Tides of Honour by Genevieve Graham Page A

everyone present about a protest they were planning for the following Tuesday afternoon. Audrey wrote the date and time at the top corner of her drawing, sorry the evening was at an end. A few heads nodded; they’d be there. More prevalent, though, were the mutterings of women who said they’d be too busy at work to show up.
    â€œWill you be there?” Jean asked. “We can’t, can we, Marj?”
    â€œNo. That’s during our shift. What about you, Audrey? Will you be at work?”
    â€œI . . . I don’t work,” she reminded them. “Though I suppose I should find out about that. I won’t be able to afford living at the hotel forever.”
    â€œWhat do you do, Audrey?”
    She shrugged. “I can do anything, I suppose. I worked the farm practically on my own for the past six years, I cooked and cleaned, I—”
    â€œGracious, girl! You can draw!” Marjory exclaimed, leaning close to stare at Audrey’s renderings. Audrey automatically tried to cover the drawings. “Why I’ve never seen such beautiful drawings, have you, Jean?”
    Jean pulled Audrey’s protective hand away, and her beautiful eyes widened. “So lovely. Such a pity you can’t be paid to paint, or you’d be rich!”
    â€œThat’s all right. I only paint for my own eyes.”
    â€œThat’s a waste,” Marjory snapped. “You should share your gift.”
    Audrey shook her head, suddenly shy. She sorted her papersso the art was buried beneath blank sheets. “No, really. But thank you for your kindness.”
    Jean and Marjory exchanged a glance, then shrugged simultaneously. “Fine then,” Marjory said. “We’ll find you some kind of job, though.”
    â€œJob?” Another woman stopped beside them, overhearing. “Looking for a job?”
    â€œYes,” Jean said. “Our friend here is looking. She’s new in town. Do you know of something?”
    â€œI do, as a matter of fact. At the Brunner-Mond munitions factory.”
    Marjory’s brow lifted with concern. “Not very safe.”
    â€œNonsense,” the woman said. She brushed a speck off her coat with one hand. “It’s perfectly safe.”
    Audrey frowned. “Munitions? Working with weapons? You mean for the war?” She pictured Danny, remembered how she’d run her fingers over the buttons on his uniform. She pictured her cousin, walking away for the last time, so cocky, so proud of himself. How could she possibly work with weapons?
    Except these weapons were for Danny.
    â€œOf course,” she was told. “Very good pay, you know.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œDown at the Royal Docks in Silvertown. I hear they’re hiring just about anyone right now.”
    Money. She needed money to survive, obviously, but the thought of even more, of saving toward that steamer to Canada . . .
    â€œI’m interested. Thank you very much.” She wrote down the directions, then headed back to the hotel, making plans as she went.

    She was hired on the spot and given a pair of earth-coloured overalls—which felt scandalous until she noticed none of the others seemed to notice—then sent off with a group of women who showed her the machines. The room was black for all intents and purposes, a metal cave seeping with grease, echoing with the clang of pipes and hammers. Women in aprons and overalls worked around the room either at tables or on metal pipes that twisted like gnarled branches of an ancient, dead tree. Audrey held her breath against the clogged air, feeling trapped as the door closed behind them.
    â€œJust breathe,” one of the women told her. “You get used to it after a while.”
    â€œHow can you?” she whispered, feeling close to tears. “How can you come back here every day?”
    â€œBecause it could be worse, couldn’t it?”
    Audrey stared. “How could it