Free Rosie Goes to War by Alison Knight

far. I imagine it’s going to be like something out of a Dickens adaptation inside – all dark and miserable. I really don’t fancy working here, it must be so depressing.
    Nelly tells May to take me to the office. She glares at me with her schoolteacher look and says, ‘Behave yourself, and watch that mouth of yours,’ and then stalks off. I want to poke my tongue out at her, but as she’s not looking it would be a bit pointless.
    May takes me up some old wooden stairs. I can hear the hum of machinery from somewhere down below, and in the office there’s a lady bashing away at a really old typewriter. Weird. She’s using all of her fingers to type, like Mum does. She tried to teach me, but I couldn’t be bothered. Maybe I should have had a go – this lady is typing really quick, even on the dinosaur machine. It looks impressive.
    Everything is old and shabby in here, even the woman at the desk. She’s got grey hair done up in a bun and some of those glasses that sit on the end of your nose so it looks like you’re not even using them. The only colour in the room is the red lipstick she’s wearing on her thin lips.
    â€˜Morning, Mrs Blenkinsopp,’ says May. ‘This is the new girl what’s been billeted with us.’
    Mrs Blenkinsopp stops typing and looks at us over the top of her glasses. ‘Name?’
    â€˜Rose Smith,’ I say, before May calls me Queenie.
    â€˜Papers please.’
    â€˜What papers?’ I ask.
    â€˜I need to check your identity card, and your appointment letter from the Ministry of Works.’
    â€˜Oh, right. I left them in my suitcase.’
    Mrs Blenkinsopp looks cross. ‘You should have your identity card with you at all times. It’s the law.’
    Oh crap. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot. Can I bring them in tomorrow?’ With any luck I’ll be gone by then.
    â€˜I’ll make sure she brings them, Mrs Blenkinsopp,’ says May. ‘It was a bit of a rush this morning, what with being up most of the night with the raid and all.’
    Mrs Blenkinsopp sighs. ‘Very well. But don’t leave the house without your identity card again. Bring it with your letter tomorrow morning without fail.’
    â€˜Yes, Mrs Blenkinsopp,’ I say. ‘I won’t forget.’
    We clatter down the stairs and May takes me to the cloakroom where we leave our stuff. I put on the overalls that May has lent me. If I stay around I’ll probably have to buy some. Luckily May and I are about the same size, except I’m a little bit taller, so these fit fine. In fact, we look more like sisters than May and Nelly do. It’s in the genes, I suppose. I can’t help smiling, thinking how May would freak out if she knew I was her granddaughter.
    My smile slips a bit as I follow her through the door into the workshop. The noise hits me first – an angry buzz like a million gigantic bees. The air smells of machine oil and there’s cotton dust everywhere. The room is filled with row after row of sewing machines, with great big spools of cotton spinning away above them, reminding me of surgical drips over patients’ beds. There’s a woman at each machine, hard at work, their hands guiding khaki cloth through the machines, snipping the threads as they get to the end of the seam, and then throwing their work into a large basket one side of their workstation. Then they pick up the next pieces from an identical basket on the other side and sew the same seams. They work quickly, not stopping to chat. As the baskets fill, a couple of young boys run amongst them, picking the piles of work out of baskets and moving them along to the next row. I spot Nelly towards the back of the room, head down, the cloth shooting through her machine like lightening.
    May grabs my arm and drags me over to the desk at the front where the supervisor is sitting. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they