed the different sectors. Fran checked her watch. It was five forty. ‘Well done, Bert,’ she called. ‘You’ve picked up that five minutes. No money lost today, lad, so I’ve decided it will be a good day.’
‘You and whose army, our Fran?’ he replied, parking the bus.
The girls on the bus called, ‘She doesn’t need an army, she’s a Hall.’
They filed off, grumbling about their numb or sore backsides, sure they had the slatted seats imprinted on their flesh. They walked in a crocodile to the gates, and as always it reminded Fran and Sarah of class trips to find fallen leaves they’d take back to draw round and colour in. They showed their passes at the gate, and still in a crocodile walked along the wide roadway with their guard, turning off to their section’s changing rooms, where they would put on their blue overalls, turbans and felted shoes, unless it were messy work, in which case it would be spark safe Wellington boots. They would also divest themselves of any dangerous articles.
There were already some women changing, having arrived from other towns and villages. There was one newcomer, though, standing to one side of the white tiled room and already tying up her blue apron-type overall, then smoothing it over her smart black skirt, and pulling out the collar of her pink blouse so it lay along the collar of the overalls. Her bare legs looked cold, as she pulled on the Wellington boots over her bare feet. Oh, so she had worn nylons?
Fran snatched a look at the coats hanging on hooks. Yes, sure enough there were a pair of stockings hanging from a smart coat pocket. The girl was now wringing the turban she had been designated, and looking wildly about her.
‘Nerves,’ whispered Beth to Fran.
Mr Swinton was standing by the far door, as was usual at the start of a shift, as if he was guarding the way to their various workshops, his hands balled up in his pockets. The girls thought he did that to remind them he had fists. He hadn’t used them as such, to anyone’s knowledge, but he wasn’t above pushing and shoving as he passed by in the corridor. Fran was waiting for it to be her turn, which it would be, she was sure, for she was a Hall and the sister of the scholarship boy – a scholarship his own son, Tim, had sat, and failed.
The bus ‘team’ slipped off their rings, or wrapped a plaster around, and checked for hairgrips and hairpins. Fran removed her belt, which had a metal buckle. How stupid. She’d meant to leave it on the chest of drawers in her box room. She stuffed everything into the envelope on which she’d written her name a month ago; it was growing increasingly tatty.
The new girl continued to stand there, but was now leaning back against the wall, still mashing her turban. Her mid-brown hair hung loose; her hazel eyes still darted about.
Once everyone had divested themselves of their contraband, as it was called, Mr Swinton snapped, ‘Jewellery, matches, cigarettes, hairgrips, and anything else metallic removed? Then …’
He rose on his toes, and Franny’s heart sank. He was going to go through his safety-and-security rigmarole. It wasn’t even the start of a new week and therefore not obligatory safety procedure, but he was staring at the new girl. Ah, Fran thought, it’s for her sake and it’s going to raise the level of her nerves something chronic, poor thing, for she still looks like a rabbit caught in the gamekeeper’s shotgun. A white rabbit, because she was so pale she almost matched the wall tiles.
Mr Swinton withdrew one hand from his pocket and jabbed his forefinger at the girl, directing her into the group, then returned the hand to its lair. She obeyed and stood next to Fran, who smiled. The girl’s shoulders dropped in relief as she tried to smile back. Rising on his toes again, Mr Swinton spelled out the need for secrecy and shut mouths, for some lugs were always open and sabotage always a fear in a workplace such as this. It wasn’t just explosions, but machinery that could be destroyed and therefore armaments stalled. He stared around at them all as though they were saboteurs in disguise, but they knew it by heart and no one took any notice except for the new girl.
Swinton drew breath and then launched into the remaining rhetoric, dragging his hands from his pockets and almost conducting as he extolled the need for care as they filled the bombs, bullets, shells and detonators, emphasising the burden of guilt should they become careless and kill not just themselves, but others.
It was the relish with which he said this each time that was unnerving, and summed up the strange darkness in the man, or that’s how Mrs Oborne had put it in the canteen a couple of days ago.
‘Strange darkness?’ Maisie had reared up. ‘He’s a bliddy bully, that’s what he is. Shoved past me on our way to the section last week. Whack went his elbow and straight into the wall went I, and he meant to an’ all.’
Valerie had said, ‘He don’t like women, he really don’t, and he’s even worse since his wife walked out. Aye, she took a taxi from Sledgeford to Lord knows where a year or so back. Told the cabby to get the fee from the “auld bugger” an’ all.’
Maisie had shot back, ‘Good bliddy luck to her, and I bet the “auld bugger” didn’t tip him.’ The whole table had burst out laughing.
Mr Swinton was now running through the shift system: one week on the fore shift, 6 a.m. to 2 p.m., then the aft shift, 2 p.m. to 10 p.m., and after that the night shift, 10 p.m. to 6 a.m., though these were open to change, depending on circumstances, and what’s more, change without warning. If more hours were needed, then they were needed. He ended on the declaration about mistakes, as per usual. ‘Even a seemingly small mistake could mek you the murderers of your friends and colleagues, splattering ’em about the walls, legs and arms all over the bliddy place, but more’n that, you could also be responsible for our defeat. Errors must not be hidden, they must be declared, or worse damage could ensue.’
With that, Fran presumed he had finished, but he started again from the beginning as though they were deaf, or stupid, or was he just trying to make them late on shift and therefore lose money? She wouldn’t put it past him. She looked at the floor and tuned him out, but that was just as bad because all she could think about was Stan returning to the pit, to danger, to a bad bliddy chest, to Da’s cruel disappointment. She hated the damned war, hated it more than she had hated anything in her life.
‘I don’t see your hand being raised, Miss Frances Hall. Too clever by half, are you? Or too lazy?’ Mr Swinton was staring at her, his hands back in his pockets, writhing.
Sarah nudged her, raising her eyebrows to warn her not to inflame the man who had already shown many times since they’d begun here that he harboured a grudge against the sister of Stanhope Hall. But Fran couldn’t stop herself and waved her hand in a deliberately languid way, answering, ‘So sorry, Mr Swinton. I was just mulling your words of wisdom, so compelling were they.’
There, she thought, stuff that in your pocket and pound it to death. Sarah rolled her eyes, and smothered a grin.
Swinton bawled, ‘Compelling, eh? Showing off, eh, and reminding us that your white-collared personage should really be in the office. Or maybe university, like that brother of yours.’
Sarah and Beth, who stood behind Franny, hissed, ‘No, don’t rise to him, Fran.’
Fran shook her head, as though she was shaking off their warning, because today she’d had more than enough of men being idiots. ‘Not at all, Mr Swinton. I think safety is a very serious business. I am not desirous of causing an accident, of that let me emphatically assure you.’
Now Sarah dug her elbow into Fran’s ribs while Fran watched Swinton’s complexion reach an alarming red. She couldn’t give a monkey’s, quite frankly. His digs about Stan had been going on for too long. Everything was just going on too ruddy long, and how dare Stan dump the breaking of his news onto her? How dare her da be so cross with her – as he would be – when she told him? How dare the buyer of her mam’s proggy rugs short-change Mam and her friends? And how bliddy dare this wretched bully go on day after day making all their lives a misery?
Swinton looked at the new girl now, who still stood next to Fran. ‘You and Miss Cartwright should get on right well. Both know long words, so you can teach us, can’t you? Bring us up to scratch … Do you desirous – I mean, are you desirous of keeping your fellows safe, Miss Cartwright? Is that included in your plans at all?’
The girl standing next to Fran said quietly, in a posh southern voice, ‘I just want to help the war effort, Mr Swinton, that’s all, and this is where I was sent. Though I confess I hoped I was destined for the office, for I’m not used to … well, this.’
Fran winced. The girl had opened the door to a Swinton put-down, never mind ruffled a few feathers amongst the Factory girls, including her.
Swinton stood on his toes again. ‘So, you’re saying it’s not where you want to be?’
The girl kept calm, though Fran could see her hands making fists in her pockets now – was it catching?
‘If it’s where I can help the war effort, then this is where I want to be.’
All the other women were torn between the worry that as the clock ticked towards five fifty-five they would be late to their workshop and lose fifteen minutes’ worth of wages, and the rat-a-tat of the row brewing between the hated Swinton, Fran, who was one of their own, and Miss Cartwright, who was not, and who had seemed to look down on them. Though perhaps not, for with her final riposte she had recovered what had probably just been a slip of the tongue.
Fran was looking from Swinton to the phalanx of women, and suddenly Swinton looked tired and old and Fran felt mean and spiteful. What she’d done to Swinton was bullying too, mocking someone’s limitations. Her mam would be angry and tell her it wasn’t funny or nice. What’s more, she’d be right.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Swinton. You’re reet, I was showing off, being silly,’ Fran said.
At that moment Miss Ellington and Mrs Raydon, the security officers, entered. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Swinton, but we were waiting for your knock to let us know we could begin our spot check. It would appear that the timetable has slipped and the girls are about to be late for their shift?’
Miss Ellington, the senior of the two women, turned to the girls. ‘But don’t fret, we’ll hurry, and besides, your pay won’t be docked. We saw you arrive at the correct time.’
A wave of relief ran through the room and then someone said, ‘Thank heavens for that. I felt my life draining out of t’bottom of me feet these last ten minutes. Would’ve been worse to pay for the bleedin’ privilege.’
Mr Swinton’s colour rose further. Perhaps he’ll explode, thought Fran, almost regretting her apology since he was looking at her with such venom. So, would his explosion go down as an accident or self-induced? At least it would only hurt him, though there’d be a ton of bile to mop up. Davey, though, would say that it wouldn’t matter if he did explode, because it would only be hot air that swept the room.
‘Let it go now, Fran,’ Sarah whispered, ‘or he’ll be even worse to you, especially when he hears Stan’s coming back.’
The smaller of the women, Mrs Raydon, asked the girls if anyone was still wearing nylon or silk. Fat chance in this neck of the woods, thought Fran. Miss Ellington added, ‘We have to ask as it was reported by the gate that one of you was, and might not know to remove them. We don’t want any static to set off the explosives, do we, girls?’
Someone now said, as they usually did, ‘No, Miss Ellington, too right we don’t, but we’d like some nylons for afterwards.’ It was a sort of good-luck charm, and made everyone but Mr Swinton smile. Miss Cartright put up her hand. ‘I was wearing them, but they’re in my coat pocket now.’
The women looked at one another. Sarah whispered, ‘Stockings?’
Fran shrugged, after all they might be the girl’s only pair and as it was her first day she thought she should be smart.
Mrs Raydon and Miss Ellington began checking each girl for metal, and asking if they were wearing cotton underclothes before passing them through the doors into the corridor and their ‘work stations’. As the security officers drew nearer, Fran smiled at Miss Cartwright, who smiled back.
‘My name’s Amelia Cartwright.’
As Amelia turned around, Fran saw a glint in her hair. ‘Duck down,’ she whispered. ‘Pretend to scratch your foot.’
Puzzled, Amelia did just that and Fran snatched the hairpin out. It could have killed her, as well as her fellow workers, if it had fallen and created a spark around the explosives, if that’s where she was working, though as a new girl she’d probably only be in sewing. Fran palmed it. ‘Get up,’ she hissed as the women came nearer. ‘Don’t give Swinton an excuse to make a do of anything.’
Fran stepped back, seeing Swinton watching, and scratched her upper arm, tossing the grip towards one of the individual envelopes on the bench and praying it landed near one. It did. Swinton was approaching, pushing through the women. He reached her. Fran stared ahead and shoved her hands in her pockets.
‘You need to check Frances Hall’s overall pockets. She’s just taken something from Miss Cartwright’s hair,’ Swinton shouted to one of the women.
Fran stared from him to Miss Ellington. ‘It was fluff. Harmless but unattractive.’
Miss Ellington came across to Fran, and stood in front of her, her pale blue eyes expressionless. ‘May I see?’
Fran had already run her fingernail along the pocket’s seam and now drew out the fluff that seemed to breed overnight.
‘Harmless,’ Miss Ellington snapped, and turned away. But then, holding her notepad beneath her handless left arm, she spun round to address Amelia. ‘There is no quarter given for a mistake such as the one Mr Swinton thought you had made if you had left this room and reached any active area. If that had happened, you could have been responsible for death and disaster. So remember, had that been the case you would have been escorted off the premises and never allowed near an armaments factory again, or face an even worse penalty. And the same goes for you, Miss Hall.’
She addressed everyone now. ‘However, I will remind you that it is not just up to the security officers or the foremen, it is up to you to check, check and check again whilst in the changing rooms, not just yourselves but your fellow workers. Is that not so, Mr Swinton? So anyone finding and removing such an article would be doing us all a favour – correct, Mr Swinton? What’s more, that “someone” should be confident enough to do it without fear, don’t you agree, and not receive a warning? After all, the thrust of your lecture is that mistakes must not be hidden.’
Mr Swinton looked as though murder was the only thing that he’d agree with at that moment, and Fran wondered how long the Factory would keep this man, who was a looming presence, a … But for once, Fran said nothing. What was the point? He wasn’t on every day, and it wasn’t Stan’s fault that Tim Swinton had tried the scholarship exam and fallen short. But she didn’t want to think of Stan, or anything to do with his idiocy while she had work to do.
Fran, Sarah, Beth and Mrs Oborne headed for the detonator section workbench, arriving a few seconds before six o’clock and took the place of the night shift workers, while Amelia, as a new worker, did indeed head for the sewing shop to find her feet. Maisie, Sylv, Valerie and the rest were elsewhere today, but from the yellowing of their skin they were either filling shells with TNT again or stemming – filling rubber ‘somethings’, or ‘thingummybobs’, as they called them, with chemicals from a large container – both of which could tinge the skin.
Maisie had experienced ‘the yellow’ in her first factory down South, when she was pregnant, and although she had been moved to the sewing sector in the later stages to allow her body to free itself of the chemicals, her baby had still been born yellow. Mother and baby had gradually returned to normal under the care of her mam in Massingham, and a transfer had been arranged to the Factory. Against Miss Ellington’s advice, she had started in the shell-filling section rather than work in the safety of the sewing shop. When asked why, or even when not asked, Maisie would proclaim that she needed the danger money now she had a bairn, thank you very much.
As Fran thought about it, she nodded to herself. You would, if your husband had died at Dunkirk. She took a deep breath, taking a face mask filled with cotton wool from on top of the steel shield which made a barrier between the women and the detonators on the workbench. She tied the mask on and peered through the shield’s Perspex window, seeing the trays of empty detonators waiting to be filled. She was as glad as everyone else was for the shield, since Miss Ellington’s absent hand loomed large.
The detonator bench was at the top end of the sector and the tannoy played the same tinny music it played all over the Factory, so she barely noticed it as she collected a small container of fulminate of mercury from the hatch. She carried it back to the workbench as though it was her mam’s one and only bone-china cup and saucer, the one that came out at Christmas. Mark you, if she dropped Mam’s cup all she’d get would be a clip round the ear, whereas if she dropped this mucky brown powder it was so sensitive it would blow her to kingdom come.
At the thought she smiled grimly beneath her face mask, for after all, that’s what was needed in a detonator, so the least said about it the better. She pulled forward the first tray of detonators, and trickled the fulminate of mercury into each one, gripping the container in case it slipped and fell, taking care always to keep her hand steady and wary of getting any of the powder on her skin. Even more so after Miss Ellingham had said it could seep into the body through the skin and lungs, and could perhaps cause ‘the rash’. Well it certainly did that to Fran, and several of the Massingham women.
Miss Ellingham had also told them of the olden day hatters who had gone mad after breathing in the mercury vapour given off in the curing of the hat felt and scared the women half to death, making them extra careful, which was clearly just what she had intended. Fran continued filling the detonators hour after hour, tray after tray, collecting more powder from the hatch, and filling more detonators which were brought along by Mr Swinton, or one of his supervisors. She filled, filled, filled, and then again. All along the bench the girls sat on stools, working, not allowed to speak in case it disturbed their concentration.
The itching increased around her mouth, but why think of that, because she itched all over her hands and arms too, and she just had to get on with it. Dermatitis, they called it at the Factory. Only some of them suffered, others had tougher skins – Maisie said that therefore those who were affected were special and must be princesses who would feel a pea under a dozen mattresses. She had preened as she said it. Fran smiled as she filled the next, and the next. She was still trying to breathe lightly, but then smiled again, for if she did go bonkers or got blown up, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about Stan any more. She’d be sitting on a cloud instead.
She had a rhythm now, and was only aware of the music on the tannoy from time to time. Sometimes a message from the office disturbed the music. She wished it wouldn’t for none of them wanted to be distracted. She longed to scratch her face, but didn’t. For a moment she wished she was back in the bazooka section where she’d been sent for a few days. All she had to do there was push a cartridge into each of the beggars rather than muck about with powder which helped her rash. The trouble was, the pay wasn’t as good because there was little risk. Fran blinked, forcing her mind back to the detonators.
On and on they worked until midday, when they broke for chips and egg in the canteen. Over Woodbines and the bread they used to scrape up the remains of the egg yolk, Amelia told them she came from Guildford and wanted to do her bit. She’d hoped for the WAAF but her parents thought armaments work would be less dangerous because she would be an office worker, so here she was. Her laugh was high-pitched with hysteria. ‘I had no idea,’ she said. Then repeated it. ‘I had no idea what it’s like to be a factory girl.’
The others looked at one another, half offended, half wanting to comfort her, but how? ‘There’s a war on,’ Beth muttered. ‘You’ll get used to it. We all have to.’ Beth’s blue eyes were almost as pale as Miss Ellington’s. She had said before how she wished for green eyes to go with her red hair.
Fran tried to soften the sentiment. ‘Just think how someone out there will be so grateful that you’ve saved his life, just make sure the powers that be know you are capable of office work and they might transfer you when there’s an opening.’
Sarah, ever practical, asked, ‘What about your digs?’
‘Mrs Miles is a horrid woman, and her cooking is so bad everything ends up like shoe leather, even a fried egg. How can that be?’
The others laughed and those that hadn’t finished passed over some of their chips. ‘Eat up, pet,’ Valerie from Sledgeford urged, ‘and I’ll see if me mam can take you in. We have our own hens.’
With half an hour of the lunch break to go, someone started the sing-song, this time with ‘Stormy Weather’, which they always chose when there’d been a two and eight with Mr Swinton. It was Beth’s voice that soared on the words ‘Since my man and I ain’t together …’
Then Sarah, Fran and Sylv took them all straight into ‘A-Tisket, A-Tasket’, with the women getting to their feet and dancing off their chips. Maisie even grabbed Mr Swinton and twirled him around until he remembered himself and shrugged her off.
Miss Ellington, who was on the next table, dived into the sing-song with ‘Over the Rainbow’, and as usual some of the girls failed to reach the top notes but Fran’s voice soared true and bold, supported by Beth and Sarah, all of whom adored singing, and even as bairns had pretended they were wireless stars, swirling and twirling as they sang on the bank of the beck until Stan and Davey threw acorns at them.
While the rest of the canteen joined in the singing, table nine, two along from them, played dominoes and Fran guessed they had money on the winner, the prize being a cigarette. As the clock ticked away the minutes, the catering staff sang their own version of ‘I’m in the Mood for Love’, which was vulgar and funny, and involved cooking implements. Finally, they ended on ‘All or Nothing at All’, with Amelia surprising them as she harmonised with Fran’s powerful rendition as they all belted out the second line, ‘Half a love, never appealed to me’, and for Fran it was true: there were no halves in her feelings for Davey.
On they sang until Maisie, up on her chair, conducted a final refrain, ‘No, no, all or nothing at all.’ By this time everyone in the canteen was on their feet, including the domino players, and the song was repeated twice, ending in laughter, which continued as they all made their way back to their workplaces. There was no overtime today, but they would be in on Saturday all day, as the management had ordered, though not Sunday, or not that they knew yet.
Fran murmured, ‘As Stan’s coming back in the evening on Saturday, I’ll be there to hear all the shouting, worst luck.’
They took their places and worked on, and as the clock moved to one fifteen, Fran eased her shoulders, but not for a moment did her concentration waver as she returned to filling yet another tray, even though her eyes ached, and her mask seemed to grow hotter and hotter. Beside her, Beth coughed, and then again. ‘Leave your container and step away,’ Fran ordered sharply. ‘No jogging, jostling or coughing with that beggar in your hand.’
Her words were muffled behind her mask, but understandable. Beth nodded and moved away, continuing to cough, and Mr Swinton interrupted his stroll round the huge area and headed for the girl.
‘You were quite right to step away. Remember the rules. No jogging or jostling, and this includes coughing.’
‘Yes, Mr Swinton, Fran’s just told me,’ Beth said.
Fran didn’t stop work, her eyes always on the fulminate of mercury as she trickled it into each detonator, and she wondered what Mr Swinton would say.
‘Well, on this occasion Miss Hall is right. Just you remember that rules are set up for a reason,’ he muttered. He thrust his chin towards the posters that lined the whitewashed walls with their warnings and continued his rounds.
Again, Fran felt badly about being so patronising earlier since Swinton carried a huge responsibility. On the other hand, that didn’t alter the fact that he was a bugger. Beth returned to the bench, swallowed, stepped back, coughed again, returned, swallowed, waited a moment and then resumed her work, while Fran eased her shoulders again and as she did so she spared a thought for Davey and meeting him off the bus, thankful she’d be back by four if they left the Factory on time.
She finished another tray, paused and allowed herself a moment to think of him waiting for her, and while he did so he would be working out something he was setting for the crossword magazine based in London, and perhaps writing some articles on crosswords. Clever he was, her Davey. He had taken the Massingham scholarship, as all the evening-class boys had, ending up in a draw with Stan. There’d been no exam to decide, for Davey had given way to his marrer.
As Fran started to fill another tray of detonators a tickle started in her throat. Trying not to rush, she placed the container on the work bench, and stepped away clearing her throat, to find Beth doing the same. They both coughed, then Beth said to Fran, ‘Thanks for reminding me before. I was mithering over Bob and didn’t even notice I was coughing. I won’t do it again.’
The girls stayed back, both coughing now, with Fran hoping it wasn’t the powder in their throats and thinking how Davey had insisted to her, Sarah and Stan as they ate sandwiches and downed beers at the beck when the scholarship results had been announced, that he’d really rather Stan took the university place they’d tied for. He explained that he’d become more and more interested in crossword setting and wanted to get expert enough to run his own magazine, and he could do this while staying in the pit, near Fran. He’d also insisted that Stan needed to get away from the Beth ‘thing’. Suddenly Fran was very conscious of Beth standing next to her. Mithering over Bob? More than usual? If so, why? Was it because Stan was coming back?
She remembered how, at the beck, Stan had wiped his hand across his mouth and tried to tell Davey they should retake the exam. ‘’Tisn’t a fair win, lad.’
Davey had stood firm, staring first into his beer, then at Fran, then at the beck just as the kingfisher had flashed out of the willow. ‘Away from my Fran I’d not thrive,’ he’d said. So what did Davey think about Stan turning his back on Oxford, having been given such a chance?
She smiled beneath her mask, knowing he’d say, ‘There’s nowt to mither over. He can go back when this lot is over, bonny lass.’
The two girls returned to the workbench. Fran reached forward to pick up another detonator just as the ground shuddered and somewhere there was a crashing explosion. Without a word, all the women put down their containers … carefully, carefully … stepped back and froze, as they had done before and would no doubt do again. No one asked what had happened for they knew – it was an explosion. They’d probably never know where, how, or who.
Fran’s mind was racing as the noise reverberated, but there was just the one explosion so far, no others had been set off. They stood, waiting. It had sounded like an artillery shell exploding, or even one of the bombs – but no, that would be in the bunkers unless one was being moved to the testing site. Nearby there was a crashing and rumbling, like walls falling. Sarah gripped her hand.
After a moment Miss Ellington arrived and had a word with Mr Swinton before they both started to walk the ‘roadways’ between the tables, which were well spaced to restrict damage in case of an accident. ‘Carry on, nothing to do with us. Fifteen minutes to go, targets still to reach, ladies.’
The clock ticked on as they began filling again, but they worked even more carefully, carefully. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last. But it wasn’t them – this time. Though it was someone.
‘Yes, yes, all of me to go home, not nothing at all,’ Sarah whispered softly behind her mask, her eyes full of unshed tears. Fran and Beth smiled sadly. All three whispered that refrain, their eyes meeting, wondering – who? All the while the clock ticked.
They laid down their tools at the precise moment the clock reached two, seeing the next shift approaching their workbench. They washed and changed, recovered their possessions, showed their passes again at the gate, and streamed to the bus.
‘Had a good sleep, Bert?’ Fran murmured as she hurried on board.
‘Less of your cheek, young Fran, or I’ll tell your da to tan your hide.’
Their laughter was forced, but they must laugh, they must smile, it was all part of carrying on. They forged down the aisle and this time Fran sat with Beth while Sarah sat across the aisle. There were two free seats behind them, for Maisie and Sylv. Bert started the engine just as Maisie panted up and scrambled on, having a quick word with Bert, who paused, then nodded. He started to pull away as Mrs Oborne in one of the front seats called, ‘Hang on, Bert, Sylv’s still to come.’
Bert took no notice and drove on. The women on the bus immediately fell silent and there was no singing as Maisie, quiet for once, made her way up the aisle, ignoring everyone until she took her seat behind Fran, who turned once Bert was half an hour from the Factory.
‘Sylv?’
Maisie’s hand shook as she took a puff from her Woodbine. She leaned forward and spoke. ‘Keep bliddy mum, but a lad were taking a shell for testing on a trolley down the main roadway, a bloke bliddy millions of yards ahead with a red flag, and another behind with another bliddy flag, and the shell just rolled off, hit the wall and exploded. The walls’re built to implode, as yer know, and the lass was passing on the other side. She’s all reet, or will be, or maybe will be, and she’s got all her hands and fingers and even her thumbs.’
Fran murmured, ‘Hospital?’
‘Oh aye. I’ll nip round to her mam, who’ll keep the bairn, but there’ll be no trip to see Sylv’s uncle Sidney for a while.’
Fran turned to the front when she saw Maisie’s swollen eyes welling again. Maisie had mentioned nothing about the lad who’d been shoving the trolley, which said it all.
Next to her, Beth closed her eyes. ‘Bloody Hitler.’
Sarah leaned across the aisle and whispered, ‘That’s why the owl flew over us.’
Fran didn’t know if it was or not, but none of the women had died today, only a wee lad. She sat back, closed her eyes and wouldn’t cry. Damn it, she wouldn’t. Instead, she dragged her sleeve across her face and whispered, ‘Damned mucky powder gets everywhere.’
It was only as Bert drove the bus round the tight bend, which signalled they had another hour and a quarter to go, that she led the bus in singing ‘Abide with me; fast falls the eventide.’ They sang for the lad who’d been shoving the trolley, whoever he might be. But if he was from around here, they’d learn soon enough,