Heart of War (32 page)

It was difficult to concentrate for eight hours on end, with a lunch break, on work as repetitive and unrewarding as this. Most of the other women working here were younger than she … naturally, for most women of her age were married and by now occupied with the care of children and a house. And they were mostly of the lower class – again, naturally, for the upper class being better educated – though often only through governesses, and in such skills as French poetry, watercolouring, and flower arrangement – looked for war work suited to their talents: they became nurses, drove staff cars and ambulances, or organized other women … as she herself had done, she acknowledged, when she had been running a Tipperary Room and her House Parties. She liked her fellow workers, and had learned much from them, even within the week, about courage and determination. After the whistle went at the end of the shift, many of the women headed for the nearest pub and had a drink before going home – usually a port and lemon, sometimes a small gin, often a tankard of porter. Alice had never been in a pub in her life till now; and she was beginning to enjoy those evening visits, and look forward to them. The women were so like men in that hour – voices raised, singing, back slapping …
My Bob's been made Leading Seaman
…
Fifteen shillings they fined 'er, it's a bleeding shyme … In 'ospital six months and them doctors ready to bury 'er every day, then she ups and walks out
…
No, they never married
…
Thirty-six hours I was, with me first, and no doctor – lost her, poor little mite
…

The whistle on the roof started its shrill blare and a foreman came down the aisles. ‘Six o'clock, six o'clock! Tidy up, tidy up!'

Alice stooped to scrape up some amatol she had spilled on the table and took it, in the carton provided, to the bin at the end of the room; then back to her place, tidied her piece of table, and joined the crowd of other women going towards the exit doors.

Ten minutes later she was walking out of the main gate, thinking of the lemonade she would have at the Star and Garter up the road. A woman and a man were standing beside the factory gate, in the road, shouting and waving pamphlets. ‘Stop the war! Join the Conscientious Objectors! Stop the slaughter of your brothers, husbands, fathers!' She paused, listening. She recognized the man at once as Bert Gorse. He used to work in the factory when it made motor cars, then he'd gone to work for Richard and then there'd been a scandal, and pictures in the papers, because he had shot off his own big toe to avoid military service. And the woman: ah, it was Naomi's friend from Cambridge, Rachel Cowan, who had spent the night in gaol with Naomi for allegedly assaulting the police outside the barracks.

‘Stop the war! Stop the slaughter in France! … Come to the meeting tonight … seven o'clock, outside the Town Hall!'

Rachel's voice was shrill and carried far. Few of the women workers took a pamphlet, several spitting on the ground at the feet of the agitators. Alice went up to the woman and took a pamphlet. She said, ‘You are Rachel Cowan, aren't you? I got you out of the police station last spring.'

The other woman said grudgingly, ‘I remember.'

Alice raised her voice, ‘Naomi's in London with the Women's Volunteer Motor Drivers. She's well.'

Rachel said, ‘I'm glad to hear it. Tell her … Oh, don't bother. She knows … Stop the war! Stop the slaughter! Come to the meeting!'

Alice passed on, as a woman behind her shouted, ‘Shut yer trap, ye dirty bitch! 'Ow dare you, while our men's fighting out there?'

‘But don't you see?' Rachel cried, ‘we're trying to …' Alice heard the woman behind her spit, then an arm hooked into hers, and the same voice said, ‘Come and 'ave a drop of stout with me, luv. Need to wash the taste of them shit-eating bastards out of our mouths, eh?'

The Star and Garter was full to overflowing when they forced their way into the public – like rugby football players, Alice thought; and who could have imagined she'd ever be shoving like this, giggling, arms linked with her friend's, whom she'd never seen before, both pushing together, other women laughing, shouting. ‘Two 'arf pints milk stout,' the woman yelled. ‘No, make it pints, ducks.'

‘Oh, I couldn't …' Alice began.

‘'Course you can! Thirsty work, filling them bleeding shells.' She leaned over two other women and took the pints, black filled, foam topped, from the barmaid. ‘'Ere … down the 'atch! Where's
your
old tin can?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

The woman looked at her more closely, and said, ‘Ah, you're a proper miaow, ain't yer? I asked, where's yer old man, yer husband?'

‘I'm Alice Rowland,' she said, smiling. ‘I'm not married.'

‘Cor stone the crows!' her companion exclaimed. ‘Mr Harry's daughter? Never expected to be 'aving a drink with the likes of you.'

Alice raised her huge glass, ‘Well, here we are anyway. Thank you.'

‘Thank
you
, miss!' The two women drank. Alice could not get the picture of Rachel Cowan and Bert Gorse out of her mind. Perhaps she should go to the meeting and at least hear what they had to say. The war had become so dreadful, the casualty lists quite unbelievable. She had heard it whispered that the British Army had lost 60,000 men killed and wounded on the first day of the Somme battle –
sixty thousand in one day!
And that battle was still raging, three and a half months later.

Her companion said, ‘'Course, I wish the men was 'ome. It's lonely back 'ere for us women, ain't it? 'Tain't right, some'ow … but we don't want 'em back and they don't want to come back till we've shown the bleeding 'Uns wot's wot and 'oos 'oo, eh? … Miss, look, there's a pal of mine, Jimmy Pierson, 'e's an up'olsterer. Married, of course, but 'is wife don't come to the pub with 'im … Jimmy!' She raised her voice – ‘Come 'ere!' The man was small and alert-looking. He had been talking to another man, taller, darker, wearing spectacles, rather pale of face. Both were in their forties, Alice thought, and so safe from conscription.

The one addressed as Jimmy bussed Alice's companion heartily on the cheek, and said, ‘'Ello, ducks … This is my friend, Dave Cowell … Mister David Cowell, M.A., I'd 'ave you know.'

The other man smiled, a little shyly. ‘I'm a schoolmaster.' He looked at Alice, and the other woman quickly said, ‘This is Miss Alice Rowland.'

The schoolmaster said, ‘I thought I recognized you. You came to the school with your father once, when he was giving away prizes.'

She felt an unaccountable need to talk to him about the conscientious objection and anti-conscription movements. She said, in a low voice, hoping her companion would not overhear, ‘Did you see those Conscientious Objector people outside the Shell Filling Factory just now?'

‘Yes,' he said, ‘I'm going to their meeting.'

‘Why?' she asked.

He had a serious face, rather melancholy in repose, but becoming animated when he spoke. His accent was from the Midlands – Birmingham, or the Potteries – and his M.A. was almost certainly not from Oxford or Cambridge, but perhaps from Birmingham University … not a gentleman, though a scholar, and looking quite out of place in the din, the dense tobacco smoke, the clink of glass here. He said, ‘The war's grown too big for anyone to control, apparently. Perhaps it must be stopped, before it destroys everything that makes life worth living. And if it is to be stopped, campaigns of this kind may be the only action that can do it.'

On an impulse she said, ‘May I come with you?'

Then he looked more closely into her eyes. His own were brown, and soft, and suddenly Alice felt a stirring in her body, and she remembered the Petty Officer the night of the dance last year. Her heart turned over, and she answered his look, her lips a little parted, waiting.

Rachel said, ‘That was a good crowd we got this evening, Bert.'

Bert limped over to the fireplace and put on another two lumps of coal. ‘Not bad. I got twelve names and addresses afterwards.'

‘That makes how many so far, in Hedlington?'

‘Thirty-nine, counting us. And do you know who was in
the crowd? Miss Alice Rowland, old Harry's daughter. She was with Cowell, the schoolmaster, he teaches chemistry at the Grammar School by the prison. I knew him before the war.'

‘What were they doing at the meeting?'

‘How the hell should I know? She's an old maid and always will be. He's married – two girls, I think.'

‘Don't be too sure that Miss Alice will die an old maid … She told me that Naomi's in London. There was a picture of her in the paper at her grandmother's funeral. I cut it out.'

‘She was a great friend of yours, once, wasn't she?'

Rachel did not speak for a time, then said, ‘We still could be, if we met. We were very close … But she's an enemy of the working class, an enemy of socialism – she and all her family. We couldn't spend five minutes together now – since I've been with you, since I've come back to my own class – without having a fight … We've got to get this group organized now, Bert. Call in all those people who've signed up, and work out what to do next.'

‘Work out what to do,
then
call them in and tell them,' Bert said.

‘All right. But we need a place to meet, indoors. This'll have to be our office –' she swept her hand round the two-room flat above a stable in North Hedlington where she and Bert had lived together for the last six months – ‘but we must find a meeting place.'

Bert said, ‘Town Hall – they won't let us use it. Odd-fellows – ditto … Big banquet room at the South Eastern, ditto.'

She said, ‘What about a school?'

Neither spoke for a minute, then they said simultaneously, ‘Cowell!'

After a time Rachel said, ‘He's not a headmaster. So he doesn't have the power. And he didn't sign up. … And, Bert, before we decide on any course of action, we should get advice from others, who've been doing this longer. There's a group called the No-Conscription Fellowship, in London. Let's go up and talk to them – join them, perhaps.'

‘How are we going to get to London without any money?' Bert asked angrily. ‘I can't get a job 'cos I shot my bloody toe off. The landlady's trying to throw us out of here 'cos she's found out we're not married.'

Rachel said hesitantly, ‘I have a little money saved up. And … why don't we get married, Bert? It would solve that problem, at least.'

Bert said shortly, ‘Not on your bleeding life!'

‘But why not? Are you against marriage?'

Bert said, more quietly, ‘No, but there isn't anyone who has the
right
to marry me. Why should I give the government the right, or the Church, when they're both capitalist oppressors?'

She said, ‘I was only thinking of convenience. I don't want to leave this place.' She thought, what I do want are love, and peace, and an opportunity to make the working people's lives better; and I'm longing for a sense of security with this man; every woman is, probably, but will any have it, as long as the war lasts?

Bert said, ‘Well, if we get married, it'll be by standing in the field somewhere, or in a factory, with a hammer and sickle in our hands, and declaring that we're married. I'm against the Church and the State.'

Rachel said sharply, ‘You're
against
everything, Bert Gorse. What are you
for
? Try to find out, and tell me, and we'll get on better.'

Betty Merritt waltzed carefully in Ginger Keble-Palmer's arms. They were in the Cat & Mouse, a cellar under a house in Albemarle Street, and now full of officers in uniform and many women, mostly with men, but some unattached. She said to Ginger, ‘I'm surprised the police don't raid this place. They must know that they serve drinks after hours, and harbour prostitutes.'

Ginger started, ‘What? Good heavens, do you think those girls are, what you said?'

Her expression changed and she muttered in Ginger's ear, ‘Not all. The woman dancing with a naval officer, just behind you, is the Marchioness of Jarrow – Florinda Gorse that was.' The band changed to a foxtrot and Ginger wailed, ‘I don't know how …'

‘Take it easy,' she said. ‘I'll teach you. Go soft … follow me … one two … left right, chasse … change step … back, turn, change step … good.' After a few minutes, she said, ‘Let's sit down for a bit. I'm thirsty.'

They sat at a little table at the back of the room, under a
small, lighted sign reading GENTS. Betty eyed Florinda while Ginger ordered drinks – a small brandy and soda for himself and a glass of white wine for her. She must make an opportunity to speak to her. Florinda would know about Fletcher.

Meantime, she needed desperately to talk to someone about Stella and Johnny – but not to Ginger. He was one of the nicest young men she had ever met – brilliant at his work, unassuming, thoughtful, and shy – especially with women. She'd have to find a girl for him, the right sort of girl … but he wasn't sophisticated enough to be able to give her advice in this matter of Stella. Stella, Betty was sure, was drinking secretly … and visiting Hedlington more often than necessary. Why? She certainly wasn't shopping, for she had not bought any new clothes since the wedding. So what was it? Stella needed a baby; that would give her something to do about the house, apart from all the other things a baby meant, or should mean, to a couple in love with each other. Johnny was certainly in love with her, that was for sure.

The band blared a chord and everyone in the room fell silent. The M.C. stood at the edge of the band's little stage and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, and now – the Most Noble, the Marchioness of Jarrow, better known to one and all as … Florinda!'