A Girl in Wartime (6 page)

‘I went looking for a job,' she said as she passed her in the tiny hallway. ‘Like Dad suggested.'

‘Did you find anything?'

Hanging her hat, scarf and coat on a hook, glad of the warmth of the house, she said, ‘I don't have enough schooling. The man interviewing me said he might have something else in mind but not to count on it. So I shall wait. I don't know how long for. Could be a waste of time and it was too wet to go looking for anything else. Maybe tomorrow.'

‘You'll have to go to work tomorrow or you'll lose the job you've got. And you don't want that. Anyway, I've made dinner, so you might as well sit and have it with me.'

Mum always cooked dinner at midday, eating hers then and reheating the others for when the rest of the family came home from work. Bringing in the meals, she went to the stairs and called out, ‘George, dinner's ready.'

‘Be down in a minute,' came the faint reply.

As her mother came back into the room, she said, ‘He's bin out.'

‘Looking for work or signing up?' Connie asked tartly as she sat down to eat. Her mum gave half a sigh, torn between love for her son and loyalty to Dad.

Her dad had made no secret of his feelings towards George: a mixture of anger, disgust, contempt and not a little embarrassment. She understood how he felt, but like Mum, she loved all her brothers and sisters. Though she was closer to her brothers, sometimes she felt as if her sisters looked down on her a little, maybe because she was the youngest, and sometimes it hurt. But they looked down on George more. Surely, he must know what they all thought of him after Bert and Ronnie had practically fallen over themselves to enlist, while he hung back, still quoting that same old phrase:
Thou shalt not kill!
He seemed quite impervious to others' opinion of him, and sometimes Connie felt hardly able to look at him let alone speak to him.

Her thoughts went suddenly to the man who'd interviewed her today, Mr Clayton: good looking, healthy, of fighting age, she'd judged. So why wasn't he in the forces? Was journalism an exempt role? She didn't think so. Had he even attempted to volunteer as her brothers had done? To believe such a thing would destroy these feelings he had conjured up inside her, feelings that even now were unsettling her.

Hastily she turned her mind away from speculation. What the man did was nothing to do with her. She had her own life to worry about. He had at least made her think more seriously about this artistic talent she had.

Dad called it messing about. For all that her eldest sister had liked the portrait of baby Henry, mostly she and Lilian sneered at her efforts and said it was about time she grew up. Her two brothers had no opinion and for that she was glad. Only George showed any interest, taking her drawings seriously, and for that she loved him and tolerated him more than the rest of the family. Mum, of course, was proud of her talent – said it came from her side, although none of it had seemed to come down to any of the others. Now she prayed that she'd get this wonderful opportunity, whatever it turned out to be, to use it. All she could do was keep her fingers crossed.

Upstairs George heard his sister come in and vaguely wondered at the reason for her being home so early from work, though his thoughts were elsewhere. Since his two brothers had enlisted, Dad kept calling him yellow, scared. He'd talked about it with his minister, Joseph Wootton-Bennett, who in his strong, assertive voice had advised him to trust his Bible that said emphatically, thou shalt not kill.

‘It says exactly what it means, my boy, and you can't get away from that for it comes from the very mouth of God Himself. You are one of my most dedicated parishioners. Surely you would not go against the teaching of Our Lord and look to slay your fellow man? Yes, they are wrong to walk into another's country, but ending a man's God-given life will not solve the situation, my son. All you will succeed in doing is cutting short that man's life – a man who may have been given no choice but to obey his superiors – and cause his parents to grieve for the son they had probably brought up tenderly, with love, in the hope of him living a long and useful life, marrying, begetting children, until God Himself called him. Condemn his wife to be a widow? Orphan his children? And why? Because this country says you must go against God's Law and kill your fellow man, a man you have never met. You know it is wrong, my son.'

Yes, it was wrong. He trusted his pastor implicitly. A non-conformist, Joseph Wootton-Bennett may have been at odds with the sentiments of most other churches, but his aim was to help the poor, the sick, the needy, expecting members of his congregation to do the same. How then could he go against such a man whose teaching made more sense than orthodox religion, which looked on those willing to go off to kill their fellow man with pride? Now, with his brothers having rushed off to join up, he was beginning to find himself in disgrace, his beliefs misunderstood.

‘You're scared!' his father had mocked after another argument at Christmas. ‘Bloody scared out of your pants while your brothers are fightin' for their country.' Well, they weren't yet but Dad saw it as if they were … ‘And 'ere's you, wetting yourself in case this country finally gets you in its grips. There's already rumours that we could end up with military conscription by next year if we're still at war. Then you'll 'ave to go, won't you, whether you like it or not. Then we'll see. I'm bloody ashamed of you, that's what I am.'

So saying, Dad had turned his back on George since then and had hardly spoken to him. But Dad was not going to turn him from his beliefs.

His minister would hand him pamphlets, booklets that he'd written, sometimes in the form of poetry, exquisite poetry that went straight to the heart: gentle patience, control over anger, the ability to turn the other cheek. They made him wish that others could read the message they held, that if all men could understand, there'd be no wars. He'd agreed to hand them out to people, but when he did, all he got were snide remarks and ridicule; usually people tossed the pamphlets to the curb – or back in his face – as they walked off. It was soul destroying, really. But it hadn't shaken his faith and never would.

March 1915

There'd been no word from the newspaper that had interviewed her. So much for talk, getting her all excited. So much for expectation! What had she expected? A factory girl with just an ordinary education … Not even reckoned clever enough to master a filing job. Better to stop dreaming of wonderful things and resign herself to what she was. Besides, she now had much more to think about.

At the weekend Ronnie and Bert had appeared on the doorstep, on twenty-four-hour leave. But excitement had changed moments later to deep concern and, from Mum, tears, as they heard that the two were finally being sent abroad. This was embarkation leave.

Young Ronnie, eighteen just four months ago, now looked so much older than that, as if his youth had been stripped from him overnight. But there had been something else that had disturbed the family, at least her. Hardly had they stepped into the house to be fallen upon by Mum and have their hands mightily shaken by Dad. George made the excuse that he'd planned to be away that weekend with a friend of his and had vanished upstairs to appear a few minutes later with an old case, briefly wishing his brothers well and disappearing out of the house.

Nothing was said, which made it all the more obvious, and painful. And there was no need to guess what they were all thinking – that he had no guts, no guts at all, not even to face his brothers with his so-called beliefs, but had made that pathetic excuse of having made plans. Connie had felt ashamed of him, at the same time deeply embarrassed, and that embarrassment was still with her now.

The thing was, one couldn't go more than a few steps without seeing the recruiting posters on every available wall. Especially the eye-catching one with the handsome colonel with the wonderfully huge moustache and those steady eyes looking into those of everyone who went by, and that steadily pointing finger as if directed at the passer-by personally; underneath the words
YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU.

How could anyone see those posters and ignore the call? Already it had prompted thousands more young men to volunteer, so the newspapers were saying, including her two brothers-in-law, who had now signed up with the wives' understanding, even if they feared what would happen.

And then there was George … But she would not think of George. It made her unhappy to think about him.

He had tried to explain, so he said, but Dad would have none of it and she couldn't blame him. In fact as soon as George walked into the room, Dad would get up and walk out, usually muttering something about him having something else to do; more often than not it would be down the pub.

Mum would be left there, slack-faced and ill at ease. Any attempt of George explaining his beliefs, or any attempt on his part to follow her and explain how he felt, would have her hurrying away to do some household chore or finding some shopping that needed to be done.

But he had explained his reason to Connie, and she found herself feeling for him. Part of her admired the fact that he was prepared to bear the ridicule of his family for something he believed in so strongly. In the current patriotic climate it was far easier to join up than say no and stick to those beliefs. However, she did still feel that it was his pastor who was exerting undue influence on him. Hopefully one day George would see it.

For a long time the atmosphere in the house could have been cut with a knife. But since the boys had left, weighed down by their gear ready to be sent off to France, the house had felt like a mausoleum, even though they'd been stationed away from home for months. The knowledge of their being sent abroad to fight had felt more ominous.

When it was time for them to leave, Mum had been in tears, clinging to them as if she alone might stop them; Dad had solemnly shaken hands with them but looked as if he too wanted to hold them tightly.

Elsie and Lillian, who'd come on the Sunday to say goodbye as though that might be the last time they'd see them, took turns to throw themselves into their brothers' arms, while their husbands shook Bertie and Ronnie's hands, telling them to look after themselves and come back safe.

Connie had dissolved into tears at being held close by each of her wonderful brothers, while Bertie's fiancée, Edie, an engagement ring now on her finger, had stood quietly back, dry-eyed but ashen-faced, too numbed to cry. She'd have her moments of tears standing with her Albert on the railway platform to see him off in privacy, or with as much privacy as any railway station can afford with hundreds of men bidding goodbye to their wives and sweethearts.

Three weeks had passed since they had left, and Connie had been working next to Sybil at that rotten conveyor belt, always with her mind on the hope that maybe tonight a letter from the
London Herald
might be awaiting her to say she had a job there. Some hope!

‘It says in the paper,' Sybil yelled above the rattle of conveyor belts, ‘it says women are being asked to do war work, taking over from the men what's gone off to fight.'

Connie nodded in her direction, one eye on the box coming along. ‘I've read that too.'

‘You know, I think I might have a go at that,' Sybil shouted hoarsely. ‘Anything's better than this bloomin' dead-end job. I'm sick of it. But there was never a choice before. But now there is and despite me dad saying I should hang on to the job I've got, I think I'll take tomorrow off and go and see what's on offer.'

‘I might come along with you,' Connie said on the spur of the moment. She too was sick to death of this unending, soul-destroying job. She was just wasting her time away waiting for those newspaper people to contact her. It was time to take her life in her hands and look for something more rewarding than sticking boxes together.

But with war work, she'd heard that you had to work where you were told: maybe at some machine or other, taking over where the man who usually operated it had left off to join up. She might just be exchanging one factory job for another. Though some women were now delivering milk like her brother had, or doing a post round – though that wouldn't be so bad. It was being said that women were now working as bus conductors, even bus drivers. But she could end up in a factory sewing parachutes or making bombs – hard, dangerous jobs – did she want that? And once in war work it was like being in the army – you wouldn't be allowed to leave just because you didn't like the work.

Not only that but by following Sybil she'd be giving up any chance of accepting any situation the newspaper intended for her. Not that it seemed likely after all this time – if there was a situation at all. That man, that interviewer Mr Clayton, had just been offering her a pipe dream, stupid man! Getting her hopes up like that.

She went home that evening not so much upset as resigned. Why be upset when there'd been no job in the first place? She should have known from the start that an opportunity to use her drawing talents was too good to be true.

It had started to rain, not much, but arriving home, letting herself in by the back door after popping into the loo first to save having to go out there later when it really began to come down, she found her dinner waiting for her on the table. Dad was already halfway through his, but of George there was no sign.

‘Letter came for you around dinner time,' said Mum as she sat down to eat. People round here saw midday as dinner time even though they often had their main meal in the evening, calling it teatime. Apparently better-class people always called their midday meal lunch, their evening meal being dinner.

She stopped eating. ‘A letter? For me?'

Her first thought was that one of her brothers had thought to write a note to her personally and a surge of excitement caught her. Where were they, the two of them? How were they? If they'd had time to write home, they couldn't possibly have been put in any danger.