Page 6 of Summer in Greece

‘With respect, sir, whoever replaces Arthur is also likely to sign up before long and, as a consequence, you will be obliged to start training someone new again. The sensible thing would be for you to employ me, I’m a quick learner and will be a loyal and trustworthy employee.’

Mr Frister blustered and glared at Arthur. ‘I’ll thank you to accompany your sister to the door, Master Smith, and bid her not to return. We’ve wasted too much of the morning already.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

Sissy was so furious that Arthur hadn’t backed her, she locked herself in the bedroom and refused to dine with us.

The next day, the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies announced that it was suspending all activity until the conflict was over. Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst encouraged suffragettes to focus on the war effort. She asked women to take up the roles of men in factories and, on 10 August, we learned that our government was releasing the thousand incarcerated suffragettes from prison.

‘Hurrah!’ Sissy rejoiced. ‘It takes a war for our leaders to see sense. The same men that got us into this horrible situation, now see us women as useful human beings!’ she cried. ‘I’m applying for a job, immediately.’

Mother had taken to whimpering every time one of us spoke.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Father boomed. ‘What can you do?’

‘I can drive as well as any man!’ Sissy proclaimed.

‘Impossible! You’ve never been behind a wheel, never mind tackled the gears.’

‘With respect, Father, neither had you until you acquired our marvellous Model T.’ She met his eyes. ‘Or I might train to be a doctor, like you.’ She gave me a quick glance and I sensed mischief. ‘You’re admired by everyone, Father, and I would be proud to learn your skills.’ Another glance came my way. ‘Just imagine, if Gertie and I followed in your footsteps, you could hang a sign over the surgery: DR SMITH & DAUGHTERS.’

Father’s face turned puce.

*

Two days later, Sissy and I signed on for our St John Ambulance training. I dreamed of being a nurse, and Sissy hoped to be the first woman ambulance driver for the Red Cross. Father and Mother were shocked. This was not the behaviour of ‘nice’ young ladies. However, much to Father’s surprise, we both achieved our certificates in first aid, and also understood a great deal about the workings of the human body. Meal times were most entertaining as my sister pestered Father with medical questions. He, in turn, gave up trying to remind Sissy of her ‘place’, and I do believe he was secretly quite proud of her.

My darling brother had his inoculations, which gave him a horrible scab on the top of his arm and made him feel quite wretched for a few days. Then, he went off for training on Salisbury Plain where, he told us later, he spent most of his days digging trenches, learning to clean and fire his rifle, and polish his boots. He was sent to fight in a major battle – Mons, Belgium, on 23 August.

Sissy, who was itching to do something, anything, managed to get employment at a distant munitions factory. She promised to write, and two weeks after her departure, I received a letter.

My dearest sister, Gertie,

I miss you terribly! I am writing you a different letter from Ma and Pa because I don’t want them to worry.

The munitions factory is buried between sand dunes and surrounded by a trench. It is forbidden to say where in case Kaiser Bill gets our post. All of us women workers stay in a hostel which is awfully basic, a mile away from the factory. Life is hard! We’re not allowed to wear anything metal, no hooks, or metal bones in our stays, so most of us have abandoned this undergarment. Oh, the joy of being able to breathe and not have your middle pinched into pleats!

They wake us at 5 a.m. to break the ice on our water jugs. Breakfast is bread with lard and sweet tea. We walk a mile to work in our khaki uniforms, which are not too bad, and a heavy cape which we clutch around ourselves against the bitter cold. Our boots are diabolical, unladylike and uncomfortable. Thank God for Vaseline which we smear on our heels and bunion-bone to prevent more blisters. We must wrap our hair in muslin, so we look like dumplings ready for the pot.

We slave through a twelve-hour day, all windows closed, and the silence is peculiarly sinister as we pack these instruments of death and torture. I fill sixty-pound shells with TNT which are ammunition for some great cannons that are bound to bring victory for our brave soldiers.

I often think of Arthur and hope a German woman is not packing shrapnel into a shell that might harm him. Although I’m determined to serve my country, I hate to think of the distress brought to some mother in our enemy’s country by the bombs I help to put together.

A woman died from TNT poisoning last week, Gertie. The girls in one section turn yellow from the explosives – even the whites of their eyes – and twenty workers were killed on Thursday in an explosion. We were hurried into the surrounding trenches for fear of a massive detonation but the trenches were not wide enough so we had to squeeze in. Then we realised, the mud walls teemed with slugs! Cripes! How I wished we wore trousers.

Yesterday a government photographer came around – we were all afraid his flash would blow us to Kingdom come. He was terrifically good-looking, so you can imagine the smiles from two thousand women blinding the poor chap. The gossip is, Lloyd George himself sent the photographer, though we’re not sure if it’s for the Pathé News or the broadsheets. I’ll let you know when I hear.

There is a whisper they’re building a military hospital nearer home, so I will apply to nurse there. It’s my dream to take care of our wounded soldiers.

I hope everything is going well for you, dearest Gertie. Try and stand up to Father once in a while. Do write back!

That’s all for now.

Love from your devoted,

Sissy

I touched my cheek remembering Sissy’s goodbye kiss. Oh, I missed her terribly. The correspondence trembled in my hand. I quickly dried the letter when a tear splashed onto her precious words and puckered the paper.