Rosie Goes to War (7 page)

I get on the bus, May follows right behind me. ‘Go on upstairs. We always sit up top.' I climb up and look round for Nelly. I can barely see through the fog of cigarette smoke. Ugh, that is so disgusting. I can't believe nearly everyone is smoking. Don't they know it'll kill them?

Downstairs a bell tinkles and the bus moves off. I nearly lose my balance, but manage to get into the seat next to Nelly without making a complete idiot of myself. May brushes past me, knocking my gas mask box onto my lap as she heads for the seat in front of us.

I look around. Everyone's bundled up in heavy winter coats, mainly black, brown, or grey. The only colour is from the posters glued to inside of the bus – adverts for tooth powder, cod liver oil tablets, cigarettes and snuff (what the hell is snuff?). There are propaganda posters too. “Careless Talk Costs Lives” – I've seen that one in a museum.

‘What's the matter with you?' Nelly asks, seeing me craning my neck to look at everything. ‘Don't you have buses in the country?'

So she's decided to talk to me. ‘Of course we do.'

A waft of cigarette smoke makes me cough. I wave a hand in front of my face.

‘Bet you don't get on them though, do you?' she says.

‘Yes I do, actually. I get the bus to school, and into town sometimes.' When I can't get a lift off my mum, or Jessica's mum that is. Buses are a pain – we hardly get any through our village, except the school bus, which is full of stupid kids.

‘So why are you looking like you've swallowed a lemon? Our buses not good enough for you, Miss Posh?'

‘I told you, I'm not posh. It just that you can't smoke on our buses, that's all.'

‘Can't smoke on buses? Well I never heard anything like it. Next you'll be telling me they don't let a chap have a puff with his pint at the pub.'

I open my mouth and then shut it again. She wouldn't believe me if I told her.

‘Did you hear that, May? Folks can't smoke on the buses in the country.'

‘God help us,' said a man sitting across the aisle from us. ‘You'd need a good strong tobacco to cover the smell out there. Blooming stink they do, all them cows and pigs.'

‘It's not like that,' I start to say, but no one's interested because the ticket collector has arrived. I panic before I remember I found a purse with some money in my suitcase. I pull it out of my jacket pocket and have a look inside. Oh, my, God. I don't recognise any of the coins in there. And are those bits of paper real money? I peek at Nelly, trying to see what she's getting out of her purse.

‘It's thrupence to Whitechapel,' she says.

‘Thrupence?' What's that?

Nelly rolls her eyes. ‘Three pence. See? Coppers. Pennies.' She holds up three large coins. They are brown and huge, not at all like normal pennies.

‘Oh, right.' I rummage round in the purse and find three coins, but they are a bit smaller.

‘God help us. Those are ha'pennies, stupid. You need three more of them if you haven't got any pennies, or a thrupenny bit.'

‘Like this one,' says May, twisting round in her seat and holding up a funny-looking little coin, about the size of a modern penny, but thicker and with lots of little straight edges.

I look again and find one. A three pence coin. ‘How weird is that?' I mutter to myself. But of course, Nelly has to hear me, doesn't she?

‘Anyone would think you ain't never seen English money before,' she says.

‘You ain't one of them foreign spies we've all been warned about, are you?' It's the man across the aisle again.

‘What?' I say. My voice is squeaky. It feels like everyone is looking at me. Oh crap, I must look really guilty – I can feel my face going red. ‘No, of course not,' I'm nearly shouting. ‘I'm from Wiltshire. It isn't smelly there and I want to go home.'

The man laughs. ‘All right, keep your hair on, love. Can't you take a joke?'

I can feel Nelly's disapproval as I give the man an embarrassed smile.

‘Sorry,' I say. ‘I'm just not used to getting up so early.'

‘I thought all you country types got up at the crack of dawn.'

‘Only the farmers,' I say. But he's lost interest. The ticket collector reaches us and we all pay our fares.

I subside into my thoughts, ignoring everyone else. I'm really worried about being away from Gran's house. It's too dark to see where we're going, so I have no idea how to get back there. What if I miss my chance to get back to my own time because I'm not at the house? I'm assuming, from my limited experience of watching the odd sci-fi programme like
Stargate
and stuff, that there's a portal at the house and I fell through it when I sneezed and tripped in those bloody awful shoes. To get back, I need to find it again, hopefully in the same place, at the right time. Whatever time that is.

The portal must have closed behind me last night, or I would have been able to go straight back. And this morning, we all walked through the hall to the front door and I tried sneezing. Nothing. Maybe I can't find it when there's someone with me? Perhaps it only works one way? Or it has to be a genuine sneeze? I just don't know. How scary is that? And what if I end up going further back in time? I could be blowing my nose and land in the flipping Middle Ages. Wasn't that when they had plagues and witch-burnings and stuff? Oh. My. God. I could be burned at the stake by some superstitious mob. I'm barely getting away with it here; I'd totally not fit in if I go any further back in time.

Maybe I should tell May and Nelly where I've come from. They'll probably think I'm mad, but who knows? They might believe me. But then again, they might not, and I don't know what will happen then. Actually, I don't know what would happen if they do. I've got to be careful about spoilers. I can't tell people about their future in case they try to change it. If they do things differently, the whole world could be affected. I might start fading from all my photos, like Marty McFly in
Back to the Future
. No, I'll keep my mouth shut.

I'm so tired. I let out a huge yawn. I could easily go back to sleep even if I am choking on cigarette smoke on this smelly bus.

I'm just closing my eyes when Nelly pokes me in the side.

‘C'mon, this is our stop.'

How can she tell? It's still dark and the windows are all steamed up. I wouldn't have a clue.

May is already up and on the move. I follow her, nearly going headfirst down the stairs as the bus stops. There's barely time to blink when we get off before May and Nelly are steaming down the road. I run to catch up.

‘Do you always walk so fast?' I ask, hoping they'll take the hint and slow down.

‘We can't be late, or Mr Cohen'll dock our wages,' says May, power-walking round the corner.

‘At this rate I'm going to be worn out before we start,' I complain. But they're not listening. I roll my eyes and speed up, not wanting to lose sight of them. I have no idea where we are now, or how to get back to the house, so without the sisters I'd be in serious trouble.

As I get a bit closer to them I hear May say to Nelly: ‘You shouldn't say things like that, not on the bus. Someone might report us and then we'll have the men from the Ministry knocking on the door. She ain't no spy, she's just a country bumpkin. Give her a couple of weeks to settle in and she'll be just like us.'

‘Speak for yourself,' said Nelly. ‘She ain't nothing like me. And why shouldn't I say it if I'm thinking it? And maybe they should come round. If she don't know the difference between a penny and an ha'penny, she might well be a spy. Better to have someone checking up on her than letting her get away with murder.'

I've had enough of this. ‘I'm not a spy,' I shout. That gets their attention. They stop and turn round. ‘Look, I know you don't like me, but give me a break. I'm just tired, OK?'

‘Don't mind Nell, Queenie, she don't mean it.' Typical Gran – trying to keep the peace. I'm not so sure, and I can see Nelly is definitely not joking about this.

‘Bit soft for a country girl, ain't you?' she sneers. ‘I'll bet you won't last more than a week round here. The only reason I reckon you ain't a spy is 'cause you're too bleeding daft.'

I open my mouth to tell her to shut up, I'm not soft, I'm a time traveller and I've got more important things to worry about than what she thinks of me. But I don't say anything. What can I say that won't make things worse?

Anyway, she's not interested, she's already turned round and is heading off at full speed again. I can hear May saying: ‘Oh Nell, be nice, eh? It'll be right miserable at home if you two don't get on.'

I slow down again, not wanting to hear any more. I'm suddenly scared, more scared than I've ever been, even than when I realised I was in 1940. If they check on me, they might find out I don't exist here in 1940, and think I really am a spy. I'm in the middle of a war. They shot spies in those days, didn't they? What if I can't convince them I'm OK? Should I tell them I'm from the future? What will happen to me if I do?

‘Oi! Queenie!' They are standing at another corner, waiting for me. ‘Get a move on!'

I want to run in the other direction, but then May giggles and I remember she's my gran, and anyway I don't have anywhere else to go, do I? OK, deep breath, keep calm. That's it. Keep Calm and Carry On.

I walk towards them.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It's barely light when we arrive at the factory. Our breath is coming out in little clouds in the cold air, but I'm pretty warm after having to jog to keep up with the sisters.

Cohen's Outfitters Limited is in an old building down a narrow lane in Whitechapel. The red brickwork is almost black with soot, and the windows are filthy and criss-crossed with tape like just about every other building I've seen so far. I imagine it's going to be like something out of a Dickens adaptation inside – all dark and miserable. I really don't fancy working here, it must be so depressing.

Nelly tells May to take me to the office. She glares at me with her schoolteacher look and says, ‘Behave yourself, and watch that mouth of yours,' and then stalks off. I want to poke my tongue out at her, but as she's not looking it would be a bit pointless.

May takes me up some old wooden stairs. I can hear the hum of machinery from somewhere down below, and in the office there's a lady bashing away at a really old typewriter. Weird. She's using all of her fingers to type, like Mum does. She tried to teach me, but I couldn't be bothered. Maybe I should have had a go – this lady is typing really quick, even on the dinosaur machine. It looks impressive.

Everything is old and shabby in here, even the woman at the desk. She's got grey hair done up in a bun and some of those glasses that sit on the end of your nose so it looks like you're not even using them. The only colour in the room is the red lipstick she's wearing on her thin lips.

‘Morning, Mrs Blenkinsopp,' says May. ‘This is the new girl what's been billeted with us.'

Mrs Blenkinsopp stops typing and looks at us over the top of her glasses. ‘Name?'

‘Rose Smith,' I say, before May calls me Queenie.

‘Papers please.'

‘What papers?' I ask.

‘I need to check your identity card, and your appointment letter from the Ministry of Works.'

‘Oh, right. I left them in my suitcase.'

Mrs Blenkinsopp looks cross. ‘You should have your identity card with you at all times. It's the law.'

Oh crap. ‘I'm sorry, I forgot. Can I bring them in tomorrow?' With any luck I'll be gone by then.

‘I'll make sure she brings them, Mrs Blenkinsopp,' says May. ‘It was a bit of a rush this morning, what with being up most of the night with the raid and all.'

Mrs Blenkinsopp sighs. ‘Very well. But don't leave the house without your identity card again. Bring it with your letter tomorrow morning without fail.'

‘Yes, Mrs Blenkinsopp,' I say. ‘I won't forget.'

We clatter down the stairs and May takes me to the cloakroom where we leave our stuff. I put on the overalls that May has lent me. If I stay around I'll probably have to buy some. Luckily May and I are about the same size, except I'm a little bit taller, so these fit fine. In fact, we look more like sisters than May and Nelly do. It's in the genes, I suppose. I can't help smiling, thinking how May would freak out if she knew I was her granddaughter.

My smile slips a bit as I follow her through the door into the workshop. The noise hits me first – an angry buzz like a million gigantic bees. The air smells of machine oil and there's cotton dust everywhere. The room is filled with row after row of sewing machines, with great big spools of cotton spinning away above them, reminding me of surgical drips over patients' beds. There's a woman at each machine, hard at work, their hands guiding khaki cloth through the machines, snipping the threads as they get to the end of the seam, and then throwing their work into a large basket one side of their workstation. Then they pick up the next pieces from an identical basket on the other side and sew the same seams. They work quickly, not stopping to chat. As the baskets fill, a couple of young boys run amongst them, picking the piles of work out of baskets and moving them along to the next row. I spot Nelly towards the back of the room, head down, the cloth shooting through her machine like lightening.

May grabs my arm and drags me over to the desk at the front where the supervisor is sitting. I can't hear what they're saying, but they don't seem to have any trouble communicating. I realise they're probably lip-reading, which I can't do, so I have no idea what's going on. May shouts in my ear. ‘Mrs Bloomfield will show you what to do.' She gives me a thumbs up and walks over to a machine half way down the room, waving to a couple of other girls as she goes. I stand there, not sure what to do. Mrs Bloomfield is talking to me but the noise is crazy in here.