The Grafton Girls - Annie Groves [49]
‘We can’t do owt but go on,’ Ruthie had heard their neighbour saying. ‘Hitler won’t give up until he has us by the throat or we’ve beaten him, and I know which I’m putting my money on. Our lads can do it and, by golly, I intend to make sure that I do all I can to help them here at home.’
His were sentiments that Ruthie knew many of her parents’ generation supported. They had sons fighting for their country, after all, and daughters praying for their safety. Some of the younger generation, though – especially the girls who were having to live with the reality of rationing, and the absence of the country’s young men – were beginning to chaff resentfully against the restrictions the war had brought. And now with the Americans arriving in increasing numbers, the gulf between the way they were having to live and the way their allies were able to live sometimes seemed to be dividing the women of the country into two opposing camps: one that welcomed the arrival of the Americans, and one that was bitterly opposed to it.
Ruthie knew which camp she belonged to, and besides, it was more the older generation that disapproved of the Americans, she suspected, fearing the effect they might have on young women having to live without their own men.
‘Give us your key this afternoon, when we go off shift, then. I’m volunteering to work overtime on Sunday, so I can put me stuff in your locker then and I’ll give yer your key back on Monday morning.’
Ruthie nodded. The foreman was looking at them, and she didn’t want him coming over. Only yesterday he had praised her for the speed she was developing at filling the shells. His praise had given her a warm glow of pride. It bucked a person up no end to know they were doing their bit. Every shell she filled was helping their men to do their job, and every one they didn’t fill properly was making it harder for them to do that job. That was what the foreman was constantly telling them, and Ruthie had taken his words to heart. But when she imagined someone using ‘her’ shells, that someone was wearing an American uniform not a British one. Would he be there again this Saturday? And if he was, would he ask her to dance again? She could hardly breathe for the bubbles of excitement fizzing inside her tummy.
‘So you won’t be coming to Blackpool this evening, then?’
‘No. I won’t be off duty until eight and, to tell the truth, Myra, I really don’t want anything to do with the Americans. Not after what happened last Saturday.’
‘If I was you, I wouldn’t make so much of it,’ Myra told Diane carelessly. ‘It was just a bit of fun, that’s all.’
‘Just a bit of fun that nearly cost me my job and certainly cost me the respect of the other girls,’ Diane pointed out quietly.
‘Oh, don’t be so prissy. So you had a bit too much to drink? So what?’
Diane shook her head. Myra’s attitude underlined how very differently they felt about things. But they were billeted together, and being in the WAAF taught one to stick by one’s colleagues, even when you didn’t agree with what they were doing.
‘You were lucky to get someone to give up their Saturday night off and switch shifts with you,’ Diane commented, as she checked her reflection in the small mirror in their shared bedroom.
‘Well, as to that,’ Myra paused, ‘the truth is that I couldn’t get anyone to change with, so I’ve decided to play wag and just not go in.’
‘You can’t mean that!’ Diane said incredulously.
‘Why not? Other girls are off sick all the time.’ She picked up her hairbrush and started fiddling with her hair, avoiding meeting Diane’s appalled look.
‘Off sick, yes, but you aren’t sick. You can’t just pretend that you are so that you can go off to Blackpool, Myra. It’s wrong.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I might have known you’d start moralising.’ Myra banged down her hairbrush. ‘Look, I’m going to Blackpool with Nick, and nothing and no one is going to stop me. I’ve got to go, Diane. If I don’t…well, Nick isn’t the type who is going to hang around waiting for a girl when