Free Wives at War by Jessica Stirling Page B

a—’
    â€˜Babs!’
    â€˜You’re standing there freezin’ in your nightie, aren’t you?’
    Polly had almost forgotten how irritating Babs could be.
    â€˜Is he coming, or is he not?’
    â€˜If you mean Christy Cameron, yep, you were spot on, Poll. He is interested in you. No doubt about it. I wish he was as interested in me, I can tell you. No, I don’t really mean that. It’s all very well to have opportunity handed you on a plate but…’
    â€˜Where is he now?’
    â€˜Haven’t a clue.’
    Polly had no idea why the prospect of meeting the American excited her. But it did. If he’d hailed from Sheffield or Shrewsbury she would have had no interest in him whatsoever. The fact that he came from New York rendered him intriguing, for, like Fin, she no longer believed in coincidence.
    â€˜Why don’t you drop by this evening?’
    â€˜Can’t,’ Babs said. ‘I’ve nobody to sit with April an’ I’m not draggin’ her over to your place after blackout. Why don’t you come here?’
    Polly hesitated; a split second only. ‘Look, if Cameron does have some connection with Dominic there’s a fair-to-middling chance he’s up to something shifty and the sooner we find out what it is the better for all of us. Tell him to come on his own.’
    â€˜What if he won’t?’
    â€˜He will,’ Polly said. ‘At least make the offer.’
    â€˜All right,’ Babs said. ‘I just hope you know what you’re doin’, Poll.’
    â€˜I always know what I’m doing,’ Polly said. ‘Shall we say eight o’clock?’
    â€˜Will you feed him?’
    â€˜Of course I will,’ said Polly, and hung up.

4
    From the outset Rosie had been determined not to let her handicap stand in her way. When she’d learned that Merryweather’s electrical engineering company was recruiting staff, she had immediately applied for a job.
    Merryweather’s had won a navy contract to manufacture ultra-sensitive sounding devices for submarine destroyers and a special assembly line had been set up in a converted church in Little Street, close to Glasgow University. All applicants were required to pass tests in dexterity, intelligence and reliability but deafness was not considered an impediment to efficiency and Rosie was duly accepted for training.
    Thirty cubicles furnished with straight-backed chairs and swivel lamps had replaced the church pews. The work consisted of fitting forty-seven tiny components into a stainless-steel drum the size of a jam jar. There was no piped music in Little Street church and no intrusive Tannoy announcements to disturb concentration. Rosie, of course, couldn’t hear the rumble of traffic in the avenue or the vague sparrow-chatter of schools letting out. She had no indicators to tell her whether the day was passing swiftly or slowly, and even the rhythms of her body seemed to be on hold for the four parts of the eleven-hour shift. Tea was served from a trolley in the corridor; one break midmorning, a half-hour for lunch and a second short break in the afternoon. Rosie coped well with the finger-numbing labour, much less well with the tea breaks.
    It was Rosie’s first experience of working with women and her co-workers weren’t at all like the loud-mouthed, soft-hearted, working-class women among whom she had grown up. They were doctors’ wives, dentists’ wives, the daughters of lawyers and teachers, middle-class ladies who, on the surface, epitomised respectability and decorum.
    Individually they were pleasant enough but collectively they soon revealed a snobbish, almost vicious dislike of anyone who wasn’t as perfect as they perceived themselves to be, and as weeks passed into months and they shed their inhibitions all their coarse prejudices came to the surface. A mild young wife with a brace on her leg was teased unmercifully about