While We're Apart (36 page)

Unlike the routine in Doris's fancy house, everyone mucked in willingly without a word from Peggy, and they'd set to on the washing-up while she'd settled Daisy in her cot. The house might have been shabby, but the atmosphere was friendly and it was clear that the girls all adored Peggy, as well as the elderly Cordelia, and they gently teased Cordelia about her gentleman friend Bertram, which made her blush and twitter.

Once the kitchen was tidy again, they'd settled down by the fire. The other girls got out their knitting or mending, and Mary helped to roll Cordelia's beautiful new wool into balls as they regaled her with Ron and Harvey's heroic efforts of Friday night.

As the clock struck ten and Mary reluctantly prepared to leave, Peggy had been rather put out that there was still no sight of Ron, for she'd been hoping he would walk Mary back to her billet. Mary had assured her she would be fine, and had left the boarding house armed not only with a torch but with the certain knowledge that she'd been amongst true friends tonight, and that Peggy Reilly would keep her promise and be there for her should things go wrong.

The house was in darkness and utterly silent as she'd tiptoed up the stairs to find that the blackout curtains in the bedroom had not been pulled, and Ivy had yet to come home. Tired after the long day, she'd quickly used the bathroom, set the alarm on her clock, and climbed into bed with a contented sigh. She was asleep within minutes and didn't even hear Ivy coming in very much later.

The alarm shrilled at six o'clock and Ivy groaned as she pulled the pillow over her head. Mary shot out of bed, eager not to be late on her first day at work. ‘Come on, sleepyhead,' she urged as she tugged at the pillow. ‘It's time to get up.'

Ivy clutched at the pillow. ‘Go away,' she moaned.

Mary grinned as she bounced on the end of the bed. The boot was on the other foot today. ‘I'm not going anywhere until I'm sure you're properly awake,' she said. She gave Ivy a nudge and then went to open the curtains.

‘Gawd 'elp us,' groaned Ivy as she struggled to sit up. ‘Yer worse than me mum.'

Mary ruffled her already tousled head. ‘That's what you get for being a dirty stop-out,' she teased. ‘Good night, was it?'

Ivy's gamine face lit up with a naughty grin. ‘I ain't telling you nuffing,' she said. ‘Now clear off and sort yerself out while I try and wake up properly.'

Returning from the bathroom, Mary dressed in slacks and sweater, and her comfortable lace-up shoes. Unlike Ivy, she wasn't expected to wear heavy boots and dungarees, and would be given a coverall to protect her clothes. She found her scarf and had to spend some minutes tying up her hair and getting the thing knotted above her forehead. Eyeing her reflection in the mirror, she couldn't help but smile. She looked like a real worker now.

There was thankfully no sign of Doris while they cooked and ate their very early breakfast of dried scrambled egg on toast, and drank cups of strong tea. Grabbing their overcoats and gas-mask boxes, they hurried down Havelock Road and began the long trawl up the hill to the factory estate.

Surrounded by high wire fencing, overshadowed by many barrage balloons, and guarded at the gate by a soldier armed with a rifle, the estate was an imposing and rather forbidding place. They joined the long queue of other girls and older men, and had to show their identification papers and Mary's letter from the labour exchange confirming her job at the Kodak factory.

Once they were through the gate, Mary followed Ivy as she weaved her way through the bustling crowds of people entering and leaving the great corrugated-iron buildings that had been painted a uniform grey.

‘They fill flak jackets with kapok in that building there, make camouflage netting in there and barrage balloons over there,' said Ivy. ‘That's the tool factory where Ruby and her mum work, and behind that there's the really big factory wot makes parts for planes.'

They came to a long, single-storey building where the sound of a wireless programme blared out above the cacophony of loud chatter. Ivy continued, ‘That's the canteen, and beside it are the washrooms and lavs. We have two ten-minute breaks for tea during each shift, and an hour for a main meal. You'll know when it's time cos a bloody great 'ooter blasts off and it's a stampede fer the door.'

‘Too blooming right,' said Mabel as Ivy's friends joined them outside the canteen. ‘It's a relief to get out in the fresh air to have a fag after being cooped up with a load of flaming explosives and cordite, I can tell you.'

‘That's where the ammunition factory is.' Freda pointed towards the roof of a distant building. ‘They keep us well away from everyone in case we blow up.'

They all giggled and linked arms. ‘Best of luck, Mary,' said Gladys. ‘See you at lunch as we're all on the same shift.'

‘We'd better get a move on or we'll both be late,' muttered Ivy. ‘You're over there,' she told Mary as she pointed to a large corrugated shed with heavy doors that were tightly closed. ‘You go in that small door at the side, see? They 'ave to keep the place clean cos of all the expensive machinery they've got in there, which is why the big doors are always shut except during an emergency.'

Mary's mouth went dry and there was a flutter of panic in her stomach. ‘Do I just walk in? Who do I tell that I've arrived? How do I find my way around?'

Ivy put her arm about her waist and gave her a grin. ‘Lawks, yer really are green, ain't yer, gel? Come on, I'll go with yer and make sure yer don't get lost.'

Mary was very grateful, but it didn't make her any less nervous as Ivy opened the door and they stepped inside to find their way barred by a second door and an officious-looking woman in army uniform.

‘This is as far as I can go, gel,' said Ivy as she squeezed Mary's hand. ‘Good luck.'

‘Identification,' boomed the woman as she held out her hand.

Mary fumbled her identification card and letter from her coat pocket and dropped both on to the concrete floor. She heard the woman tut and sigh and she scrabbled about in embarrassment until, red-faced, she finally handed the paperwork over.

Her papers were closely scrutinised and given back. ‘I am Sergeant Norris,' the woman said briskly. ‘You will always address me as Sergeant. Follow me.' She turned on her heel as if on a parade ground, marched to the second door and opened it.

Mary gazed at the grey paint on the iron walls and concrete floor and the strings of lamps that hung from the raftered ceiling. It was a huge, cool, clean space that hummed with the sound of machinery. A wireless was playing softly in the background as line upon line of silent women sat at long trestle tables sorting through stacks of rustling paper slips. On the far side of this vast place stood several very large machines.

‘Pay attention, Jones. I don't have time to say everything twice.'

‘Yes, Sergeant.' Mary almost stood to attention as she listened carefully and learned how to clock in at the beginning of every shift, and then clock out again at the end. Then she followed the doughty figure of her guide as each process was explained.

‘We deal only with the outgoing airgraphs here,' the sergeant said as she reached the first table, where women in white coats were handling what seemed to be endless slips of paper. ‘Incoming mail goes straight to Kodak's factory in Wealdstone. These women are sorting the airgraphs according to the service or theatre of war of the recipient.'

She went to stand by the table, her gimlet eyes watching every movement, and Mary noticed that none of the women dared look up or falter in their work. She was clearly very much in charge and ran the place with frightening efficiency.

‘The airgraphs from naturalised British citizens, or nationals from enemy countries, have to be marked accordingly by the sender. These are also sorted here and put to one side so they can be thoroughly scrutinised by the censors.'

The sergeant marched on deeper into the factory. ‘Everything has to go through the censors for each of the services. When they are passed, they will then be numbered and stamped.' She looked proudly at yet another long table where around twenty women of all ages were stamping the airgraphs, their speed so fast it made Mary blink with admiration.

‘Yes, there's no machine to compare with the swift right arm and the deft left finger and thumb of a woman worker,' declared the sergeant with a satisfied nod. She turned away and Mary meekly followed.

They came to an enormous piece of machinery where a girl in a white coat sat at what looked like a flat desk with a slit in the top. ‘You will see that each airgraph is held inside the slot for a matter of only seconds. This activates the camera beneath the desk, and the image is photographed in miniature on the 16-millimetre film which is 100 feet long. When it arrives at its destination, it will be enlarged to approximately a third of its original size and printed on to sensitised paper. Then it is placed in a brown window envelope and delivered to the recipient.'

She moved to where the endless strip of film was slowly being wound into a tin canister. ‘A film such as this will carry the reduced images of 1,700 airgraphs and weigh five and a half ounces. That number of letters would weigh 50 lb. This is vital to the war effort, for it takes up less space in our aircraft and ships, and the lighter weight means more vital, heavier equipment can be transported in its stead.'

‘That all sounds marvellous,' said Mary. ‘But what happens if the films get lost because of enemy attack?'

The woman stiffened as if she'd been insulted. ‘That has happened only once, and the delay in getting the mail to our boys was minimal because we always make two copies of each airgraph. When the flying boat
Clare
was sunk back in September '41, it was carrying mail from India, East and South Africa. Upon confirmation of that loss, the countries of origin were quickly contacted by telegraph and the duplicates of the lost films were received in London on the 15th of October. They were processed and delivered to the recipients within three days.'

‘Goodness,' breathed Mary in admiration.

‘Indeed,' she replied smugly. ‘Now we've wasted enough time with chit-chat. You will begin at the sorting tables under the supervision of Cartwright. There is to be no talking, no eating or drinking – and absolutely no smoking. Is that understood?'

‘Yes, Sergeant.'

Mary was handed a long brown duster coat that buttoned down the front before being led back to the first line of tables. ‘Wear that at all times when you are on duty,' she was told. ‘This is Cartwright, and that is your seat. You are not to leave it unless there is a raid or an emergency – or it's time for your break.'

‘Whew,' breathed Mary as she sat down next to a tall willowy girl with grey eyes and wisps of fair hair drifting from beneath her headscarf. ‘Is she always like that?'

‘Yes, unfortunately,' the girl said without moving her lips as she continued to sort through the airgraphs. ‘The name's Jenny, by the way.'

‘I'm Mary.'

‘Get stuck in and work as quickly as you can. The old girl has eyes everywhere.'

Mary looked at the piles of airgraphs in front of her, worked out what went where and made a start. It was easy, monotonous work, but the thought of all those men receiving letters from their loved ones kept her going until the hooter went at ten.

The factory erupted with noise as chairs were pushed back and the chattering began to coincide with the tramp of feet hurrying towards the door. Mary rose from her chair, eased her stiff neck and shoulders and followed Jenny out of the building. The time had flown past, and, thirsty from the dry atmosphere, she was looking forward to a cup of refreshing tea.

Having left Stan at the allotment the previous afternoon, Ron had rather reluctantly gone to the hospital to see the girl he'd rescued and her baby, to satisfy himself that neither of them had suffered any permanent injuries. Her mother had been sitting by the bed, and she'd flung her arms round him and sobbed wetly against his neck, which had been horribly embarrassing. To make things worse the girl, who was feeding the baby, had burst into tears too, and the other women on the ward started making a fuss of him and Harvey.

Harvey had got carried away by all this attention, and had tried to climb on the bed so he could inspect the baby. Matron's sudden appearance had them beating a hasty retreat to the Anchor where Rosie had cooked him a lovely tea of sausage, onions and mashed potato, which he'd washed down with a couple of pints of nice warm bitter.

Harvey had done all right too, for he'd also had sausage mixed with special biscuit, which he ate from a bowl next to Monty's. Both he and Ron had stayed late after the pub was shut, so that they could all enjoy their last private evening together before Tommy turned up the following day.

Now it was morning, and Ron had gone out early to walk the two dogs up in the hills and try to get some rabbits for the pot. He'd returned Monty to the Anchor and had sat down to a delicious filling breakfast before he helped to change the barrels and bring up the crates from the cellar. There were a couple of repair jobs to do, and after he'd boarded over parts of the cellar ceiling to stop any more plaster falling off, he'd dithered about upstairs, reluctant to go home.

‘You're getting under my feet,' said Rosie rather crossly as she tried to hoover the carpet and get the spare bedroom ready for her brother.

‘Well, that's nice,' he rumbled. ‘I walk your dog and mend your ceiling, and now I'm being a nuisance.'

Rosie sighed and gave him a hug. ‘Sorry, Ron. I didn't mean to be sharp with you, but I'm feeling a bit anxious.'

‘When's Tommy due to arrive?'

She shrugged. ‘He didn't say in his letter, just that he was being released today.'

Ron gathered her into his arms and gave her a kiss. ‘To be sure, I love the bones of you, Rosie, and I hate the thought of him here.'