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flush of pride warmed away the last lingering vestige of cold in her stomach. A house here was a status symbol in the town, it carried the mark of a man’s success, it commanded respect of the kind due Jacob Hawley as manager of Prothero Steel and Tube manufacturers. And it commanded the respect due his wife. Yes, she was respected by the shopkeepers of Wednesbury, she was held in esteem.
         Elm House was her pride and joy, no other member of her family could claim such. That was the true reason for the snide remarks thrown at her by Ella; her sister was jealous of what Violet had, of Jacob’s rise in the world; they were all of them filled with envy. They had expected her to remain as they still were, living in those tiny grime-covered terraces, but they had all been proved wrong. Violet’s lips spread in a satisfied smile. They had thought Jacob would leave her when he found out about her past; they had not expected him to keep up the pretence of all being normal between them and certainly not to provide her with a home in so prestigious an area as Hollies Drive; Jacob had provided.
         Until now! How much longer would that provision continue? He had stayed on for Katrin’s sake, but now Katrin was capable of taking care of herself; there was no longer anything to hold Jacob here.
         But what if he were not the one to leave?
         What if he turned her from this house? If he disowned her as his wife?
         The shame of that, the embarrassment of people talking, sniggering as she passed on the streets . . . how could she live with that?
     
    Alice’s resentment flared fresh and bright as she bit into the slice of cold toast she must eat while still operating her machine: no ten minute break now the country was at war. Half a bloody crown pocket money! And that wouldn’t be long in her pocket, not with her mother going through them once she had left for work. Not that the hours away from the factory afforded much opportunity to spend her money, time was another thing snatched by her mother.
         ‘. . . them there bedrooms wants a turnin’ out . . . the windows needs be cleaned . . . blacklead the grate   . . .’
         Her mother’s non-stop instructions beat in Alice’s head, keeping rhythm with the slap of drive belts powering the many machines.
         ‘. . . I don’t get the time to do it all . . . what with the cookin’ an’ the washin’ . . . it ain’t easy what with the little ’uns   . . .’
         Always the same moans and excuses! Of course it were no easy job seeing to a family day in and day out, but then neither was her own job easy, certainly it was no less tiring, but try telling her mother that! She had never seen the inside of a factory, much less wrestled with a machine large enough to almost fill their living room. But she would not be wrestling with it for much longer. Alice fed the cutting tool into the revolving steel, slicing off one more gleaming silver bolt. She had made up her mind. Knowles Street was not so far away, she could run there during her dinner hour, enquire at the Labour Exchange Office on how to apply to join the Women’s Forces and be back here at the factory before the afternoon shift began.
         There was only one flaw in her plan. It had been Becky had voiced it. ‘ A girl can apply to become a member of the Women’s Forces at eighteen years old, but eighteen don’t be twenty-one, you’ll need to show your birth certificate .’
         With the familiarity born of repetition, Alice’s hands seemed to work independently of her mind, which ranged over the conversation she had held with Becky on their way into work.
         ‘ That’ll be no trouble ,’ she had answered, ‘ all of them sort of papers be kept in a box in mother’s bedroom, I can take mine out next time I clean, she’ll never know it’s gone. ’
         ‘ I’ve no doubt you can get a hold of it, but you can’t go alterin’ the date, that’ll