Home Front Girls

ever go off, don’t you hesitate to get yourself an’ little Mary round here,’ she drummed into Lucy. ‘There ain’t much protection to be had from fallin’ bombs beneath a kitchen table.’
    Yet more shelters had now been finished all over the city, and every time Lucy passed them she shuddered and prayed that they would never be needed. But word of what was happening in the war was not promising. The papers were full of the 152 lives that had been lost when the Dunbar Castle had been sunk by a German mine off the Goodwin Sands, and a further thirty-two lives were lost when German planes attacked another twelve ships, sinking three of them.
    ‘Things ain’t lookin’ good,’ Mrs P remarked worriedly. ‘I just pray that our Freddy an’ your Joel are all right, that’s all.’
    There had been no word from either of them, although both women waited hopefully each morning for the postman to arrive.
    ‘It said on the wireless earlier on that the government is bein’ urged to give women the same wages an’ conditions as men now,’ Mrs P informed Lucy as she helped Mary into her coat. ‘They reckon they’re goin’ to be given trainin’ an’ that there’ll be an influx of women into the war industries. Stands to reason there’ll have to be, don’t it? I mean, who else can do it if the men are all away at war?’
    Lucy took Mary by the hand, ready to leave. ‘Try not to worry too much,’ the girl said gently, but she knew that it would be easier said than done. Mrs P was a ‘born worrier’ as her Fred was always telling her.
    ‘Fred was sayin’ that they’re movin’ the bomber parts they’re makin’ from some of the factories like the Daimler, the Dunlop, the Humber an’ so on to shadow factories on the outskirts of the city to reduce the threat of aerial attacks an’ bombin’ away from the residential areas.’
    ‘Well, that’s good then, isn’t it?’ Lucy questioned.
    ‘Aye, I dare say it is, but it makes yer realise things are gettin’ worse though, don’t it?’
    ‘I suppose it does,’ Lucy admitted sadly. ‘But now I’d best be getting home. To tell you the truth I’m dead on my feet and looking forward to spending a night in front of the fire with another of Dotty’s stories.’
    Mrs P instantly perked up. Dotty was now allowing all of them to read her efforts and they were thoroughly enjoying them.
    ‘Eeh, that girl can spin a good yarn, can’t she?’ she breathed. ‘I don’t mind admittin’ that one yer lent me the other day moved me to tears.’
    ‘Her books should be in the Central Library – she’s brilliant,’ Lucy agreed as she moved towards the door. ‘Night, Mrs P, and thank you.’

Chapter Twelve
     
    At that moment, Dotty was entering her flat. Once inside, she snapped the light on and hurried over to light the gasfire. She had collected her mail from the table in the hall as she usually did, not that there was ever a lot for her. Now, after placing the kettle on to boil, she glanced curiously at the envelope she had collected. It had a London postmark, but she couldn’t for the life of her think who it might be from. Her name and address were typed and it looked quite official, which puzzled her even more. She slit it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper, again typed, and she quickly began to scan the page.
     
Dear Miss Kent,
     
Having read your delightful submission , The Soldier’s Girl, it gives me great pleasure to inform you that both myself and a senior editor at Woman’s Heart magazine consider it to be worthy of publication. We would like to include the story in our March edition and in the meantime would be pleased to look at some more of your other stories as we feel your writing has great potential and we may well be interested in giving your stories a regular slot.
If you would kindly ring us on the number below we will be happy to discuss your fee and arrange a meeting.
     
Yours sincerely,
     
Mr R. Brabinger
     
    Dotty blinked, then read the letter through again just to make sure that she hadn’t imagined it. She had lent The Soldier’s Girl to Annabelle’s mother to read just a couple of weeks ago but had no idea how it could have landed up on the desk of a magazine editor . . . unless Miranda had sent it to them, of course. Yes! That must be it, she thought, as different emotions raced through her. She felt elated yet terrified at the thought of so many people reading her stories all at the same time.
    There was a