‘Right Harry . . .’
Isaac Eldon’s quiet instruction echoed on the following moment of silence, on a peace she knew would soon be shattered.
‘. . . bring ’er up.’
Then she saw it. Looming out of the shadows, red eyes blinking, lungs belching, a huge body dragging toward her. For a long, heart-stopping moment it seemed the red eyes looked directly at her, that the growl of approval was a threat intended for her. The delicious thrill suddenly became genuine alarm. Any interruption in its progress would bring Eldon to find the reason and that reason would be her! That would lead to more than a telling off: she could possibly be sacked. Isaac Eldon was a fair man in his dealings with the factory hands, he had a ready smile and a cheering word, sometimes even turning a blind eye to some prank, unlike his counterpart Bert Langford; but safety regulations were something he would not suffer to be flaunted and her being here right now was a breach of regulations.
The sack! What would her mother have to say about that? About the shame of having a member of the family dismissed from their job?
This could have proved one caper too many, putting her job at risk simply to observe the ‘steamboat’ in action. Alice allowed herself a smile of relief. The creature of her lurid imagination was none other than the ‘steamboat’, the huge steam-operated crane used to lift and carry crates of large shell forgings and cartridge cases out onto waiting transport. Shrouded in secrecy, the removal of armaments taking place only at night under the protective cover of darkness had earned the works the unofficial title of ‘Shadow Factory’. That secrecy was paramount if German spotter planes were not to discover the location of the town’s heavy industrial plants, and secrecy was the more observed by workers being required to take their longer meal break at the time of equipment transportation. ‘What was not seen could not be talked about’ was the criterion by which the ‘Shadow Factory’ was run, and it would be better for her should Isaac Eldon not find out what Alice Butler had seen.
She had not told Jacob about being taken to the police station nor had she mentioned it to Katrin. Now she would not have to. Back in her living room Violet looked at the letter on her lap. It was no use trying to deny having received it: that trick had brought a visit from the police. Try it again and she would go to prison. Those had been the words of the magistrate she had been summoned to appear before.
‘
I recognise the distress appearing before this Bench is causing you
. . .’
Iron grey hair, horn-rimmed spectacles which he had peered over more than through, the magistrate had looked at her from a table set on a dais, his voice firm yet not without sympathy.
‘. . .
I understand your anxiety
. . .’
How could he possibly understand how it felt? What being taken to the police station by a uniformed policeman did to a woman like her, the wife of a works manager. She had tried not to see the stares of people they had passed on that walk along Spring Head, tried to ignore the gossip as she had crossed the Market Place, but every step had been utterly humiliating. Then, a week later she had been summoned to attend the Magistrates’ Court at Wolverhampton.
‘. . .
now you too must understand
. . .’
Words which had burned like living flame in her mind flared again.
‘. . .
you have three times been notified of compulsory registration for ancillary duty, for work outside of your home and which for reasons we need no further discuss you failed to do. Therefore, it is now my duty to inform you, Mrs Hawley . . . that should you fail to comply with the order issued by this court then I will have no other option than to have you confined to prison for the duration of the war
.’
The order had come yesterday. Violet touched the envelope lying in her lap.
‘. . . you are ordered to report . . .’
Each word was like some physical entity imprisoning her limbs so she could not move. There was no mistake.
‘. . . you are ordered to report . . .’
There was no need to check again, the words of the official document danced on her vision.
‘. . . to the Personnel department of . . . TITAN ENGINEERING, DARLASTON.’
How could the government send her there? How could they expect her to work in a place that would have her clothes stinking like those of women she was sometimes forced to stand alongside when they had dashed from the factory to the shop during their midday break? It was intolerable. But to reject this order would result in a far more dreadful penalty.
Perhaps she should explain, should write to the magistrate asking to be assigned some other place of work, to any factory other than TITAN ENGINEERING, the factory where her husband was manager.
8
Isaac Eldon! Temper lending speed to her feet, Katrin walked quickly along Lower High Street.
Why had Arthur Whitman thought to bring that man to management?
She almost spat the question aloud.
‘
You have done a valiant job, Miss Hawley
.’ Arthur had smiled at her across his wide-topped desk. ‘
But it is one I cannot ask you continue
.’
She had done a valiant job but she could not continue!
Had he seen the consternation in her eyes? That sense of shock turning to anger, a cold vicious anger which deepened when he had gone on to say . . . ‘
the responsibility is too much for a woman as young as yourself to carry and with the continuation of war then the burden can only increase, therefore I have asked Isaac Eldon to take on the post of works manager
.’
The rest of what Arthur Whitman had said had barely registered over the turmoil seething in her head.
Isaac Eldon would be works manager: he was thoroughly conversant with every aspect of the forging of steel; he would take responsibility for production but even with that load removed from this office he was loath to ask she replace Harriet Simpson.
‘
Why?
’
It might have seemed like anxiety at the prospect of being told she was no longer required, but its progenitor had been the demon she had long served, the demon of bitterness. But she had kept that hidden, merely asking quietly if her work had proved in any way inferior to that performed by the older woman?
Deep brown eyes had flashed quick apology. She had proved admirable in all she had done, but he paused, a hand flicking through hair that daily became more liberally sprinkled with grey, Harriet had years of experience.
‘
But
,’ she had answered swiftly, ‘
you have said Miss Simpson will not be returning; as for experience that comes only from being allowed to try and that is what I ask, Mr Whitman, that I be allowed to try
.’
She had the benefit of Harriet’s tutoring . . . she had managed exceptionally well on her own . . . had taken up the reins . . .
He had mused aloud, fingers pressing worriedly at his temples, then in a tone remorseful as that quick glance, ‘
If you are sure, Miss Hawley, then you have my gratitude
.’
Gratitude! Gratitude but not trust. Katrin Hawley was not to have quite all of the authority the blessed Harriet had enjoyed, rather she should refer to Eldon on those occasions Arthur Whitman was absent.
She paused at the kerb of the busy road, waiting to cross to where an imposing coyned building marked the corner of Hollies Drive. There was an assortment of vehicles: lorries with their loads concealed beneath tarpaulin sheets, vans with names and logos painted out, all were devoid of reference to street or town, nameless of origin or destination, they simply passed anonymous and unrecognised.
But she would not go unrecognised. No, the name of Katrin Hawley would become well known at Prodor. But for the time being she must accept the fact of Isaac Eldon becoming works manager. Oh yes, she would defer to Eldon, only not in the manner he or Arthur Whitman expected.
The thought brought a smile as she darted across the road, but on reaching the turning for Hollies Drive, she was flung backward, her shoulder hitting the wall of the graceful building as she collided with a figure emerging from its entrance.
Some sixth sense had prevented her posting that request to the Magisterial court, some desperate last-minute warning sounding in her brain as she had sealed the envelope.
‘It will be seen as one more refusal and you will be sent to prison.’
Leaving the bus at Darlaston Bull Stake, Violet Hawley breathed deeply, trying to still the trembling.
‘Prison! Prison!’
Why had he not listened? Why had he not understood a woman such as she, the wife of the manager of a large engineering factory, could not possibly be sent out to work? She had explained the social implication, but the man had merely shaken his head, saying everyone alike must play their part in fighting this war, even the wife of a factory manager.
How could she go there? Think of the humiliation not only for herself but for Jacob. What effect might it have on his position, having a wife working on the factory floor? But there was no alternative.
Caught in the maelstrom of her thoughts, only half aware of the constant noise of traffic following the road which ran on into Walsall, Violet rested her glance on a building opposite. Dark with soot, serene with age, the church of All Saints seemed to stand aloof from the happenings around it.
There! Violet almost cried her relief, she could go into that church, sit in its quiet peace, there she would be given the help she needed, there everything would sort itself into place.
It had been such an ordeal walking with that police constable through Wednesbury town, knowing every eye turned to her, every tongue spoke of her.
Her prayer finished, Violet huddled in the corner of a deeply shadowed pew, her mind treading again that shame-filled path.
Then had come the court appearance. She had been so terrified, so sure someone had revealed her dealings with Jim Slater, that she was being called to answer for buying black market goods, for illegally holding two extra ration books, even though she had destroyed them the moment she had returned from the police station.
It had lifted a weight from her heart when that had not been mentioned, but the weight which lay now on her shoulders was just as heavy.
There had to be a way!
At the end of a long aisle a white draped altar graced with a tall cross at its centre gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight.
Please God show her the way!
You should have told Jacob of the letters. Answer echoed back from the sunlit altar. He could have intervened; had he asked then maybe you would have been placed elsewhere, perhaps one of the Civil Restaurants.
Helping to serve meals, that would not have been so awful, at least it would not involve getting her hands and clothes smeared with dirt. Tears for what might have been spilled onto Violet’s cheeks.
‘
But even that you thought beneath you.
’
The voice was suddenly that of her sister. ‘
You couldn’t bring yourself to do that, same as you couldn’t bring yourself to tell Jacob o’ them letters, o’ your thrusting them back o’ the fire, oh no not you, Violet Hawley knowed best . . . well look where that best brought you, you be standin’ outside o’ prison gates.
’
Violet jerked upright as the bellow of air raid sirens sounded the alert.
She had to take shelter. When caught on the street you had to share the protection of the nearest house, that was the official directive. But that might be someone just returned from the engineering works, or even an iron smelting foundry, who hadn’t time enough to have washed and changed their clothing!
Repulsed by the prospect Violet shrank back against the wooden seat; she wouldn’t do it, she wouldn’t!
But then she didn’t have to.
Nobody knew she was here.
She could stay until the raid was over. It was safe here, this building was strong as any garden shelter.
And her appointment with TITAN?
That would keep. Violet smiled toward the glistening altar. There could be no qualms at lateness caused by an air raid.
‘Mr Eldon said I could come.’
Mr Eldon had given permission! Biting back the acrimony the explanation stirred in her, Katrin smiled at the young woman before her desk.
‘I wanted to see you on your own, I . . . I didn’t want Becky knowing . . .’
Katrin waited out the pause.
‘. . . it be this,’ Alice held out a paper. ‘Mother changed her mind, her said as I could join the WRENS, seeing as how I’d set my mind to it, though between you and me I think my saying her could take all of my pay ’cept for a shilling was what decided her.’