The Shipyard Girls, page 6
As Polly stood in line behind the other women, she was pleased to see that most of them looked as nervous as she felt. All except one, an uncommonly tall and well-built woman who appeared totally unperturbed by her surroundings.
‘Martha Perkins,’ the woman announced to Frank, who was clearly struggling not to show his shock at the mountain of ‘gentler sex’ which stood before him.
All five women stood in line and, in turn, gave their full names, dates of birth, and their last employer, if they’d had one. Each piece of information was written down in the appropriate columns in a big Employees Book.
Polly tried her hardest to hear what each woman had been doing before signing up for this job, but the noise outside seemed to be getting louder by the second and she struggled to hear even what they were called.
Then, all of a sudden, the door was flung open and a young girl came flying into the office. ‘Sooo sorry I’m late,’ she gushed, not sounding the least bit sincere. ‘I got completely lost and ended up in the boiler room on the other side of the yard!’
Rosie scowled at the woman, reminding Polly of her Jekyll-and-Hyde voice. Polly made a mental note not to get on the bad side of her new teacher.
Rosie pointed to the desk. Frank, suppressing a smile, asked, ‘Name?’
‘Dorothy, but everyone calls me Dot,’ the girl said, breathlessly.
‘Dorothy…’ Frank said as he scrawled in his spider-like writing. ‘And does Dorothy have a surname?’ he asked, now all official.
‘Williams,’ Dorothy replied, forcing a smile and looking around at the other women.
Dorothy gave her date of birth, which Polly quickly calculated made her seventeen. Her previous job had been as a shop assistant at Binns, the town’s main department store. Polly wondered why Dorothy was swapping drapery for machines and metal.
‘Thanks, Frank,’ Rosie said, before guiding the newcomers out of the door and into the supply building next door. ‘Right now, let’s get you all into your new gear.’
The women stood and stared at the wooden shelves full of piles of denim overalls, shirts, boots and protective gloves. Martha was the first to walk over and start riffling through the assortment of sizes.
Polly didn’t think she had ever seen such an incredibly hulky woman before. Martha’s hands alone were bigger than most men’s, and she probably had more muscle on her than the rest of them put together.
‘She’ll be lucky to find something that fits her,’ Dorothy whispered to Polly as they followed Martha’s lead and started picking out appropriately sized clothing. Polly shot her new workmate an icy look and moved away. Polly had known a few ‘Dots’ at school and couldn’t abide any kind of bitchiness.
‘Come on, we haven’t got all day.’ Rosie hurried them along.
Ten minutes later the six women stood looking ever so uncomfortable in their new but ill-fitting overalls. All of them apart from Martha had had to roll up their sleeves and their trouser legs, and had used leather belts to try to hoick up their oversized overalls to make them a better fit. Their new footwear was a pair of ankle-high black leather lace-up boots.
For the first time in her life Polly was actually glad she had what her brothers had always teasingly called ‘great big plates of meat’. Her feet were far from petite, and she’d always struggled to find nice shoes to fit her, but today they were just about perfectly sized.
Rosie laughed, ‘Welcome to the shipyards. It’s a man’s world here, with man-sized clothes. But,’ she added helpfully, ‘if you’re handy with a needle and thread and want to tailor your new work gear to fit better, feel free. These elegant garments are going to be your new second skin from now on, so it might be a good idea to make them as comfy as possible. Besides,’ she said, ‘you’ll be forfeiting a small amount out of your weekly wages until you’ve paid for them.’
Polly heard Dorothy gasp in disbelief.
Rosie pointed them to a row of lockers along the back wall where they could keep their belongings, and explained to them the whereabouts of the women’s lavatory.
Apart from being a little swamped, Polly felt quite at home in her new clothing.
‘I don’t think we’ll be making it into Vogue anytime soon,’ Dorothy chirped up, pulling her belt tighter to accentuate her voluptuous hips even more.
Martha stared at Dorothy as if she’d just spoken another language, while Hannah and the other young woman, Mary, let out a quiet chuckle.
‘With this job you won’t have the energy left to even read a copy of Vogue, never mind be in it,’ Rosie said with a straight face before taking them out into the yard.
Like a female Pied Piper she led them all over to an area of the vast concrete yard not far from the edge of the quayside, where there was a long wooden bench with half a dozen box-like welding machines by the side and a smattering of goggles and large metal welding masks on top.
‘Help yourself,’ Rosie instructed them all, pulling on a pair of long leather gloves that went up to her elbows.
As Polly picked up her new heavy headgear with a small rectangular window in the middle, she felt a ripple of nervousness run through her body.
‘This is going to be your new best friend,’ Rosie told her new recruits in all seriousness. ‘You two are going to become as close as the sheets of metal you’ll be welding together.’
Polly’s face was a picture of earnestness as she soaked up every word, every instruction Rosie uttered.
‘This ugly metal mask is going to be the sole protector of your eyes, face and neck,’ Rosie continued, glaring at Dorothy as she started fiddling with one of the buttons on her overalls. ‘It’s going to protect you from flash burns and sparks of metal, which can leave you permanently scarred, and also from the heat of the metal, which can give you the worst sunburn ever. You’ll blister and scar, and it’ll hurt like hell.’ Rosie’s voice went up an octave in order to get Dorothy’s full attention. ‘The little rectangular window,’ she said, pointing to the tinted glass box jutting out of her own mask, ‘is covered with a filter that will stop you being blinded by the weld’s ultraviolet light.’
Polly listened intently as Rosie explained that the helmet also prevented something called ‘arc eye’, which happened when the cornea of the eye became inflamed.
‘Not to put you off this job before you’ve even begun, but this is one of the most painful conditions known to man – and woman,’ Rosie warned. ‘And I speak from experience. It feels like your eyes are never going to stop watering, like you have a thousand glass splinters stabbing into your eyeballs. It’s complete and utter agony. It’ll come on in the middle of the night, make you feel you’ve got the fever from hell, and your head is about to explode with the worst headache ever. And,’ she added, ‘if you weld for long enough without protection you will actually burn the retina of the eye – and if this happens, you’ll be using a white cane for the rest of your life.’
Polly didn’t think she’d ever dare lift the mask off her face, just in case.
As Rosie moved on to the workings of the welding machine, which produced the electricity to enable them to arc-weld, Polly felt overwhelmed with information.
And she wasn’t the only one. ‘I feel I back in the school,’ Hannah nervously whispered in broken English to Polly.
‘I know,’ Polly agreed, thinking that Hannah looked young enough to still be at school.
While Rosie continued to talk to the women about their equipment, Polly felt slightly in awe of this woman who knew so much, and was so confident and skilled. But more than anything she was just glad their teacher was a woman, and not one of the aged Lotharios she’d encountered earlier on.
‘The indicators on your welding machines show the voltage. The higher the voltage, the more intense the heat.’ Rosie tried to make it as simple as possible. ‘But now for the exciting stuff,’ she said, taking a long black lead connected to the welding machine, and picking up what looked like a metal alligator’s jaw. ‘This is called a stinger, which attaches on to the end of the lead, and is used to grip the metal rod.’
She switched on her welding machine, which buzzed to life, and then pulled down her helmet. The women followed suit.
‘Take two pieces of this scrap iron,’ she said, shouting above the drillers that had just started up nearby, ‘put them close together, then place your rod on to the metal plates.’
As Rosie did so, a small explosion of sparks flared up like a brilliant white firework. A shock of excitement rushed through the circle of women. Their eyes were glued to Rosie’s hands as she steadily moved the rod from left to right. It looked as though fire was flowing from the tip of the rod, creating a pool of metal which moved like a slow, placid stream.
‘And then there is one,’ she declared. The completed weld had fused the two pieces of metal together in a straight line, leaving a dainty feathered pattern.
Polly thought how easy Rosie made it look.
‘Like sewing a patchwork quilt,’ Dorothy said.
‘Yes, exactly,’ Rosie agreed. ‘It’s like sewing up a seam but with molten metal instead of cotton. Right, your turn now,’ she said to the women, switching off her machine and laying down the rod and stinger on the workbench.
‘How exciting,’ Dorothy exclaimed.
‘And no talking. Just concentrating,’ Rosie said, making it quite clear who this last instruction was aimed at.
The next two hours seemed to pass in two minutes as they all practised their welds – with varying degrees of success.
As the morning wore on, the noise in the yards seemed to get more and more intense and Polly could tell Rosie was beginning to struggle to be heard above the banging, clashing and clattering that seemed to be enveloping them all.
At the stroke of midday, a bellowing klaxon horn sounded out. Immediately a cloak of calm and quietness descended across the yard. Polly had never imagined there could be so much noise, and within a matter of seconds, such quiet.
‘Lunchtime,’ Rosie declared.
Polly and the other women, faces now smudged with streaks of sweat, soot and dirt, followed Rosie over to a resting area where they were to eat their packed lunches. Martha plonked herself down on the ground, sitting cross-legged, while the other women sat on some nearby wooden pallets.
Rosie took a walk over to the canteen to grab herself a thick-crusted meat pie, but came back to eat it so as to keep an eye on her fledgling welders.
As Polly started to chomp on her mum’s doorstep Spam sandwiches, she didn’t think she’d felt so hungry in her entire life. Or so exhausted. She was relieved she wasn’t the only one to feel so drained when Gloria announced to them all, ‘Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I’m knackered.’
‘I am too,’ perked up Dorothy. ‘And we’ve still got the rest of the afternoon to make it through.’
Polly felt like telling her if she didn’t chatter on so much she might conserve some energy, but then decided that was a bit unfair. Dorothy looked as shattered as Polly felt. She also noticed her hands were shaking involuntarily.
Everyone agreed they were jiggered. Even Martha, who looked as though she had the strength of a Trojan, nodded her head up and down and started to massage her right arm.
A silence fell over their small group as they all munched on their lunches. Polly looked around the rest of the yard, glad to let her eyes relax and enjoy the break from the intensity of staring at a sheet of scorching metal. She watched as small huddles of men sat quietly chatting and eating their food, the occasional blast of raucous laughter breaking through the relative calm. A little raggedy tea boy busied around the workers, balancing a long metal pole on his shoulder with tea flasks jangling against each other ready for a refill.
Polly marvelled at the mammoth ships moored by the riverside. Some were on the slipways getting ready to head back out to sea, another, not far from where they were sitting, was in the dry dock, half built and looking like the iron-ribbed skeleton of a massive Moby Dick just waiting to be fleshed out and brought to life.
As she sat enjoying the feel of the sea breeze on her face, her attention was suddenly drawn to a large, flat-bottomed wooden boat bobbing gently by the side of the dock. A couple of men wearing dungarees were pulling on thick ropes slung around what looked like a huge pulley. It was as if they were trying to land some gigantic fish from the depths of the river. Enthralled, Polly watched as they pulled and pulled, eager to see what they were trying to reel in.
Finally she saw the glint of an enormous round metal helmet breaking through the surface, water pouring around its three small portholes. What looked like a giant’s body, encased in a thick green canvas body suit, slowly appeared from the depths of the river.
Helped by the ropes which were attached to the suit through metal rings, the giant slowly climbed up the iron rungs of the ladder at the side of the boat. It was like seeing a deep-sea monster comic book character come to life in front of her very own eyes.
By now Polly wasn’t the only one to have spotted this strange apparition being hauled out of the river. ‘Wow,’ Dorothy exclaimed.
‘Blimey,’ said Gloria.
‘Bože,’ said Hannah in a language none of them recognised.
Martha and Mary didn’t say anything but both looked totally agog.
‘That’s Tommy Watts,’ Rosie explained. ‘One of the deep-sea divers employed by the River Wear Commissioners. It’s the diver’s job to repair and do just about anything underwater that needs to be done to a ship, in the port, or anywhere along the river. At the moment we’ve got a team here to help with the repairs. It saves time and money if the ship can stay in the water rather than be brought into the dry dock.’
The women watched, entranced.
As soon as Tommy’s big steel-capped boots thudded on to the boat’s decking, the tug-of-war workers immediately started to unscrew nuts and bolts around the bottom of his copper helmet, which was attached to a metal corselet covering his shoulders and the top part of his body. As they carefully unscrewed the helmet and lifted it off, Polly was mesmerised to see Tommy’s pale, angular face appear. She didn’t think she had ever seen such a serious but also such a bold and handsome face in her life.
The other women lost interest and started to chat amongst themselves, but Polly couldn’t tear her attention away from Tommy as she watched him speaking to the workers unhooking ropes, as well as a thick rubber tube, from his diving suit.
Then, all of a sudden, as if sensing he was being watched, Tommy turned his head around and looked up to the quayside. When his eyes fell on Polly, it was his turn to stare. His piercing hazel eyes looked straight back at her. He too seemed unable to drag his gaze away.
For what seemed an age, but was only really a matter of seconds, they both remained motionless, staring into each other’s eyes, captivated by one another.
Suddenly feeling embarrassed, Polly looked away, but she felt his stare linger. A feeling of awkwardness overcame her and she self-consciously dusted crumbs from her overalls, relieved to hear the horn blaring out, signalling the end of their lunch break.
‘You’re going to be making beads this afternoon,’ Rosie told them. ‘And I don’t mean the kind you wear round your neck, Dorothy.’
They all giggled in unison. Dorothy blushed, but was obviously delighted at being singled out.
The women clustered around Rosie as she showed them how drops of molten metal could be used to bind the sheets together. When the women tried it themselves there was much hilarity.
‘They’re meant to look like cable stitching,’ Rosie told Martha, who was struggling with the more delicate side of welding. ‘Or a miniature twisted rope,’ she said, looking over Gloria’s shoulder and noting how precise her welding was. Rosie reckoned she was the oldest person she had ever taught, and she was surprised at how quickly Gloria was picking up her new skill.
As Rosie moved round the table, she saw Mary was doing well, but looked as though her mind were a million miles away. Hannah, on the other hand, was struggling. Her hands were trembling and her beads were more like misshapen blobs.
‘Keep going.’ Rosie tried to be encouraging. ‘It takes a while. Welding’s not something you can learn overnight.’
Hannah forced a smile but her delicate face was white as a sheet, despite the heat from her rod. Polly’s face, on the other hand, was pure determination. That girl’s going to make a decent bead, even if she has to will it to happen, Rosie mused.
By 2 p.m. Polly felt as if it should be finishing time. Tonight she knew she would sleep like a log.
‘My welds were better this morning,’ she told Rosie, rattled. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
Rosie took hold of her rod. ‘Here, let me show you. You’re holding it too far away from the metal.’
Rosie moved from woman to woman, taking care not to feel as though she was hovering over them and making them feel nervous. Every now and again she would show them a better technique, or give them a few words of praise.
By the time the klaxon went for the end of the shift at half past five Rosie had to suppress a chuckle as she saw the look of total and utter relief wash over the dirt-smeared faces of her new recruits. She had quite an eclectic mix of women to teach, and, without a doubt, had her work cut out.
She knew at least one of them wouldn’t last the week. For the entire time she’d been doing this job, she’d not once had every single trainee stay the course. Rosie secretly made a wager with herself that it would be either the young, foreign girl Hannah, who reminded her of a tiny little bird, ready to flutter off at the slightest sound or threat (why on earth this girl with the strange accent wanted to work in the shipyards was beyond her. She was quite clearly not cut out for any kind of manual labour, let alone something as physically taxing as welding. The poor thing had struggled from the moment she’d first turned on her machine), or it would be Dorothy. She was strong enough to do the job, but was quite obviously a fly-by-night. Fickle, with the attention span of a goldfish, looking about the yard at any given opportunity, or desperately trying to be the centre of attention.
