A Girl in Wartime by Maggie Ford Page A

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!
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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