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going nowhere,’ Ronald cut in. ‘Except with me mates. We’re all going out tonight.’
    Before anyone could move, her brother was out the door, grabbing his coat off a coat peg in the passage as he went, the door slamming behind him.
    It seemed, having handed in his notice to his employers, that they, instead of displaying annoyance at the loss of a worker, had given Ron their blessing, seeing him off with their good wishes and saying that when the war was over his job would still be open for him. A week later he was in the army.
    â€˜Measly job like that?’ Connie scoffed. ‘When this war’s over and he comes back he’ll be worth more than some old packing job!’
    In reply, her dad, having now resigned himself to his youngest son going off to fight, glanced up from his morning newspaper.
    â€˜Ain’t it about time you started looking for a better job?’ he growled. ‘There’s loads of jobs goin’ in the vacancy columns. With men all goin’ into the forces and no one to fill their jobs, they’re lookin’ for women to fill ’em. And there’s you, still fartin’ about in a factory making boxes when you could be doing something towards the war effort.’
    Connie felt irked by her father’s low opinion of her, but it was food for thought.

Chapter Five
    February 1915
    Her seventeenth birthday had come and gone and been hardly noticed. Christmas had also come and gone and already it was February. Nineteen fifteen, her two brothers in the army though not yet sent to fight, and just as well, judging by the awful news from the front: men bogged down by wet winter weather since November. Trenches full of mud, it was said, yet giving little cover from pitiless enemy shellfire; thousands being sent
over the top
at the mercy of enemy rifle fire, thousands already killed and the war only six months old. It was said that freezing weather was causing even more misery. How long before Bertie and Ronnie were sent over there? The prospect hung over the family’s heads like the Sword of Damocles, dulling any joy of a new year.
    Her two sisters and their little families, Lillian with new baby James and Elsie with little Harry, both named after their fathers, had enjoyed Christmas dinner round Mum’s. Both of them still had their husbands at home, but for how much longer?
    Connie found her mind turning to that as she made her way to work through a wet February morning. From what the newspapers were saying, instead of calling for volunteers, the Government was beginning to contemplate general call-up of all able-bodied men not in a crucial job. It was frightening. Two months into nineteen fifteen. They’d said the war would be over by last Christmas. Now there was this threat of conscription whether a man was willing to fight or not.
    And George – still at home, still sitting on the sidelines hugging his faith to him like a safety belt. If there was a general call-up he’d have no choice but to obey. Lately a feeling of contempt for him had begun to steal over her, one she tried vainly to stave off, but what about her? She too was guilty of doing nothing. At school she’d reaped high marks for English, history, geography, drawing, especially drawing, praised by her teachers. So why was she hanging on to some mundane job in a box-making factory? She’d been there over two years since leaving school at fourteen. It was time she bettered herself.
    Ever since Christmas, Dad had been on about women doing war work, so maybe she should begin looking for something more rewarding than just standing at a conveyor belt?
    That morning, instead of going directly to work, she bought a local newspaper, turning to the job vacancies pages. Standing at the corner of Bethnal Green Road and Shoreditch High Street, she scanned the more interesting list of job vacancies, pausing at one which had caught her eye. It wasn’t anything to do with the