There'll Be Blue Skies (12 page)

She arrived at the factory with ten minutes to spare and saw women hurrying towards it from all directions. Following them through the side gate, she realised most of them were her mother’s age, or older, and spoke with a strange, drawling, rolling accent that was hard to decipher. There were a few younger ones, and she was pleasantly surprised to hear the welcoming sound of the East End coming from a group of three who were arm-in-arm and chattering nineteen to the dozen. It would be nice if she could get to know them, she thought. It would make her feel more at home.

As they walked across the vast concrete yard, another swarm of women emerged from a door at the far end of the building, and Sally realised this must be the night shift clocking off. It paid really well, but Sally had had to forget even trying for it – she couldn’t leave Ernie all night with Mrs Reilly, especially if he was going to wet the bed.

Sally followed as the women swarmed into the building, grabbed their work-cards and, with the careless ease of long familiarity, slipped them into the machine that would mark their time of arrival with a small puncture hole, before taking it out again and sliding it back to where it had come from.

She took a moment to find hers before she could do the same. Then she let herself be carried along by the chattering, laughing stream into the workroom where the BBC Home Service radio programme blared out from two huge speakers strung from the rafters.

She let the river of women flow round her as she stared in amazement. It was five times bigger than the factory in Bow, and cavernous, with row upon row of long tables supporting dozens of heavy, industrial sewing machines. There were windows in the roof, but they were so grimy that very little light penetrated them – but this was counteracted by banks of lights hanging from the ceiling.

Huge rolls of khaki material lay beside rolls of air-force blue on the specially made shelves that took up the whole of one end of this enormous space. In front of them were the numerous tables where the paper patterns would be outlined in chalk before the skilled cutters got to work and each section of uniform began to emerge from the expensive cloth.

At the other end of the building, Sally could see the packers loading the finished uniforms into boxes, which were then hauled away on special trolleys to the loading bays at the top of a short concrete ramp. The height of these loading bays had been calculated to match the height of the lorries’ storage space, so the boxes could be loaded quickly and efficiently.

Sally turned and regarded the long wooden stairway that ran behind her to a broad balcony high above the factory floor. Built into this balcony was a room with a window that took up most of one side. This was where the manager could watch every worker’s move. He was as powerful as the factory owner, for he was king of all he surveyed – and had the livelihoods of his workers in the palms of his hands.

‘We don’t pay you to stand about gawping.’

Sally looked up and swallowed. ‘I’m new,’ she managed. He was an unattractive man in, Sally guessed, his late thirties, with bad skin, greasy hair and a mean-looking expression. He had thick glasses and wore a long, dun-coloured duster coat, buttoned over his clothes, which did little to enhance his pallor.

‘And I’m the shop-floor supervisor, Mr Simmons.’

‘Sally Turner, sir,’ she replied, playing up to his undoubted ego.

He sniffed and looked at the clipboard clasped awkwardly in his withered hand before pointing vaguely to the other side of the cavernous room. ‘Row nine, machine fifteen.’ His pale eyes bored into her from behind the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘We expect the highest standards here, or you’re out,’ he warned. ‘You’ll have fifteen minutes for lunch. Tea will be available at eleven and four and must be drunk at your station. The cost will come out of your pay-packet.’

‘I don’t need tea,’ she replied. ‘I brought me own.’

He obviously didn’t approve of his routine being changed and glared at her before putting a mark beside her name on the piece of paper in his clipboard and eyeing his watch. ‘Get to work, Miss Turner.’

Sally quickly walked down the rows, counting them as she went. Row nine was about halfway down, her machine two from the end. She slipped behind the two gossiping women, shrugged off her coat and hung it with the string bag and gas-mask box over the back of her chair.

She grimaced as she sat down. The chair was wooden, the legs at different lengths. No doubt it had been rejected and passed down the line – and now, being the new girl, she was the unlucky one to have it. Making a mental note to bring in a cushion tomorrow, she looked round for something to jam under the leg.

‘Hello, ducks. The name’s Brenda. Welcome to hell.’ The woman had a cheerful face despite her words, and she continued to smile as she covered her curlers with a scarf and tied it firmly at the front.

‘It can’t be that bad, can it?’ Sally was still trying to find her balance on the chair.

‘You wait until Hitler Simmons over there starts having a go,’ Brenda said grimly, cocking her head towards the supervisor and folding her meaty arms over her vast bosom. ‘Thinks he knows it all, strutting about like a cockerel in a hen house – all puffed up and full of himself.’

She reminded Sally of Maisie Kemp – right down to the curlers, and the fag hanging out of her mouth.

‘Here you go,’ said Brenda, reaching for the empty cigarette packet in her apron pocket. ‘Double that up and stick it under the leg, or else you’ll be lopsided all blooming day.’

Sally tested the effect and discovered it did the trick as long as she didn’t wriggle about too much.

‘Yeah, y’wanna watch Simmons,’ confided the girl on the other side, giving Sally a nudge and a wink. ‘Gets a bit ’andy, if yer know what I mean. Thinks ’e’s Gawd’s gift.’ She gave a snort of derision, tossed back her fair hair, and tugged the ratty cardigan more tightly over her narrow chest. ‘As if any of us would give ’im the time o’ day.’

Sally perked up as she recognised the Cockney accent. ‘We ’ad one of them in Bow,’ she replied. ‘Someone told ’is missus what ’e were up to and we never ’ad no trouble again.’

The girl’s blue eyes lit up. ‘Bow? We’re almost neighbours. I’m from Stepney, just off the Mile End Road. Pearl’s the name.’

‘Sally.’ They grinned at one another in delight.

‘I love your blouse,’ said Pearl, wistfully. ‘Where’d you get it?’

Sally unbuttoned her cardigan to show it off, delighted Pearl liked it. ‘I made it out of an old tablecloth.’

‘You made that?’ Brenda eyed it keenly, and ran a finger over the tiny pin-tucks. ‘That’s lovely work,’ she said admiringly.

‘Me gran was a seamstress. She taught me to sew.’

Pearl leaned in closer to inspect the workmanship. ‘You could make a bob or two doing stuff like that,’ she murmured. ‘Especially when them clothing coupons come in.’

‘Yes,’ said Brenda. ‘Make do and mend is what we’ll all have to be doing from now on, and there will always be repairs and alterations – as well as clothes for special occasions.’ She nodded as if to confirm this statement. ‘I’ll put the word out for you, ducks. These can use machines, but when it comes to real sewing they don’t know one end of a needle to the other, let alone do fine work like that.’

Sally’s smile was warm as she thanked Brenda. She was so glad she’d worn her blouse this morning – perhaps this was to be a lucky day. ‘I can only do the ’and stuff for now,’ she warned her. ‘I ain’t got a machine yet.’

Brenda nodded and began a conversation with the woman on the other side of her, so Sally turned back to Pearl. Within minutes they were chatting like old friends, finding places and people they both knew and reminiscing about the King’s Coronation two years before and the street parties everyone had had to celebrate. They agreed he sounded lovely on the wireless, but it was a terrible shame he stuttered.

Then the runner dumped the piles of cut fabric beside each of them and, before she was halfway down the line, the whistle had gone to begin work. ‘We’ll ’ave a chinwag later,’ shouted Pearl above the racket of over eighty machines.

Sally swiftly and expertly checked her machine was properly threaded and working, then picked up the wad of material that had been pinned together at one corner. It was a pair of khaki trousers, with seams, pockets, zip and waistband to be sewn together before it went to another table for the hem, buttonhole and button to be done by hand.

It felt good to be back at work again – and good to know she had someone her own age, and from a similar background, to chat to in the breaks.

The whistle went at noon and there was a stampede for the back door. They poured out into the large rear garden which had been concreted over and furnished with a collection of battered tables and benches. The air was cold and made them pull up their coat collars, but it was good to be out of the noise and stale atmosphere of the factory.

The promised canteen would be finished by the end of the month, and the workmen on the scaffolding whistled and called down to the women offering everything from a kiss to a bite of their sandwiches. When they clambered down to join them, there was a great deal of laughter as they exchanged sandwiches and flirted over cigarettes and teacups.

Pearl tugged at Sally’s hand. ‘Quick, over there.’ They jostled through the melee and managed to grab a sunlit space on a low wall. Grinning at each other, they unwrapped their sandwiches and began to munch.

‘So, what you doing all this way from ’ome, Sally?’

She explained about her brother and described the family she’d been billeted with. ‘They’re ever so kind,’ she confided, ‘and Ernie’s ’aving the time of ’is life, so I reckon we landed on our feet.’ She regarded the china-doll face with the big blue eyes, and the slender figure wrapped in a threadbare coat.

Pearl was aptly named and, despite the fair hair and Alice band, was probably older than she looked. ‘What about you?’

Pearl wrinkled her delicate nose and tossed back her long fair hair. ‘I’m eighteen and shouldn’t be ’ere at all,’ she said, through the last of her jam sandwich. ‘But I come down with me little sister who ’as the asthma something chronic.’ She shrugged. ‘What with nothing ’appening in London – no bombs and such – Mum wanted her ’ome again. I already got this job, so I stayed on.’

‘What’s yer billet like?’

‘They’re an old couple what expect me to clean and cook for ’em. But at least I get good grub and a comfy bed, so I don’t mind.’ She giggled and blushed. ‘They even let me use the front room when Billy comes round.’

‘Billy?’

Pearl nodded with a dreamy expression. ‘He’s lovely, is Billy. Works on ’is dad’s fishing boat.’ The softness faded and she frowned. ‘But they got a letter the other day from the Admiralty which will change things.’ She sighed and sipped her tea. ‘They’re going to requisition the big trawler to use as a minesweeper, and Billy’s planning to join the Royal Naval Reserve so ’e can captain it. It’s all a bit worrying, really.’

Sally didn’t know what to say. Everyone’s lives were upside-down at the moment and nobody knew what the future held.

Pearl’s expression suddenly hardened. ‘Watch out, Sal,’ she hissed. ‘Here come the cats.’

Sally followed her gaze. The three women she’d seen ahead of her in the queue this morning were making their way towards them. They looked pleasant enough, but Pearl obviously knew them better. ‘Cats?’ she murmured.

‘Mmm. With claws. Don’t for one minute think they’ll be your friends. That Iris just wants to be Queen Bee and lord it over us cos we’re from London.’

Sally watched them cut a swathe through the gathering, noted how many of the women turned their shoulders, their gazes sliding away as they passed. One was blonde, one brunette and the other a redhead – they made quite an impression – and Sally guessed they were in their mid-to-late twenties.

‘Who’s this?’ said the brunette, who was clearly the ringleader.

‘This is Sally from Bow,’ said Pearl. ‘Sally, this is Iris.’ She pointed to the redhead and the blonde. ‘Jean and Pat.’

Sally smiled, taking in the smart clothes, the make-up and fashionable hairstyles.

‘What you doing over ’ere?’ Iris’s dark eyes bored into Pearl. ‘You know I don’t like you mixing with this lot. We London girls gotta stick together.’

‘It’s sunnier over ’ere,’ said Sally quickly, ‘and after sitting inside all morning, it’s nice and cheerful.’ She held Iris’s steady gaze. ‘There’s room on the wall. Why don’t you join us?’

Iris glared at her before giving a nod to the other two, and sitting down. ‘Got a fag, Pearl? Only I’ve run out.’ Iris screwed up the empty cigarette packet and threw it to the ground in disgust.

‘You know I don’t smoke, Iris.’

‘What about you, Sal?’

‘I don’t either.’

‘Blimey,’ muttered Iris. ‘You’re a pair of right little goody-two-shoes, ain’t yer?’ She sniggered and nudged the redhead. ‘What you reckon, Jean?’

‘I reckon they’re just a couple of kids and not worth our time,’ she replied, her expression scornful.

‘You could be right. Come on Jean, give us a fag. The whistle’ll go in a minute, and old Simmons will be on the warpath.’

Sally had met her type before and wasn’t impressed or cowed by her. She finished eating her delicious sandwiches and watched as the cigarettes were lit and the three women began to talk amongst themselves – patently ignoring Pearl and Sally, who didn’t mind a bit, but who would have preferred to carry on their own conversation in private.