Why Aren't They Screaming? by Joan Smith

of concrete blotted out the light; it took Loretta a moment to recognize them as aircraft hangars, smaller than the Cruise missile silos she had seen elewhere but, to her eyes, just as sinister.
    â€˜Hideous, aren’t they?’ said Clara, turning to address Loretta over her shoulder. ‘Hello, it’s me,’ she called, suddenly leaving the track and moving into a clearing in the trees to their left. At the far side an old coach had been parked, its shape and condition suggesting it was at least twenty years old. Half a dozen tents had been pitched in front of it and, in the centre of the clearing, a group of women were sitting round a pit from which a thin column of smoke drifted steadily upwards. The women were drinking from mugs, and odd pieces of clothing had been hung out to dry on a makeshift washing-line between two trees. From the branches of another tree was suspended a torn sheet which had been painted with the slogan:
Take the toys from the boys.
    Loretta was nervous. Her visits to the women’s peace camp at Greenham Common had always coincided with major demonstrations, and she didn’t know how these women would react to the arrival of a stranger on a quiet Monday afternoon. Especially after Friday night, she thought, spotting a caravan further into the trees; the area around the door was smoke-blackened, and she remembered someone saying that the attackers had attempted to set fire to it.
    â€˜Want some tea?’ A middle-aged woman stood up, beckoning Clara and Loretta over to the ancient vinyl sofa on which she’d been sitting. Several other women glanced up at the visitors and nodded greetings. Their attitude was neither friendly nor unfriendly, Loretta thought; it was as if their minds just happened to be on other things. One was writing a letter on airmail paper, Loretta noticed, accepting the offer of a seat. Another was knitting a jumper in purple and green, presumably because they were suffragette colours.
    â€˜Oh, er, no thanks.’ She realized that the middle-aged woman had repeated her question about tea.
    Clara joined her on the sofa, also refusing refreshment. ‘How’s things?’ she asked.
    â€˜Could be worse,’ said the woman, who had a soft Edinburgh accent. ‘Hetty and Ulrike were thrown out of the caff place on the main road this morning – the manager says we upset the other customers. Tender plants, lorry drivers.’ She shrugged. ‘Thanks for bringing the commodes, by the way. I’ve asked everyone not to go to use them alone at night, andwe bought some good strong torches this morning. We had a good post, nearly thirty pounds in donations.’
    She and Clara fell into conversation about the events of Friday night, giving Loretta the chance to have a good look round the camp. Most of the tents were proper canvas affairs, and there was an air of permanence about the place which contrasted sharply with conditions at Greenham, where the women were subject to repeated evictions by council bailiffs. Even so, she marvelled at the willingness of the women to give up the comforts of everyday life to live in primitive conditions next door to thousands of hostile servicemen. It wasn’t just the idea of being exposed to the elements that bothered her, it was also the sheer relentless boredom of spending day after day in the same place. Much as she agreed with their convictions, Loretta admitted to herself, the life of the peace women was not for her.
    â€˜Loretta!’
    She turned her head, and saw Peggy and another woman emerging from the trees, their arms full of wood. Getting to her feet, she walked across the clearing to meet them, waiting while Peggy added her haul to the stock of firewood piled under a tarpaulin next to the old coach.
    â€˜How’re you feeling?’ Peggy asked, straightening up.
    Loretta was about to answer when she saw Peggy’s expression freeze; the girl was looking past her towards the