Authors: Pamela Evans
‘We weren’t all down there,’ Connie said, her voice breaking. ‘My grandad hates the shelter so he stays in the house when there’s a raid.’
‘Oh, so . . .?’
‘Grandad was . . . he was killed,’ said Connie, and dissolved into tears.
Losing the Pavilion didn’t seem nearly so bad suddenly, thought May as she comforted her friend. Material things could be replaced; people couldn’t.
‘I’ll have to get to work soon,’ said Connie when she had calmed down and had something to eat.
‘What! Even when you’ve been bombed out and lost your grandad?’ queried Flo.
‘Oh yes, production has to go on no matter what when you’re on war work. The country would grind to a halt if everyone who’s been bombed out stayed at home,’ she told them. ‘I had a bit of a wash at the rest centre, but my clothes are dusty and I’ve only got what I’m wearing. Everything inside the house has gone.’
‘I’ll fix you up with something to wear,’ May offered. ‘You and I are about the same size.’
‘They give extra clothing coupons to people who have been bombed out, I believe,’ Flo mentioned.
‘Yeah, the WVS woman at the rest centre said something about that,’ said Connie. ‘I’ll look into it when I get a chance.’
‘And I shall have to get off down to the Labour Exchange now that I don’t have a job,’ said May.
‘Mm, I suppose you will,’ agreed Connie. ‘It’s a real shame about the Pavilion.’
The other two women nodded, though compared to Connie, who had no home, no clothes and no grandfather, their loss seemed minimal.
‘They often need people where I work,’ Connie remarked thoughtfully.
‘I don’t know one end of a sewing machine from the other,’ said May.
‘You could learn,’ suggested Connie.
‘Sewing is one thing I really hate,’ said May. ‘I never have been any good at it.’
‘Personal taste isn’t a consideration,’ Connie reminded her. ‘We all have to do what we’re told for the war effort.’
‘I know,’ said May, feeling guilty for mentioning it. ‘I’ll see what they have to say at the Labour Exchange. But first I’ll find you something to wear.’
‘And I’ll make the bed up for you, Connie,’ added Flo. ‘You must look on the place as your home.’
Connie became tearful again, but this time it was caused by appreciation of their kindness.
‘So you’re twenty years old, have only ever done shop work and have a history of illness,’ said the man at the Labour Exchange when he finally found May’s details in a huge metal filing cabinet.
‘I’ve had TB, which left me with a crooked shoulder, but that’s no problem to me at all,’ she said, though her upper arm did occasionally ache. ‘Nothing else of a serious nature, so I don’t think that can be described as a history of illness.’
‘It means you’re not suitable for work in a munitions factory, though,’ said the man, who had greased hair parted in the middle and spectacles.
‘What about the Websters parachute factory at Acton?’ she suggested bravely. ‘They often want people there, so I’ve heard. My friend works there and she’s had TB.’
‘Handy with a sewing machine, are you?’
‘No.’
‘You won’t be much use to them then, will you?’ he said.
‘I could learn.’
‘They are not looking for trainees at the moment,’ he informed her. ‘They wouldn’t be prepared to teach you.’
That was actually a huge relief, because May knew her limitations when it came to sewing. ‘I would like to do some sort of war work,’ she said.
He looked at her over his spectacles. ‘I’d like to do a lot of things but I’m stuck with this job,’ he said.
‘I just meant that I’d like to do something useful,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind what it is.’
‘Most jobs are useful in wartime, miss; we all have our part to play, even me.’
‘Besides which, I need to earn some money, as my income was another casualty of war.’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, flicking through some cards in a box file and pulling one out. ‘Mm, there is something here that might suit you. As a matter of fact it’s at the parachute factory that you mentioned, but in the office.’
‘Oh Lor,’ said May worriedly. ‘I don’t know anything about clerical work.’
He gave her a withering look that indicated that he thought she must be devoid of any useful assets before turning his attention back to the card. ‘It’s only routine office work; no shorthand or typing needed. Nothing too strenuous for someone with your health problems.’
‘I don’t have health problems,’ she told him again.
He sighed dismissively. ‘So you say.’
‘I’m in excellent shape actually,’ she persisted.
‘Mm.’ He clearly wasn’t interested. ‘Anyway, if you are found suitable you’ll be taught how to do the work.’ He picked up the phone and dialled, then told someone at the other end that he had a possible candidate for the office vacancy. ‘They will see you at two o’clock this afternoon,’ he said to May when he’d finished speaking on the phone. He wrote something down on an official-looking card. ‘Take this along with you to the interview. The address and the name of the person you need to see are on here.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Good day to you,’ he said, and even before she had got up he called out, ‘Next please.’
How suddenly your life can change so completely, thought May, as she headed home. This time yesterday she had been safely installed behind the counter of the Pavilion. Now that no longer existed and she was heading off to pastures new. Oh well, it will be a challenge, she thought, determinedly optimistic despite the fact that any form of office work was a foreign country to her.
‘So, Miss Stubbs, as you will have been told at your interview, you will be doing routine office work here at Websters. Your job will involve filing and operating the switchboard,’ said the head of the department, Miss Palmer, a stout middle-aged woman with chaotic grey hair, sagging breasts and a scrubbed-clean complexion. ‘A good telephone manner is essential for every caller and the filing must be kept up to date in the cabinets next to your desk. It mustn’t be allowed to build up; we keep a tidy office here and everything has to be filed away so that it can be found quickly if necessary.’
Dressed in the sombre clothes she used to wear for work at the department store, May stared in bewilderment at the contraption in the corner of the large office, a board impregnated with holes in which a tangle of wires were plugged. A woman in headphones – who was apparently filling in until May took over – was manipulating the wires and saying in an affected voice things like ‘Good morning, Websters’ and ‘Putting you through’ and ‘The line is engaged at the moment, would you like to hold?’
‘Don’t look so worried, my dear,’ said Miss Palmer, who seemed friendly enough if a little stern. ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it.’
May wasn’t so sure. It looked very complicated indeed to her.
‘Phew, what a morning. I’ll probably be sacked by the time we knock off tonight,’ May confided to Connie in their dinner break in the canteen. They were encouraged to use it because it helped with the rationing at home. ‘I’m hopeless on the switchboard. I’ve been pulling out the wrong plugs and cutting people off in mid conversation as well as connecting callers incorrectly. And how I’m supposed to find time for the filing I’ve no idea, as the switchboard never seems to stop.’
‘Everything will slot into place once you get used to the job, I expect,’ encouraged Connie.
‘I flippin’ well hope so. I really am like a fish out of water at the moment,’ she said. ‘I’ve never done this sort of work before.’
‘It does sound rather complicated, I must say,’ admitted Connie. ‘I’m glad I’m in the factory. At least I know what I’m doing.’
‘I’d be even worse in there, as I’m hopeless at sewing,’ said May. ‘That’s what comes of working in the family business. You get used to not having anyone standing over you and telling you what to do. It’s too comfortable and you lose confidence so far as other work is concerned.’
‘Mm,’ said Connie, finishing off some sort of wartime shepherd’s pie made with lumpy mashed potato mixed with swede. ‘Before the war, office girls used to be quite snooty. But all of that has changed now that people from all classes are doing their bit. We’ve got a couple of really posh women working with us. They’re all right once you get to know them.’
May became overwhelmed with a sudden feeling resembling homesickness, a kind of dull ache in the pit of her stomach which made her eyes burn.
‘What’s up?’ asked Connie, noticing.
‘I know that there are lots of people worse off than I am; you, for instance, have lost your home and your grandad,’ she said, tears meandering down her cheeks. ‘But I feel so alone, Connie, in an environment I’m not used to. I know this will sound really pathetic, but I think I’m homesick for the Pavilion. It was more a way of life than a job.’
‘We are still allowed to feel sorry for ourselves about small things, you know,’ said Connie. ‘We aren’t expected to keep a stiff upper lip about everything just because there’s a war on and awful things are happening. Anyway, you’ve had your share of losses. Your best friend, your fiancé. And you were probably too busy putting on a brave face to grieve properly back then.’
May thought there was something in that. She had never let her true feelings show about either of those traumas, maybe because she hadn’t wanted people to worry about her. Or it could just have been that her illness had left her with a hatred of pity.
She blew her nose. ‘Thanks for being such a pal,’ she said. ‘Maybe things will fall into place this afternoon.’
‘That’s more like the May I know,’ said Connie.
By the end of the afternoon May was beginning to feel slightly less bewildered, and by the evening her spirit had returned full blast.
‘I actually managed to put some calls through properly and didn’t cut anyone off this afternoon,’ she told her mother.
‘Well done, love,’ said Flo heartily. ‘I’ve got some news of my own, actually.’
Both May and Connie waited expectantly.
‘Two bits of news actually,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a part-time job on the counter in the Co-op, and I’ve managed to transfer our newsagent’s licence from the Pavilion to home.’
‘Well done, Mum,’ said May. ‘So we’ll still be taking it in turns to get up with the lark to do the papers.’
‘I can do it every day as I’m only working part-time hours if you like,’ offered Flo.
‘Not on your life,’ May responded. ‘You run the house as well as having a job outside, so you need your rest on some mornings at least. Turns each is fair.’
‘If you insist, then thank you, dear,’ said Flo gratefully. ‘I think I’ll start looking out for some paper boys to do the rounds again soon as I’ll be earning, so at least we won’t have to trail round the streets of a morning.’
‘I’m all for that,’ approved May.
The night the Pavilion was bombed – a night that caused death and destruction all over London – marked the end of the air raids for the time being, much to the relief of the population at large. No one knew for how long the respite would last, but everyone enjoyed sleeping in their own beds again.
The shortages worsened, though, with clothes going on to ration in June.
‘White weddings will soon be a thing of the past, I reckon,’ remarked Flo one evening after the latest restrictions had been announced on the wireless. ‘Something like a traditional wedding dress would take far too many coupons. People are committed to the war effort so it would be considered too extravagant.’
‘People will borrow their frocks, I expect,’ suggested May. ‘Women will always want to dress up on their wedding day.’
‘Parachute silk makes up into lovely bridal wear,’ Connie remarked. ‘But it’s all used for military purposes. The only way you can get hold of any, apart from paying a fortune on the black market, is if you spot a parachute mine the day after a raid. Finders keepers with that.’
‘It makes nice petticoats too, so I’ve heard,’ said Flo.
‘Do they let you have any offcuts, Connie?’ May enquired.
‘Not on your life, and if one of the girls tries to take so much as a scrap out of the factory, there’s hell to pay,’ she replied. ‘They keep a close eye on stealing. The temptation will be even greater now that clothes are on ration.’
There was an interruption from the man of the house. ‘If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’m going out to the garden to give my vegetable patch some attention,’ he said.
‘Too much women’s talk, eh?’ said Flo.
‘Not half. Three to one means I don’t stand a chance,’ he said in a jovial manner, adding quickly, ‘but we love having you here, Connie. You’re a real tonic for May.’
‘Thank you, Mr Stubbs,’ smiled Connie.
It was true what he said. May did enjoy having Connie around because it was company of her own age, and they often talked well into the night. Besides which, it was someone to go to the pictures with and not have to come home on your own in the blackout. Connie fitted in with the family as though born to it.
‘One thing the war has done for that husband of mine is to give him a serious interest in gardening,’ said Flo. ‘He’s done wonders with his vegetable patch.’
‘It’s more than a patch now, Mrs Stubbs,’ said Connie. ‘It’s the size of a lawn.’
Flo laughed. ‘It
was
the lawn until the government told us to grow our own.’
Both the the girls laughed, then they all started clearing up after the meal.
May had always wished she had a sister. Having Connie staying with them made her feel as though she had.
One positive element about fighting the war in the desert, thought George, was the fact that there were no civilians around to become accidentally involved. It was generally considered by the men to be a ‘clean war’.
Having been sent to the Middle East quite soon after he’d done his basic training, and served in several different areas involved in various campaigns, George was hardened to desert life and his comrades were almost like family. Among the men there was a great deal of affection and humour, interspersed with the odd conflict and show of bad temper.
In the cool of the evening the men played cards, smoked cigarettes and wrote and read letters. Letters from home were much treasured by all of the soldiers, and George’s mail had increased now that May wrote to him as well as his mother.