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Authors: Kate Thompson
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cheeks and fluffing her hair, she smiled sweetly. ‘Life’s for the living, and trust me, I intend to
live it.’
Before Vera had a chance to respond, a chorus of whistles flooded the factory floor as Sal sat down behind her machine.
‘Been out soldiering again, girls, have we?’ piped up Pat, her face wreathed in a wicked smile. ‘Any more of that and you’ll end up with a reputation as a soldier’s
groundsheet. Just watch your step, girls.’
Mr Gladstone strode onto the factory floor and silenced Pat with a glare.
All right, ladies. Tea break’s over,’ he boomed. ‘Back to work. And how about a bit of “Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty” while you’re at it? I haven’t
heard that in a while. And make it nice and loud so everyone can hear. Come on, let’s show ‘em what we’re made of.’
‘Right you are, Mr Gladstone,’ chirruped Daisy, who never needed an excuse to show off her beautiful singing voice.
Vera nodded, satisfied at the sight of the women resuming work, and was just about to return to her duties when Mr Gladstone pulled her back gently.
‘I heard about your row with Daisy last night,’ he said.
Her face clouded. ‘Nothing I can’t handle, Mr Gladstone,’ she snapped defensively.
‘I know. But she’s only young still. She didn’t mean it. She loves the bones of you. Everyone does.’ His gruff voice softened. ‘You’re not the only one with a
nickname,’ he smiled. ‘I know they all call me Mr Patch.’ He grinned and tapped his bald patch. ‘On the subject of which, I do wish you’d call me Archie and not Mr
Gladstone. Makes me feel even more ancient than I am. I’m only forty-five, you know.’
Vera’s proud face stiffened. ‘I don’t wish to suspend formalities, thank you.’ She bristled. ‘We may be fighting a war, but that’s no reason not to uphold
standards.’ Vera straightened herself up. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, we’ve at least a dozen bundles waiting to be signed off.’
‘Of course,’ Mr Gladstone mumbled, flushing red. ‘But I’m still here if you need me. To talk . . .’ His voice trailed off as he nervously smoothed down his hair.
‘So, how many bundles did we get through this morning?’ he said briskly.
Much to Vera’s relief, they got back to the business of the day.
*
Back at her workbench, Poppy’s slight fingers trembled as she tried and failed to thread a needle. Factory life went on around her as usual, but inside, her mind was in
ceaseless turmoil. She had watched in wonder Daisy and Sal’s confidence around the American soldiers. They handled themselves with such aplomb and poise, as if all the world were their stage.
If it had been her, she would have been a gibbering wreck.
Every situation Poppy found herself in seemed to scare her senseless. What hope had she of meeting a man when she could barely string a sentence together without stuttering or flushing? Would
she ever meet a man who didn’t frighten her, or for that matter find the confidence to deal with men like Frank? Why did she not possess even one ounce of Daisy’s beauty or assurance?
Perhaps her mother was right: maybe she really didn’t know how to do anything but skivvy.
At the thought of her mother, Poppy’s heart broke all over again. In the short time she had been here, she had already realized her cool behaviour towards her only daughter hadn’t
been right. She had cast her out into this strange new world with not so much as a by-your-leave. Vera had shown more maternal instinct towards her in the past twenty-four hours than her own mother
had in sixteen years, and now what? How on earth was she to cope living alone in complicated, bomb-shattered London? Life below stairs in a scullery hadn’t prepared her for this. The thought
of a future alone here in the East End scared her rigid.
Suddenly, the thread in her hand snapped as she tugged it too hard.
‘Oh, dash it all,’ she mumbled, tears filling her eyes. ‘I’m such a
live it.’
Before Vera had a chance to respond, a chorus of whistles flooded the factory floor as Sal sat down behind her machine.
‘Been out soldiering again, girls, have we?’ piped up Pat, her face wreathed in a wicked smile. ‘Any more of that and you’ll end up with a reputation as a soldier’s
groundsheet. Just watch your step, girls.’
Mr Gladstone strode onto the factory floor and silenced Pat with a glare.
All right, ladies. Tea break’s over,’ he boomed. ‘Back to work. And how about a bit of “Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty” while you’re at it? I haven’t
heard that in a while. And make it nice and loud so everyone can hear. Come on, let’s show ‘em what we’re made of.’
‘Right you are, Mr Gladstone,’ chirruped Daisy, who never needed an excuse to show off her beautiful singing voice.
Vera nodded, satisfied at the sight of the women resuming work, and was just about to return to her duties when Mr Gladstone pulled her back gently.
‘I heard about your row with Daisy last night,’ he said.
Her face clouded. ‘Nothing I can’t handle, Mr Gladstone,’ she snapped defensively.
‘I know. But she’s only young still. She didn’t mean it. She loves the bones of you. Everyone does.’ His gruff voice softened. ‘You’re not the only one with a
nickname,’ he smiled. ‘I know they all call me Mr Patch.’ He grinned and tapped his bald patch. ‘On the subject of which, I do wish you’d call me Archie and not Mr
Gladstone. Makes me feel even more ancient than I am. I’m only forty-five, you know.’
Vera’s proud face stiffened. ‘I don’t wish to suspend formalities, thank you.’ She bristled. ‘We may be fighting a war, but that’s no reason not to uphold
standards.’ Vera straightened herself up. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, we’ve at least a dozen bundles waiting to be signed off.’
‘Of course,’ Mr Gladstone mumbled, flushing red. ‘But I’m still here if you need me. To talk . . .’ His voice trailed off as he nervously smoothed down his hair.
‘So, how many bundles did we get through this morning?’ he said briskly.
Much to Vera’s relief, they got back to the business of the day.
*
Back at her workbench, Poppy’s slight fingers trembled as she tried and failed to thread a needle. Factory life went on around her as usual, but inside, her mind was in
ceaseless turmoil. She had watched in wonder Daisy and Sal’s confidence around the American soldiers. They handled themselves with such aplomb and poise, as if all the world were their stage.
If it had been her, she would have been a gibbering wreck.
Every situation Poppy found herself in seemed to scare her senseless. What hope had she of meeting a man when she could barely string a sentence together without stuttering or flushing? Would
she ever meet a man who didn’t frighten her, or for that matter find the confidence to deal with men like Frank? Why did she not possess even one ounce of Daisy’s beauty or assurance?
Perhaps her mother was right: maybe she really didn’t know how to do anything but skivvy.
At the thought of her mother, Poppy’s heart broke all over again. In the short time she had been here, she had already realized her cool behaviour towards her only daughter hadn’t
been right. She had cast her out into this strange new world with not so much as a by-your-leave. Vera had shown more maternal instinct towards her in the past twenty-four hours than her own mother
had in sixteen years, and now what? How on earth was she to cope living alone in complicated, bomb-shattered London? Life below stairs in a scullery hadn’t prepared her for this. The thought
of a future alone here in the East End scared her rigid.
Suddenly, the thread in her hand snapped as she tugged it too hard.
‘Oh, dash it all,’ she mumbled, tears filling her eyes. ‘I’m such a
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