A Step Too Far (7 page)

     Her son and her father. Miriam swallowed the tears.

     . . . They were her life now, she must live for them.

     ‘Leave the dishes mum, I’ll do them when I’ve finished my homework.’

     ‘Thanks luv,’ Miriam answered her son, ‘they are done, but you could see to washing granddad’s plate once he’s eaten.’

     ‘We do that together.’

     Those deep blue eyes, Tom’s eyes! Miriam’s throat thickened as she met the boy’s smile and she had to force her reply. ‘Granddad washing dishes? That I would have to see.’

     ‘We do a lot of things together.’ Reuben’s smile widened to a grin. ‘He also tells me a lot about when you were young, about the tricks you got up to.’

     ‘Tricks?’ Mock effrontery drawing her mouth into a line, Miriam draped the drying cloth over the line strung above the kitchen stove. ‘I’ll need to have a word with your grandfather!’

     ‘Best make it tomorrow mum, it’s twenty minutes to six, you will be late for work if you don’t leave now.’

     Night shifts were the hardest of all for any of the mothers working to help the war effort. Being parted from family during an air raid took every ounce of will-power not to run from the place of work and dash home. Yet hundreds of mothers held in their fears and worked on.

     Having hugged her son, leaving him with yet another instruction about going into the garden shelter should the warning siren sound, Miriam ran along the street, her heart pounding when she saw the bus already at the bus stop. It wasn’t so much the thought of being quartered, though losing money was far from unimportant in the Carson household, it was thinking how many shells remained unmade by folk coming late into work had her run the faster.

     ‘Seen you comin’, wench.’

     Putting a steadying hand to Miriam’s elbow as she skipped onto the platform, the conductor smiled and rang the bell for the vehicle to resume its journey.

     ‘Can’t ’ave you locked out can we? That would serve to mek the little Führer ’appy and that be the last thing me and Sam there would want to be a doin’.’

     ‘Tell Sam I’m very grateful.’ Breathy from her run Miriam’s answer brought another smile, the elderly conductor nodding as he issued the twopenny ticket.

     ‘Sam be sensible, he don’t go pullin’ away when he can see there be a body racing along a gettin’ of the bus; and what matter be a few seconds set alongside what you women be doin’? It be you keeps our fighting forces supplied with what be needed to put the little Führer in his place; be sure the country won’t never forget the efforts you all be mekin’.’

     As the coins dropped into the leather bag slung from the conductor’s waist, Miriam turned her gaze to the window. Beyond, the world seemed to lie in darkness, no shop showing a glimmer of light, no street lamp casting a pool of gold on the satin blackness; only a dark emptiness echoing the emptiness of her heart.

     Efforts! Miriam caught her lip between her teeth. Women had worked alongside men since time began. It was not their efforts brought them heartache, it was the sacrifice . . . the losing forever of their loved ones, that was the burden could never be lifted from their hearts, the shadow which would never pass entirely from their soul. She had made that sacrifice once, please God she would never be called upon to do the like again.

She had the necessary papers. Alice sprinted the last few yards to the factory gates. That clerk along of the labour office had been very helpful explaining all that was needed to do.

     Calling a quick ‘tell you later’ in reply to Becky’s enquiring glance she hurriedly switched on her machine as the vigilant eye of the foreman settled on her. As she watched the silver ribbon of steel curve away in a spiral, Alice’s lips drew together in a wry line. That woman had explained what it was she must do in order to join the Women’s Services, but
getting
it done was something else again. It wasn’t going to be easy; in fact, getting her mother to agree to allow her to leave home would be no less than fighting another war. But she would fight it!

     Alice gave free rein to her imagination. She could run away from home . . . no, that wouldn’t do, for she still would have no parental consent on the document nestling in her coat pocket. So it must be the way she had planned earlier, a withdrawal of labour. She would simply refuse to do any of her chores: Alice Butler would go on strike.

     ‘Strike!’ Becky had giggled while listening to her friend relate her lunch time visit to the Labour Exchange Office but now hearing the conclusion Alice had determined earlier, the laughter faded.

     ‘Strike!’ she repeated, ‘you can’t do that, you can’t leave your mother to do all that extra housework herself.’

     That was exactly the thoughts her mother would have. Alice’s smile died. Her mother would not be beaten that way, she would simply set Mary to do the tasks she refused. Alice caught her lip on the guilt. Although not quite fourteen, Mary it would be and not one of their brothers. Though older and stronger they would not be called upon to lift a finger in the house; ‘men went out to work, they earned the bread, they could not be expected to do a woman’s work.’ So what the hell was
she
doing? Alice felt chagrin rise hot in her throat. What was she and thousands like her doing if not a man’s work? Wasn’t she in a factory day or night as shifts called for? Didn’t she stand as many hours, produce as many bolts as any man? Yes she bloody did, and still she was expected to do half the household chores when she got home.

     ‘If you refuse to help out at home might your mum refuse to give you pocket money?’

     There was no ‘might’ about it. Alice recognised the flaw in her plan. Half a crown was nothing compared to the pocket money Kate Hawley got but it was the one means Alice had of expressing herself, the one and only way of deciding for herself the things she could have; the very occasional pair of silk stockings, the even rarer bottle of perfume, the lipstick, all of the treats her mother decreed as being ‘frippery, a waste of good money’. Well, self expression she could live without until she came of age, after that her mother would have no hold over her. But in the meantime Mary would carry the burden she laid down. It was wrong to do that to her sister. Guilt flickered again in Alice.

     Having led the way from the factory, blowing a cheeky kiss to the elderly gatekeeper as they passed, Becky resumed her cautionary advice.

     ‘You should think a bit longer about what to do,’ she said joining the interminable bus queue, ‘I mean, even given the money we are allowed to keep we can’t buy all the things we would like, but not having anything, that’ll be awful!’

     ‘It won’t be pleasant.’ Alice felt in her pocket for the return bus ticket she had bought that morning.

     ‘Then don’t do it, the factory isn’t that bad.’

‘
The factory isn’t that bad!
’

     Lying in the bed she shared with Mary, Becky’s words rang in Alice’s mind.

     ‘. . .
isn’t that bad
.’

     She sucked in a long hard breath. The constant noise of machinery, the stink of slurry, that mixture of oil and water which clung to the air, which tasted on the tongue, seeped into every pore of the skin ’til it felt you were wrapped in a foul smelling shroud . . . that wasn’t bad? Maybe not for Becky, but there was better for Alice Butler and she had to try for it.

     The Women’s Land Army. Memory flipped her back to the Labour Exchange Office. The woman she had spoken to there had said that division of the Voluntary Services was crying out for girls to join, maybe they wouldn’t bother about parental consent. But the Land Army, that had been rejected even as it had been mooted and Alice rejected it again. Shovelling animal muck and grubbing in fields, where was the glamour in that? The ATS, the Auxiliary Training Service? Better than the Land Army but not so appealing as the WRNS or the WAAF, those uniforms were very fetching, she would look good in either.

     But there would be all that yes ma’am, no ma’am business, all that being ordered left, right and centre for two shillings a day all found. Two bob a day! That amounted to almost six times what her mother allowed her and she could keep the whole lot to her herself! Fourteen shillings . . . and all hers. It was a heady thought. So much money and a uniform so sexy it had the head spin.

     Money! Alice’s half-closed eyes jerked wide. There was her answer, the solution to her dilemma. If she sent home, say, ten shillings every week, ten shillings not a penny of which would have to be spent on her keep, that might have her mother sign on the dotted line. Yes, her mother would go for that! Relief bringing a smile, Alice returned to her fantasy. Which should she go for, the WAAF or the WRNS? Light blue or dark blue, both uniforms were mouth watering but . . . eyes closing in sleep, her smile became one of pure content. Navy blue trimmed with gold braid, the Women’s Royal Naval Service, that was the service she would join.

Dare she? Violet Hawley looked at the carefully folded lavender silk scarf lying in a drawer of her dressing table. Five pounds she had paid, five pounds for what Jim Slater had said was a bargain. But how much of a bargain if she could not use what she had bought?

     As he stood on her doorstep, Jim Slater’s small wide apart eyes had flicked along the street with the quick nervous motion of an animal under constant threat of being hunted.

     ‘. . .
this be more than a bag of sugar or half a pound of tea but you ’ave to make your mind up now
. . .’

     More than tea or sugar . . . then what? She had stared uncomprehendingly. He carried no bag, no newspaper-wrapped parcel, so what could he be offering?

     ‘. . .
I ain’t standin’ here all day
  . . .
either you be interested or you don’t. If you are then I steps inside, if you says no then I’ll be away, but this I’ll tell for free, you won’t go gettin’ another chance like I be offerin’ now, not in a long while you won’t
.’

     She had asked him in!

     Violet stared at the scarf but saw only a pair of small eyes glinting back at her.

     ‘
This’ll make a big improvement to your life
.’

     He had reached into an inner pocket of his too flashy coat, bringing out an ordinary brown envelope.

     ‘. . .
what I ’ave in this packet can act like magic, certainly it can make your life much easier
  . . .’

     He had handed the envelope to her urging her to look at the contents.

     ‘. . .
Didn’t I say life could be easier?
’

     Already thin lips had narrowed to a vulpine smile, sharp eyes never leaving her face.

     ‘
Think of it
,’ he had urged again, ‘
think of the benefits that can bring, I ain’t sayin’ it will ’ave life the same as it were a few years back but with what you holds in your hand it can certainly be a lot more comfortable, and at five pounds I reckon that to be a bargain you can’t pass up
.’

     She had not passed it up.

     Lifting the scarf from the drawer, Violet placed it on the table top then peeled back the layers of soft lavender to reveal the slim buff coloured books, bold black lettering stating their purpose, the vacant space waiting for names to be added.

     ‘Ration Book.’

     The words had seemed to spring at her.

     Double everything . . . with these she could have twice the amount of food allowed now. Eight ounces of meat in place of four would mean a meat meal more than once a week, the same of bacon; a double ration of tea, sugar, butter, milk and even eggs which ever stricter rationing had reduced from one a week to one each fortnight, she would have two in place of one! She could have more of them all, all of the basics she missed so much.

     ‘
Well if you don’t want them
  . . .’

     It had taken no more than a moment for the ultimatum to sink in, no more than his outstretched hand for her to say yes . . . yes to buying something she had not dared bring into the light of day.

6

Harriet Simpson would not be returning to work.

     Katrin’s murmurs of sympathy hid the cream of satisfaction. Harriet’s badly broken hip would be months in the mending and, given the stairs leading to the offices . . . she could not return to the office for quite some time.

     ‘You worked with her for a while.’ Arthur Whitman looked at the young woman seated on the other side of his desk.

     ‘Almost four years, I joined the firm on leaving school. Miss Simpson thought I would be best placed working alongside her rather than in the general office.’

     ‘Harriet had a good eye, she could be trusted to spot a worthy trainee.’

     Maybe, but not good enough to spot a foot being thrust in front of her own.

     ‘Miss Simpson was very kind, she took time and patience in teaching me the way of management in the office.’ The quiet voice was touched with the right degree of regret, the calm eyes revealed nothing of the jubilation running in her veins. Katrin rested her glance on hands placed demurely in her lap.