Free A Step Too Far by Meg Hutchinson Page A

had a ready smile and a cheering word, sometimes even turning a blind eye to some prank, unlike his counterpart Bert Langford; but safety regulations were something he would not suffer to be flaunted and her being here right now was a breach of regulations.
         The sack! What would her mother have to say about that? About the shame of having a member of the family dismissed from their job?
         This could have proved one caper too many, putting her job at risk simply to observe the ‘steamboat’ in action. Alice allowed herself a smile of relief. The creature of her lurid imagination was none other than the ‘steamboat’, the huge steam-operated crane used to lift and carry crates of large shell forgings and cartridge cases out onto waiting transport. Shrouded in secrecy, the removal of armaments taking place only at night under the protective cover of darkness had earned the works the unofficial title of ‘Shadow Factory’. That secrecy was paramount if German spotter planes were not to discover the location of the town’s heavy industrial plants, and secrecy was the more observed by workers being required to take their longer meal break at the time of equipment transportation. ‘What was not seen could not be talked about’ was the criterion by which the ‘Shadow Factory’ was run, and it would be better for her should Isaac Eldon not find out what Alice Butler had seen.
     
    She had not told Jacob about being taken to the police station nor had she mentioned it to Katrin. Now she would not have to. Back in her living room Violet looked at the letter on her lap. It was no use trying to deny having received it: that trick had brought a visit from the police. Try it again and she would go to prison. Those had been the words of the magistrate she had been summoned to appear before.
         ‘ I recognise the distress appearing before this Bench is causing you   . . .’
         Iron grey hair, horn-rimmed spectacles which he had peered over more than through, the magistrate had looked at her from a table set on a dais, his voice firm yet not without sympathy.
         ‘. . . I understand your anxiety   . . .’
         How could he possibly understand how it felt? What being taken to the police station by a uniformed policeman did to a woman like her, the wife of a works manager. She had tried not to see the stares of people they had passed on that walk along Spring Head, tried to ignore the gossip as she had crossed the Market Place, but every step had been utterly humiliating. Then, a week later she had been summoned to attend the Magistrates’ Court at Wolverhampton.
         ‘. . . now you too must understand   . . .’
         Words which had burned like living flame in her mind flared again.
         ‘. . . you have three times been notified of compulsory registration for ancillary duty, for work outside of your home and which for reasons we need no further discuss you failed to do. Therefore, it is now my duty to inform you, Mrs Hawley  . . . that should you fail to comply with the order issued by this court then I will have no other option than to have you confined to prison for the duration of the war .’
         The order had come yesterday. Violet touched the envelope lying in her lap.
         ‘. . . you are ordered to report  . . .’
         Each word was like some physical entity imprisoning her limbs so she could not move. There was no mistake.
         ‘. . . you are ordered to report  . . .’
         There was no need to check again, the words of the official document danced on her vision.
         ‘. . . to the Personnel department of  . . . TITAN ENGINEERING, DARLASTON.’
         How could the government send her there? How could they expect her to work in a place that would have her clothes stinking like those of women she was sometimes forced to stand alongside when they had dashed from the factory to the shop during their midday break? It was