The next day, Fran, Sarah and Beth met up as usual and headed for the bus. ‘Any sleep last night, pet?’ Beth asked.
Fran shook her head. ‘Not a lot, but some. Lisa didn’t want to settle. Ben was good, he took his share, singing a lullaby as she had woken up. It didn’t send her to sleep, but it did me.’ They laughed. ‘Mam did her share during the day, bless her, and is getting back into the wee-bairn routine.’
They slowed at the call box, though Fran didn’t know if she wanted to speak to Davey. The five minutes they waited passed slowly; there was no call. Finally, the clock above the dairy chimed midday. The bus idled. The workers were all on board except for the three of them and another two. Mrs Oborne was talking earnestly to Sandra Young.
‘Is she pointing the girl towards Massingham Hall?’ Sarah wondered, switching her bag from one shoulder to the other. ‘By, this bottle of water gets heavier by the minute.’ All the time, her eyes were on Fran until finally she nodded at Beth.
Beth gripped Fran’s hand. ‘We’d best go, and don’t give Davey a thought. He’ll be in a sulk because you were “off”, nowt more. That’s what men do when they’ve upset you, so don’t you be thinking that he’s the father. No, this is our Davey I’m talking about, well, your Davey – not Bob.’
‘That’s right. He’s me brother, and he’ll be spinning about. I could strangle him. It’s time he grew up.’ Sarah took Fran’s arm and kept her walking.
Fran felt inexpressibly sad as they approached the bus, and then a sheet of newspaper caught her eye. It was being blown along the road, helpless in the power of the wind. She pulled away and picked it up, then smoothed it out, folding it neatly and dropping it into her bag. There, she thought, have some shelter, for she could do with a bit too.
She looked at Sarah and Beth; her heart was breaking, for this was so much bigger than a sulk. This was a lack of trust and she hated herself, but worse, she hated him, her Davey.
The three of them clambered up the bus steps. Bert shouted, ‘Got your knitting tucked away with your water, I ’ope, for I remembered to bring me own bag today. We’ll keep it in there, eh, once we arrive? Then it’s clean and ready for you to get cracking again on our way home. By, it’s taking a long time, girls, so best get a wriggle on, for I were thinking a few knitted Christmas decorations’d be a grand idea – sheep, a manger, a babe, robins. You can hang them on the Massingham Hall tree when you have the Christmas sing-song.’
‘You drive, and keep your suggestions to yourself, or you’ll be tied up in the wool and looking a mite like a lemon,’ Mrs Oborne called. ‘Let’s get the cardigans done first, eh?’
Looking in his rear-view mirror, Bert cackled. ‘Enough from you, you old besom.’
The girls walked down the aisle to the seat at the back. As Bert drove off, for Fran it was as it had always been, but at the same time nothing like it. She gripped Beth’s hand when they sat down and whispered, ‘I thought I understood about you and Bob, but I didn’t, not until this bairn arrived. I’m sorry, really, truly I am.’
Beth squeezed back. ‘The bairn is called Lisa, dear Fran. You need to start using her name, since she’s to stay until a decision is made. Whatever’s gone on, it’s not her fault. Time to be a grown-up.’
Sarah took hold of Fran’s other hand. ‘Beth’s right. She’s a sweet wee thing, and Daisy is just taking advantage. It’s me brother’s fault for knowing her, but that’s as far as it goes. You know that, you really do, and that she’s not his, I’m sure.’
But she didn’t sound sure, because who could be? Fran wanted to sink her head into her hands, because she couldn’t get the blonde silky hair out of her thoughts, and that huge question: why our doorstep?
Bert changed gear and soon they were leaving Massingham behind. Out came the knitting, and talk around them drifted to Sophia’s babe, and to the evacuees’ Christmas party, which was now definitely to be held in the ballroom, and then on to Viola’s twentieth as well.
Fran listened, because Christmas was a lifeline at the moment: the carols, the scent of pine, the decorations, the paper chains, the mince pies, the presents, the love … She finished a pearl row, turned the needles and started on a plain one. She didn’t want to think of love. Instead, she said, ‘You see, for the bairns the Christmas farewell has to be special so Melanie can remember the last time they were together. It’ll not be on Christmas Day, but as near as makes no difference, or so Sophia told Mam.’
Sarah smiled. ‘My mam says the bairns want to invite their school friends, and the villagers, young and old, to thank them properly for being kind.’
‘My mam said if it seems to be growing every second,’ Beth laughed, ‘that’s because it is. But the bairns still don’t know exactly what they want.’
Nearby, Mrs Oborne laughed as Maisie added, ‘But they’ll surely tell us when they do know, and every idea in between.’
‘Aye,’ called Mrs Oborne, ‘but the co-op reckon it’ll even come to bit of a show with singing and dancing, like the Factory Girls, but with carols thrown in, of course. They fear they’ll be asked for Christmas-fairy costumes because our Eva said as much, but Abe said he’ll not be a fairy, and an elf was out too.’
Fran found herself laughing. How strange. She seemed to be operating on two levels.
Tilly Oborne added, ‘Have they pinned your feet to the floor until you agree to do a spot too, you girls? I bet they want Ralph and the lads to sing, an’ all, for they make a good sound, or so I gather Eva thinks. So, best you girls get involved and make sure that somehow you can make it a silk purse, not a sow’s ear, eh?’
‘You girls knitting as well as chatting?’ Bert called. They grimaced and carried on. As always, they dropped almost more than they knitted, but progress was being made and that’s what they had to remember.
They dropped their knitting into Bert’s bag as they left the bus and he muttered, ‘Well, no doubt she’ll be touched, but I pity the poor pet who has to wear them, that’s all I can say.’
Mrs Oborne, the last to leave, stopped on the steps. ‘Well, you always say a sight too much, our Bert, so put a sock in it.’
He winked at the girls. They laughed their way towards the guards and as they reached Barry, Fran felt better, for this was work and she welcomed the need to concentrate, for it was most likely to be detonators, as it had been all week.
‘By, our Fran,’ murmured Barry, glancing at her pass and looking down into her bag, checking for metallic contraband, ‘it’s surprising you haven’t brought beer instead of water, or maybe a bit of brandy, since it’s said you’re looking after a friend’s bairn. Poor lass, you’ll have found out for yourself that such a wee thing doesn’t know the meaning of sleeping through the night. Or our lad Pete didn’t, anyway.’
‘You’ve heard?’
Sarah was waiting with her as the other terrible twin, Harry, checked Beth’s pass and bag. Barry just guffawed. ‘Daft question, you know how news travels – it got to us this morning. Your mam’ll likely welcome the little soul, after her sadness.’
‘Stop your yacking, our Barry,’ bellowed Mrs Oborne. ‘We’ve jobs to get to. Just pass us through, or frisk us if you feel so inclined, but I warn you, me Steve won’t care for that and will take you behind the bike sheds.’
Barry was laughing so much as he waved Fran and Sarah through that he started coughing and had to take a break. Mrs Oborne tutted. ‘Now, this is a right pantomime. Come to think of it, I can see you as the back of a cow, and yon Harry as the front. ’Twould be an improvement on your looks anyway, our Harry. And Barry, I reckon being a cow’s bum is what you’re made for.’
Harry passed her through, laughing fit to burst. The group walked together into the Factory site, with its one-storey, flat-roofed buildings stretching far into the distance. One day, Fran thought, she’d walk right to the end of the straight road along which others were now heading on their way to their various sections. To the left were the heavy-shell-filling sections, dug into the ground to protect against accidents and the resulting massive blasts. They reminded her of the Anderson shelter that Dr Dunster had in his back garden, covered in earth for growing marigolds and lettuce in the summer.
On they walked, and Fran said to Sarah and Beth, ‘Detonators are a damned sight easier than a babe that doesn’t sleep. I can’t wait to get to work on something that’s only likely to blow me up, not drive me to distraction.’ They smiled at each other as she carried on, ‘Barry’s words didn’t gladden my heart, let me tell you. I thought things would improve quickly—’
Mrs Oborne sailed alongside like a galleon, linking an arm with Fran. ‘Things will. It were Barry’s missus who got up, anyway, and sleep is sometimes a trouble when a babe is teething, so of course when she has a full set of gnashers she’ll sleep. Anyway, think how you would feel being carted about, dropped in a stranger’s house and left to get on with it. You’d have a bit of a tantrum, wouldn’t you, and a damned good cry.’
They turned left towards their section and as the path narrowed they were forced to go two by two. ‘Like going into Noah’s ark,’ called Maisie, Beatrice Adams’ daughter, who was ahead of them.
They entered through the double doors and hurried now into the whitewashed changing room, where the senior security officer for the section, Miss Cynthia Ellington, waited. Alongside was her fellow security officer, Mrs Raydon. Fran whispered as she passed, ‘Glad to hear you and Simon Parrot have set the date, Cyn.’
‘I’ll rip out your Stan’s gullet for him,’ Cyn whispered back, ‘for I swore the lads to secrecy until I had my thoughts in order. We just felt Christmas seemed as good a time as any, especially as I hear the evacuees are having a big party for Melanie. We thought we’d slip to the registry office earlier on the same day, have a quiet drink and then come and listen to the carols, or whatever they’re cooking up, which is as fine a way to celebrate as any. There might even be snow, which would make me happy, for a Christmas without it is a bit flat.’
‘Did you say a quiet drink?’ queried Valerie. ‘Well, best you do come to the knees-up at Massingham Hall, for anything else is no way to kick off married life. I reckon you were even thinking of having that quiet drink at the Canary Club shed on the allotment, with the four reprobates, Stan, Sid, Norm and Ralph?’
Cyn flushed. ‘Well, why not?’
As everyone changed their shoes, tucked their hair into turbans and removed all contraband, Sarah shouted over the hubbub, ‘Because, dear senior security officer, the evacuees have plans for those four, and for anyone else who is showing any signs of life, or so we fear. And I reckon that’s the very reason you chose that date – so you had a good excuse to say, “Sorry, evacuees, neither of us can help, we’re getting married,” as though that would stop the little devils. They’d drag you out of the registry office and bung you into Father Christmas outfits, soon as look at you.’
The group laughed as they continued to divest themselves of any hairgrips and jewellery. A couple of girls were winding their headscarves around their hair to keep out the explosive chemical powder they were working with. Sarah, Fran, Beth and Mrs Oborne replaced their own shoes with the mandatory detonator anti-spark felt ones.
As she checked her side of the room, Mrs Raydon asked, ‘Any silk or nylon?’
Everyone waited for Maisie to say, ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ The laughter was familiar and comfortable. Mr Swinton, the section supervisor, swept in at that moment, dressed in his green overalls. Maisie whispered, ‘Hello, Daddy.’
Only Fran heard, and smirked. ‘Will there be a wedding between him and your mam any day soon? At this rate, Simon could hire out the Canary Club as a celebration venue. Bet he’d sell his home-made beer and elderberry wine too.’
Maisie winked. ‘That’s a thought. As for a wedding, no idea, but as long as they both have a spring in their step, nothing else matters.’
‘Afternoon, ladies. I’ll quickly run through the rules, which of course you know by heart, but best to remind everyone. It seems to have worked so far.’ He began ticking them off on his fingers while the women chanted them silently in their heads, much as they had done with their times tables when bairns.
‘Any coughing, step away from the bench. Felt shoes for the detonator section. No singing there, no talking. No metal, no silk or nylon anywhere. Concentration, absolute obedience. No loose talk outside the Factory, or inside, because one section does not need to know what another does. No wandering about the Factory without an escort …’ On he went, and again it was familiar, and comforting, to Fran.
Once the women had been double-checked for missed items they were ready, and followed either Miss Ellington or Mrs Raydon to their respective workshops.
As they walked down the corridor, Beth no longer tapped the war posters: Dig for Victory, Be like Dad, Keep Mum, We Can Do It. ‘I don’t tap because there’s no reason to keep Bob safe any more. It’s Heather’s job.’
‘Oh, Beth,’ Fran said softly.
Fran wouldn’t think of Davey in the decoder hut today. But she knew she would still tap the posters to keep him safe from a possible bomber. For a moment, she saw him. But she made herself go to the hatch, queue behind the others on the aft shift and pick up the small pot of fulminate of mercury she would use to fill the tiny copper detonator cups; mercury that could break down and seep into her skin or be inhaled. While she did that, the fore shift left.
As they moved into their places behind the steel screens with the Perspex windows and picked up the masks left by the fore-shift workers, Beth whispered, ‘Tell me if I go mad like the hatters, eh? You’ll know when you find me swinging from the lights, cackling.’
They all laughed quietly.
‘No more talking, not even whispering,’ Swinton said from behind them. ‘Remember, it has been outlawed in detonators since the accident back in the spring.’
They apologised and he moved on. Fran loathed the masks they had to wear; the cotton-wool wadding grew hot and itched, made claggy by someone else’s breath. It was a bit like a pitman’s bath, with the father of the family using the water first, when it was nice and clean, but by the time it reached the youngest son, it was black as pitch.
Swinton walked back and whispered, ‘On you go, lasses, be safe.’
It was the pitman’s prayer, and quite right too, for Swinton had been a pitman until he had injured his back.
The girls adjusted their masks while the conveyor belt brought along the first tray of copper caps and Fran sprinkled in the mercury, using the spoon thingy, as they called it. As usual, Fran’s head soon began to ache and her skin itched, especially around her mouth, but today she barely noticed. Next to her, Sarah worked silently, and on the other side Beth too. Fran was comforted; she was one of three, and when Viola was with them, one of four. Fran stopped, holding the spoon above the detonator caps, the copper glinting, her breath uneven, for she could hear the incomprehension in Davey’s voice again. She could feel his arms around her on their wedding night, the love that was always in his eyes – for her. She thought of his drawers, sewn up. Or so he had told her. But had he told a lie? Her Davey?
‘Fran,’ whispered Beth, ‘don’t stop, we’ve targets.’
She nodded and worked on, in spite of the mask and the powder they all felt still seeped through into their lungs, then to the rest of their organs. She’d itch tonight as usual, but as long as she didn’t make a mistake, as long as there wasn’t an explosion, she’d be alive enough to scratch. As she placed the copper cap in its stand, she decided she must grow up, as Beth said, so she would go to the call box at twelve tomorrow and she and Davey would talk, and if he didn’t call, she would go the next day, and the next. But … But … Why had Daisy left the bairn with her? So perhaps she wouldn’t listen for his call. Perhaps Davey was like Bob, away in a different world, and it had changed him?
Work. Concentrate.
The hours passed. Fran sprinkled more powder on more copper caps, returning each completed tray to the hatch. She finished another and another, taking a ninth from the belt as it trundled along. What are you doing, Davey? Were you too angry to ring? Too guilty? Be quiet. Concentrate. She sprinkled the powder. Was her headache improving? She felt a cough coming. She lay down the spoon and stepped back, coughing. Sarah worked on, as did Beth, and Mrs Oborne, who turned briefly to check on them all. Dear Mrs Oborne. Dear Cyn Ellington. Did their security officer really think they’d let her get away with a couple of celebratory wedding drinks in the shed?
What would happen to Daisy’s bairn when it was the Christmas ‘do’? Would she be put to bed in the Massingham Hall nursery with the new baby? When would Sophia’s babe arrive? Would they have the cardigans finished? Why not knit Christmas puddings to hang on the tree?
What would eventually be decided for Melanie’s Christmas farewell? Would the evacuees really wear fairy and elf costumes, or perhaps Eva would decide on angel outfits? She smiled at the thought of Eva as an angel. Would the lads and the Factory Girls be ordered to look like Christmas trees? Well, she wouldn’t put it past that young madam, who’d probably deck them with paper chains. There’d have to be food for the villagers who would be trekking up in the cold, and there should be drinks. Perhaps they could order some elderberry wine from the Rising Sun, because surely the Massinghams would pay for it, or Ralph, and not just for Melanie’s do, but for Viola’s party as well? Oh, yes, Ralph’d want to make that special, but how special? Would he propose?
While Fran was thinking, she was also concentrating, filling the copper caps, placing them on the stand, and another, and another.
Should they invite the parents of the evacuees, except for the orphans, of course. But when was it to be? Very close to Christmas, but when? A Saturday, of course. If invited, where would the parents sleep? The girls could help Viola make up bedrooms at the Hall, or perhaps they could go back to Newcastle that evening by train? There’d have to be food for Viola’s party too, so where would they get enough food for two parties? Could they run to mince pies? She drew close to Sarah. ‘Perhaps we need to do some real thinking about Viola’s party, as it’s soonest?’
Sarah started to cough and stepped back from the bench. Fran moved with her. They stood together. ‘Never sure if it’s me imagination making me cough,’ Sarah muttered, ‘or all this powder around the place. And aye, we do need to get our heads around it. Mid-November isn’t far away, and what about a gift? But forget the gift for now – it’s the food that’s one of the problems. Maybe everyone will bring some? That’s best, but it’s more the drink. Best I ask my mam, for I’m not going to trouble myself if the co-op and Sophia have already sorted that side of it. This business with Lisa has taken them off the boil, I reckon, but now the bairn’s here until she isn’t, they’d better get themselves back bubbling again, eh?’
Fran found herself giggling as Mrs Oborne sidled up to them, coughing. ‘Damned powder, it gets in your throat and loses us time when we have to stand back like this. But we don’t want to cough and drop the spoon, create a spark and Bob’s your uncle. Remember them pantomimes where the old hag is standing there, then there’s a puff of smoke and she’s a lovely princess? Would suit me to be that hag, it would.’
Fran wasn’t really listening. Instead, she was mulling over Sarah’s words about the co-op getting back to bubbling again, because of course she needed to as well. After all, she and Davey had always said they would be able to deal with anything if they had one another, and the anger was hers, not his. The trust was up to her, too. She stepped forward to the bench and began work again.
Just before Mrs Oborne returned to her place, she stood behind Fran and whispered, ‘I reckon the evacuees’ll need more than a few carols and a bit of a dance. They need a fairy to wave a wand and magic something, for it’s Christmas and …’ She stopped. ‘But what do I know? Perhaps the bairns could act out a carol, like a play, and bring in a song and dance, or we could get Alfred from Sledgeford to play the spoons, like a variety show?’
Beth, back in her place, swung round, frowning. ‘Anything but Alfred and his perishing spoons.’
‘Hush now,’ Miss Ellington said as she walked past their bench. ‘I know you four are expert enough to whisper and work safely, but we’re nearly at the meal break, so leave it until then, eh?’
They collected more mercury from the hatch, filled more copper caps, working to a rhythm. Fran thought of her knitting and how dropped stitches interfered with her rhythm, but her mam said that by the time she was knitting for her own bairn, she’d be a dab hand. Her own bairn? No, she’d not go there, not this minute.
Their meal was some sort of vegetable stew, with what could be a bit of cheese. They weren’t sure, but it was warm and they were hungry, and somehow food cleared ‘their tubes’, as Valerie said.
Mrs Oborne, all elbows and munching jaws, powered through it, and then her rice pudding. She rose to clear away her plate and bowl, which looked so clean they might have been licked, then collected the cups of tea. As she returned, a couple of women from the sewing workshop called out, ‘You going to let us know when Harry and Barry need that cow costume you threatened them with, Tilly?’
Tilly’s laugh was raucous. ‘Aye, I’ll leave that to hang over their heads as a threat when they start getting too big for their boots, eh?’ She placed the tray in the centre of the table. ‘Help yourselves, ladies.’
They did, sipping their tea, discussing their favourite carols, offering to bring something from their rations for the food at Melanie’s Christmas ‘do’, which seemed the safest thing to call it at this stage. Susie from Minton village said she’d sound out Mildred and Stevie of the Rising Sun about his supplies of wine and beer. ‘The pub could surely spare some,’ she said.
Miss Ellington came and perched on the corner of the table. ‘Don’t forget, your mams will have had some ideas, but contribute what you have and they’ll no doubt use a few of them.’
Before anyone could answer, a voice cut through their thoughts.
‘Well, Fran Bedley, I hear that Davey’s by-blow has been dumped on your doorstep, meaning you’ve been left carrying the baby, eh?’
Was it Fran’s imagination or had the whole canteen fallen silent? She looked up at Amelia Cartwright. Amelia who delighted in causing trouble, who had spilled the beans in the Rising Sun about the Factory fence coming down in the snowstorm, which had been closely followed by a thwarted break-in. Amelia who had pinched the Factory Girls’ booking at the Rising Sun on New Year’s Eve when their shift had run late. Amelia who Miss Ellington told them had been warned for her loose talk. Amelia who had sent an anonymous note to Davey, telling him Fran and Ralph …
Fran felt hot with rage. She leapt to her feet. Miss Ellington grabbed the table to save herself as Fran pushed past.
Amelia stepped back, startled, but it was too late, Fran was already grabbing her shoulders and shaking the girl. Amelia shrieked. Fran was glad and shook her harder. Amelia’s head bobbed in time, her shrieks louder still, but Fran had had more than enough of the whole bliddy world and her voice was hoarse as she roared, ‘You’re a bliddy bitch and know nothing. How dare you mention my husband? How dare you bad-mouth him? There’s no one finer than Davey Bedley—’
She felt hands pulling at her as Amelia struggled. Still they pulled, until Fran was dragged away, leaving Miss ruddy Cartwright flushed and panting, but only for a moment, for then she swung round and screeched to Miss Ellington, who had helped grab Fran, ‘You saw. You all saw Fran attack me.’
But the whole of the canteen, including the serving ladies, were magically talking or working, and no one had noticed a thing. Instead, Mrs Oborne forced Fran to sit, while Sarah and Beth and the rest of the rescue party straightened their clothes and sat too.
Miss Ellington responded. ‘What I witnessed was you, Amelia, taunting Fran, as you often do to so many people, and for which you have received an official warning, as recommended in Mr Gaines’s report. Remember him, here on behalf of Head Office to produce a post-accident investigative report?’
‘I’m going to Mr Bolton, he’ll sack the cow,’ Amelia screamed.
‘There’s that word cow again. Is someone trying to tell us summat? Do I really need to get Harry into an outfit?’ asked Mrs Oborne.
Those sitting at tables nearby laughed and someone called across to the sewing workshop, ‘I reckon we need a costume, lasses. One that’ll fit Harry and Barry.’
Amelia, looking as though she would burst with fury at the guffaws, pushed past Miss Ellington, only to be baulked by Mr Swinton, who had appeared from nowhere to stand in her way, his grey hair perfectly parted, his green overalls still pristine. He rose on his toes, a sure sign he was displeased.
‘Yes, we will indeed go to Mr Bolton. Come along, Miss Cartwright. Fran, you carry on with your duties once the break is over. If I need you, I will collect you from your workshop.’
His voice was ice-cold, his face pale with fury. Fran wondered if she was for the sack, or Amelia, or perhaps they both were? Oh Lord, what a fool, for she must keep her job now there was Lisa to provide for … She paused – she had used the bairn’s name.
She started to rise, for she must go with Amelia to Mr Bolton, to apologise and beg, but Miss Ellington pressed her back down onto the chair. ‘Sit still, be quiet. This girl must be dealt with. And you, keep your hands to yourself from now on, and your mouth shut. Let Mr Swinton and me sort it out.’
‘We’ll keep an eye on her, Cyn,’ called Mrs Oborne.
Miss Ellington hurried to catch up with Mr Swinton and Amelia, hoping that this time the wretched girl really would be sacked, because if she wasn’t swanning about in high heels playing at being important in administration, she was pushing her own singing group or shooting her mouth off.
Cyn found herself touching the posters along the corridor as Beth used to do. Was it in the hope of finally getting rid of this girl? Why did Amelia feel so entitled? Was it because she had once gone out with Ralph Massingham? Whatever it was, it was no coincidence that after she had been shouting the odds in the Rising Sun about the Factory fence, there had been an attempted break-in. By whom, they had never discovered.
Finally, Cyn caught up with Mr Swinton and his charge. No one spoke as they reached Bolton’s office. In silence, they waited while Mr Swinton rat-a-tatted on the door.
‘Enter.’
Mr Swinton led the way, with Cyn behind Amelia. Mr Bolton, recently promoted from Deputy, to Section Manager, was writing in a ledger. He looked up, his middle parting somewhat crooked, his white collar worn and his tie spotted with food. The problem was that they were all working such long hours one’s appearance became trivial.
Mr Bolton screwed on his fountain-pen top. ‘Yes? A deputation?’
Before Mr Swinton could speak, Amelia thrust her way to Bolton’s desk, leaning over it as though she was going to grab him. Alarmed, Mr Bolton sat back, looking from Amelia to Mr Swinton. ‘What the—’
Amelia launched into a tirade of complaints. ‘It’s that Fran Bedley – she grabbed me, she did, shook me, attacked me, damnable factory girl. All I did was joke. She must be sacked—’
Mr Bolton stood, threw down his pen and roared, ‘Silence.’ He glared from Amelia to Mr Swinton, and then at Cyn. He put up his hand to Amelia. ‘Sit down this minute, and do not dare to speak to your superior in this manner.’
Amelia sat in the chair to one side of the desk, shocked, her mouth hanging open.
‘Would you, Mr Swinton, do me the honour of explaining this interruption?’ Mr Bolton’s voice was ominously quiet.
‘Delighted, sir. This young woman taunted Fran Bedley, who as you know is one of my finest workers and, along with her Massingham colleagues, unfailingly reliable, though not without her tragedies. There was the death of her father in a pit-roof fall, following on from the death of her newborn sister …’
Mr Bolton looked weary and waved Cyn and Mr Swinton to the two other chairs ranged in front of his desk, then sat back down. ‘Yes, I know all this, and that she was badly hurt in an explosion when temporarily transferred to Scotland with Sarah Bedley, and I have every sympathy, but what has that to do with today?’
Everything, Cyn wanted to say to him, because Amelia was the girl who had made it her life’s work to destroy the leader of the Factory Girls, hating her – and the others – because they were more successful, more admired. Instead, she kept control and calmly explained about Amelia’s arrival at Fran’s table, how she had been clearly intent on goading her. Cyn was balling her hands so tightly that her nails dug into her palms.
‘Goading?’ Mr Bolton queried, looking at Cyn, his hand held up to Amelia, who had blurted out, again, ‘It was a joke.’
Cyn continued to explain what had been said, and then Fran’s response. Mr Bolton yet again held up his hand to Amelia, who nonetheless shouted, ‘That’s a lie.’
Silence fell. Finally, Mr Bolton raised his eyebrows at Mr Swinton. ‘Is what Miss Ellington just said, any of it, a lie?’
Mr Swinton shook his head. ‘That is what happened, Mr Bolton, and I can’t have my girls upset. It’s a dangerous enough job as it is, and to have a constant irritation is too much. I refer you to—’
Mr Bolton nodded. ‘No need. I recollect clearly issuing the warning to Miss Cartwright and it seems that no heed has been taken. Thank you for your attention to this matter, Miss Ellington, and you, Mr Swinton. Perhaps you would leave us now.’
They rose. Amelia paled, but Cyn had no pity left for her. Her girls, her workers, who beavered throughout their shifts, putting their lives at risk, should not have to put up with these barbs. They left, and Cyn walked down the corridor until she realised she was alone. She turned to see Mr Swinton outside Mr Bolton’s door, listening. Cyn hurried back on tiptoes and did the same.
They heard Mr Bolton explaining that he would not have his workforce upset when the work they did was skilled, irreplaceable and brave, unlike that of a typist in administration. One who, moreover, had already transgressed by discussing the work of the Factory and a temporary weakness in its security.
‘I will therefore be terminating your employment with us, Miss Cartwright. Of course, your resignation might suit us both, and allow a reference to accompany you on your journey south. This is something only you can—’
‘I will complain to Head Office,’ Amelia replied, her voice tremulous. ‘I will explain that I was attacked. You’re a rude, ignorant man. I will—’
Cyn and Mr Swinton heard the tap of her high heels across the floor, and they fled down the corridor as quietly as they could, hearing Mr Bolton’s roar as Amelia opened his office door.
‘Miss Cartwright, that is more than enough. Go to your locker and pack up your things. I will immediately inform the new administrative officer, Mr Andrews, of my decision. He will escort you to the gates. You may not return, ever. There should be a bus down by the crossroads. Best put on more sensible shoes, which I presume you wore to work.’
‘I will be back,’ Amelia shouted. ‘I will, because my father knows people in Head Office, and … and …’ She burst into tears and stormed along the corridor as Cyn and Mr Swinton ducked into a broom cupboard just in time, standing quite still in the dark.
‘Why did I ever think she’d go quietly?’ Cyn murmured. Mr Swinton stood, his hand on the sneck, listening. They heard her heels slamming on the tiles.
Fran was back in the detonator workshop when Mr Swinton entered. He came to her, coughing to warn her, then tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps you’d like to accompany me to Mr Bolton’s office?’ he whispered.
Fran wouldn’t like it, but did, following her supervisor out and along the corridor, her mask hanging down around her chin. She didn’t ask Mr Swinton why, because she was already trying to work out how she could find another job. Perhaps she could be Sophia’s nanny and take Lisa with her, for she’d have to move in. But what would her mam think? And how could she look after two babies? It wouldn’t work. Perhaps Mrs Adams needed help in the shop? But no, because she had help. If Davey ever telephoned again … She shrugged. Normally she would talk to him, they’d find an answer. What had she done? She should have trusted him. Was she mad?
It felt like miles to Mr Bolton’s office. They stopped outside his door. She knocked, looking sideways at Mr Swinton, who patted her arm. ‘Be not afraid. Enter.’
She did, thinking that though Mr Swinton sounded like an Old Testament prophet, his words steadied her. Mr Bolton was at his desk, Cyn standing behind him, both looking at a letter. He waved Fran to a seat. He let the letter fall to the desk. ‘I have written out a letter of termination of employment.’
Fran nodded. ‘I expected it, and I shouldn’t have shaken her, but I were so angry. But I need me job, Mr Bolton, I really do, for we have the bairn now and Davey doesn’t earn much and—’
‘It is a letter of termination for Miss Amelia Cartwright. It has to be signed off by the Factory manager, and then by Head Office. With Miss Ellington’s and Mr Swinton’s help, I have enumerated all the instances she has failed to comply with the standards required of our employees. Miss Cartwright might well try and appeal my decision, but to no avail, for it is supported by Mr Gaines’s report. However – and this is an important point – she claims you attacked her, and that it was unprovoked. I have been able to ascertain that there was in fact intense provocation, as has happened habitually since she arrived here. I need your confirmation that this will not happen ever again.’
Fran wasn’t sure she understood. Was she being sacked, or warned? Her thought must have shown, for Cyn said, ‘No need to worry. We have various witness statements from the catering staff to the sewing workshop that make this event understandable, if not acceptable.’
‘So I can keep my job?’ She couldn’t believe it.
Mr Bolton came round and sat on the corner of his desk, frowning. ‘Well, that is where I have a proposal. I know that you were injured in Scotland, I know that you have commitments at home, so perhaps a nine-to-five position in the administrative office, under Mr Andrews, might be more conducive to you now? I know from your file that you have office experience, and your diligence goes before you.’
Nine to five, thought Fran. Typing, shorthand, feeling clean, no itching, no yellow, safe – but without my marrers, without the danger money which Mam and I need even more now.
Was it an order? Was it take it, or leave? Was it a richly deserved punishment?
Fran looked down at her yellowed skin, felt the itch of her mask as it hung down around her chin. She would have to, if it was that or nothing. ‘I need the danger money, Mr Bolton. It’s right grand of you to offer it, but you see …’ She petered out.
Mr Bolton merely nodded, smiling round at them all. ‘As I feared, but I had to offer you the chance of safety for I hear you have much on your plate.’
Fran swung round to look at Mr Swinton.
‘Don’t you worry, Fran,’ Mr Bolton said. ‘Someone else will bite my hand off to work in the office. We just have to hope that Miss Cartwright doesn’t appear back after her appeal. But that’s my problem. Back to work now, chop-chop, targets to be met.’
Fran left the office with Cyn, leaving Mr Swinton to talk with Mr Bolton.
‘Even if the wretched girl does wangle it,’ said Cyn, ‘she’ll be on another warning. You’re off the hook, Mrs Davey Bedley. So best you two make it up, eh. Life’s too damned short, Fran, to ditch a good man, for he is, you know.’
That evening at Massingham Hall, Ralph received a telephone call from Tim Swinton, the Fascist son of that salt of the earth, Mr Swinton.
‘Good evening, Ralphy boy. Any information for me?’
‘Sadly not.’ Ralph had been advised by Professor Smythe, his counter-espionage handler, to keep his replies short so that Tim would have to do the talking, and perhaps make mistakes.
‘Not doing too well, then, are you, for I know that the conveniently loose-mouthed Amelia Cartwright has been given her marching orders by the section starched collar, but the girl’s father has been straight on to someone at He—’ He stopped. ‘Well, never mind where. Anyway, she will be returning. So, time to get back into the girl’s good books, for she’s the one that let drop in the pub that the fence was down. That girl is plain stupid, it seems to me, which is helpful. So, get to it when she returns.’
Ralph protested. ‘But—’
‘But nothing. I know you have a bit of a thing going on with the half-a-hand, half-an-ear wench, but Viola Ross can help you with nowt about owt in the Factory. You’ve a job to do as our reconnaissance man. Don’t forget for a single minute that we need to slow production. Any news of seams opening in the pit? I have other eyes there, so will know if you aren’t keeping up.’
There it was, Ralph thought, an actual admission that Tim had other eyes at Auld Hilda. Did he also have someone in the Factory’s Head Office? Was that what ‘H—’ had meant? Yes, it must be. And Tim’d named Amelia. Ralph felt a surge of triumph, even though it was through Tim’s errors, not the great Ralph Massingham’s own cleverness.
‘Pull your finger out when Amelia comes back, eh? Pig and Whistle will make a change from the Rising Sun, where she mentioned the fence. New territory is best, eh?’ said Tim.
He rang off.
A couple of minutes later, the telephone rang again, just as Ralph expected. It was Smythe, and why not? The line was tapped by the Professor’s team.
‘My word, he’s getting tired, panicky or slack, but who cares which?’ Smythe said. ‘Well, “He” is Head Office in all probability, and someone in the pit? Just as we thought. So play it sensibly, Ralph. Keep an eye on Eddie Corbitt, as I’ve said before. Could be he’s the eyes and ears, and the doer of bad deeds, or not. As for Amelia, we are almost sure she’s just a nasty, stupid girl but …
‘The pair were in Oxford at the same time. She a temporary typist, Tim working for an import-export business. Perhaps he put her on to the Factory, claiming it was everyone’s duty to do war work. He clearly knew her well enough to expect her to blab, just as he expected you to do as you were told and leave university like the good little Fascist he thinks you still are. As you’re aware, we need to identify the cell’s top man. Urgently. Keep at it.’
Three days later, Daniel and Davey scrambled out of their beds in the room they shared, snatching a look at the alarm, which hadn’t gone off.
‘It was your turn to set it,’ snorted Daniel.
Davey shook his head. ‘Not so. We tossed, and you lost.’ He threw his sock at Daniel, who sat on his single bed, scratching his head, as Davey dashed to the door. ‘Beat you to the bathroom.’
They tore along the landing in their pyjamas and queued behind Colin, resplendent in scarlet pyjamas sewn by his grandmother. Colin banged on the door. ‘Get a move on, for heaven’s sake, Mart. What are you doing, putting on your make-up?’
Martin’s reply was as languid as always. ‘Now I’ve smudged my lippy, so I’ll have to start again.’ Davey, Daniel and Colin were laughing so hard that when the door opened, Colin, who had been leaning against it, fell in, only to be caught by Martin. ‘I know you’re pleased to see me, Colin, but this is ridiculous.’
Colin slammed the door behind him just as Davey heard Matty, Mrs Siddely’s eight-year-old son, call from the bottom of the stairs, ‘Mum says if you don’t come down for breakfast, she’ll come up there and wallop you all, since you’re behaving like children.’
‘Did you hear that?’ Daniel called through the door. ‘You’re about to get walloped.’
Davey walked barefoot to the top of the stairs. ‘We’ll be down in a minute, Matty.’ He saw that the lad was halfway up, and already wearing his Cub Scouts uniform. ‘By, you’re up and about early for a Saturday. It’s only just gone seven, lad.’
‘The Scouts, Brownies and Guides are looking for jam jars in the rubbish tips for the WI’s jam-making. The Government says they’ll give them extra sugar.’ Matty leapt down the stairs, calling to his sister, Dawn, ‘No, you can’t come. You’re too young.’
Dawn, who could mither for England, was doing just that as Colin came out of the bathroom, only for Daniel to leap in, calling, ‘There, Davey, Dawn sounds just like you. It’s high time to telephone that wife of yours.’
Davey waited his turn, knowing he should contact Fran, but he was so ashamed, so embarrassed and still so damn angry, with Daisy as well as himself. The thing was, he hadn’t dared phone as usual, for what if there was no answer?
Colin and Martin were dressed and racing down the stairs into the dining room. ‘The good clean boys are ready for brekkie, Mrs Siddely, while the bad ones are not, so we’ll have all four.’
By eight, the four lads were running along the road for the bus, with Colin and Martin well in the lead and Daniel calling, ‘Promise Glenys a kiss, Colin, if she makes Ted wait. We know she’s sweet on you, but only because you’ve always got the right change.’
‘Save your breath and run like the devil,’ Davey panted, knowing he was out of shape and needed to toughen up for the pit, for one day the war would be over. He couldn’t bear to think of Fran not being there for him, so he might have to go to another colliery. There’d be no crossword magazine to bring out every month either. What was the point without her? Young Ben could help and earn enough to get himself through university, but Ben wouldn’t be there for him without Fran. What had he done?
They reached the bus and clambered on board, slapping Ted on the shoulder.
‘You’re four layabouts,’ Ted yelled at them. ‘Sit your arses down and be quiet – and for Pete’s sake, get here on time.’
As he plonked himself down next to Daniel, Davey yelled back, ‘Though you say you haven’t a brother called Bert, I reckon you’re lying, our Ted.’
‘I’m not your anything, Davey Bedley,’ Ted roared as he swung the bus round the bend and Glenys fell onto Colin’s lap, to roars of approval from the passengers.
As she scrambled up, blushing furiously, Colin said, ‘Now, now, Glenys, don’t be forward when I’m yours for the asking.’
All Davey could hear were groans as Ted headed for Bletchley Park and all he could feel was his torn heart.
They arrived in good time, piling off the bus, showing their passes and hurrying up the concrete drive to get out of the wind, then along the gravel path to their hut. Norah met them at the door, shrugging into her cardigan, a cigarette in the corner of her mouth. ‘Shove over, I’m off to the little girls’ room. You’re early. The night shift’s not finished. Martin and Colin can nip to the common room, but you two reprobates, Daniel and Davey – to the office.’
Norah was easing past them. ‘Doris is holding something sent in the post. It’s marked urgent,’ she muttered, the ash on her cigarette falling to the ground. ‘She’s had to open it for security reasons, but I’m sure you’ll be interested in the contents.’
Daniel gripped Davey’s arm, but Davey was ahead of him. ‘From your da?’
‘Let’s hope so.’
They turned and headed to the main house, leaping up the steps, flashing their passes at the guard, who sighed and called them back. ‘I need a proper look, young gentlemen.’
It was their turn to sigh. ‘They’ve already been checked at the gate.’
‘But not by me. Bit of an exercise on today.’ The guard checked them both. ‘Something’s waiting for you, Mr Peters. It’s in the office. Doris is interested.’
‘I know she is, in me, but I am waiting for my princess.’
The guard gestured. They laughed, and hurried to the office. Doris was there and at their entrance pointed to the cardboard box. ‘I didn’t look properly, but had to check, you know how it is.’
‘Of course,’ Daniel agreed. He picked it up and showed it to Davey, who opened the flaps and saw, on the top, a scrawled note.
Dearest Daniel (and Davey),
This was in the keeping of one of Daisy’s friends. Daisy didn’t take it with her because she was worried she’d lose it, whereas Sally was going to live with her parents and promised to make sure it was kept in a safe place. The home contacted her. She lives locally now, in service, and the baby is still with her parents. She brought the box to me on her afternoon off. It says nothing of Daisy’s whereabouts, but might well be of use. And yes, the babe was called Elizabeth though never Betty, and born on 3rd March making her a bit over seven and a half months. Hope it helps, Dad
Davey sighed deeply. By God, Daisy was cunning.
Daniel said, ‘And we now know so much more, not least when the baby was born.’
Doris pointed at the door. ‘You have a common room – have a look at it all there, not here.’
Daniel tugged his forelock. ‘Right you are, missus.’
Doris merely raised her eyebrows and returned to work while the two men hurried back to their hut and straight through to the common room at the end. The night shift had another fifteen minutes to go, time enough to examine the contents.
Colin and Martin joined them around a low table as Davey emptied out the box. They sorted through the photographs and gradually grew quiet.
‘He’s a nice-looking lad. It says his name is Peter Renfrew.’ Colin was scanning one of the letters. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘“Dearest Daisy, how lucky I am to have met you. I love you so much, and you are everything to me. Really, truly, you are my family, for I have no other. Together we will create our own little world, when this bloody mess is over.”’
While he listened, Davey was looking at a photograph of Daisy and Peter together, young and happy, with Peter so blond – or so the black and white photograph indicated – and handsome in his uniform. Both seemed so full of love. Silently, they shared the letters, the photographs. When they had finished, Davey said into the silence, ‘I feel bad. I reckon she went off her head with grief, but I couldn’t see it.’
‘None of us could,’ Martin agreed. ‘Why the hell didn’t she tell us how in love they were, how awful the loss?’
Davey shrugged. ‘Lord knows. I reckon these belong with that baby, but who knows if Daisy will ever reclaim her, poor girl. Listen, Peter says here, “We will marry, of course, and have this child, and we will be a family.”’
The telegram denoting his death was there too, because Peter Renfrew was never to marry, never to meet his child.
Davey just stared at the letters and photographs. He must go back to Massingham. He must show his beautiful Fran, his marrers and their families, that Daisy had been in love, and was loved in return, and that her child should be too. That was what he must do, but first he must tell Fran he was so sorry, so stupid, so hurtful, and he would rather die than do that again, for she was the love of his life. He gathered everything up, putting it all back into the box.
‘What’s to do?’ murmured Daniel.
‘I’m going home and I’m taking these, Daniel, if that’s all right, for I need to put things right with Fran. She and her mam deserve to see all this, and then the others as well. It’s only right for them, Daisy, the babe and me. For I’ve behaved like a complete fool.’
Colin leaned forward, putting the top back on the box. ‘And if Bletchley doesn’t let you?’
‘I’ll go anyway.’ They were alone in the common room, but could hear the scraping of chairs as the night shift left. They should be in there now, starting their shift.
Martin shook his head. ‘You’ll not get what you need if you rush and barge about the place. We need a plan. Norah must be onside, and she will take our case to whoever needs to approve it. So, think – why should they let you go?’
They all sat as though they were dummies until Daniel said, ‘Hang on, I’ve had ten days’ leave, what about the rest of you?’
Colin and Martin nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right, one way and another,’ Colin muttered. ‘A week, and then three days for my cousin’s funeral.’
Martin nodded. ‘I’ve had at least that.’
‘What about you, Davey?’ Daniel asked.
‘Six days, said Davey slowly, counting in his head. ‘Three for Stan’s wedding, and three for mine, by the time I got there and back. Oh, no, that’s wrong. Five. I took the overnight train back both times and crawled in, more dead than alive and half an hour late. Don’t you remember Norah giving me a kick up the arse?’ They all nodded.
Martin picked up the box. ‘Right, let’s nobble our Norah before the shift really gets started. We have five minutes.’
‘I’ll do the talking, and maybe the rest of the incoming shift will get behind us, for I’m pretty sure they’ve got more leave under their belt than you, Davey,’ Daniel said, shaking his head. ‘What’s the matter, love it here too much, do you?’
Davey followed them, knowing he’d been too immersed in his work to even notice, and that those were days he could have been with Fran. Oh God, he’d done so many things wrong.
It took the whole room to clamour for Davey’s release ‘from this toerag prison’, as Roger from London called it. He insisted on wearing two scarves, one wool, one silk, for the silk against his skin reminded him of better times, as he told whoever would listen.
In the end, Norah looked up, her hands over her ears. ‘Enough,’ she roared. ‘You should have started work five minutes ago. Give me that box, and I trust I have your permission to share it with those who have probably forgotten what grief and love is. This will remind them.’
She stood, her cardigan falling around her. ‘You, Davey Bedley, get your head down and make progress on the intercepts, and I will tell them you just get in the way anyway, so best you are gone from here until you catch up your days.’
Half an hour later, Davey was in a taxi, complete with the box, heading for Mrs Siddely’s. Once there, he asked it to wait, rushed upstairs and packed his pyjamas, toothbrush and basics, knowing he had clothes at Fran’s. Mrs Siddely was waiting at the foot of the stairs as he came down with his small case.
‘Doing a runner, Davey?’
‘Are you coming back, Davey, for I need your help with my homework?’ Dawn asked, round-eyed.
Davey grinned. ‘Oh yes, but I have my wife to see. The other three will help, like they always do. We’re a gang.’
He kissed Mrs Siddely. She laughed. ‘Ah, then you’ve found out something that’ll help your Fran accept the babe, eh?’
He stepped back. ‘Must be something to do with the sherry.’
She smiled. ‘Good luck, be sensible and don’t sulk, it’s not a nice look for a grown man.’
Davey knew he deserved that, and kissed her again. ‘Say goodbye to Matty for me. We’ll set another crossword puzzle on my return, in six days. They gave me one extra. Imagine that, Mrs Siddely – I’ll be with my Fran for five whole days, if she’ll have me, for I’ve been so stupid.’
Mrs Siddely smiled. ‘Oh, she’ll have you. A bond like yours can’t be severed that easy, though it might take a while, so you’ll have to pay your pound of flesh and grovel a little.’
He gripped her hand, then squatted. ‘Bye, little Dawn. You keep going with your times tables, eh? How far have you got?’
‘Five times,’ she said. ‘It’s an easy one, but I don’t know why it is.’
Davey was already half out of the door, but looked back at her, smiling. ‘I always found that too. It seems to fit somehow, doesn’t it?’
Dawn was nodding as he ran back down the path. He liked these two children and felt sorry that they had no father, who had been killed at Dunkirk. He threw his case onto the back seat and leapt in after it. ‘Drive like the wind, if you would, kind sir. I have the ten o’clock to catch, with a travel warrant, an’ all.’
‘Somewhere nice, lad?’ the taxi driver asked as he drove away, bashing through the gears.
‘Oh aye, off to see me beautiful wife,’ Davey replied, because he hoped and prayed that for Fran it would be nice. Please, please, she must still love him, in spite of the fact that he was the biggest fool out, for how else could he go on? He thought he knew how Daisy must have felt, and was ashamed.