But what if he were not the one to leave?
What if he turned
her
from this house? If he disowned her as his wife?
The shame of that, the embarrassment of people talking, sniggering as she passed on the streets . . . how could she live with that?
Alice’s resentment flared fresh and bright as she bit into the slice of cold toast she must eat while still operating her machine: no ten minute break now the country was at war. Half a bloody crown pocket money! And that wouldn’t be long in her pocket, not with her mother going through them once she had left for work. Not that the hours away from the factory afforded much opportunity to spend her money, time was another thing snatched by her mother.
‘. . .
them there bedrooms wants a turnin’ out . . . the windows needs be cleaned . . . blacklead the grate
. . .’
Her mother’s non-stop instructions beat in Alice’s head, keeping rhythm with the slap of drive belts powering the many machines.
‘. . .
I don’t get the time to do it all . . . what with the cookin’ an’ the washin’ . . . it ain’t easy what with the little ’uns
. . .’
Always the same moans and excuses! Of course it were no easy job seeing to a family day in and day out, but then neither was her own job easy, certainly it was no less tiring, but try telling her mother that! She had never seen the inside of a factory, much less wrestled with a machine large enough to almost fill their living room. But she would not be wrestling with it for much longer. Alice fed the cutting tool into the revolving steel, slicing off one more gleaming silver bolt. She had made up her mind. Knowles Street was not so far away, she could run there during her dinner hour, enquire at the Labour Exchange Office on how to apply to join the Women’s Forces and be back here at the factory before the afternoon shift began.
There was only one flaw in her plan. It had been Becky had voiced it. ‘
A girl can apply to become a member of the Women’s Forces at eighteen years old, but eighteen don’t be twenty-one, you’ll need to show your birth certificate
.’
With the familiarity born of repetition, Alice’s hands seemed to work independently of her mind, which ranged over the conversation she had held with Becky on their way into work.
‘
That’ll be no trouble
,’ she had answered, ‘
all of them sort of papers be kept in a box in mother’s bedroom, I can take mine out next time I clean, she’ll never know it’s gone.
’
‘
I’ve no doubt you can get a hold of it, but you can’t go alterin’ the date, that’ll be breakin’ the law, you’ll get sent to gaol same as Freda.
’
Alice’s teeth clenched. She had not reckoned on having to produce a certificate. It was obvious she was fit enough for the forces, and wasn’t she already doing the work of a man? Lord, what more could the authorities want?
Becky had the answer: parental consent!
‘
You’ll need . . . hand them recruiting officers a letter . . . proving your father and mother gives permission for you to go leavin’ home, they won’t take you without that. I knows cos Lucy Phillips from our street had to take a letter signed by her folk afore she was accepted for the ATS
.’
A signed letter! Alice wrestled with the dilemma Becky had raised in her mind. She could smuggle her birth certificate from the house but as to a letter of consent . . . ? Could she write one herself, sign the names of both parents? That was as much a crime as changing the date on her birth certificate, maybe not one which would have her sent to prison but certainly one her mother would not let pass easily.
‘
Tekin’ money from the ’ouse . . . robbin’ the little ’uns of food an’ clothin’
. . .’
Her father would consent, he would understand she wanted to do more to help her country than work in a factory. But her mother? No, she would not be pacified by the promise of forces pay being sent home, nor would she be duped like her husband. She would view the business of joining up for what it really was: a chance to escape the monotony, to escape her mother’s domination. More than that, she would see herself doing all the chores she demanded her daughter do: that alone would have her refuse consent.
Yet there might be a way. The works’ hooter signalled midday break and Alice thrust her time card into the clock before sprinting across the yard to the washroom. There might be just one way.
‘
So sure I finds out
. . .’
Sitting at her desk, the letters she had typed awaiting only the Whitman signature, Katrin Hawley smiled.
Alice Butler had meant every word of that threat, but first she had to find the one who had committed the offence. And Alice Butler would never know who had informed against Freda Evans, never discover who had given the information which had led to the girl’s imprisonment. Nor would Freda herself ever know. Shuffling the typed letters into a neat pile, Katrin allowed the smile to spread. She had achieved the revenge she had so long promised herself, but only in part; as yet just one of those who had jibed at her in that school playground had been made to pay. Five years! Katrin tasted sweet satisfaction. But as Becky Turner had said, those five years would not end with Freda’s release; the stigma of having been convicted and gaoled would walk with Freda Evans the rest of her life. Yes, one girl had paid. The smile vanished as Katrin’s fingers tightened on the sheaf of papers.
It had been so easy. All it had taken was a telephone call to the local Office of Information. She had not needed to say who was making the call and she had not, she had simply given the name of the suspect, Freda Evans, and the added tit-bit of the girl’s place of work and probable place where a transaction was to be carried out. Freda had been caught, ration books and all.
One had paid. The sweetness of satisfaction became the tart bite of revenge. One had paid but there were two yet still to pay and one way or another they would.
‘If you have finished those letters I will take them into Mr Whitman.’
Katrin looked at the woman standing at the desk, one hand already reaching for the sheaf of papers. Fifteen years as Arthur Whitman’s secretary had other employees treat the woman with careful civility, a civility Katrin also observed, if only on the surface.
‘They are all done, Miss Simpson.’ Her mouth curving in a superficial smile, Katrin handed over the letters and watched the plumpish figure tap on the door marked ‘Managing Director’. Harriet Simpson was sixty if she was a day, why didn’t the woman retire? She was like a starving dog who had found a bone, nothing would separate her from it. There had to be some way of getting that woman to leave, there had to be a reason somewhere, it was simply waiting to be found. Switching her glance to a separate pile of papers taken from her in-tray, Katrin appeared not to pay attention to the fawn clad figure emerging from the inner office but beneath the apparent lack of interest her mind seethed. So long as that woman remained at Whitman Engineering there would be very little prospect of Katrin Hawley’s promotion from office clerk.
Simply waiting to be found! Katrin’s teeth clamped behind firm set lips. Katrin Hawley was quite competent at finding a means to an end.
5
A prayer answered!
Touching a kiss to the cheek of both parents, her slightly wan ‘Goodnight, God bless’ holding to the pretence she had practised for days, Katrin retired to her own room, where she let the curtain of deception lift from her face.
What had happened had been a blessing, though not bestowed by God so much as His adversary.
Taking time brushing her hair she smiled at her own reflection. So many people condemned Mister Adolf Hitler but Katrin Hawley had cause to thank him, for it had been his bombers that had led to this satisfactory state of affairs.
Setting aside the brush, she removed pale blue artificial silk cami-knickers. Her mother had frowned at this new form of underwear declaring ‘it would never have been allowed in my young days’. But these were not her mother’s ‘young days’, this was nineteen forty one and Katrin Hawley would decide her own underwear. Placing the cami-knickers with other clothing for laundering, Katrin wrinkled her nose at the flannelette pyjamas on her pillow. These were not to her taste but for now she would comply with her mother’s instruction and wear them; she deemed pyjamas preferable to a flimsy silk nightgown ‘in case of having to take to the air raid shelter; you never know as to somebody on the street asking to take cover with us, they can’t very well be refused.’
Katrin’s mouth assumed the tightness it had held upon watching Harriet Simpson come and go from Arthur Whitman’s office. Like that woman her mother had jurisdiction, but neither of them would enjoy it for much longer. In fact the plump Harriet had already been temporarily relieved of her authority, now it remained only for ‘temporary’ to become ‘permanent’.
It had been late evening when she was ready to leave the office, having agreed to Harriet Simpson’s request she stay on to finish some urgent orders. Her coat half on, Katrin had grabbed for her bag as the siren had blared warning of an imminent raid.
‘
You can’t go home now girl
. . .’ Harriet had almost shouted, her hand grabbing Katrin’s wrist, ‘. . .
we must go into the factory shelter
.’
The perfect opportunity!
The offices were equipped with blackout curtains, while less used areas of the administration block including corridors had windows covered with black-painted paper. Very low-powered electric light bulbs, set at wide intervals, were their only illumination, and these were turned off once the staff had left for the night. An air raid AND the building in darkness. Fortune had chosen to favour Katrin Hawley a week ago: she had been granted its blessing.
Harriet had taken a small torch from the drawer of her desk and, keeping the misted beam playing on the ground inches in front of their feet, had hurried them from the room.
‘
Darkness blinding when emerging from that lighted office . . . trying to run when they could barely see to walk . . . ! Fear of an explosion trapping them in the building when possibly no one knew them to be there making them hurry . . . !
’
She had sobbed these and half a dozen more reasons for the accident, had acted the part of a frightened, distraught young woman, but most of all one condemning of herself.
She had dashed into the factory screaming over the noise of the machinery that men and women insisted on keeping working regardless of all German bombers might do, shrieking for someone to help.
‘
I should have led the way
. . .’ She had cried against the shoulder of the work’s night foreman while trained First Aid Personnel, their white helmets and satchels containing field dressings a gleaming contrast against dark uniforms, had bent over the unconscious Harriet, ‘. . .
I should have been first onto the stairs . . . I could have broken her fall . . . it’s my fault . . . it’s my fault
. . .’
She had refused to be comforted, all the while careful to keep her face pressed to the shoulder of the foreman, then covering her face with her hands when he gave her into the care of the First Aid Volunteers. They had seen her home, advised her mother she be given a hot sweet drink to help recovery from shock.
But she had suffered no shock. Nor had Harriet Simpson’s headlong fall down those stone steps been an accident.
Would the woman claim that . . . ?
Katrin slipped into bed.
Maybe, but claim and proof were poles apart. Harriet had been unnerved by the prospect of the building being struck by a bomb, she had tried to take the stairs at a run and in the panic had tripped. That would be her answer to any claim that woman might make, and there was nobody could attest the fact it was a lie.
No, there was no witness to verify it was the foot she had deliberately thrust out as they had reached the head of the stairs had sent the older woman toppling.
A prayer answered.
An obstacle removed from Katrin Hawley’s path.
‘Now be sure you do as granddad tells you.’
Covering the meal with a plate to prevent the food drying out completely Miriam Carson slipped it into the oven and lowered the gas to minimum heat.
‘. . . and be certain to turn the oven off when he takes out his supper.’
‘I know mum, you don’t have to worry about me.’
But she did worry. Miriam cast a quick look at the lad sitting at the kitchen table, slips of paper spread like a chequer board across one half of it. How could she not worry? He was all she had of Tom, the husband she had adored, who this war had stolen from her.
Turning to the sink with its soiled dishes, she hid the tears rising to her eyes.
Their marriage had seemed like weeks rather than years, not a day passing without them both whispering their love for each other; now that was ended and it had seemed her own life had ended too. How had she lived after receiving the War Office telegram? Only by the gentle love of a father. Why had she lived? Only for her son. It had been so hard without Tom: the nights she had reached for him only to find the bed empty beside her; the days she had needed his support when childhood ailments had her fearing for their child; the other children they had both wanted and were now denied her. ‘You are young yet, wench, you’ll marry again, you’ll see.’ She had heard those words many times over the months, words meant to bring comfort. But there had been no solace in them, they brought no relief to a heart that was dead.