Family of Women by Annie Murray Page A

have disappeared next. The Bull Ring was blitzed at the end of August, the Market Hall, loved by so many people as a place to meet and shop, which had seemed so permanent a part of life, was smashed to pieces. It felt as if nothing could ever be the same again. And it was this time of death and fear which started to change Violet’s life.

    She had settled to a small, safe existence which revolved round these few streets, with all the familiarity of their blackened bricks, smoking chimney stacks and neighbourhood characters. Life consisted of her job, her daughters and husband, and her mom.
    Linda was very different from Joyce. Soft and rounded, with a sweet, fleshy face and thick black hair, she was as quiet and serious as Joyce was jumpy and jealous and easily put out. Linda had a solemn, penetrating gaze. As a toddler she would stand in front of her mother, quite close to her, and just gaze at her.
    ‘What’re you looking at?’ Violet would joke, trying to make her crack her face. ‘Lost your tongue? Ooh, she’s making me feel quite queer staring like that! Stop it, pet! I wonder what she’s thinking?’
    If she was thinking anything she usually didn’t have the chance to do it for much longer, as Joyce, agitated at being left out, would come up and pinch her or provoke her in some other way and make her cry.
    The girls spent a lot of time with Bessie. When there were daytime raids, Violet fretted at work, in the basement of Vicars which they used as a shelter. She knew her mom took the girls under the stairs. Bessie wasn’t going slumming it in any public shelter. Violet and Harry’s house had a bigger coal cellar than Bessie’s, so they cleaned it out and Violet went down there with the girls when it got bad. There wasn’t room for all of them so Harry stayed under the stairs. It was miserable and cold in the cellar and the ceiling was very low. Violet hated it. All you wanted after that was a nice cup of tea to perk you up and sometimes the water was cut off!
    ‘I’d rather stay in bed and take my chance with their bleeding bombs,’ she complained some mornings that autumn.
    But soon after, something happened that made her vow never to say such a thing again.

    ‘Ey-up!’ one of the lads winked and called to her as she clocked in for work that morning. ‘Best bloody night’s sleep you’ve ever ’ad, I s’pose?’
    Violet laughed grimly. ‘Slept like a babby, what d’you think?’
    Like everyone else, she was exhausted. It was November 1940 and the city had been pounded night after night. The row of houses along from the works had been hit; they had scrambled into Vicars through the morning drizzle, over hosepipes and piles of timber an, s’">& from thd rubble and glass, and there was a stench of sewage. One end of the front of Vicars had been blasted. Some of the windows were out and Violet could hear the sound of glass being swept up. It was always especially unnerving when the destruction came so close.
    ‘Trying to do to us what they’ve done to Coventry,’ people were saying. ‘Bloody kraut bastards.’
    Mr Riddle looked just as worn out as everyone else. Apparently he had spent the night in the cellar of the factory.
    Violet went to begin work. The engines were on, the belts turning on the lathes. She looked at her machine with some affection. They were beautiful things, she thought. Today seeing the heavy iron lathe was like seeing a steady, familiar face amid all the chaos. She looked round for Josephine, and saw with a pang of disquiet that there was no one at her machine. Jo was usually in before her, full of energy as always, calling out some clever remark like, ‘Decided to have a lie-in, did you?’ because she was quicker at getting up and getting her children ready.
    Violet tried to tell herself that there must be a good reason – perhaps Lizzie or little Sam was poorly, or Jo was ill herself. But when an hour had passed and other people were asking, she couldn’t stand