Martha's Girls (14 page)

‘Yes I remember. It’s on the mantelpiece, isn’t it?’

It bore no stamp, only a smudged franking mark, impossible to read. She didn’t recognise the handwriting, turned it over. Nothing. Inside was one page of neat script.

Dear Irene,

I hope you remember me. We met at Stranraer in the summer.

It was him, after all this time.

I’m in a city called Karachi. It’s an amazing place. Teeming with people and so hot it’s like standing in an oven. We only work in the morning. The rest of the time we try to stay out of the sun. But yesterday, Tommy and I went for a walk and found a market. Everywhere was colour: people’s clothes; the fruit and vegetables, most of them we didn’t recognise; rugs and silks hanging everywhere. I hope you don’t mind, but I bought something for you. It will probably arrive after this letter because it’s a parcel. Will you write and tell me if you like it?

Sandy

Irene read it again and again. He hadn’t forgotten her. He’d gone to the other side of the world and thought of her. He was even sending a present! She couldn’t wait to see it, whatever it was. She tried to conjure up an image of him in his RAF uniform, slim, thick auburn hair, but she couldn’t bring his face to mind. She remembered his eyes were brown and knew she’d liked his gentle smile, but his face wouldn’t come. She put the letter under her pillow and went downstairs. In the sitting room she found Pat, Peggy and Sheila standing in their underwear and Martha handing out turquoise blouses.

‘When did you finish these, Mammy?’

‘Finished the last one today. I didn’t want to show them to you until I had them all done. Now get them tried on to make sure they fit.’

‘You made four then?’ asked Irene.

‘Aye, there was just enough material. So I did one for Sheila as well, even though she’s not singing.’

‘You never know,’ said Sheila. ‘I might be singing in the future. Isn’t that right, Mammy?’

‘Now we’re not going over all that again, Sheila. You’ve your schooling to finish. There’ll be plenty of time to sing after that.’

‘Look at this,’ said Peggy. She was standing on tiptoes looking in the mirror over the fire. ‘Do you see how nice the pearls are with this style and the colour? I wish we could all have them.’

Pat spoke sternly. ‘Well, we can’t and that’s an end to it.’

Irene tried on her blouse. She loved the sweetheart neckline, the peplum and the deep cuffs. Peggy was right, the style was dramatic.

‘Right, come on,’ said Peggy sitting down at the piano. ‘Let’s get on with rehearsing. What will we start with?’

‘How about Irene’s mysterious letter?’ said Sheila.

Irene found herself blushing. ‘What?’

‘What do you mean, ‘What’? The letter from the mantelpiece, are you not going to tell us who it was from?’

‘And what it was about?’ added Peggy.

‘I suppose I might as well tell you,’ said Irene and she couldn’t keep the smile off her face. ‘You remember when I went to Stranraer in July and I told you we got talking to two RAF boys? Well, it was from one of them.’

Everyone seemed to talk at once.

‘What’s he called?’

‘Where’s he from?’

‘Why’s he suddenly writing now?’

Irene laughed. ‘Sandy, he’s from Scotland and he’s been posted to India.’

‘India?’ said Sheila.

Peggy laughed. ‘Perhaps you should be learning the ‘Indian Love Call’ instead of Pat.’

‘That’s not funny,’ snapped Pat.

‘It is when you sing it!’

‘For goodness sake girls, don’t start all that again. Peggy you know how Pat feels about having to sing that song. Don’t rub it in.’ She turned to Irene, who knew what was coming. ‘What do you know about this airman, besides his name, nationality and present posting?’

‘His rank and serial number?’ whispered Peggy.

Martha glared at her.

‘Nothing really,’ admitted Irene. She was going to say his smile was nice, then thought better of it and added, ‘He’s sending me a present.’

‘Bless us,’ said Martha, ‘a present! Well, I suppose he’s harmless enough … in India.’

*

It was easy for Irene to sneak out of the house half an hour earlier than usual the following morning for her first day at Short and Harland. She could hear her mother snoring gently as she crept downstairs and knew she wouldn’t rise until eight to make a quick breakfast for Peggy and Sheila. She left the door on the snib knowing Pat would close it properly when she left at their normal time. She had decided not to tell her mother about her new employment. Sacking was a disgrace in Martha’s eyes and working in a factory was a long way from the refined occupation of painting linen. Pat knew, of course, and would have nothing to do with deceiving their mother.

‘It’s underhand, Irene. I hate lying.’

‘You’re not lying. You’re just not telling her. It’s different.’

‘Not in my book it isn’t. What if she asks me something about you at work?’

‘She won’t. Why would she?’

‘Well, if she does, I’m not making anything up.’

*

Myrtle met her at the gate as before and showed her how to find her card and clock in. ‘Have ye your trousers and scarf in your bag?’ she asked.

‘Aye, I didn’t want to risk anyone seeing me in them,’ said Irene, then added quickly, ‘Not yet anyway.’ There was just time to get changed in the toilets. Myrtle took the scarf from her and folded the square into a triangle.

‘Bend your head over.’ Irene looked puzzled. ‘So your hair falls forward.’ She demonstrated. Irene did as she was shown and Myrtle took both ends of the triangle and tied them at the front, tucked Irene’s hair neatly in the pocket made and drew the final point of the triangle up to meet the tied ends and with a few deft touches tucked in the whole lot.

As instructed by Mr McVey, Myrtle took Irene to number four hangar and left her with the foreman. He looked her up and down.

‘I hope you’re quick on your feet and nimble with your hands, Missy, or you’ll not last long!’ Irene said nothing and he went on, ‘I’ll start you off counting rivets. Follow me.’ He led her to a bench with a high stool. Stacked high along the left-hand side were dozens of small tins, on the right, a box full of metal rivets each half the size of a farthing.

‘Fill every tin with twenty four rivets, get the lid on tight and put them on the cart behind you. You’ll need to get a move on, all tins to be full in one hour and exactly twenty four a tin, mind.’ With that he was gone, striding the length of the hangar, shouting as he went, ‘Right, lads, get stuck in, it’s a long time ‘til tea break.’

Easy enough, thought Irene, as she reached into the box and counted one at a time. In five minutes she’d filled five boxes. A quick bit of multiplication told her she’d be less than half way through in an hour. There must be a quicker way. She tried two at a time, still too slow. Then six lots of four. Eventually, she threw a pile of rivets on the bench and separated out four lots of six at a time, held the tin to the edge of the bench and swept them in. She finished the last tin as the foreman reappeared.

‘Good enough, good enough,’ he said. ‘Now away you go with the cart and see every riveter gets two tins and collect any empty ones and bring them back.’

‘Then do I fill them again?’

‘Oh don’t you be getting ahead of yourself, Missy! Next duty is to sweep the floor. Cleanliness is next to godliness in the work place. That’s my motto.’

The hangar was the length of Joanmount Gardens and twice as wide. The brush was huge and difficult to manoeuvre; she was also given a scraper to remove the bits of solder. Irene was exhausted by the time she finished and her back ached from the frequent bending. Once, she narrowly missed being burnt when a large drop of liquid solder splashed on the floor next to her. By the time the hooter sounded for teabreak, she felt she’d already done a full day’s work.

In the canteen, Irene queued for tea and bread and jam then joined Myrtle who was sitting with a group of women.

‘This is Irene, she just started today.’

An older woman, with a faded green turban and a cast in her eye, asked, ‘Are you skivvyin’, love?’

‘Well, I’ve been counting rivets and sweeping the floor so far.’

‘Then you’re bloody skivvyin’ and you’ll know the worst of it when you go back to collect the bloody shavins before your dinner, then do the whole friggin’ lot again ‘til clockin’ off time.’

Irene hid her surprise at the woman swearing and laughed with everyone else. Within minutes the hooter went and she took a quick bite, gulped down a mouthful of tea and followed the rest of the workers back to hangar four.

‘Missy!’ The foreman was waiting for her. ‘You’ve to take yourself away to the tool shop and tell them I sent you for the long weight. Mind, don’t you come back without it.’

The tool shop was at the far end of the factory. When Irene told the man who came to the counter what she’d come for, he said, ‘Sit yourself down there and I’ll see you get one.’ Then he disappeared behind the racks of shelves that stretched far into the echoing space beyond. Irene watched the grey sky through a high window above her and, as she waited, clouds of darker grey scudded past. Occasionally, through a break in the clouds, a shaft of sunlight fell on the worn oilcloth at her feet. Once the man put his head round the shelves and said, ‘Are you still waiting?’ But he was gone before she could ask how much longer. Then the door opened and a girl came in, red turban with green leaves.

‘Hello, you’re new aren’t you?’

‘Aye, I just started today.’

‘So, have you been waiting here long?’

‘Well, it seems like ages.’ Irene shrugged her shoulders. ‘But the foreman said I wasn’t to come back without it.’

‘Without what?’ Red turban raised a questioning eyebrow.

Pause. Understanding spread across Irene’s face and she nodded. ‘I suppose they do that to all the new workers?’

‘Only if they can get away with it.’

Irene had no problem seeing a joke, even if it was on her. Besides, chances were she’d escaped the ‘bloody shavins’ because dinner time couldn’t be far off. The foreman hailed her as she returned and Irene could sense those in the know looking at her, expecting some reaction. The more annoyed or embarrassed she was, the more amusement there would be, no doubt. Well, she’d show them neither.

‘Did you get the long weight, then?’ The foreman grinned.

‘No I didn’t,’ said Irene looking him in the eye. ‘They’d none left, but it’s all right, the storeman said I’d be welcome to come back every day until they got one in.’ Irene paused and looked around her. ‘But tomorrow I’ll bring myself a book to pass the time while I’m waiting.’

Just then the hooter went for dinner.

Irene had no need to recount the story of the long weight to the other women. Red turban was just finishing the tale when she sat down. ‘Good on you girl!’ said the faded green turban. ‘He deserved taking down a peg or two.’

Irene wasn’t so sure. ‘I’d better keep my head down, or I’ll not make it to that pay packet at the end of the week.’

‘What pay packet’s this? Don’t you know you have to work a week in hand?’

‘You mean I won’t have a wage for a fortnight?’ Irene was dismayed. ‘What am I supposed to live on?’

‘Maybe your family could help ye out,’ suggested Myrtle. ‘Your ma would understand, wouldn’t she?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Irene was beginning to panic. ‘I still haven’t told her I’ve left my other job.’

The women fell silent, each understanding how tight money was. How they too had struggled with the week in hand rule.

The foreman was waiting for her when she returned from dinner. ‘You’ve a lot of catching up to do, Missy. Take the cart round now and collect the metal shavins. Up the ladders, quick as you can, carry down the bags of shavins and empty them in the cart.’

Irene looked down the length of the plane. People had been running up and down the ladders all morning. Now it was her turn. They were higher than the one Mr McVey had asked her to climb and much steeper than the one in the theatre with Myrtle. The foreman read the look on her face.

‘Not afeard of heights are you? Or you’re no good to me.’

One ladder was much like another, thought Irene, climb one and you can climb them all.

‘Mind the shavins, them’s sharp, Missy,’ the foreman shouted.

She was aware of him watching her, no time to hesitate. Foot on to the first rung, a moment to test its steadiness then she was off. Hands and feet synchronised, a steady climb. The top was tricky; she’d never had to climb off a ladder before. She leaned forward and eased herself over the lip of the cabin door and scrambled on all fours inside. She looked down at the foreman and a few other workers who stood looking up, no doubt hoping for a bit of sport. She gave them a wave and disappeared into the fuselage in search of ‘bloody shavins’.