on the document nestling in her coat pocket. So it must be the way she had planned earlier, a withdrawal of labour. She would simply refuse to do any of her chores: Alice Butler would go on strike.
‘Strike!’ Becky had giggled while listening to her friend relate her lunch time visit to the Labour Exchange Office but now hearing the conclusion Alice had determined earlier, the laughter faded.
‘Strike!’ she repeated, ‘you can’t do that, you can’t leave your mother to do all that extra housework herself.’
That was exactly the thoughts her mother would have. Alice’s smile died. Her mother would not be beaten that way, she would simply set Mary to do the tasks she refused. Alice caught her lip on the guilt. Although not quite fourteen, Mary it would be and not one of their brothers. Though older and stronger they would not be called upon to lift a finger in the house; ‘men went out to work, they earned the bread, they could not be expected to do a woman’s work.’ So what the hell was she doing? Alice felt chagrin rise hot in her throat. What was she and thousands like her doing if not a man’s work? Wasn’t she in a factory day or night as shifts called for? Didn’t she stand as many hours, produce as many bolts as any man? Yes she bloody did, and still she was expected to do half the household chores when she got home.
‘If you refuse to help out at home might your mum refuse to give you pocket money?’
There was no ‘might’ about it. Alice recognised the flaw in her plan. Half a crown was nothing compared to the pocket money Kate Hawley got but it was the one means Alice had of expressing herself, the one and only way of deciding for herself the things she could have; the very occasional pair of silk stockings, the even rarer bottle of perfume, the lipstick, all of the treats her mother decreed as being ‘frippery, a waste of good money’. Well, self expression she could live without until she came of age, after that her mother would have no hold over her. But in the meantime Mary would carry the burden she laid down. It was wrong to do that to her sister. Guilt flickered again in Alice.
Having led the way from the factory, blowing a cheeky kiss to the elderly gatekeeper as they passed, Becky resumed her cautionary advice.
‘You should think a bit longer about what to do,’ she said joining the interminable bus queue, ‘I mean, even given the money we are allowed to keep we can’t buy all the things we would like, but not having anything, that’ll be awful!’
‘It won’t be pleasant.’ Alice felt in her pocket for the return bus ticket she had bought that morning.
‘Then don’t do it, the factory isn’t that bad.’
‘ The factory isn’t that bad! ’
Lying in the bed she shared with Mary, Becky’s words rang in Alice’s mind.
‘. . . isn’t that bad .’
She sucked in a long hard breath. The constant noise of machinery, the stink of slurry, that mixture of oil and water which clung to the air, which tasted on the tongue, seeped into every pore of the skin ’til it felt you were wrapped in a foul smelling shroud . . . that wasn’t bad? Maybe not for Becky, but there was better for Alice Butler and she had to try for it.
The Women’s Land Army. Memory flipped her back to the Labour Exchange Office. The woman she had spoken to there had said that division of the Voluntary Services was crying out for girls to join, maybe they wouldn’t bother about parental consent. But the Land Army, that had been rejected even as it had been mooted and Alice rejected it again. Shovelling animal muck and grubbing in fields, where was the glamour in that? The ATS, the Auxiliary Training Service? Better than the Land Army but not so appealing as the WRNS or the WAAF, those uniforms were very fetching, she would look good in either.
But there would be all that yes
‘Strike!’ Becky had giggled while listening to her friend relate her lunch time visit to the Labour Exchange Office but now hearing the conclusion Alice had determined earlier, the laughter faded.
‘Strike!’ she repeated, ‘you can’t do that, you can’t leave your mother to do all that extra housework herself.’
That was exactly the thoughts her mother would have. Alice’s smile died. Her mother would not be beaten that way, she would simply set Mary to do the tasks she refused. Alice caught her lip on the guilt. Although not quite fourteen, Mary it would be and not one of their brothers. Though older and stronger they would not be called upon to lift a finger in the house; ‘men went out to work, they earned the bread, they could not be expected to do a woman’s work.’ So what the hell was she doing? Alice felt chagrin rise hot in her throat. What was she and thousands like her doing if not a man’s work? Wasn’t she in a factory day or night as shifts called for? Didn’t she stand as many hours, produce as many bolts as any man? Yes she bloody did, and still she was expected to do half the household chores when she got home.
‘If you refuse to help out at home might your mum refuse to give you pocket money?’
There was no ‘might’ about it. Alice recognised the flaw in her plan. Half a crown was nothing compared to the pocket money Kate Hawley got but it was the one means Alice had of expressing herself, the one and only way of deciding for herself the things she could have; the very occasional pair of silk stockings, the even rarer bottle of perfume, the lipstick, all of the treats her mother decreed as being ‘frippery, a waste of good money’. Well, self expression she could live without until she came of age, after that her mother would have no hold over her. But in the meantime Mary would carry the burden she laid down. It was wrong to do that to her sister. Guilt flickered again in Alice.
Having led the way from the factory, blowing a cheeky kiss to the elderly gatekeeper as they passed, Becky resumed her cautionary advice.
‘You should think a bit longer about what to do,’ she said joining the interminable bus queue, ‘I mean, even given the money we are allowed to keep we can’t buy all the things we would like, but not having anything, that’ll be awful!’
‘It won’t be pleasant.’ Alice felt in her pocket for the return bus ticket she had bought that morning.
‘Then don’t do it, the factory isn’t that bad.’
‘ The factory isn’t that bad! ’
Lying in the bed she shared with Mary, Becky’s words rang in Alice’s mind.
‘. . . isn’t that bad .’
She sucked in a long hard breath. The constant noise of machinery, the stink of slurry, that mixture of oil and water which clung to the air, which tasted on the tongue, seeped into every pore of the skin ’til it felt you were wrapped in a foul smelling shroud . . . that wasn’t bad? Maybe not for Becky, but there was better for Alice Butler and she had to try for it.
The Women’s Land Army. Memory flipped her back to the Labour Exchange Office. The woman she had spoken to there had said that division of the Voluntary Services was crying out for girls to join, maybe they wouldn’t bother about parental consent. But the Land Army, that had been rejected even as it had been mooted and Alice rejected it again. Shovelling animal muck and grubbing in fields, where was the glamour in that? The ATS, the Auxiliary Training Service? Better than the Land Army but not so appealing as the WRNS or the WAAF, those uniforms were very fetching, she would look good in either.
But there would be all that yes
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