Five Dead Canaries

‘Bloody women!’ cried Ezra Greenwell, an embittered old man with a flat cap shadowing a grim face. ‘They got no place in here. They ought to be at home, looking after their kids or washing the shit out of their husbands’ underpants.’

‘Some of them are not married,’ said Hubbard, reasonably, ‘and those that are have got their blokes at the front. They’re entitled to let off a bit of steam.’

‘It’s indecent, if you ask me. Pubs are for the likes of us.’

‘I’m in business, Ezra. I turn nobody away.’

‘Well, you should. Those harpies just don’t belong here.’

‘Fair’s fair, Ezra,’ said Tim Burnham, a stocky young man in army uniform. ‘They do a vital job. I should know. I’ve seen what’s happening over there. When the war first started, the Germans had far more shells than us. It was a right old scandal. We were always short of ammo. Thanks to the ladies, that problem has been solved.’

‘They’re not ladies,’ insisted Greenwell. ‘They’re stupid women trying to behave like men and,’ he added with searing envy, ‘they’re paid far too much money.’

Hubbard shook his head. ‘They get half of what the men get.’

‘That’s still a lot more than me,’ said Burnham. ‘It’s embarrassing. I agree with Ezra on that score. First day on leave, I’m having a pint in the Red Lion and these two canaries walks in. When I offered to buy them a drink, one of them tells me to put my money away because it’s her treat. Then she opens her purse and takes out this wad of notes. Honestly, I thought she’d robbed a bleeding bank.’

‘There you are,’ said Greenwell as if he’d won the debate. ‘It’s unnatural, giving them wages like that. If they’d bought me a drink, I’d have poured it all over them. They get above themselves. You should refuse to serve them, Leighton.’

‘I need all the customers I can get,’ admitted Hubbard. ‘The war has already killed some of my regulars. Besides, these girls will be no trouble. They’ll be tucked away in the outhouse with their booze and their sandwiches. The missus has even baked them a little cake.’

‘What did she use — canary seed?’

They were still laughing at Greenwell’s sour joke when the door opened and the six women marched in. Florrie Duncan was in the lead. Agnes Collier, Enid Jenks, Shirley Beresford and Jean Harte were right behind her, with Maureen Quinn, looking rather apprehensive, at the rear of the group. Florrie had the most vivid yellow complexion of all but the others were also identifiable canaries. They got a mixed reception from the exclusively male customers. Some, like Ezra Greenwell, glowered in disgust, others pointedly ignored them, a few just goggled at them in wonder and Burnham, their sole supporter, clapped his hands and grinned amiably. The publican moved swiftly to avoid any possible friction.

‘This way,’ he said, going to a door at the side of the bar and opening it. ‘I think you’ll find everything ready for you.’

‘Thank you, Mr Hubbard,’ said Florrie, slapping some money down on the counter. ‘That’s the price we agreed. Keep the change.’

He scooped up the cash. ‘Oh, thanks — very kind of you.’

She led the way through the door. ‘Come on, girls. The party starts now.’

‘Happy birthday, Florrie!’ Hubbard called out.

‘Yes,’ added Burnham as they hurried past him. ‘Happy birthday!’

When all six women had gone, Hubbard tried to close the door after them.

‘Leave it open, Leighton,’ shouted Greenwell. ‘We need some fresh air in here to get rid of the stink. Those women are six good reasons why this bloody country is going to the dogs. They’re freaks. They should be locked up in a cage.’

Loud murmurs of approval filled the bar. The canaries had enemies.

It was not long before the party was in full swing. Separated from the pub by a cobbled courtyard, the outbuilding had originally been three stables, now converted into a single room. Though it was bare to the point of bleakness, had an undulating floor and aromatic memories of its earlier existence, the women didn’t complain. The trestle table in the middle of the room had a bright red cloth and was covered with plates of sandwiches cut diagonally. Pride of place went to the little birthday cake at the centre of the table, its solitary candle flickering away. What caught the attention of the visitors, however, was the alcohol on display. Having clubbed together for the occasion, they’d spared no expense. Florrie Duncan and two of the others favoured port and lemon. Jean Harte and Shirley Beresford opted for ginger beer while Agnes Collier and Maureen Quinn preferred a nip of gin.

There was a convivial atmosphere. The food was tasty, the drink was plentiful and they were soon having a lively party as they sat around the table. The only person who didn’t seem to be enjoying it to the full was Maureen, who only nibbled at one sandwich and took a brief sip of her drink. Florrie was in her element.

‘We ought to have a party like this every week,’ she said.

‘Why not have one every day?’ suggested Agnes.

‘We could never afford it,’ warned Jean over the laughter.

‘Well, we need something to help us put up with the hell we go through at that factory,’ argued Florrie. ‘It’s not just the work. I’m happy enough to do that. It’s the way we get pushed around by the men. They’re always inventing new rules to make our lives a misery.’

‘I don’t like the way that clerk in the wages office leers at us,’ said Agnes. ‘You know, the one with the long nose and glass eye.’

‘Leering is fine by me, Agnes. Men are men and I like to get noticed. What I draw the line at is them as takes liberties. Mr Whitmarsh is the worst. Don’t ever get caught alone with him or his hands will be everywhere.’

‘I might like that,’ said Jean, giggling.

‘Wait till you smell his bad breath. That will put you off.’

‘It’s Les Harker that I can’t stand,’ volunteered Shirley. ‘He’s always making nasty remarks about us. I mean, we do almost the same job as him yet he gets paid a lot more. It’s just not fair.’

‘Then it’s down to us to do something about it,’ said Florrie, decisively. ‘We should demand higher wages. If we threaten to go on strike, they’d probably cave in. Let’s face it, girls,’ she went on, raising her glass in the air, ‘they can’t do without us.’ She stood on a chair. ‘Who are we?’

The others replied by breaking into song, their voices rich with conviction.

‘We are the Hayes munition girls,

Working night and day,

Wearing the roses off our cheeks

For very little pay.

Some people call us lazy

But we’re next to the boys on the sea,

If it wasn’t for the munition girls,

Where would the Empire be?’

They rounded off with a concerted cheer. While the others had sung with gusto, Maureen had only mouthed the words. Though she tried to keep a smile on her face, she was increasingly uncomfortable.

‘There you are,’ said Florrie, climbing down from the chair, ‘we not only look like flaming canaries, we sing like the little buggers.’

The drink flowed, the excitement quickly rose in pitch and the sense of camaraderie was overwhelming. Within half an hour, they’d forgotten their aching limbs and put the multiple horrors of war out of their mind. All that mattered was the rare chance to enjoy themselves and they took it with relish. When it was time to cut the cake, they chanted the ritual words and Florrie blew out the candle with a monstrous puff before wielding the knife. After cutting slices for each of them, she passed the plates out. Maureen was the last to receive hers.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Florrie, noting her friend’s pained expression. ‘This is a party, Maureen. Join in.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to do,’ said the other, ‘but the truth is that I’ve got an upset stomach. In fact, I’ve had it for most of the day.’

‘Another glass of gin will help to settle it.’

‘I’ve had enough already.’