The Silent War by Victor Pemberton Page B

her newly lit fag to the stone floor and twisted her shoe on to it furiously as though it was Sunday’s face. ‘You!’ she snarled, calmly, as though trying to show the others who was boss. ‘In my office – now!’ She turned, and moved off.
    Sunday did not follow her. ‘You have no right to endanger our lives!’ she called out, defiantly. ‘You’re a wicked old sow!’
    There was a gasp from the ‘Baggies’, and a smirk from Ernie Mancroft, who was enjoying the exchange from the backyard door.
    Ma Briggs stopped in her tracks, and turned. ‘What did you say?’ she demanded, face white with anger.
    ‘She din’t mean nuffin’, Mrs Briggs,’ Pearl said anxiously, going to Sunday and squeezing her arm. ‘It’s just that – well, we’re all scared about these new flyin’ bomb fings. They’re not like wot we’ve ’ad before. We’re scared, that’s all. Sun din’t mean nuffin’ – honest she din’t.’ She turned to Sunday with pleading eyes. ‘Did yer, Sun?’
    ‘Oh yes, I did!’ replied Sunday, quite fearlessly. ‘I’m sick to death of this woman putting our lives at risk.’ She tossed her bar of washing soap into the tub, sending up a splash of water straight into Ma Briggs’s face. ‘And I’m sick to death of being exploited!’ she snapped, coming down from the tub step to confront the boss-lady. ‘Sick to death of working in this place for a pittance! You don’t want employees,’ she said, glaring, voice restrained but angry, ‘you want bloody slaves!’
    Ma Briggs paused a moment, then walked off to the backyard door, pushed Ernie Mancroft out of the way, and opened it. Then turning back to Sunday, she yelled, ‘Out!’
    ‘No, Sunday!’ pleaded a distraught Pearl. ‘Please!’
    Sunday shrugged her arm away from Pearl, took off her white working apron, and threw it into the hot tub of boiling water she had been working at. Then she marched off to the door where Ma Briggs was waiting for her. ‘I wouldn’t stay in this pigsty if you gave me a hundred pounds a week!’ she snarled. ‘Not for the likes of you I wouldn’t.’ And with that she took off her work-turban, and thrust it straight at the boss-lady. To her disgust, Ernie Mancroft was waiting by the door to hand her her own hat. Sunday snatched it from him, turned, and started to leave.
    Ma Briggs immediately stepped in front of the door, and for a brief moment refused to let her pass. ‘I’ll say just one thing ter you, miss,’ she growled, teeth clenched. ‘You fink you’re really somefin’, don’t yer? Well let me tell yer somefin’ – you ain’t. Your sort are a dime a dozen. ’Ere terday – gone termorrer!’ She turned briefly from Sunday to address all the other ‘Baggies’. ‘An’ that goes fer the rest of yer!’
    The Bagwash was now at a standstill, for every girl had stopped work to listen to Ma Briggs. It was a strange sight, with small groups of anxious sweat-streaked faces peering through the hot steam that was curling up remorselessly from the three huge stone washing tubs. Even the ‘Baggies’ cat, Moggie, was cowering behind one of the large mangles, with condensation trickling down on to his coal-black fur from the bleak white plaster walls.
    ‘Yer know the trouble wiv you lot, don’t yer?’ yelled Ma Briggs, clearly out to instil the fear of God into her ‘gels’. ‘Yer’ve got it wiv jam on! OK! So I don’t pay yer as much as I’d like. But at least yer get a week’s pay and food in yer stomachs, which is more than yer can say fer some of them poor sods who’ve bin bombed out and lost everyfin’ they ever ’ad!’ Hands defiantly on hips, she raised her voice above the sound of boiling water bubbling away in the three washing tubs. ‘But in case yer ’aven’t ’eard – there’s a war goin’ on! An’ it’s up ter the likes of you an’ me ter keep the ’ome front goin’ ’til the blokes get back. An’ make no mistake about it, they
are
comin’ back! This