Beth hurried from the bus to her home in Sledgeford, hoping to be back by four to see her mam, only to find she had left tea ready, and a note to say she’d been offered a drive back in the postman’s van a bit earlier and had grabbed it because Da needed her. Beth and Bob ate her mam’s hotpot of gravy and vegetables, and had a cuppa, while she told him she had leave, though Amelia wasn’t best pleased. But she’d try and do her a favour in return, one day. Bob eased himself to his feet, saying, ‘Best news I’ve heard in a long, long time. Days for you and me to just be together. But first things first, let’s collect your bike from the hall, lass.’
He led the way, swinging himself on his crutches as she dragged her mac back on and followed, shutting the door behind them. They saw their way by the light of the moon and although progress was slow, they reached the hall, then Beth pushed her bike past the blacked-out cottages while Bob smiled as he listened to the owls, a cock pheasant, and in the distance the colliery train. He said, ‘Strange to be landlocked again, but good to get away from the wind and the waves.’
She said, ‘I can’t imagine being lurched about day after day.’
‘Aye, well, you get used to anything, so they say.’ He stopped and drew breath. ‘By, I bliddy hope me armpits get used to these beggars.’ They laughed together, and then set off again while he said, ‘But listen, hinny, yer mam and me’ve been talking, and it’s time you went home to Massingham. I know she’s asked before, and I know I’ve said it’s what I want for you, but it really is time, Beth. What is there to stop you, eh, when she needs support?’
She stroked his back because she knew she really did love him, and what was more, Stan had Sarah and really didn’t want her, so … She drew in a deep breath, so Stan wouldn’t be sneaking over to see her, as she had hoped – once hoped, yes, that was better. As they walked along, Bob talked of the salt-heavy sea air, the tumbling clouds and waves higher than the houses they were passing. Another owl hooted. She turned to Bob, just as he stumbled. She reached out, but the bike caught her, and his crutches were in the way, and she didn’t know how to help.
‘What should I do when this happens?’ she asked. ‘Choose you or the bike?’
He looked at her, roared with laughter, steadied himself and swung himself forward. ‘Just be by my side, Beth. That’s all I want, now and for ever.’
She replied quietly, ‘Then that’s where I will be.’
They walked slowly home, and she opened the front door of their terraced house, owned by Mr Massingham’s tenant farmer. He nodded. ‘You’ll give in your notice to Farmer Martin then?’
‘Oh, aye, I’ll be doing that, never fear.’
Bob laughed. ‘With your mam on the case I reckon that’s a given.’ He eased himself through the doorway and stared at the stairs. ‘I reckon I can get up there on me bum, and won’t need the lads to help this time.’
She flicked on the light and he hopped and swung his way to the foot of the stairs, staring upwards, then turned and sat with a thump on the third step. She rushed forward, her hands out. He pulled her on to him, leaning back, his crutches falling to the side. He held her close, and it was as though they fitted. This is what she had missed. But did they fit as well as she and Stan had? She closed her eyes and kissed him fiercely, wanting her mind to stop, needing it to give her some peace.
He said, holding her as fiercely as she had kissed him, ‘By, lass, it’s a lifesaver to be here, even for a few days.’
‘Aye, it is, sweet Bob.’ For it had to be for her too.
They clung together for a minute longer, and then he pushed free of her. ‘You wait here, pet. I don’t want to slither down and take you out like a skittle. Fat lot of good we’ll be to one another if we both break a leg.’
Once on the landing, he called down: ‘I’ll be getting meself into bed, but a cuppa would be right good, our Beth. But I’ll need me crutches up here. Would yer mind?’
She gathered them up and delivered them to him with a kiss, then hurried down and into the kitchen to test the kettle, which she’d left on the range after their tea. It was hot, but not boiling. She threw her mackintosh onto the back of her chair and shoved wood and fresh coal into the firebox, watching it roar into flames, shutting the door, opening the vent, hearing the draught whip the coals into a frenzy, and it echoed her heart. She reached up for their wedding photograph, perched on the mantelpiece.
Since this was taken he’d become thin and drawn, but so had she. She pressed the photo to her heart, feeling for the armchair and sinking into it as her legs gave way. Sarah with Stan, it would take a bit of getting used to; but Bob was back and it would give her time to get her head sorted and she’d go home where she was needed to help with her da. That would stop the loneliness, which must have led to the mischief of her heart, and—The kettle was whistling.
She made tea and paced as she waited for it to mash, picking up the wedding picture again, and now, as she traced the pair of them with her finger, she remembered how it was that day … Bob’s family at the church, hers, some Massingham families, and just before the doors closed, when she and Bob were standing before Vicar Walters, the gang had entered, all of them, including Stan, and afterwards they’d thrown confetti. They had kissed her, and wished her well, and Stan had done that too, but had not quite met her eyes. He had shaken Bob’s hand, but not quite met his eyes either.
She replaced the photo and poured the tea, putting her ration of sugar in her husband’s. She had her man again, and the gang were there for her, the girls either side of her as they travelled on the bus and worked at whatever bench they were designated by that beggar Swinton, who chose them for transfer, every time. So the war had taken her man, but brought the girls together again, so how dare she be lonely? How could she have even thought of causing mischief again? She reached up to the mantelpiece and touched the image of Bob.
‘I canna wait much longer, lass,’ he called.
She picked up the two cups of tea and called back, ‘On my way.’ And she was – on her way to being who she should be.
She heard a dot dot dot from Bob’s crutch, followed by a scrape scrape, then another dot dot dot, and hurried to the bottom of the stairs and called up, ‘SOS yourself, bonny lad, I said any minute now.’ His laugh reached her.
She carried the two cups upstairs. There he was, sitting up in their bed, his bare chest bruised and cut, adding to his blue pitman scars.
He had thrown the blanket off his broken leg which was plastered to above the knee. He held out his arms and she placed the tea on the side table and went to him, her heart thudding, her mouth dry. Holding her gently as she sat on the side of the bed, he said, ‘I love you so much. I’m glad I saw Stan. I hadn’t said I were sorry, but he divint want to hear.’
‘He’s happy with Sarah,’ she said as he stroked her hair. ‘It’s well over, lovely boy.’
They said nothing while the tea cooled, then against her hair he said, ‘I love you, but not your hair. That strange streaking don’t become you.’
They laughed together. ‘Well, I canna care for black and blue, lad,’ she replied.
They drank their tea, she undressed and, for the first time in far too long, they lay in bed together, the covers pulled over. That was all, for his pain was sharp and his tiredness overwhelming, and she lay there, glad that he was back and relieved that they had not made love, for it seemed as though a stranger lay beside her.
On Sunday afternoon, Ralph Massingham stood absolutely still in the hall as six young boys erupted onto the landing at the top of the stairs, leaning on the bannisters and shouting, ‘Oy, yous. Shift yer arse, we’re coming full pelt across the ’all at t’bottom.’
His father was insane to have allowed his stepmother to take in evacuees. ‘No, you stop right there or you’ll feel the back of my hand. I am crossing my own hallway in my own time and you mind your damned manners,’ he yelled.
The boys had not been evacuated during the Newcastle Blitz of 1940, but had been after the particularly bad bombing on 1 September, when the New Bridge Street goods-station area had been plastered, and so many made homeless. The boys now roared down the stairs as though he had not spoken, and barged across the hall, running either side and thumbing their noses at him as he strutted to the door of his father’s study.
He opened the door, entered, and almost slammed it shut. His father looked up from his desk.
‘Good morning, Ralph. How strange I didn’t hear you knock. Going deaf, am I?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Father, couldn’t the billeting officer find anywhere else for the dirty little tykes?’
‘Probably, but your mother and I suggested they send us six lads. They are not dirty, merely high-spirited, and, indeed, perhaps need to learn some manners. But that’s something several others not a million miles away could also consider. One is tempted to say, put your chin down, keep your mouth closed and put up with it, Ralph. After all, we are at war and there are many who need help, so if we can, we do, because we are fortunate not to need such aid. Or do you? Is that why you’re here?’
As his father waved him to a chair, Ralph thought that the bags under his father’s eyes could take a few pounds of bliddy spuds. Then he realised he had absorbed too much of the working-class way of thinking, and that wouldn’t do.
Ralph took the chair, easing his back and looking up at the portrait of his great-grandfather hanging on the wood-panelled wall behind his father. The other walls were lined with bookcases full of tomes his father had been ploughing through ever since Ralph could remember.
‘Your mother and I were sorry not to see you at St Oswald’s morning service, Ralph. It’s good to meet people and keep in touch with their concerns, as well as saying a prayer or two.’ He placed his pen on the blotter and now leaned forward and waited.
Ralph felt the stirrings of anger. There were no blue scars on his father’s hands, so who was he to talk? He examined his own, wondering how he could remove the coal already ingrained in his cuts. Bleach, perhaps.
He muttered, ‘I believe you mean my stepmother, and I wasn’t at church because I’ve had a busy week, scrabbling about shifting coal into tubs and shoving them along to the roadway.’
‘Ah.’ That was all his father said as he sat upright, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, his hands steepled, waiting. Ralph glanced up at the portrait again. His great-grandfather had begun by manufacturing something for steam engines, which had led to the development of his several collieries – after all, why not feed the engines with his own coal? It was the engine factory that his father had taken over first, after working as an apprentice at his parents’ insistence. In due course he had also inherited Sledgeford, Minton and Massingham collieries. These would one day be his.
‘So, tell me why you’re here, Ralph. What can I do for you?’ his father asked.
Ralph had memorised his proposal and began: ‘As you know, I’ve been working in Auld Hilda with Stan, Sid and Norm. And also Davey Bedley.’
At the mention of Davey’s name Mr Massingham tilted his head, his eyes showing a glimmer of amusement. ‘Ah yes, Tom Bedley’s boy, the one who bet on you striking the centre of the goal, the one whose ball you destr—’
Ralph interrupted, shaking his head. ‘Father, I was an idiot, but don’t forget he stabbed my ball, the one mother gave me which could also be called an act of destruction.’
His father put up his hand. ‘Hardly, for I seem to remember the gardener was easily able to make it good.’
Ralph ground his teeth, wanting to lash out, but instead said, ‘As I said, I was an idiot, but I wasn’t much bigger than those evacuee ragamuffins you make excuses for, so can’t we let it rest?’
His father sighed. ‘But they haven’t had your advantages.’
‘Father, for goodness—’ Ralph almost spat.
Mr Massingham held up his hand. ‘I’m tired, Ralph, forgive me. Go on, but I hope not to complain about Davey Bedley. As you say, we’ve all grown up, or should have. Incidentally, why aren’t you on the overtime aft-shift?’
Ralph sat on his fury, wondering why he’d had to come back to work here, why he had to put up with these idiots. But of course he knew why, there was a war on, an unnecessary one, for they should have come to an agreement with Hitler, course they should. He calmed down. ‘The overman said someone else really needed the money.’ This was the truth, and he’d been relieved. A rest would do him good. He continued, ‘The thing is, Father, Davey Bedley is wasted here. He’s got a bloody good brain.’
Now his father was listening closely. ‘Yes, I know that, as it happens,’ he said.
‘Well, Father, your chum Professor Smythe thinks Bedley’s brilliant at crosswords and the sort of coded clues he sets. I know because I heard him tell various people as I walked behind them. And I can’t help but think that would be of use to the war effort, more so than hewing out coal. Anyone can do that, after all, and that’s partly why I’m glad to be here, because I can take his place.’
He paused, thinking of Fran, because he wanted to take her from Davey bloody Bedley and so far she wouldn’t play ball. He half laughed, play ball eh? Well, he’d teach the whole bloody lot of them that you didn’t turn against him, take what was his. He found himself glaring at his father, who hadn’t saved his wife from TB and had instead taken Ralph’s nanny for himself.
His father was looking down at his blotting pad, which was a sure sign he was giving the idea some serious thought, but he said nothing. Inside, there was just the ticking of the clock, but outside Ralph could hear the evacuees running riot in the garden where he had played cricket with his cousins. Did these boys even know what cricket was? No, they probably kicked the same sort of paper ball in their mean streets, and bet on anything that came their way.
His father looked towards the windows and walked over to open one, calling out, ‘Abraham, move everyone across to the back lawn, there’s a good chap. There’s a football in the summer house. Kick it around a bit out there and you won’t hurt the flowers.’
‘Abraham – ah yes, I’d forgotten he was one of those.’ Ralph looked at the boys hobnobbing on the lawn and then traipsing off.
‘I thought all that Blackshirt nonsense was behind you?’ said his father.
Ralph sighed. When would these people realise who was going to win—He stopped, and knew he needed to gain more control of his thoughts, because thoughts could so easily turn into words.
‘I went to a couple of meetings, as I am sick, sore and tired of saying, but I also went to a Commie one, and so did lots of people. But that’s not what I want to talk about. I just feel Davey’s wasted, and only you can sort something out with the Prof.’
His father was standing in front of the portrait. Oh Lord, thought Ralph, not a homily about the great and the good and the advantages of hard work. Instead, his father said, as though he was deep in thought, ‘That’s a very sensible suggestion, Ralph, and I’m pleased to hear that you are looking out for the lad – burying the hatchet, if you like. But fuel is a bit like gold dust at the moment and we need our best men on it. Davey Bedley is one of our best men, so no, I don’t want him leaving the pit. Besides, he’s got that feisty Hall girl on his arm, which makes him a steady worker. I agree that Professor Smythe admires the lad, he has said so several times, but accept my verdict, for now at least. Damned good pitman, one who sets crosswords. Wants to start a magazine, I gather. Maybe that is something to think of investing in?’
The tea gong sounded, thank heavens, or Ralph would have exploded. Invest? Over his dead body. He fought for control as they both rose and he thought instead of the miserable slices of bread that awaited them. He wished his father wouldn’t subscribe to wartime rationing, as he and his wife insisted on doing. Had his mother’s TB been a result of starvation? He followed his father from the room, laughing harshly, and Mr Massingham turned. ‘Just thinking of something funny, Father,’ Ralph said.
They continued across the hall to the drawing room. Ralph wished he could remember his mother, but he couldn’t, only the loss, like a big, dark hole. He could remember his nanny, though. He had wept on leaving her when he was sent straight back to boarding school after his mother’s funeral. When he’d returned for the holidays, Nanny had become his stepmother and that had spoilt everything. She was no longer his alone, and if that was the case, then he didn’t want her at all.
At five o’clock, Mrs Hall, Mrs Oborne and Mrs Bedley were first on the train to Newcastle, with the girls following in their wake. With their men on Sunday overtime in the pit, Fran and Sarah had agreed there was no point in lolling about at home. It took barely twenty minutes to reach Newcastle and head for the discreet restaurant that the Briddlestone’s buyer had suggested for an early supper.
They wore their best coats, hats and scarves, but as usual no stockings. Mrs Hall hesitated at the doorway, then looked at the windows, with their paper reinforcement against bomb blasts. ‘There, you see, no better than the rest of us,’ she tutted. She lifted the sneck and led the way inside, stopping at the head waiter’s lectern.
‘Blimey, it’s so quiet, and him just standing there,’ Sarah whispered. ‘It’s like being in church. Should we sing “Abide with Me”?’
‘Shhh,’ her mother hissed.
Fran nudged her. ‘Behave,’ she whispered, on the edge of giggles. The restaurant décor was dark red, the lighting dim. ‘All the better for us,’ she murmured to Sarah. ‘We’ll look quite normal, not yellow beacons with strange hair, and won’t put anyone off their food.’
It was Sarah’s turn to snigger.
The tables were set into alcoves and the head waiter led them towards the back, where a large round table was set up on the right-hand side of the room. Two men were already there, sipping whiskey and rose to greet them. They all shook hands, then the waiters took their coats before ushering them to their seats.
Fran and Sarah sat together as the small talk continued over a supper of pigeon pie. Fran crunched on a piece of shot and pushed it around her mouth, wondering quite what to do with it. The middle-aged man who had been introduced as Bill Witherspoon, the managing director and owner of Briddlestone’s, winked at her.
‘Spit it out if I were you. Lead’s as bad for you as the chemicals I daresay you’ve come into contact with.’
Fran merely said, ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ but she let the piece of shot drop with a ping onto the plate.
Mr Witherspoon nodded and said quietly, ‘Quite right too, sorry. Foolish of me.’
The small talk resumed. They spoke of families, rationing and the weather, and Fran wondered where they’d all be without the weather to moan about and also wondered when they’d get down to business. She looked across at her mam, filled with admiration because there she was, Mrs Annie Hall, talking as though she met businessmen every day of her life.
Finally, the meal was finished and her mother sat back while their plates were removed.
Mr Witherspoon was looking from one to the other and said, as the waiter brought a glass of brandy for each of them, ‘Please, a drop of rather nice brandy for us all. It’s the least I can do. I want to put a proposition to your cooperative, ladies.’
Fran picked up her own balloon glass, sniffed and sipped, just like Stan had said he did in the university at the special dinners they had. It felt raw in her throat, but she listened as Mr Witherspoon talked of a charity he ran for those who were bombed out and needed rehoming here, there and everywhere. He explained that he had matched financial backing from Mr Massingham, but that the rooms needed something homely. ‘Which brings me to your rugs.’ He waited.
Fran, thinking how Mr Massingham got everywhere with his good works, watched her mam put down her glass. She saw it was empty. Heaven’s, Mam, thought Fran, you got a wriggle on.
‘I hope you’re not suggesting we work for nothing, young man – what did you say your name was?’ asked Mrs Hall.
‘Ah, I’m Mr Witherspoon.’
Fran smiled, because he wasn’t young but it rather established the hierarchy, and it wasn’t in his favour. Well, well, clever Mam.
‘Mr Witherspoon, we have families to feed. And I reckon you need to hear that, an’ all, Mr Danvers,’ her mam said.
Mr Danvers, who was the Briddlestone’s buyer, hid a smile. Fran sipped her brandy, proud of her mother.
Mr Witherspoon shook his head. ‘Oh no, not at all, not for nothing. Briddlestone’s and the London store that buy some of our goods, including your rugs, are willing to donate ten per cent of every rug sold on the open market, but out of courtesy we felt we must discuss this with you. It doesn’t in any way affect your wholesale price, since the stores are absorbing the loss, unless, of course, there is a middle ground …?’
He waited.
Fran and Sarah continued to drink their brandies as their mothers and Mrs Oborne whispered together. Finally, Mrs Bedley took over the negotiations, and Fran realised that the co-op wouldn’t be taking any prisoners.
‘So, let’s get this clear, the retailers will be donating ten per cent of the price per item sold?’ asked Mrs Bedley.
Goodness, thought Fran, you mothers sound as though you’ve been at this for years. Well, perhaps they had. It was all that haggling housewives did with stallholders in the market.
‘Well, we feel that our members will also be eager to donate, to the extent of two per cent of each item delivered to you, Mr Danvers, but only if you pay the cost of delivery, which so far we have borne. But we would need proof that this charitable gesture is indeed the case, and not some sharp practice.’
This time it was Mr Witherspoon who hid his smile, for he knew damn well that the delivery costs would be at least half a per cent of the two per cent.
‘However –’ this time it was Mrs Oborne speaking ‘– we would expect a label on each rug saying: “The Massingham Rug Co-operative have kindly donated a percentage of the cost towards the …” What did you say your charity was called?’
Mr Witherspoon, beginning to look rather harassed, told them.
The three older women sat back, their brandies finished, their cheeks rather pink.
‘This would have to be in writing,’ said Fran.
‘The co-op members will have to agree, but we feel that this would be acceptable to them,’ her mother added.
Sarah nodded wisely. ‘Of course, and in addition we will each require another brandy.’
Both men laughed and stood to shake everyone’s hand. Then Mr Danvers sat down again and ordered another round of brandies.
The air was cooler when they left at seven o’clock. They used their torches, even though it was remarkably light, given such a clear sky and a good moon. The three older women followed Fran and Sarah, who were the only ones who could remember the way to the station. The mothers were laughing together, their arms linked and excitement in their voices. Sarah and Fran linked arms too, looking carefully before herding their wobbly mothers across the road.
‘Well, I hope Beth’s having a grand time with Bob,’ muttered Sarah, ‘because she’s missing a good day out. By, I’m missing her, and I have to say, I’m surprised.’
‘So am I – missing and surprised,’ said Fran. ‘It doesn’t feel quite right to be somewhere without her.’
They set off again, and slowly the realisation that they were going to help those in the North-East who had lost so much, sobered them. Fran’s mam called, ‘I’m right glad to be helping. Aye, we lose our men in the pit, but not our wee bairns these days. But it’s wee bairns who’ve died under these bliddy bombs. I reckon I’ll put a bit of me own money into the charity every time I sell them a rug.’
The others thought they would too, and celebrated more quietly now, glad to be going home to their families. Fran’s mam said as they drew near the station, ‘By, it’s been a good day, but me head’s beginning to split, so it is. It’ll be the cool evening, and nothing to do with the brandies.’
This set them off laughing again as they crossed yet another road, as a bus ground towards them. It caught them in its slit headlights as it pulled to a stop. Some women piled off, heading towards them, their torches playing on them, shining in Fran’s eyes. One roared ahead of her friends, barring their way, her finger wagging at them. Fran couldn’t understand what was happening until the woman shouted, ‘Warmongers, that’s what you are, with your yellow faces, making those bullets. Murderers, just as much as the men who fire the buggers. Murderers. Look at you, stained with the shadow of death.’
Fran’s mouth dried but she stepped forward. The woman was raising her hand, as though to strike her, when Mrs Hall stormed round the girls and stood between them.
‘Murderers, you call them? Murder, and you with your fist in the air. Get away with you, and hope to God these lovely girls, who risk their lives every day, soldier on, because if Hitler gets over here, heaven help us all, you stupid, silly woman. You’ll know death then, right enough.’
Mrs Oborne and Mrs Bedley were with her now, forcing their way past the woman, whose friends were standing helplessly to one side, muttering, ‘So sorry.’
Chastened, they headed towards the station, which was just a few hundred yards away. Fran was shaking, but soon she was laughing again, and Sarah too. They held on to one another as they followed in the wake of those majestic women. ‘Trojans, the three of them. They frighten me to death,’ Fran gasped as they finally reached the station. The train was already at the platform, so they ran, the beams of their torches jogging ahead of them, until finally they stopped, opened a door, and slumped into their seats just as the guard’s whistle blew.
But then her mam wagged a finger at her. ‘That bliddy well does it. Tomorrow when you start your week of nights, you tell that supervisor person you need a transfer to the clean room, sewing bliddy overalls or knickers, or whatever the hell you do. You still look like ruddy canaries. Beth is resting up with her Bob, so it’s time you lot did too, do you hear me?’
How could they not? The whole compartment were agog.
On the Monday the night shift saw them in the sewing room with many others from the stemming shop, including Amelia, so there had been no need to make a fuss, thought Fran, with relief. Amelia’s face was still down to her armpits because of her delayed office transfer but like everyone else, she was relieved to be in a clean sector. Well, everyone but the girls they were replacing who were off to work with detonators, pellets or pouring the stemming powder into thingumybobs.
The girls cut out the patterns for the blue overalls on the wide tables though Amelia refused to sit with Fran and Sarah because she blamed them as well as Beth. In the end, they stopped smiling and just ignored her, realising there was nothing they could say or do that would make a difference. Instead, Fran let herself enjoy the crunch of scissors through cotton.
All around them, the ticketty-tick of the sewing machines made a soothing sound, and suddenly, for no reason other than she was happy to be away from the powder, Fran started to sing ‘Blue moon, you saw me standing alone …’ Within a few bars all the others were joining in. Sarah sang harmony, and the only thing missing was Beth’s contralto. Amelia could have made up for her, for she was a contralto too, but she chose to work on, silently.
The singing continued most of the night. Some of the older women nodded off over their machines, but here they could, for there was no danger of causing an explosion. As they left the next morning at six o’clock, Mrs Brown, the supervisor and an ex-seamstress, pulled Fran to one side.
‘I’m not sure if you have heard that the wireless show Workers’ Playtime might well come our way, or so a little bird has told me? Even though they’ve their own comedians, and singers, they like to feature budding talent and Miss Ellington is going to try to get a choir ready just in case they do come. Her idea is to get all of the various departments to put up a group of singers, and she’ll then hold a competition to find the winner. She says we should be prepared for possible opportunities, like the Scouts.’
The two of them laughed. Mrs Brown went on, ‘You and your friends’d be right canny, and I reckon you should be putting together some singers. Have a think, and I daresay Miss Ellington’ll say more, if it’s likely to happen.’
Fran watched the others disappearing into the changing rooms. The tannoy was giving out a message for the next shift, which was already at work throughout the Factory. Why not? Just think, they could be on the wireless. What would Davey say, and her mam? Thrilled, they’d be.
Mrs Brown raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, are you too jiggered to answer?’
‘Too excited, I reckon,’ Fran said. ‘Just think, Workers’ Playtime might be here.’
Mrs Brown shook her head, and walked along with her. ‘Might be, that’s all, pet.’
They smiled at each other. As they reached the changing room, a lass hurried out, scampering towards the sewing shop followed by a security officer, and calling to Mrs Brown, ‘I’m late for me shift, lost me purse, and it were in the safe box all along. Daft I am, up with the bairns most of the night. Who’s on, missus? Will I get a bollocking?’
‘Fore shift is Mrs Easton, so aye, reckon you will. Tell her I had it, and forgot to tell yer, eh?’
The girl grinned. ‘You’re a pal.’
‘I’m not,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘I’m your supervisor, not your pal, so don’t you forget it.’
But the girl had wrenched open the door and disappeared, with the security officer on her heels. Fran said, as she was reaching for the changing-room door. ‘It’ll be grand, Mrs Brown, and aye, we’ve lots of good voices. There’s Beth, when she’s back, Sarah, and Amelia, if she feels she can join in, and then Mary and Sylv.’
Mrs Brown nodded. ‘That’s sorted then, so get some songs sorted, Fran, and it won’t hurt to start rehearsing, just in case. We can have the competition in the canteen at dinner times should we get good news. After all, why shouldn’t our lasses cheer up the nation, as well as get ill for it, eh? I daresay if it seems likely to happen Miss Ellington will find you one dinner time, with some music, so be ready to push the others to think it a good idea. You can read music, can’t you? We hear you, Sarah and Beth were in St Oswald’s choir.’ With that, she whooshed off, probably in search of further prey, Fran thought.
After Fran had changed in the now nearly empty room and gathered up her belongings while a security officer waited to accompany her to the gates, she caught up with Mrs Oborne, who was trailing the rest, and in the moonlight she suddenly remembered the fury on the face of the woman in Newcastle. Well, if Fran Hall was a warmonger, so be it. They were going to win this war if it was the last thing she did, and she’d be singing all the way.
At the siding, Robert, the night-shift driver, was idling the engine. He flashed his lights, leaned out of the window and yelled, ‘On yer hop, our Franny, and you too, Mrs Oborne. You won’t hear anything above the snores.’
She clambered on board and he was right. Most were asleep, their chins on their chests. He drew away gently. She edged up the aisle as Sarah waved, and slumped down next to her. Across the way sat Valerie and Amelia. Amelia was asleep, her mouth hanging open. Soon all would lose their yellow, the sheets would be white in the morning, and everyone would be fit for the harder sectors. And in time, they could all go back to being normal.
‘What did Mrs Brown want?’ Sarah whispered.
Fran whispered the news and Sarah said, ‘By, that’d be a bit of fun, and just imagine being heard by so many. We could wear a big badge that says “We’re famous, bow to us”.’
The two girls laughed softly as their lids grew heavy, and then they slept and Fran dreamed of being the singer she’d always wanted to be. Singing while Davey worked on his magazine, both of them safe.