Rosie Goes to War (8 page)

‘I'm sorry? What did you say?' I ask.

She leans closer. ‘I said, you done any sewing before?'

‘No. Never.'

She shakes her head and mutters something. She gestures for me to sit at an empty workstation at the front of the room. Mrs Bloomfield leans over and flicks a switch. The motor starts to vibrate, and a light comes on, illuminating the area where the cloth goes under the needle.

‘Here, try this.' She gives me a piece of scrap cloth, shouting in my ear. ‘Just try and sew a straight line for starters.'

I look around at the others, trying to work out how they do it. The girl sitting next to me gives me a friendly smile before she turns back to her work. As I watch she pushes a lever up to raise the metal foot which holds the material in place, and pulls it down again to secure the next piece.

OK, I can do this. I do exactly what the other girl did. But once I've got the material in place I can't for the life of me figure out how to make the machine work. I look at the girl again, but have no idea how she's doing it.

‘Use your foot,' Mrs Bloomfield shouts in my ear, making me jump. She points to the floor.

Oh, I see now. There's a metal plate down there, like an oversized foot pedal for a car. A quick glance to the side and I see how the other girls are operating their machines by pressing down on it. I have a go, but pull back with a scream as my machine roars into life, shooting the material out of my hands. Whoa, that was fast! There's a lull around me as the others lifted their feet, leaving their machines idling as they stop to watch the new girl making a mess of her first attempt at sewing. A couple of the girls, including May, look sympathetic, others giggle. The older women smirk and get back to their work. I'll bet Nelly is having a right laugh at me. But I won't look – I won't give her the satisfaction. I'm embarrassed enough as it is.

‘Here, I'll show you. Shift your backside,' says Mrs Bloomfield. I get up and she sits down. ‘Watch what I do. Then you can spend half an hour practicing with scraps. Once you get the hang of it, I'll give you your first batch of seams to do.'

I watch carefully as she shows me how to control the material as it goes under the needle while using her foot to control the speed of the machine.

‘Got that? Right, work on them scraps in the bin there. Mind you don't get too close to the needle – we're too busy to waste time taking you to the hospital to get a punctured finger sorted out. Give us a shout when you run out of thread, and I'll show you how to put a new reel and bobbin on.'

Left alone, I slowly get the hang of the machine. I reckon if I treat it like a computer game, it'll be easier. I just have to keep my eye on the needle and concentrate on coordinating my hands and feet. That's it, easy. I block out the noise and distractions and soon I'm sewing straight lines of neat stitches.

By the time we stop for a tea break, I'm well into my first batch of seams. I'm not sure where the small pieces of fabric will end up on a soldier's uniform, but I'm quite enjoying myself.

‘You getting on all right?' asks May.

‘Yeah,' I say. ‘No worries.'

‘Do what? You always talk funny. Anyway, come and meet the girls.' I follow her to the end of the machine room, where everyone is getting large mugs of tea from a lady with a trolley. I'd rather have a cappuccino, but didn't dare say so. Instead I drink the tea gratefully. The dust from the cloth, plus the smell of the oil used to grease the machines, has made my throat dry and I've got a nasty taste in my mouth. The hot drink, even though it's that horrible sterilized milk again, makes me feel much better.

‘Everyone, this is Queenie,' May introduces me.

‘It's Rosie actually,' I say.

There's a chorus of groans. ‘Not another one.'

‘Yeah, that's why we're calling her Queenie,' says Nelly, and everyone nods.

‘Good idea.'

I give up. I won't be able to hear anyone call me Queenie at work anyway as it's so flipping noisy most of the time.

I soon lose track of all their names. There's Daisy, the three Roses I'd already been told about, Elsie, Betty, Eileen, Doris, Ivy, Esther and Sadie, and loads more.

‘You'll soon get to know everyone,' says May.

They're a nosy lot – they want to know how old I am, where I come from, have I got a boyfriend? I can feel myself blushing as I think about Simon. Not that he's my boyfriend, but I have fancied him forever, and he was finally starting to notice me – until Jess got her claws into him. I can't believe she did that, knowing how much I like him.

In a way, being here in 1940 is what my Gran would call a Blessing in Disguise. I won't have to see them, no one can phone me, and Facebook hasn't even been invented yet so I won't have to face the humiliation of seeing Jess change her status to ‘
in a relationship
' and post loads of pics of her and Simon snogging. Time travel is a seriously drastic way of escaping all that, but I suppose it's good to have some breathing space until I can come to terms with my best friend's betrayal and my broken heart.

But what if I can never see any of them again? Oh crap, isn't life confusing enough without all this? Someone coughs. They're all looking at me.

‘No, I don't have a boyfriend,' I say.

‘You can have mine, love,' says one of the girls. ‘I've been trying to get rid of him for ages.'

‘Christ, you don't want him,' says someone else. ‘He's barely house-trained.' Everyone laughs and suggest different potential boyfriends for me.

‘My son's house-trained.'

‘Yeah, but he's only twelve.'

‘Take my brother – soon as he gets married I get his bedroom. I'm sick of sharing with my dozy sister.'

‘I expect you've got your eye out for a nice boy in uniform.'

‘Thanks, but I'll pass,' I say.

The girl who smiled at me earlier is Esther, and she's the only one apart from me who doesn't have a Cockney accent. She's one of the quieter ones. She seems nice though, and laughs with the rest of us. I think she's foreign, but don't have time to ask before we have to get back to work.

A couple of hours later we stop for lunch – a revolting sandwich made of bread that tastes like cardboard and an unidentifiable filling. I decide not to complain though as Nelly made it for me. When she gives it to me she says, ‘I don't suppose it's what you're used to, but it's all you're gonna get while we have to manage on rations.'

I can see she's waiting for me to moan about it so she can have a go at me. Well I won't give her the satisfaction. Instead I smile and say ‘Thanks Nelly. It was kind of you to make it for me.'

Nelly narrows her eyes, still not trusting me. I want to laugh, but just keep on smiling. It feels good to confuse her. I remember how the old Nelly – sorry Eleanor – kept staring at me, making me feel uncomfortable. Well, now it's my turn and even though Nelly has no idea what's going on it makes me feel like I've got the upper hand for a change.

I struggle to finish the sandwich though: it really is nasty. I hope it's not going to be the same every day. I think about the money in the purse. Maybe I can find a shop round here and buy a choccie bar or something? Anything to get rid of the taste of the cardboard.

‘How long have we got? Is there time for me to have a walk?'

‘What d'you want to go walking for?' asks Nelly. ‘It's freezing out there, and anyway, we only get half an hour.'

I shrug. ‘I just want to get some fresh air. I've only been outside in the dark, I'm starting to feel like a vampire.'

She rolls her eyes and looks up at the clock on the wall. ‘Well you've got fifteen minutes, so don't go far.'

‘OK,' I say. ‘I'd better get a move on.' There must be a little shop round here somewhere. I wonder if they had Snickers Bars in 1940? Mmm, my mouth is watering just thinking about it!

‘Hang on, Queenie,' says May. ‘I'll come with you.'

We grab our coats as a couple of the older women shout after me. ‘Had enough, Queenie, love?'

‘You can't get rid of me that easy,' I say over my shoulder, giving them my best Terminator impression. ‘I'll be back.' Behind me I can hear them asking each other what I'm like, and Nelly saying ‘I told you she was daft.' Me and May laugh and keep going. Out on the street, we links arms like we're besties. It feels good – weird but good.

We don't go far. We turn a couple of corners and then stop dead. In front of us are piles and piles of rubble. All the buildings have been destroyed. I can hardly see where the road is. People are milling around, sorting out anything that's useable. Someone is watching over a bonfire of stuff they can't save. An old woman is sitting on a chair in the middle of it all, a blanket wrapped round her legs and another round her shoulders. Next to her is a small pile of stuff – clothes, shoes, pictures in cracked frames, a couple of candlesticks. She's calling out to a younger woman who is searching through the rubble.

‘See if you can find a kettle, girl. We need a kettle. And a couple of saucepans.'

‘What's the point, Ma? We ain't got a kitchen no more. How we gonna boil a kettle?'

‘The Council will rehouse us, don't you worry. You need to dig out our stuff ready for a new place.'

The girl stands up and wipes her face with her sleeve. It leaves a dirty mark on her cheek. ‘I told you Ma, everyone round here's in the same boat. The Council ain't got enough places for everyone. We'll have to go to the centre in Bethnal Green, like the neighbours did.'

The old woman crosses her arms and shakes her head. ‘I heard about that place. It ain't no better than the workhouse. You go if you want. I'm staying here.'

‘Don't be daft. It's bleeding freezing, and there ain't nothing worth staying here for. Come on, Ma. If we don't hurry up it'll be full.'

They look so upset. I can't imagine what I'd do if our house was wrecked and all my stuff ruined. And I know I'd hate to have to go and stay at some centre with a load of strangers. It must be like a refugee camp or something. I've seen loads of those on telly – mainly around Africa or the Middle East. Thousands of tents and people queuing up for food and water, and flies crawling all over starving children. OK, I know it has to be different here – probably a school hall, and you won't get flies in England at this time of year. But I can still understand why she hates the idea.

The girl looks like she's going to cry. She stands in the rubble looking lost. When she sees us staring at her she gets mad and shouts at us to clear off. ‘Who the bloody hell d'you think you are, gawping at us like we're bloody zoo animals? Sod off!'

‘Come on, Queenie,' says May.

‘Can't we help them?'

‘Not much we can do. And anyway, we've got to get back to work.'

‘I hope they'll be OK.'

‘Yeah. As our old mum used to say, “There but for grace of God go I.” It could be us next.'

‘My dad says that too.' He must have got that from Gran. He says it every time there's a disaster on the telly. I really wish he was here now.

We turn round and go back the way we came. I don't blame the girl for having a go at us. I didn't mean to be so nosy, but I was just so shocked by the horrible mess the bombs made. This morning it was too dark to see. Or maybe I was so wrapped up in myself that I just didn't notice. God, that makes me sound really selfish.

‘Hallo, ladies.'

There's a guy blocking our path who looks like something out of an old gangster movie. He not much older than us, but I've never seen anything like it in real life – pinstripe suit which looks too big for his skinny body, slicked-back black hair and a really dodgy moustache – like he'd drawn it on with an eyebrow pencil.

I'm trying not to laugh, but May seems impressed.

‘Well look who it is. Where'd you spring from? I ain't seen you around lately.'

He shrugs. ‘Been busy.'

Yeah, 'course you have, I think. Busy standing in front of the mirror.

‘You going down the Palais tomorrow night?' May asks him. ‘They got a new dance contest. I fancy having a go, if I can find the right partner.'

Whoa, May's getting all flirty! I can't believe she's batting her eyelids at this guy, he's so unattractive. But she is, and he's lapping it up.

‘Reckon you can keep up with me, do ya?' he says.

‘I didn't say I'd dance with you, Billy boy. I just said I'm looking for the right partner. Jock's already offered.'

Hang on, what did she call him? No, it can't be.

He laughs. ‘You won't win nothing with that dollop. He ain't got no style. No, you want a fella with a bit of flair. You need me if you want to win that prize, girl.'

‘Hark at you, Flash Harry. Cocky so and so, ain't you? I'll think about it, that's all I'm saying.'

Phew, thank God. He's called Harry. For a minute there, I thought she said Billy.

He smiles, revealing a row of yellow teeth. ‘You do that, darling. But don't take too long. I might ask your friend here.' He nods in my direction and winks at me. ‘All right, sweetheart? I ain't never seen you round here. I'd've noticed a lovely girl like you.'

Really? Am I supposed to be impressed?

‘What's your name then?'

‘I'm Queenie,' I'd rather not to give him my real name. ‘And I don't dance, thanks.' Well, not with him anyway. He's definitely not my type. ‘May, are our fifteen minutes up yet?'

‘Oh blimey, I forgot the time,' she says. ‘Come on then, we'll have to run. Might see you later.'

‘If you're lucky,' he calls after us.

Unlucky more like. May giggles and waves.

‘Great dancer, that feller,' she says, answering my unspoken question. ‘A bit flash, but he's all right really.'