Fran and Sarah sat on the bus as they travelled to the Factory for the afternoon shift, feeling sick and their heads aching. Fran looked at her hands and compared them to Sarah’s. ‘Yours are worse, they’re a real yellow now. You’d better watch it or your da will put you in one of their canary cages.’
Sarah pulled down Fran’s headscarf. ‘That’s enough from you, our Fran.’
‘Aye, well, we’ll be in there together, Sarah, and your hair’s blonde already so the green’s fetching, and it at least tells us the powder has got past your tiny brain to your skull in order to tint your golden locks. Mark you, it’s such a small brain it’s no wonder it has.’
The two of them laughed, and it made Fran cough. ‘By, me chest’s one thing I can’t blame on the chemicals, it’s just this damned cold.’
‘Aye, well, don’t give yer cough to me. Mark you, Cecil’s driving’s a right pain and that doesn’t help the sickness, but coughing isn’t a good idea – something might slop out. And shut up about me brain, because yours isn’t that grand. Your hair’s got red strands to match Beth’s, though hers has gone a bit sort of greenish an’ all.’ Sarah removed her scarf and pulled a long green strand of hair from her French pleat. ‘Would you look at that. If it’s not getting more green, I’m a Dutchman.’
Cecil screeched round the corner and onto the straight road leading to the junction with the Hanging Tree. Fran felt even worse as Sarah waved the strand in front of her face and flicked it away. ‘Aye, it’s green all right, but what can we do?’
There was nothing, just as all the complaints about Cecil’s driving made no difference. Just like Fran’s attempts not to be rude to Ralph when he turned up at the bus shelter day after day were doing nothing to stop her dislike turning to hate and fury—No, no, she mustn’t even think about it, her mam was right to say ignore it …
She felt the rage tearing at her, though, and breathed slowly, looking out of the window at the countryside – her countryside, her slag heaps, the place she loved. She calmed down and instead watched as Sarah pulled out a hairpin and captured the strand, shoving the hairpin back in before pulling her faded old headscarf over it. This was stained yellow too, just like their sheets. Fran watched as Sarah knotted it under her chin with her yellow fingers.
Fran looked at her own hands. They weren’t just stained, they were more like a couple of strange things that had attached themselves to her and needed shaking off.
She breathed in for the count of four, and out for four, making herself remember that once they spent time away from the stemming shop they’d recover. Her body would be the ‘right’ one again, though that wouldn’t be any time soon. She started to breathe too quickly again, but it wasn’t the stemming, it was Ralph, who kept turning up, wanting to walk her home. Why, when she looked as she did? Why? She shook her head. No, don’t shake it, daft lass.
Instead, she pictured herself pouring powder into the drum in the shop, pulling the handle so that the powder came whooshing through a funnel into a rubber thingummybob, as they called the container. This powder was used to fill shells in one or all of the other sectors, so it must be TNT, or something like that, but no one said. It was just ‘the yellow’. All day they pulled the lever and the powder whooshed and filled the air, then settled on, and in, them – just ten of them from their bus – because this is where they’d been transferred. Nothing would explode, they’d been told, because the yellow needed a detonator and, she thought, a fused pellet, but it was all a guess, like everything at the Factory.
And who cared anyway, for they’d been moved from detonators to somewhere horrid but safe after someone had become careless and dropped half a tray. It had taken off the girl’s foot. They didn’t know her, but they’d seen her lying there, footless, and the blood, and heard the screams. They were now just along from the booster, or fuse pellet, shop, where millions of pellets were being wrapped to make them ready for use.
Would she and her marrers wrap the pellets, or go back on detonators? Who knew? Well, it might be bliddy safe in stemming, but the yellow settled on any hair that stuck out from under their turbans, clinging to their hands and floating onto their blue overalls, where it sank in until it reached their skin. Would it go deeper than that? she wondered. Would they breathe it in? Well, of course, but she mustn’t think of it.
She tried to push away the nausea and dizziness, telling herself not to ask why. It was Cecil’s driving, of course. She mustn’t think of Ralph. Looking out of the window again, she saw that they were flashing past the trees lining the road, and that made her feel even worse. At least she wasn’t having to worry about Stan and who he loved, or didn’t, because all the girls felt so unwell no one was thinking of their love lives. She allowed herself to think instead of Madge, whom Fran paid to do Mam’s dadding, washing and ironing, because she was the one who had to do her best with Fran’s sheets. The yellow never faded.
‘I wonder what the powder is?’ Fran muttered, for something to say.
‘It’s the yellow, daft lass,’ replied Sarah. ‘And that’s all we’ll ever know.’
Anyway, Fran thought, they’d feel better on the bus next week, with Bert driving the transport for the night shift. Fran hated the night shift – she found it difficult to sleep in the day, and she hated missing her Sunday with Davey even more, because her mam made her stay in, resting. If she wasn’t working, that was. She stared down at her hands, then closed her eyes against the glare of the low early autumnal sun on changing leaves, and muttered, ‘Yellow, yellow, everywhere. There might be no bananas, but I certainly feel like one.’
‘Or a canary, more like,’ Sarah muttered back.
They laughed together quietly as Cecil careered round another bend, whistling. Yes, Fran thought, Ralph might shove his way into her life for a few moments each day, but it was no more than that. It’s what she and her mam, too, had decided. No more than that, and it was up to her to make sure it wasn’t more.
Fran heard Mrs Oborne, who sat nearer the back because she didn’t want to be at the front if Cecil crashed, shout loud enough to carry over Cecil’s whistling: ‘Night shift can’t come soon enough. Just think, lasses, we’ll get shot of this racing driver. I reckon I’ll give Bert a right kissing on our first bus ride into work.’
They all laughed. Cecil broke off his whistling. ‘If you lot got yourselves on the bus a sight quicker, I wouldn’t have to rush.’
Mrs Oborne led the catcalls, while Cecil hooted his horn. As the noise died, Fran yelled, ‘Wouldn’t matter how quick we were, you’d still get your foot down. You’re a menace, Cecil Woodward, that you are.’
As the others clapped, Sarah laughed fit to burst, then said quietly to Fran as the noise died, ‘But nowt like the menace that damned Ralph’s become. Three weeks now he’s been turning up to meet you off the bus, almost shoving our Davey out the way. Not that he dares to touch our lad, but you can see he wants to, and I don’t know what we can do to stop him?’
Fran didn’t want to be dragged back to Ralph, but she had to say something. ‘He and Stan are to go down the pit any day now, and the daft beggar won’t have the energy to do anything other than crawl home.’ Yes, she thought, that sounds tough enough. Yes.
Sarah agreed. ‘Aye, wonder how he’ll take to being tucked away in the muck? I bet he turns tail and buggers off back to Oxford. Sick of the sight of him, I am, lolling at the shelter. It’s a bloody cheek. Anyone would think he was king of the walk.’
Maisie, who was sitting in front of them, turned round. ‘Well, he is just that for the pitmen, in’t he? He’s the boss’s son, and our Fran’ll be getting ideas above her station if this goes on.’
Sylv, who had recovered sufficiently to be back at work, but only in the clean and safe sewing room, whispered to Maisie, loud enough for Fran to hear, ‘She must be givin’ him the come-on, else he wouldn’t do it.’
Fran opened her mouth, but it was Sarah who poked at Sylv’s shoulder. ‘You wash your mouth out, you stupid moo.’
Sylv swung round, Maisie too, as Fran pushed Sarah back into her seat, hushing her. Sarah shook her head. ‘I’m not having it. Sick I am of the looks, cos you haven’t done anything. Let me tell you, Sylv Plater, and you, Maisie, while I’m about it: our Fran doesn’t want him near her and neither does our Davey, and you’d damn well know that if you weren’t so daft. It’s just one of the whelp’s games. You know what he’s always been like – just causing a nuisance makes him happy.’
Fran felt a wave of sickness as Cecil roared on towards Sledgeford, its slag heap brewing up in the rising wind. She muttered, ‘Oh Sarah, don’t. He’s not worth it. Ignore him, ignore it. Ignore the lot of them.’
But Sarah was leaning forward again. ‘It makes me sick, do yer hear me, Sylv Slater, cos it’s making me brother mad and miserable. Not to mention our Fran, and it don’t help to hear you shouting your mouth off. Yes, it makes me sick.’ Sarah suddenly sat back, her hand over her mouth. ‘I feel really sick – not just that sort of sick.’
Behind them, Mrs Oborne muttered, ‘It’s the powder. It’s not just the skin and hair that it gets into. I reckon our innards are bright yellow – stands to reason. Think on about Maisie’s babe, like a bleedin’ daffodil, it were.’
‘What was the powder that time?’
‘It were trinitro-something,’ Maisie butted in, smiling at Sarah, wanting to be friends again. Sarah sniffed and turned away.
Mrs Oborne called, ‘Trinitrotoluene, or summat like that. But that’s too bliddy long to say, so call it TNT.’
Maisie continued, ‘Well, that’s what I were packing shells with at me first factory, and I reckon the yellow could be the same, but who knows, we’re not told, and it won’t stop at the skin neither until you lot leave the stemming shop. Why would it? You’re breathing it in, after all. But anyway, the management’ll move you if you get the rashes bad enough. Mark you, some other poor beggar will have to have a go, probably me, while you come into the sewing room.’
Sylv said, ‘I reckon with all the chemicals in the air we’re a right mess inside, as well as outside. Gives me the willies it does.’
Cecil slowed for a tractor that was coming the other way, both vehicles easing onto the verges, the two drivers stopping to shout at one another. It wasn’t a row; it was just a talk. If Cecil had time for that, why was he always rushing? Fran wanted to run down the aisle and shake him, but it was only the powder making her edgy – well, making them all edgy. She looked out of the window at the drystone wall that was crumbling along this stretch. The drivers were waving to one another now and the bus jolted off the verge as Cecil headed onwards at the gallop, flying past some farm cottages.
Mrs Oborne said then, as though she’d arrived at a decision, ‘Howay, I’ve got to say this, our Sylv, you need to stop being such a ruddy ray of sunshine, and yes, I’m being bliddy funny. Just put a cork in it for Pete’s sake. The accident’s made you a mithering Minnie, but you weren’t the one who were killed, and what’s more, you’re in a clean area so not feeling out of sorts like the rest of us. So get some ruddy gumption or you’ll be walking alone with only your mithering for company. And you can stop smirking, our Maisie. You could do with some gumption too. You just remember how your mam brought you up: if you haven’t anything nice to say, say nowt at all.’
Sarah and Fran glanced at one another. Mrs Oborne usually kept out of things, but now she was part of the co-op she seemed to have changed into a mother hen. Gumption, eh? Fran thought. Aye, not a bad idea for you and all, Frances Hall.
For a while no one at their end of the bus said a word, just sat alone with their thoughts, which were only interrupted when they entered Sledgeford and the bus screamed to a stop, jolting them all forwards and then back again.
Beth came down the aisle, leading the charge because she hated the cold east wind. She was just as yellow as Fran and Sarah, and so too was Amelia, who followed her. Fran shook her head. It was ridiculous to think they were supposed to pretend they were working on something like sewing overalls or parachutes when they met friends on the street, for when did sewing anything have this effect?
Cecil drove on, screeching and swaying along the roads for what seemed like hours. Fran led the singing for some time, then Mrs Oborne took over with Beth’s help when Fran’s coughing became a nuisance. Finally, as they rounded the bend just east of the Factory, Cecil seemed to rush towards the gate, swinging into the parking area and braking so hard that everyone jerked forwards and back yet again. ‘I truly will swing for him, so help me,’ Mrs Oborne muttered.
Beth and Fran smiled at one another, for things were almost back to normal between the three of them but still not quite. But they were just too itchy, sickly and yellow to quarrel. And besides, Stan was on different shifts to them, so the gang hadn’t met.
Stepping onto the firm ground, Fran wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck against the cold. At last she felt like smiling, thinking of her mam knitting it, or sitting round the table with the co-op, making not just rugs but plans for ‘expansion’ too.
Fran’s da had muttered, as he stuffed the last of his baccy ration in his pipe, ‘Better watch it, Ben. They’ll be making you a new pair of proggy trousers any minute now, so they will.’ Ben had grimaced while the co-op laughed, drowning Da’s coughing.
Fran, Sarah and Beth linked arms as they walked to the Factory security gates.
‘Honestly,’ Beth said, ‘the thought of our mams huddling around the table, hatching plans and deciding whether to make the wall hangings with a Christmas theme reminds me of witches around a cauldron. I reckon they’ll be making spells – ones that will shove the Germans back from the Russian towns.’
Fran squeezed Beth’s arm. ‘You’re brave, or daft, because I might tell ’em you said that, and then you’ll be whacked by one of their rugs, pet.’ And what’s more, she thought, I’ll be the one doing the whacking if you start anything up with our Stan once we’re feeling more the thing.
They showed their passes at the gate and moved on into the changing rooms. They hated the stemming-shop area in a way they hated no other. ‘I hate feeling so sick,’ Beth moaned.
Sarah muttered, ‘Tell the foreman and he’ll mebbe move you, if you wear your lippy, that is.’
Beth raised her eyes. They changed and checked one another for metallic objects and silk underwear, which always made them giggle. Then they gave Valerie and Amelia a quick once-over, before picking up their masks, which became just as yellow inside as they did on the outside by the end of the shift. Amelia whispered that she had an interview for a clerk’s job that could be coming up in the office. ‘It doesn’t matter if I drop my pay. Daddy will make up any difference.’
Fran thought she hadn’t heard right. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
Sarah answered, her voice loud enough to drown the chatter, ‘She said it doesn’t matter if she drops her pay, because her daddy will make up any difference.’
Beth, who was tucking up her hair in her turban, stopped. ‘What? Howay, lucky for some, eh?’
Into the quiet, Amelia shrugged, the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘It’s not my fault if I’m used to better than …’ She faded, looking around.
Beth stepped forward. ‘Than? Than?’
The door opened and Miss Ellington appeared. ‘Time we got you to your work stations, ladies, then the fore shift can go.’
Amelia rushed through the door, brushing against Miss Ellington, who called, ‘My, someone’s eager. Come back – I need to check you.’ She waited in the doorway. ‘Come on, ladies, check one another, then file past. Ah, there you are, Amelia.’
Amelia had re-entered and now stood in front of Miss Ellington, not looking at anyone else. Finally they all filed past the security officer and out of the door into the corridor.
All Fran could think of as she walked alongside Beth and Sarah towards the stemming shop, passing safety posters, war posters, secrecy posters, was how could anyone not have to worry about money?
Maisie caught them up in the passageway, whispering, ‘That could be you, Fran, with no need to watch the pennies if you swap your pitman for the whelp, who anyone can see is licking his chops for you.’
Fran slowed, turning to look at Maisie to see if she was joking, mad or brave. Finally, she said, ‘Well, there’s no way I’m swapping Davey. Not now, not ever for anyone, and I don’t give a damn about Ralph’s chops, and that’s the most revolting picture anyone could have painted. And I never thought to hear such stupid words from you, Maisie. Take a good look at yourself when you next pass a mirror, and any more of that and I’ll punch your nose.’
Sarah moved between Fran and Maisie. ‘Now I feel sick, really sick, again and I think this time it will be on your shoes, Maisie.’
She bent over and Maisie looked shocked and scooted around her, but Beth was in her way, her arms crossed, and wouldn’t move until Fran said, ‘Let her through, Beth. She understands, I reckon.’
Fran was shaking with misery, and … well, she didn’t know. Sarah resumed her place next to her and slipped her arm through hers, while Beth did the same on her other side. ‘That’ll learn her, silly fool,’ Beth muttered.
Maisie called back, ‘Can’t you three take a joke?’
At that very moment, Fran hated the war. Well, she always hated it, but now more than ever. She wanted it to be over, for Maisie would never have said anything like that if her Derek wasn’t dead. As they walked on, Sarah said quietly, ‘I wonder if you and Davey should get wed now, to stop the gossip because I don’t know how else we can stop Ralph. Marriage puts up a barrier, or should.’ Silence fell between the three girls.
Beth muttered, ‘If that’s aimed at me, I’m not listening.’
Fran almost shouted, ‘Oh, enough. Let’s deal with Ralph, can’t we?’
Sarah said, ‘But what would your mam do without you and your money, Fran? And where would you live? You’d have to change villages and pits to get away from the whelp because he’d kick up. And then me mam needs Davey’s money too, cos there’s nowt for a rainy day yet, which is what he and I said we’d sort. But don’t tell me da I said that.’
Fran noted that Sarah hadn’t denied the previous remark was meant for Beth, but she couldn’t deal with any more, so said nothing.
They passed a torn poster of a ship being torpedoed and the tannoy, which had been silent, burst into music. Fran and Davey had spoken of Ralph just last Sunday, and Davey had shrugged and said that Ralph was just a nuisance and to ignore him because he’d run out of steam. ‘Remember what your mam said, Franny Hall,’ he insisted. ‘Which was we’re not to be wed yet. War is war and you never know what’s to happen. And she meant it.’
They walked on down the corridor, passed an emergency exit and suddenly Fran realised she’d slipped back into mulling over the whelp – again. ‘That beggar’s taking up too much of me brain, and I’m right sick of him,’ she said. ‘He’s just a bliddy nuisance. Besides, we’re the Factory Girls, we three. We have gumption, all of us have – everyone working here, everyone beavering away everywhere. Just remember what Mrs Oborne said: “Get some ruddy gumption”. So I’m damn well getting some.’
Beth muttered as they walked down the corridor behind Maisie, ‘I reckon threatening to punch our Maisie’s nose meant you’d already got it.’ The three of them laughed and it looked like the spat between the other two, which was never far from the surface, was over for now, before it had begun, and Fran started to relax. Beth continued, ‘The whelp’s messing about because of Stan, I reckon.’
Fran felt Sarah stiffen at Stan’s name, and her heart sank, but it was all right because Beth went on, ‘When they were both at Oxford I bet Ralph felt superior to Stan the pitman. Now Stan’s the one who knows more, so Ralph’s kicking out. Do you remember how he used to plague us, sniffing around the village? And there was that damned ball. Kicking out, yer see, just like back then. He’s cruel, he has a nasty side.’
Fran murmured, ‘But it can’t be something so daft.’ She stopped and grinned. The word gumption was running through her head loud and clear. ‘No, it’s not the footie, not Oxford, it’s clearly because I’m as pretty as Marlene Dietrich and he can’t resist me.’
The other two looked at her. ‘Now that really is daft, our Franny Hall, unless he likes the colour yellow, like me Bob,’ Beth said.
Sarah and Fran burst out laughing and, feeling more powerful than she had for the last three weeks, Fran said, ‘You’re the one that likes the colour yellow, not Bob, and where’s the knitting? You don’t do it any more.’
Beth flushed a little under her yellow skin, which created an interesting colour. ‘Ah, well, you see I don’t feel so lonely, because … well, because we’re all together, feeling sick, looking a mess, so for once I feel we’re all the same, and besides, when you feel like we do, anything else fades away to nothing. We’re too busy trying to get through the day, and up out of the bed for the next one. Besides, you’re right, all of you. What man wears yellow?’
Miss Ellington overtook them. ‘Hurry along, girls, the stemming shop awaits your tender touch. And actually, no man in his right mind wears yellow, Beth, so good choice to ditch it. You don’t want him to do the ditching.’
The three of them watched her rush ahead. Beth looked stunned. Finally she said, ‘Oh, she meant ditch the sweater.’ But it was as though, for a moment, she’d thought the security officer had meant he would ditch her.
They walked on and Fran hoped that Beth had felt threatened, because it seemed never to have occurred to her that there were two in the marriage, and if she was being silly, perhaps Bob could be too. Fran nodded to herself. It might be the shock that Beth needed, if she did still hanker after Stan, and that would be one less problem.
At 14 Leadenhall Terrace the women of the Proggy Co-op sat around Mrs Hall’s table, their frames resting at a slant on their knees or on the table itself for those who could manage it.
In the centre of the table an old jam jar held the coppers the women had donated for the weekly tea and broken biscuits from Maisie’s mum’s corner shop. There was a hum of conversation as they all wondered how long the lasses would be able to cope with the chemicals, though they dropped their voices as they discussed this, glancing around to make sure the back door was shut.
Then they looked at one another, raised their eyebrows and burst out laughing. ‘There’s nowt like a co-op meeting to get the spies to rest their lugs against the door, is there?’ Maisie’s mam said. ‘At Maisie’s first factory, before she got herself transferred back here when her Derek got himself killed, she were right poorly, but she should have come back sooner with the babe comin’ an’ all. I reckon she were working on shell filling with TNT.’
Annie Hall shook her head slightly. ‘Hush, Mrs Adams, we must say nowt – our girls could be sacked if it’s known. Either way, whatever it is, it’s made Fran right prickly – not just her skin, but her mood. Sort of snappy.’
‘Aye, but is that because of the whelp hanging about?’ Maud Bedley muttered, continuing to hook the navy-blue blanket strips through the hessian sugar sack. ‘Canna work out why he’s getting between our Davey and your Fran like that …’
Madge Field stopped for a moment. ‘Me da says at least he’s getting his hands dirty, which shows he’s grown up a bit, and left his politics behind, but no one cares for the whelp. They think him a nasty piece of work.’ She resumed work, forcing a short strip of red blanket through the hessian.
Audrey Smith, Beth’s mam, said, ‘I reckon with Stan coming back it could be that he thought it would look good if he came and did something as well. The boss’s son an’ all, pitching in. He’ll have an eye on taking over some of his da’s works and pits when he’s finished at Oxford, I ’spect. He’ll be showing off to his da. Cunning he always was and still is, and a right little snot. I remember him scrumping with some Sledgeford boys after his mam died, and they were caught. He told Farmer Stanton he were upset cos his mam had died and the boys had led him on. So they got the belting. What else could the farmer do when he was a tenant of Mr Massingham’s? Aye, I reckon he expects his da to think highly of him for pitchin’ in. Maybe he thinks them at the pit will an’ all.’
The other women all laughed. ‘Well, he divint know pitmen,’ crowed Maisie’s mam. ‘You know, thinking about it, I reckon he’s after Fran because she’s Stan’s sister, or could it be because he wants back at Davey for besting him in that football bet? The village hasn’t forgotten, yer know, so p’raps he hasn’t.’
The women all stopped working, their faces serious. At last Annie said, ‘Nay, it’s too long since, surely?’ But no one seemed sure. Again there was silence, apart from the range spluttering from the slack.
Beth’s mam nodded towards the firebox. ‘Might be a might chilly working at the pit, when he’s the boss’s son, so if he started walking out with a hewer’s sister, he might think it’d warm things up?’
Madge shrugged, adjusting her blue eyepatch. ‘Be a damn sight chillier if he shouldered our Davey out of the picture. What’s more, Annie, I can’t see your Fran putting up with it. Her and Davey have been like twins since … Well, since I don’t remember.’
Annie looked from one to the other, trying to get all her thoughts and memories straight in her head, then shook herself. The lads and lasses were all grown now, and not daft. She said, finally, ‘I suppose we should think well of him, because he is mucking in. He’ll get the message as regards Fran before long.’
Mrs Slater, Sylv’s mum, rubbed her finger where it had slipped on her hook. ‘She’s told him enough, hasn’t she, Mrs Hall?’
There was real doubt in Mrs Slater’s voice and Annie snapped, ‘You shouldn’t have to ask. Whatever are you thinking, Jane?’
There was an embarrassed silence, broken only by the range and the clatter of hooks. Annie rose to make the tea, smiling as she did so, but inside she was furious. Not with Franny, but with Ralph and his mischief-making, and with the gossips. Even Joe was getting right annoyed with the whole business. Annie sighed. She’d said to Joe, ‘What do you expect our Fran to do, slap him with a wet fish? He’s the boss’s boy and she knows that he owns us, so don’t be so bliddy daft. And that’s why Stan’s biding his time too. More’n that, he knows our Fran can cope with the wee bliddy squirt.’ She seldom swore and Joe had coughed and buried his head in his newspaper.
Annie poured in the boiling water and waited for the tea leaves to mash, feeling tired. She steadied herself on the bar of the range, wondering if she should have let Fran and Davey marry already? Yes, maybe that would be best. She would talk to Joe tonight. But where would they live? There were no spare pit houses and fat chance they’d get their own in the village if the Massingham whelp had any say in it. And good though Mr Massingham was, he’d choose his boy over a pitman, so they’d have to move and Fran would have to have her own house, and with that came bills, and housework, and cooking.
Annie Hall sighed, feeling the pain in her baby-bearing innards, aching at the very thought of the dadding, washing and ironing she’d have to do again. But not enough to stand in the way of Fran’s happiness. And they could wait longer for a headstone for Betty. Who knew, she might sell enough rugs to pay for one.
But did Mr Massingham even know his son was trying to spark a pitman’s daughter? Her thoughts drifted to the Factory and a different anxiety took hold now. Maisie’s babe had been born yellow, and Maisie had been right sickly before she was taken out of that section down south. Look at Franny – every day she seemed yellower, itchier and giddier. She had turned too quickly as she left the house for the bus and had almost fallen. By, she would have done if she hadn’t caught the table and righted herself. But it wasn’t just that. What else was it doing to her insides, especially if it was that blooming TNT? And this coming on top of that other stuff which gave them a really bad rash.
Annie poured cups of tea, setting them in the centre of the table. She took up her own rug. She preferred to make a proggy, but some liked to make a hooky, though they were both rag rugs, and Briddlestone’s liked either. For a proggy she used short lengths of material of about five inches in length, and, working from the wrong side she progged or poked one end of a single short strip through the hessian with an adapted dolly peg, and then progged the other end of the clipped material through the hessian a tiny bit further along, and so it went on. In the end she produced a fairly ragged pile. Some though liked working with a hook. This involved working with a long strip of material, hooking it in and out of the hessian, creating a rug with a looped pile.
She found that using single short strips gave her a more flexible colour scheme, and allowed her to merge the colours, and tilted the frame to check the right side and smiled. Yes, grand it was and would look fine hanging on a wall. She’d need to bind the edges good and neat. By, fancy having the money to hang a rug on the wall, not walk on it.
She said as much now, and they all laughed. It was grand to have company like this. Madge cocked her head to one side. ‘They can sling them on the ceiling for all I care, just as long as we get paid.’
Again there was laughter, and now Mrs Slater lifted her shoulders and said, ‘They could swing ’em from the lights an’ all, if they’re not at it already themselves, as some says the naughty ones do in London. Right racy the goings-on, so they say.’ By now they were helpless with laughter, and had to lay down their tools at the very thought.
Mrs Bedley leaned her frame against her chair leg and sipped her tea before wiping her eyes behind her spectacles with her handkerchief. ‘By, you’re a card, Mrs Slater, right enough, just like your Sylv.’ She patted her mouth, looking around at them all over the cup. ‘Let’s forget the whelp. He’ll move on to something, or someone, else. Let’s think about the schedule instead, because Briddlestone’s want to be able to distribute ready in time for Christmas. It seems that though the war is getting worse, there’s still Christmas, isn’t that right Mrs Hall?’
Annie smiled at her friend, the laughter wiping the worry from her. ‘Right enough.’
So that’s what they did, and it was Madge Field who said, ‘Aye, it would be a grand thing if we could find another buyer too. There’re others in the village that have war work in the fields, or ARP or WVS like us, who’d like to join us after their shifts. They’re happy to be paid according to what they make as well, so that’s not a problem.’
As one, they all looked at Annie, who nodded. ‘I’ll talk to Fran. She usually has good ideas.’
At the Factory, Miss Ellington called, ‘Two minutes to eleven, girls. Thanks to those of you who joined us on the pellets and gave us an extra hour of your time. I know it’s a pest when we have to switch some of you round to help out, but that’s the nature of the beast. Don’t hurry, finish what you are doing and then step back. Whilst I have you listening to my every word, I would just like to plead with you all to have your hair cut, or get your mothers to do it. It’s so much safer when you come near any machinery. We don’t want it getting caught up.’
No one took any notice, just worked on, including Fran, whose whole body itched, though her fingers were still nimble as she pasted and wrapped the fluted paper around what felt like the millionth fuse pellet and placed it in its stand, carefully, carefully, for she couldn’t quite believe it exploded only if it met the right ‘other’. After all, if it could boost the ignition of weapons, it could easily blow off her hands.
There was a certain symmetry to her life, she mused, as she wrapped another. If it wasn’t the yellow, it was detonators, and if not that, it was fuse pellets, otherwise known as detonator boosters. And each and every one of these would contribute to the war. So, detonator, booster, the yellow. The words kept resonating in her head and she pasted and wrapped a pellet along with each one, creating something of a rhythm until there were no more.
She stood back, feeling her head whirl. She breathed in for four, then out for the same count, and it steadied her. She wondered if there were women in Germany as yellow as canaries too? And in Russia? What did Amelia say canary was in German? She stared at the bench, trying to think as the sector’s foreman, Mr Hopkins, said, ‘The target for today has been reached. Excellent effort, ladies.’
Those words always gave Fran a real sense of achievement and it was such a relief to work with the nice, sensible Mr Hopkins. Beth and Sarah on either side of her were smiling too, along with Amelia, Maisie and Valerie, who had all been seconded as well. They filed out of the section, past those heading in for the night shift. In the changing rooms they were joined by others from the stemming shop who had been asked to do overtime too. They washed, dragged on their clothes and finally Fran wound the scarf around her neck. A lovely red, white and blue scarf, because her mam felt it was her duty to be patriotic whenever and however she could.
The girls collected the belongings they had left for safety reasons and walked to the gate. Behind them, Mr Swinton hurried to catch up because he was cadging a lift to Minton with Cecil, who would be in a foul mood because he’d had to wait for them.
They showed their passes at the gate, then Fran walked along the tatty piece of tarmac ground with the others, aching with tiredness like everyone else. It was dark and they were guided by the slit headlights of the bus, but nonetheless they heard Cecil hooting, and everyone sighed together. ‘Cecil must have a date with a beer.’
Sarah slowed down, gripping Fran’s arm. ‘Oh no,’ she hissed. ‘Look, Fran, it’s him.’
By the light of the bus’s headlights, Fran watched Ralph climb out of his roadster and stroll towards them. ‘I was passing, Fran,’ he called. ‘Thought you could do with a lift. Stan mentioned you weren’t so well.’
She shook her head as the women filed onto the bus, saying nothing, though several tutted. Cecil had left the engine running and Fran wanted to be on the bus too. She almost wept as she shouted, ‘How did you know where this is? How? No one should.’
Ralph froze for just a moment and then Swinton paused beside them calling, ‘I’m right glad to see yer, Mr Massingham.’ He had shoved ahead of the girls, his hand out. Ralph stared as Mr Swinton reached him. They shook hands and Swinton said, ‘Perhaps you can help, Mr Massingham? I want to know where me boy is. He wrote to say you’d been right kind and got him war work, but I’m wondering when he gets leave? We just got a postcard and—’
Fran grabbed the moment. ‘Take Mr Swinton in your great big car, Mr Massingham. Then you can have a chat, eh?’
The bus was rolling forwards and Mrs Oborne was on the step, calling them. Fran, Sarah and Beth ran and leapt on, not looking back, and for once Fran was grateful to Mr Swinton. The three girls hurried along the aisle, holding on to the backs of the seats as Cecil roared up through the gears, taking no prisoners as the wheels spun and he scorched onto the road. They found seats together and fell into them, with Beth sounding surprised as she said, ‘Well, I suppose we have to admit Ralphy boy has a few good points, if he took the Swinton boy under his wing.’
Sarah settled back in her seat. ‘Just as long as he keeps his wings well away from us, eh.’
The girls grinned at one another. ‘We’ve got one another, we three girls, and we’ve got gumption too, so what else do we need?’ Beth said.
‘A bit of shut-eye would do nicely, thank you,’ called Amelia, sounding angry. ‘Right now, if you don’t mind.’
Sarah muttered, ‘Well, forgive me for breathing.’
They all smiled, and shook their heads.