The Bells of Bow by Gilda O'Neill

acknowledge the warehouse staff who had just arrived. ‘Right, in you come, chaps,’ he said, beckoning them in with a tilt of his head.
    There were five of them who variously sloped, strutted or walked slightly warily into the workshop and stood along the far wall from the workbench: one gangling, fair-haired youth who looked as if he’d just left school that morning and, from his bright red cheeks, wished he was still there; two good-looking young men – the very obvious objects of the workshop’s adulation; one much older man, Dick, who looked fit enough for work but also old enough to have retired to an armchair by the fire many years ago; and finally Tiddler, a handsome-faced man in his late thirties, who because of a diseased and sickly childhood reached barely four feet ten in height.
    Turning back to face the whispering young women at the workbench, Silver raised his hand for silence. ‘Do us all a favour and shut up, ladies. I’ve got an important announcement to make. One you
all
should hear.’
    Ginny muttered something to Joan who, without a second’s thought, piped up, ‘Here, no one’s getting the push, are they, Mr Silver? You ain’t sacking no one?’
    Silver looked exasperated. ‘Let me get a word in edgeways, eh?’
    Joan tutted and put her hands primly in her lap. ‘I only wondered,’ she said to herself.
    ‘Right, now if I’ve got your attention. I don’t think any of you would disagree that I’ve been easy on you lot for too long. I know you all reckon I’m a soft touch as a governor. But all that’s going to finish.’
    Hurried, concerned glances passed between the workers.
    ‘Men out there are joining the army, they’re ready to fight for what’s right. And what do you lot do? You slope off early, you get in late.’ He stared at Evie, who didn’t even have the grace to blush. ‘And you nick gear out of the warehouse.’ He turned to the two good-looking men and nodded at them. ‘I’m not stupid, I know about the odd rolls that get “damaged”.’
    The two men shuffled uncomfortably.
    Mr Silver turned back to the machinists. ‘And yes, I know all about the cabbage. Sometimes I think there’s more of my garments on sale off bent stalls down the Lane than I’ve got in the whole of my showroom.’ He paused, letting them all squirm. ‘Well, that’s always been part of the rag trade, I suppose, but, like I said, things round here are going to change.’ He held up his hand. ‘Please, just listen, Joan.’ Silver clasped his hands behind his back and rocked backwards and forwards on his heels. ‘Now it’s going to be
your
turn. I’m giving you lot the chance to do your bit in fighting that, that …’ Silver ran his hand through his sparse grey hair. ‘That bastard Hitler,’ he finally managed to say.
    Looks of surprise flashed round the workroom at the shock of the usually gentlemanly Mr Silver using bad language.
    ‘Because,’ he continued, ‘from now on we’re making uniforms.’ He paused again, listening to the workers’ discontented mutterings about the war not even having started yet, and what was he on about, and how were they meant to be able to handle all that heavy cloth. ‘Oh, and I should mention that it’s all piecework, and I’m personally going to see that there are some very attractive bonuses.’
    All Mr Silver’s workers cheered, whether from patriotism, relief that nobody was getting sacked, or delight at the prospect of all that piecework wasn’t clear, but cheer they did. That is, all except Ginny. She raised her hand. ‘Mr Silver,’ she said in a low, wheedling voice.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘What’s Italy gonna do in this war, Mr Silver?’ Ginny flicked her eyes along the row towards the olive-skinned Maria. ‘Not on our side, are they? More like friends of the Jerries, me dad says. Something about what they did in Spain, or something. Is he right?’
    Silver shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Isn’t there enough hatred in this