1916

Maureen Quinn usually had to drag herself reluctantly out of bed at five o’clock but it was different that morning. Having slept fitfully, she was up earlier than usual and had a decided spring in her step. She dressed, used the outside privy, washed in the kitchen sink, ate a meagre breakfast, brushed her teeth and applied powder with great care to soften the yellow tinge of her face. Before the rest of the family had even stirred, Maureen was walking briskly in the direction of the railway station. Lost in thought, she was at first unaware of the diminutive woman who came out of a side street. Agnes Collier had to call out her friend’s name three times before she finally got a response.

‘It’s me, Maureen!’ she yelled. ‘Have you gone deaf?’

‘Oh, hello,’ said the other, jerked out of her reverie. ‘I’m sorry, Agnes. I was miles away.’

‘I know what you’re thinking about.’

‘Do you?’

‘Of course — it’s Florrie’s birthday. We’re going to have a party.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Well, sound a bit more enthusiastic,’ chided Agnes, falling in beside her. ‘How often do we get the chance to celebrate? After the best part of ten hours at the factory, I can’t think of anything nicer than going to a pub to have some fun. What about you?’

Maureen manufactured a smile. ‘I’ve been looking forward to it all week.’

They were part of a gathering mass of people who converged on the station, jostled each other in the long queue, bought their tickets and moved out onto the platform. Like all female munition workers, they collected a variety of glances and outright stares, some hostile, some sympathetic and some charged with a grudging admiration. It was their faces that gave them away. Even with her make-up on, Maureen could not fully disguise the distinctive yellow hue, and Agnes’s cheeks were positively glowing. Both were canaries, two of the countless thousands of women whose exposure to TNT and sulphur had dramatically altered the colour of their skin. It was the unmistakable mark of the so-called munitionettes.

Maureen was a startlingly pretty young woman of twenty with lustrous dark hair turned almost ginger at the front. Tall, slim and shapely, she moved with a natural grace. The plump Agnes, by contrast, tended to waddle along. Five years older than her friend, she had a podgy, open face and fair hair brushed back severely and held in a bun. While Maureen was single, Agnes was married and had been quick to answer the call for workers at the rapidly expanding Munitions Filling Factory No.7 in Hayes, Middlesex. Her mother looked after the baby for her, allowing Agnes to bring a regular wage into the house.

‘Any word from Terry?’ asked Maureen.

‘No, we haven’t had a letter for over a month now,’ said Agnes, worriedly. ‘Mam keeps saying that no news is good news but I’m not so sure. I keep dreading that a telegram will arrive one day. Be grateful you’re not married, Maureen. Having a husband in the army is murder. I have the most terrible nightmares sometimes.’

‘And me — I’ve got two brothers at the front, remember.’

‘Poor things — let’s hope they all come home safe. However,’ she went on, brightening, ‘I’m not going to let sad thoughts spoil Florrie’s big day. We always have a laugh with her. It’s been one of the few joys of taking a job at the factory. I’ve made some wonderful new friends.’

‘Yes,’ said Maureen, quietly, ‘and so have I.’

‘Florrie Duncan is a scream.’

‘She has so much energy. Nothing seems to tire her.’

Agnes laughed. ‘Whereas I’m exhausted before I even get up.’

‘How’s the baby?’

‘Oh, he’s a Turk but I can’t help loving him. When I come home from work, I get a lovely welcome. Only trouble is that — with this yellow face of mine — he must think his mother is Chinese!’

Her cackle was soon drowned out by the thunder of the train as it surged into the station and juddered to a halt. Doors were snatched open and the passengers clambered aboard. Dozens of other munitionettes were on their way to Hayes along with men who also worked at the factory and who wore a badge in their lapels to indicate that they were engaged in war work, thus making them immune to routine abuse and to the humiliation of being given a white feather. The train was soon packed with half-awake travellers. When Maureen and Agnes sat side by side in a compartment, the well-dressed man opposite shot them a look of frank disgust and hid behind his newspaper. His reaction brought out a combative streak in Agnes Collier.

‘Let him try filling shells and keeping his complexion!’

Maureen didn’t even feel the nudge from her friend. Her mind was elsewhere.

Until the end of the nineteenth century, Hayes had been a predominantly agricultural and brick-making area but, since it boasted a major canal and was on the route of the Great Western Railway, it was ripe for industrial development. By 1914, several factories had opened but the outbreak of war played havoc with their business plans. Under pressure from the government, some had to adapt their facilities to help the war effort and, as the supply of male employees dwindled as a result of enlistment, they began to recruit women in large numbers. Maureen Quinn and Agnes Collier were therefore part of a huge female workforce at the munitions factory. As the hordes walked or cycled through the gates, the chatter was deafening, amplified by the swish of tyres and the clack of heels on tarmac. Another long day had begun.

For some, however, their shift had just ended. Those who’d worked hard throughout the night to keep up the non-stop production of shells were now clocking off, thinking about their breakfasts and their beds. Women clocking on gritted their teeth as they braced themselves for another punishing day. The first thing that Maureen and Agnes did was to change out of their clothes and into the plain and unbecoming work overalls. A cap of the same blue material covered their heads. Because her fringe poked out from under it, Maureen’s hair was only gingery at the front. It was the same with other women. Their faces, hands and exposed hair all changed colour over time. There was the usual banter and the usual ear-splitting litany of complaints, then they were herded into their respective buildings. Maureen, Agnes and their friends worked in the Cartridge Section, a place where well over four hundred thousand items a day were made. Understanding the crucial importance of their work, they were proud of their output.

Florrie Duncan was first to her bench. She was a big, boisterous woman in her late twenties with an infectious grin and a deafening laugh. No matter how long the shift and how tiring the work, Florrie never flagged for an instant. As well as being the natural leader of her group of friends, she was also its inspiration. When she saw Maureen and Agnes, she beamed at them.

‘Ready for the party?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said Agnes. ‘Happy birthday, Florrie!’

‘Happy birthday!’ echoed Maureen.

‘My birthday begins the moment we clock off,’ said Florrie, waving to some other newcomers. ‘I’m going to drink until I drop. Then I’m going to find two handsome young men to carry me home and put me to bed. That’s my idea of a perfect birthday present.’

Florrie’s coarse laugh reverberated around the whole building.

Since opening hours had been severely curtailed by war, patrons made sure that they got to their local pubs on time. The Golden Goose was therefore quite full that evening and, apart from the inevitable moans about another unpopular government edict — watered beer — the talk turned to the munitionettes. Leighton Hubbard, the publican, was a short, skinny man in his fifties with a reedy voice and eyes that kept roaming the bar like miniature searchlights. When he announced that six canaries were about to hold a birthday party in his outhouse, he set off a heated argument.