Was this what she should ask forgiveness for?
Was this what life demanded . . . forgiveness for being in love?
‘Hello luv, ’ow you keepin’? Eh I was so sorry to hear of your mother, bad do were that, it be sad enough when folk goes natural but a bomb . . . an’ on a church! Lord, what do the world be a’ comin’ to!’
It had taken a moment for her mother’s voice to penetrate the cloak of thought Becky had drawn about herself. As she looked to the person addressed, alarm flashed like electricity sparking from every nerve ending; Kate Hawley! She caught her breath. Oh Lord! Don’t let her mention those Saturday evenings.
‘It be ’ard for you, wench, I knows ’cos I’ve bin through it, seems your ’eart won’t never know the mendin’ . . . but God’s good, though we might not always think it . . .’
Let Him be good to me, please let Him be good to me. Becky’s soundless prayer added fervour to the statement.
‘. . . He sends His comfort one road or another. But what o’ your father? Eh ’ow he must miss ’er . . .’
A shake of the head emphasising her feelings for the loss father and daughter had suffered, the older woman continued.
‘. . . he ’as my sympathy, tell ’im that, wench, tell your father he ’as the sympathy o’ the Turners.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Turner,’ Katrin replied politely. ‘That is most kind, I know my father would wish me to thank you on his behalf also.’
‘Ar well,’ Mary Turner’s head swung again, ‘ain’t much a body can do ’cept sympathise but you tell that father o’ your’n, you tell Jacob ’Awley be there aught the Turners can ’elp with then it need only be asked.’
They could move on now. Her mother had given her condolence now she would say goodbye.
Becky met Katrin’s glance in mute appeal.
She was afraid! Deep inside, Katrin Hawley laughed. Becky Turner was afraid her secret would be revealed for her mother to see. Should she do that? Should she take her revenge now, see the girl shamed before her mother? It would be entertaining to see her squirm. But it would be a pity to bring the curtain down before the play ended, and going by the accounts both girls shared with her after each Saturday night entertainment, the confidences concerning those covert moments they whispered in the factory canteen, then it was certain this particular production had not run its length; there would be several Acts yet to come. Katrin basked in the sense of power coursing like flame. Several Acts! She would watch them all.
‘What be all the to-do over your way? I ’ear the police moved everybody outta their ’ouses.’ As she sat with several women enjoying the ten-minute teabreak, Miriam Carson’s nerves jumped at the query. So it had happened!
‘You ’eard right,’ a second woman replied. ‘Wouldn’t tek no for an answer; bloody thoughtless I calls it turfin’ folk out, not givin’ ’em a minute to collect so much as a pair ’o bloomers.’
Easing her bottom on a hard wooden crate that served as a seat, one more woman joined the conversation, asking loudly, ‘An’ why would you be wantin’ of a clean pair o’ bloomers, Elsie Partridge, be it a fella you was meetin’?’
‘Ask him!’ Elsie laughed, ‘Ask Simeon Cartwright about my bloomers, he’s had the seein’ of ’em near as often as my old man.’
‘Be that right, Simeon?’
‘Be what right?’ Simeon Cartwright’s lined face lifted over the rim of the large container half filled with cartridge cases.
‘What Elsie ’ere just said.’
‘An’ what be that?’ Obviously knowing he was to be the subject of some good natured tease, Simeon played along.
Coyly lowering her gaze to the tin mug in her hands the woman continued the pretence. ‘Elsie says as how you gets to see her bloomers near as often as her old man.’
‘Eh Elsie!’ The lined face frowned mock distress though rheumy eyes twinkled. ‘You said as nobody’d ever know, you said as ’ow it were our secret, what’ll I do should my Sarah find out?’
‘You can come stay wi’ me.’ It was the woman who had first questioned Elsie. ‘I could do wi’ a few nights of ’ows ya father, tek me mind off this bloody war.’
‘Careful, Maude,’ Elsie’s turbaned head shook warningly, ‘there be a lot more to Simeon Cartwright than you be seein’ at this moment.’
‘That’s what I be countin’ on.’ Maude’s laugh rang out. ‘Seein’ a lot more. You be ready forra night o’ passion, does you, Simeon?’
Pushing flat cap back from his brow Simeon scratched thoughtfully at his head. ‘Passion?’ He pulled a wry grin.
‘Yeah passion, I wouldn’t ’ave thought a fella like y’self to go a’ forgettin’ o’ what passion be.’
‘Forget! I’ve not only forgot what it be, I forgets ’ow I comes to get it.’
‘Well, I can put that right quick as I can mek one o’ them bullet cases, you just come outside wi’ me along o’ finishing time.’
‘I’ll do that Maude,’ Simeon’s wicked smile spread wide, ‘but only if I gets to bring Elsie’s bloomers.’
Glancing conspiratorially about the workshop Simeon leaned closer, whispering, ‘Passes ’em to me every time her comes into work, they be vital to defence. Old Hitler knows about our guns, our ships an’ about our aeroplanes but he don’t know about Elsie Partridge’s bloomers; they be our secret weapon; should them Germans invade then we waves Elsie’s bloomers an’ they’ll run like buggery all the way back to Berlin.’
The old man’s chuckle echoed behind him as he shuffled further along the line of machinery. The conversation returned to its starting point.
Pouring more tea into the cap of her large vacuum flask Elsie sipped several times before speaking. ‘I was wonderin’ the same meself, I means it be expected you come out when them bombers calls a payin’ o’ their respects, but when they ain’t . . . well it ’ad me fair flummoxed I don’t mind tellin’ you.’
‘But they must ’ave said a reason,’ Maude chipped in.
‘Oh they said all right. They said as ’ow it were a fractured gas main, that they couldn’t be tekin’ a chance on its explodin’, though I never smelled no gas and neither did anybody else shoved along to wait in the church hall or in them school rooms; you ask me I says it be a load o’ codswallop, there ain’t no broken gas pipe.’
‘Well they must ’ave believed summat!’
‘Ar they believed!’ Elsie answered disparagingly. ‘They believed as we all ’ave brains like coddled eggs, soft enough to swallow what they tells wi’out the thinkin’, but Elsie Partridge be no noggy’ead, her be sharp enough to know that lot all be bigger liars than old leatherin’ arse an’ he got kicked out o’ hell for tellin’ lies.’
‘Well it be no lie my sayin’ you lot will be short in the pay packet if you don’t get them machines goin’.’
Casting a calculating wink at her companions, Elsie turned to the man come to stand beside them. ‘Eh Fred, you looks done in; why don’t you find a corner down the end o’ the shop an’ ’ave y’self a quiet hour?’
Well used to banter, the foreman smiled good humouredly. ‘I would Elsie, but I knows how much you wenches would miss me.’
‘Oh Lord!’ Maude groaned, ‘’ere we go again!’ Rising as one the group of women looked to the roof, as the blare of sirens sounded an air raid.
She could have told them. Miriam returned to her work, ignoring the alarm as did all of the others. She could have said what Philip Conroy had told herself and her father.
‘
We will say the constant vibration of bombs hitting the ground may have resulted in an underground gas pipe becoming cracked; that in the interest of safety the area has to be vacated until it can be dealt with
.’
Until it could be dealt with! Miriam worked the spinning bar of brass with uncomprehending mind. When would that be? When would this be over? When could she be sure her son was safe from . . . ?
Safe! Hands becoming still, she stared at the rapidly turning bar, seeing nothing of the golden darts glancing from beneath the play of overhead electric lights. Reuben
could
be safe now, she could forbid him to go through with what Philip Conroy asked, it wasn’t too late.
‘Be you all right, Miriam, wench? You looks like you seen a ghost.’
‘I . . .’ Miriam tried to answer but tears were suddenly in the way.
Reaching for the stop button, the foreman cut the power to the machine then gently drew Miriam aside.
‘Get y’self a few minutes.’ He lowered her to sit on an upturned box. ‘Don’t do no good tryin’ to carry on while you be feelin’ poorly, accidents won’t ’elp win no war.’
‘Her needs to be at ’ome.’ Elsie Partridge observed over her own machine. ‘The wench be near to breakin’, any but the blind can see that; what wi’ losin’ ’er man to this bloody war then seein’ ’er father bein’ sacked from Prodor for what be no reason, it be a marvel ’er ain’t broke afore now: you teks my advice, Fred, you’ll send ’er ’ome, ain’t like her will be mekin’ many more cartridge cases afore knockin’ off time anyway, not wi’ the state ’er be in.’
Glancing toward the large wall-mounted clock, the foreman thought quickly. Less than an hour to shift change, he could work the machine until the next woman clocked on, that way there would be no loss of production.
‘Reckon Elsie be right.’ He returned his glance to Miriam. ‘You get along ’ome and rest.’
‘But I can’t leave before the end of my shift!’
‘You let me worry about that.’ The foreman smiled at the protest. ‘There’ll be no shortfall in the number o’ cases, you ’ave my word. Now will you be all right on your own or does you want I get somebody from First Aid to go along of you?’
She had not wanted any person to walk home with her.
Tying a cotton paisley-patterned scarf beneath her chin, Miriam glanced along the street. Houses she had known from childhood, tiny, smoke-caked homes huddled together in friendship as in structure, now watched like strangers beneath the dank grey sky.
‘
You get along ’ome and rest
.’
But it was not home she wanted, nor was it rest; she wanted her son safe in her arms. That was how it was going to be! Miriam’s mouth set in a determined line . . . and not all the Philip Conroys in the world would prevent it.
Resolution marking her steps, Miriam turned swiftly from the Alma Tube Works toward the High Bullen, where she paused, looking at the clock tower of the ancient soot-blackened spire of Saint Bartholomew’s Church. Its clock showed ten minutes to four o’ clock. Forty more minutes and the schools would empty for the day. Should she wait? Miriam hesitated. Had she let worry get the best of her? Hadn’t Philip Conroy promised he would let no harm befall her son? But that man could not be with Reuben every minute of the day, he was not with him now, so what good was that promise! Argument ebbing and flowing, reason countered by reason running through her mind, Miriam mumbled an apology to a drab, harassed-looking woman attempting to steer a deep bodied pram around her. She brought it to an irate halt in front of the low window of a small shop, tutting loudly about ‘life bein’ ’ard enough what wi’ shops empty o’ anythin’ wi’out ’aving to work your way about folk who ’ave naught better to do that stand a’ gawpin’!’
Miriam struggled with the uncertainty growing in her mind.
Reuben had not hesitated, he had simply agreed to all Philip Conroy had requested . . . and she had allowed it!
She
. . . and no one else . . .
she
had sent Reuben into danger, for without her consent none of this could have taken place.
‘ . . . trust him Miriam, trust our son, let him do what has been asked of him.’
No, Tom! This time you are wrong! Resolution renewed she crossed the High Street turning left into Earp’s Lane following it to emerge into Church Street.
It was quiet after the sounds of the Bullen with its cross flow of traffic. Ahead of her, the stone church rose dark against the sky. It was normally quiet in this backwater but today the silence was strangely ominous. She shivered as she watched the man coming toward her.
19
Closing a file marked ‘Secret’, Philip Conroy leaned back in his chair. Tomorrow he would return to London, his report would go to the head of the department; but would that see the end? Would there ever be an end . . . ? He breathed a long breath of exhaustion. The answer to that question was, there was no answer, as long as man fought against man there would be infiltrators, those working against a country from the inside. ‘Bloody quislings’ as Isaac Eldon had spat angrily, but Godfrey Browne was no quisling.
It had been something of a miracle. There had been a report of maps displaying geographical locations of some town he had never heard of. He had felt little interest in the information passed to him – a young lad, coloured crayon on bits of paper, probably a school project, certainly not worth time following up. But of course bureaucracy demanded he give it a passing glance. He had thought that was all it would take, until he checked the name of the town. Wednesbury! Even now he felt tingles of alarm race along his spine. The town was small, insignificant on the map, but set where it was in the centre of the industrial Midlands, producing what it did, munitions vital to this country’s existence as a sovereign nation, then those maps had suddenly taken on a very different face, and with the face had come a body.