Walter went on: “I should very much like her to know that I was thinking of her on Christmas Day.” He looked at Fitz with moist eyes. “Would you be sure to tell her, old friend?”
“I will,” said Fitz. “I’m sure she’ll be very pleased.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN – February 1915
“I went to the doctor,” said the woman next to Ethel. “I said to him, ‘I’ve got an itchy twat.’”
A ripple of laughter ran around the room. It was on the top floor of a small house in East London, near Aldgate. Twenty women sat at sewing machines in close-packed rows either side of a long workbench. There was no fire, and the one window was closed tight against the February cold. The floorboards were bare. The whitewashed plaster on the walls was crumbling with age, and the laths beneath showed through in places. With twenty women breathing the same air the room became stuffy, but it never seemed to warm up, and the women all wore hats and coats.
They had just stopped for a break, and the treadles under their feet were briefly silent. Ethel’s neighbor was Mildred Perkins, a cockney of her own age. Mildred was also Ethel’s lodger. She would have been beautiful but for protruding front teeth. Dirty jokes were her specialty. She went on: “The doctor says to me, he goes, ‘You shouldn’t say that, it’s a rude word.’”
Ethel grinned. Mildred managed to create moments of cheer in the grim twelve-hour working day. Ethel had never known such talk before. At Ty Gwyn the staff had been genteel. These London women would say anything. They were all ages and several nationalities, and some barely spoke English, including two refugees from German- occupied Belgium. The only thing they all had in common was that they were desperate enough to want the job.
“I says to him, ‘What should I say, then, doctor?’ He says to me, ‘Say you’ve got an itchy finger.’”
They were sewing British army uniforms, thousands of them, tunics and trousers. Day after day the pieces of thick khaki cloth came in from a cutting factory in the next street, big cardboard boxes full of sleeves and backs and legs, and the women here sewed them together and sent them to another small factory to have the buttons and buttonholes added. They were paid according to how many they finished.
“He says to me, ‘Do your finger itch you all the time, Mrs. Perkins, or just now and again?’”
Mildred paused, and the women were silent, waiting for the punch line.
“I says, ‘No, doctor, only when I piss through it.’”
The women hooted with laughter and cheered.
A thin girl of twelve came through the door with a pole on her shoulder. Hanging from it were large mugs and tankards, twenty of them. She put the pole down gingerly on the workbench. The mugs contained tea, hot chocolate, clear soup, or watery coffee. Each woman had her own mug. Twice a day, midmorning and midafternoon, they gave their pennies and halfpennies to the girl, Allie, and she got their mugs filled at the cafe next door.
The women sipped their drinks, stretched their arms and legs, and rubbed their eyes. The work was not hard like coal mining, Ethel thought, but it was tiring, bent over your machine hour after hour, peering at the stitching. And it had to be done right. The boss, Mannie Litov, checked each piece, and if it was wrong you did not get paid, even though Ethel suspected he sent the faulty uniforms off anyway.
After five minutes Mannie came into the workroom, clapping his hands and saying: “Come on now, back to work.” They drained their cups and turned back to the bench.
Mannie was a slave driver, but not the worst, the women said. At least he did not paw the girls or demand sexual favors. He was about thirty, with dark eyes and a black beard. His father was a tailor who had come over from Russia and opened a shop in the Mile End Road, making cheap suits for bank clerks and stockbrokers’ runners. Mannie had learned the trade from his father, then started a more ambitious enterprise.
The war was good for business. A million men had volunteered for the army between August and Christmas, and each one needed a uniform. Mannie was hiring every seamstress he could find. Fortunately Ethel had learned to use a sewing machine at Ty Gwyn.
Ethel needed a job. Although her house was paid for, and she was collecting rent from Mildred, she had to save money for when the baby came along. But the experience of looking for work had made her frustrated and irate.
All kinds of new jobs were opening up for women, but Ethel had quickly learned that men and women were still unequal. Jobs at which men earned three or four pounds were being offered to women at a pound a week. And even then the women had to put up with hostility and persecution. Male bus passengers would refuse to show their tickets to a woman conductor, male engineers would pour oil into a woman’s tool box, and women workers were barred from the pub at the factory gate. What made Ethel even more furious was that the same men would call a woman lazy and shiftless if her children were dressed in rags.
In the end, reluctantly and angrily, she had opted for an industry in which women were traditionally employed, vowing she would change this unjust system before she died.
She rubbed her back. Her baby was due in a week or two, and she was going to have to stop work any day now. Sewing was awkward with a great distended belly, but what she found most difficult was the tiredness that threatened to overcome her.
Two more women came through the door, one with a bandage on her hand. The seamstresses frequently cut themselves with sewing needles or with the sharp scissors they used to trim their work.
Ethel said: “Look you, Mannie, you ought to keep a little medical kit here, with bandages and a bottle of iodine and a few other bits and pieces in a tin.”
He said: “What am I, made of money?” It was his stock response to any demand by his workforce.
“But you must lose money every time one of us hurts herself,” Ethel said in a tone of sweet reason. “Here’s two women been away from their machines nearly an hour, because they had to go to the chemist’s and get a cut seen to.”
The woman with the bandage grinned and said: “Plus I had to stop at the Dog and Duck to steady my nerves.”
Mannie said sarcastically to Ethel: “I suppose you want me to keep a bottle of gin in the medical kit as well.”
Ethel ignored that. “I’ll make you a list and find out what everything would cost, then you can make up your mind, is it?”
“I’m not making any promises,” said Mannie, which was as close as he ever came to making a promise.
“Right, then.” Ethel turned back to her machine.
It was always she who asked Mannie for small improvements in the workplace, or protested when he made adverse changes such as asking them to pay to have their scissors sharpened. Without intending to, she seemed to have fallen into the kind of role her father played.
Outside the grimy window, the short afternoon was darkening. Ethel found the last three hours of the working day the hardest of all. Her back hurt, and the glare of the overhead lights made her head ache.
But, when seven o’clock came, she did not want to go home. The thought of spending the evening alone was too depressing.
When Ethel first came to London several young men had paid attention to her. She had not really fancied any of them, but she had accepted invitations to the cinema, the music hall, recitals, and evenings at pubs, and she had kissed one of them, though without much passion. However, as soon as her pregnancy began to show they had all lost interest. A pretty girl was one thing, and a woman with a baby quite another.
Fortunately, tonight there was a Labour Party meeting. Ethel had joined the Aldgate branch of the Independent Labour Party soon after buying her house. She often wondered what her father would have thought, had he known. Would he have wanted to exclude her from his party as he had from his house? Or would he have been secretly pleased? She would probably never know.
The scheduled speaker tonight was Sylvia Pankhurst, one of the leaders of the suffragettes, campaigners for votes for women. The war had split the famous Pankhurst family. Emmeline, the mother, had forsworn the campaign for the duration of the war. One daughter, Christabel, supported the mother, but the other, Sylvia, had
