Five Dead Canaries

Maureen Quinn usually had to drag herself reluctantly out of bed at five o’clock but it was different that morning. Having slept fitfully, she was up earlier than usual and had a decided spring in her step. She dressed, used the outside privy, washed in the kitchen sink, ate a meagre breakfast, brushed her teeth and applied powder with great care to soften the yellow tinge of her face. Before the rest of the family had even stirred, Maureen was walking briskly in the direction of the railway station. Lost in thought, she was at first unaware of the diminutive woman who came out of a side street. Agnes Collier had to call out her friend’s name three times before she finally got a response.

‘It’s me, Maureen!’ she yelled. ‘Have you gone deaf?’

‘Oh, hello,’ said the other, jerked out of her reverie. ‘I’m sorry, Agnes. I was miles away.’

‘I know what
you’re
thinking about.’

‘Do you?’

‘Of course – it’s Florrie’s birthday. We’re going to have a party.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Well, sound a bit more enthusiastic,’ chided Agnes, falling in beside her. ‘How often do we get the chance to celebrate? After the best part of ten hours at the factory, I can’t think of anything nicer than going to a pub to have some fun. What about you?’

Maureen manufactured a smile. ‘I’ve been looking forward to it all week.’

They were part of a gathering mass of people who converged on the station, jostled each other in the long queue, bought their tickets and moved out onto the platform. Like all female munition workers, they collected a variety of glances and outright stares, some hostile, some sympathetic and some charged with a grudging admiration. It was their faces that gave them away. Even with her make-up on, Maureen could not fully disguise the distinctive yellow hue, and Agnes’s cheeks were positively glowing. Both were canaries, two of the countless thousands of women whose exposure to TNT and sulphur had dramatically altered the colour of their skin. It was the unmistakable mark of the so-called munitionettes.

Maureen was a startlingly pretty young woman of twenty with lustrous dark hair turned almost ginger at the front. Tall, slim and shapely, she moved with a natural grace. The plump Agnes, by contrast, tended to waddle along. Five years older than her friend, she had a podgy, open face and fair hair brushed back severely and held in a bun. While Maureen was single, Agnes was married and had been quick to answer the call for workers at the rapidly expanding Munitions Filling Factory No.7 in Hayes, Middlesex. Her mother looked after the baby for her, allowing Agnes to bring a regular wage into the house.

‘Any word from Terry?’ asked Maureen.

‘No, we haven’t had a letter for over a month now,’ said Agnes, worriedly. ‘Mam keeps saying that no news is good news but I’m not so sure. I keep dreading that a telegram will arrive one day. Be grateful you’re not married, Maureen. Having a husband in the army is murder. I have the most terrible nightmares sometimes.’

‘And me – I’ve got two brothers at the front, remember.’

‘Poor things – let’s hope they all come home safe. However,’ she went on, brightening, ‘I’m not going to let sad thoughts spoil Florrie’s big day. We always have a laugh with her. It’s been one of the few joys of taking a job at the factory. I’ve made some wonderful new friends.’

‘Yes,’ said Maureen, quietly, ‘and so have I.’

‘Florrie Duncan is a scream.’

‘She has so much energy. Nothing seems to tire her.’

Agnes laughed. ‘Whereas I’m exhausted before I even get up.’

‘How’s the baby?’

‘Oh, he’s a Turk but I can’t help loving him. When I come home from work, I get a lovely welcome. Only trouble is that – with this yellow face of mine – he must think his mother is Chinese!’

Her cackle was soon drowned out by the thunder of the train as it surged into the station and juddered to a halt. Doors were snatched open and the passengers clambered aboard. Dozens of other munitionettes were on their way to Hayes along with men who also worked at the factory and who wore a badge in their lapels to indicate that they were engaged in war work, thus making them immune to routine abuse and to the humiliation of being given a white feather. The train was soon packed with half-awake travellers. When Maureen and Agnes sat side by side in a compartment, the well-dressed man opposite shot them a look of frank disgust and hid behind his newspaper. His reaction brought out a combative streak in Agnes Collier.

‘Let
him
try filling shells and keeping his complexion!’

Maureen didn’t even feel the nudge from her friend. Her mind was elsewhere.

Until the end of the nineteenth century, Hayes had been a predominantly agricultural and brick-making area but, since it boasted a major canal and was on the route of the Great Western Railway, it was ripe for industrial development. By 1914, several factories had opened but the outbreak of war played havoc with their business plans. Under pressure from the government, some had to adapt their facilities to help the war effort and, as the supply of male employees dwindled as a result of enlistment, they began to recruit women in large numbers. Maureen Quinn and Agnes Collier were therefore part of a huge female workforce at the munitions factory. As the hordes walked or cycled through the gates, the chatter was deafening, amplified by the swish of tyres and the clack of heels on tarmac. Another long day had begun.

For some, however, their shift had just ended. Those who’d worked hard throughout the night to keep up the non-stop production of shells were now clocking off, thinking about their breakfasts and their beds. Women clocking on gritted their teeth as they braced themselves for another punishing day. The first thing that Maureen and Agnes did was to change out of their clothes and into the plain and unbecoming work overalls. A cap of the same blue material covered their heads. Because her fringe poked out from under it, Maureen’s hair was only gingery at the front. It was the same with other women. Their faces, hands and exposed hair all changed colour over time. There was the usual banter and the usual ear-splitting litany of complaints, then they were herded into their respective buildings. Maureen, Agnes and their friends worked in the Cartridge Section, a place where well over four
hundred thousand items a day were made. Understanding the crucial importance of their work, they were proud of their output.

Florrie Duncan was first to her bench. She was a big, boisterous woman in her late twenties with an infectious grin and a deafening laugh. No matter how long the shift and how tiring the work, Florrie never flagged for an instant. As well as being the natural leader of her group of friends, she was also its inspiration. When she saw Maureen and Agnes, she beamed at them.

‘Ready for the party?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said Agnes. ‘Happy birthday, Florrie!’

‘Happy birthday!’ echoed Maureen.

‘My birthday begins the moment we clock off,’ said Florrie, waving to some other newcomers. ‘I’m going to drink until I drop. Then I’m going to find two handsome young men to carry me home and put me to bed. That’s
my
idea of a perfect birthday present.’

Florrie’s coarse laugh reverberated around the whole building.

Since opening hours had been severely curtailed by war, patrons made sure that they got to their local pubs on time. The Golden Goose was therefore quite full that evening and, apart from the inevitable moans about another unpopular government edict – watered beer – the talk turned to the munitionettes. Leighton Hubbard, the publican, was a short, skinny man in his fifties with a reedy voice and eyes that kept roaming the bar like miniature searchlights. When he announced that six canaries were about to hold a birthday party in his outhouse, he set off a heated argument.

‘Bloody women!’ cried Ezra Greenwell, an embittered old man with a flat cap shadowing a grim face. ‘They got no place in here. They ought to be at home, looking after their kids or washing the shit out of their husbands’ underpants.’

‘Some of them are not married,’ said Hubbard, reasonably, ‘and those that are have got their blokes at the front. They’re entitled to let off a bit of steam.’

‘It’s indecent, if you ask me. Pubs are for the likes of us.’

‘I’m in business, Ezra. I turn nobody away.’

‘Well, you should. Those harpies just don’t belong here.’

‘Fair’s fair, Ezra,’ said Tim Burnham, a stocky young man in army uniform. ‘They do a vital job. I should know. I’ve seen what’s happening over there. When the war first started, the Germans had far more shells than us. It was a right old scandal. We were always short of ammo. Thanks to the ladies, that problem has been solved.’

‘They’re not ladies,’ insisted Greenwell. ‘They’re stupid women trying to behave like men and,’ he added with searing envy, ‘they’re paid far too much money.’

Hubbard shook his head. ‘They get half of what the men get.’

‘That’s still a lot more than me,’ said Burnham. ‘It’s embarrassing. I agree with Ezra on that score. First day on leave, I’m having a pint in the Red Lion and these two canaries walks in. When I offered to buy them a drink, one of them tells me to put my money away because it’s
her
treat. Then she opens her purse and takes out this wad of notes. Honestly, I thought she’d robbed a bleeding bank.’

‘There you are,’ said Greenwell as if he’d won the debate. ‘It’s unnatural, giving them wages like that. If they’d bought
me
a drink, I’d have poured it all over them. They get above themselves. You should refuse to serve them, Leighton.’

‘I need all the customers I can get,’ admitted Hubbard. ‘The war has already killed some of my regulars. Besides, these girls will be no trouble. They’ll be tucked away in the outhouse with their booze and their sandwiches. The missus has even baked them a little cake.’

‘What did she use – canary seed?’

They were still laughing at Greenwell’s sour joke when the door opened and the six women marched in. Florrie Duncan was in the lead. Agnes Collier, Enid Jenks, Shirley Beresford and Jean Harte were right behind her, with Maureen Quinn, looking rather apprehensive, at the rear of the group. Florrie had the most vivid yellow complexion of all but the others were also identifiable canaries. They got a mixed reception from the exclusively male customers. Some, like Ezra Greenwell, glowered in disgust, others pointedly ignored them, a few just goggled at them in wonder and Burnham, their sole supporter, clapped his hands and grinned amiably. The publican moved swiftly to avoid any possible friction.

‘This way,’ he said, going to a door at the side of the bar and opening it. ‘I think you’ll find everything ready for you.’

‘Thank you, Mr Hubbard,’ said Florrie, slapping some money down on the counter. ‘That’s the price we agreed. Keep the change.’

He scooped up the cash. ‘Oh, thanks – very kind of you.’

She led the way through the door. ‘Come on, girls. The party starts now.’

‘Happy birthday, Florrie!’ Hubbard called out.

‘Yes,’ added Burnham as they hurried past him. ‘Happy birthday!’

When all six women had gone, Hubbard tried to close the door after them.

‘Leave it open, Leighton,’ shouted Greenwell. ‘We need some fresh air in here to get rid of the stink. Those women are six good reasons why this bloody country is going to the dogs. They’re freaks. They should be locked up in a cage.’

Loud murmurs of approval filled the bar. The canaries had enemies.

It was not long before the party was in full swing. Separated from the pub by a cobbled courtyard, the outbuilding had originally been three stables, now converted into a single room. Though it was bare to the point of bleakness, had an undulating floor and aromatic memories of its earlier existence, the women didn’t complain. The trestle table in the middle of the room had a bright red cloth and was covered with plates of sandwiches cut diagonally. Pride of place went to the little birthday cake at the centre of the table, its solitary candle flickering away. What caught the attention of the visitors, however, was the alcohol on display. Having clubbed together for the occasion, they’d spared no expense. Florrie Duncan and two of the others favoured port and lemon. Jean Harte and Shirley Beresford opted for ginger beer while Agnes Collier and Maureen Quinn preferred a nip of gin.

There was a convivial atmosphere. The food was tasty, the drink was plentiful and they were soon having a lively party as they sat around the table. The only person who didn’t seem to be enjoying it to the full was Maureen, who only nibbled at one sandwich and took a brief sip of her drink. Florrie was in her element.

‘We ought to have a party like this
every
week,’ she said.

‘Why not have one every day?’ suggested Agnes.

‘We could never afford it,’ warned Jean over the laughter.

‘Well, we need
something
to help us put up with the hell we go through at that factory,’ argued Florrie. ‘It’s not just the work. I’m happy enough to do that. It’s the way we get pushed around by the men. They’re always inventing new rules to make our lives a misery.’

‘I don’t like the way that clerk in the wages office leers at us,’ said Agnes. ‘You know, the one with the long nose and glass eye.’

‘Leering is fine by me, Agnes. Men are men and I like to get noticed. What I draw the line at is them as takes liberties. Mr Whitmarsh is
the worst. Don’t ever get caught alone with him or his hands will be everywhere.’

‘I might like that,’ said Jean, giggling.

‘Wait till you smell his bad breath. That will put you off.’

‘It’s Les Harker that I can’t stand,’ volunteered Shirley. ‘He’s always making nasty remarks about us. I mean, we do almost the same job as him yet he gets paid a lot more. It’s just not fair.’

‘Then it’s down to us to do something about it,’ said Florrie, decisively. ‘We should demand higher wages. If we threaten to go on strike, they’d probably cave in. Let’s face it, girls,’ she went on, raising her glass in the air, ‘they can’t do without us.’ She stood on a chair. ‘Who
are
we?’

The others replied by breaking into song, their voices rich with conviction.