Free Rosie Goes to War by Alison Knight Page A

don’t seem to have any trouble communicating. I realise they’re probably lip-reading, which I can’t do, so I have no idea what’s going on. May shouts in my ear. ‘Mrs Bloomfield will show you what to do.’ She gives me a thumbs up and walks over to a machine half way down the room, waving to a couple of other girls as she goes. I stand there, not sure what to do. Mrs Bloomfield is talking to me but the noise is crazy in here.
    â€˜I’m sorry? What did you say?’ I ask.
    She leans closer. ‘I said, you done any sewing before?’
    â€˜No. Never.’
    She shakes her head and mutters something. She gestures for me to sit at an empty workstation at the front of the room. Mrs Bloomfield leans over and flicks a switch. The motor starts to vibrate, and a light comes on, illuminating the area where the cloth goes under the needle.
    â€˜Here, try this.’ She gives me a piece of scrap cloth, shouting in my ear. ‘Just try and sew a straight line for starters.’
    I look around at the others, trying to work out how they do it. The girl sitting next to me gives me a friendly smile before she turns back to her work. As I watch she pushes a lever up to raise the metal foot which holds the material in place, and pulls it down again to secure the next piece.
    OK, I can do this. I do exactly what the other girl did. But once I’ve got the material in place I can’t for the life of me figure out how to make the machine work. I look at the girl again, but have no idea how she’s doing it.
    â€˜Use your foot,’ Mrs Bloomfield shouts in my ear, making me jump. She points to the floor.
    Oh, I see now. There’s a metal plate down there, like an oversized foot pedal for a car. A quick glance to the side and I see how the other girls are operating their machines by pressing down on it. I have a go, but pull back with a scream as my machine roars into life, shooting the material out of my hands. Whoa, that was fast! There’s a lull around me as the others lifted their feet, leaving their machines idling as they stop to watch the new girl making a mess of her first attempt at sewing. A couple of the girls, including May, look sympathetic, others giggle. The older women smirk and get back to their work. I’ll bet Nelly is having a right laugh at me. But I won’t look – I won’t give her the satisfaction. I’m embarrassed enough as it is.
    â€˜Here, I’ll show you. Shift your backside,’ says Mrs Bloomfield. I get up and she sits down. ‘Watch what I do. Then you can spend half an hour practicing with scraps. Once you get the hang of it, I’ll give you your first batch of seams to do.’
    I watch carefully as she shows me how to control the material as it goes under the needle while using her foot to control the speed of the machine.
    â€˜Got that? Right, work on them scraps in the bin there. Mind you don’t get too close to the needle – we’re too busy to waste time taking you to the hospital to get a punctured finger sorted out. Give us a shout when you run out of thread, and I’ll show you how to put a new reel and bobbin on.’
    Left alone, I slowly get the hang of the machine. I reckon if I treat it like a computer game, it’ll be easier. I just have to keep my eye on the needle and concentrate on coordinating my hands and feet. That’s it, easy. I block out the noise and distractions and soon I’m sewing straight lines of neat stitches.
    By the time we stop for a tea break, I’m well into my first batch of seams. I’m not sure where the small pieces of fabric will end up on a soldier’s uniform, but I’m quite enjoying myself.
    â€˜You getting on all right?’ asks May.
    â€˜Yeah,’ I say. ‘No worries.’
    â€˜Do what? You always talk funny. Anyway, come and meet the girls.’ I follow her to the end of the machine room, where everyone is getting