A Traitor in Whitehall by Julia Kelly EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Julia Kelly
- Language: English
- Genre: World War II Historical Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
August 27, 1940
ELEVEN DAYS EARLIER
If I had to look at one more tray of anti-tank shells, I was going to scream.
A full-throated, head-thrown-back, ear-piercing bloody scream.
Now, I’ll admit that this threat was more metaphorical than literal;
however, I am my mother’s daughter and Maman was predisposed to the
occasional display of dramatics.
Gripping the workbench in front of me with both hands, I took one or
two of the deep meditative breaths my dearest friend, Moira, swore by and
reviewed the facts at hand.
One: I was nearly done with my shift at the royal ordnance factory.
Two: Mrs. Jenkins expected me to pay my usual rent at the end of the
week.
Three: There was a war on.
Taking all of these factors into consideration, I had to admit that it
would be neither prudent nor patriotic to find myself sacked. We were all
supposed to be doing our bit in the war against Nazi Germany. I just wished
my bit wasn’t quite so mind-numbingly dull.
The trouble, I reasoned as the huge factory clock mounted to the far
wall ticked slowly closer to the end of my shift, was that almost anyone
could fill racks of half-empty shells with powder to the same precise
measurements every time, ensuring that the shell detonated as expected and
blew up its target. I’d mastered that challenge in my first half day on the job
six months ago, and even Sheryl four down the row from me was coping
while nursing a head sore from a night’s drinking at the pub around the
corner from the factory.
Somehow I managed to last forty-one more minutes without running
amok on the factory floor, and when the shift change bell rang I pushed
away from my table, nearly elbowing my fellow lady workers out of the
way in our daily sprint to the changing rooms.
Munitions is a messy, dangerous line of work, so we all wore stiff
boiler suits, tight turbans, and steel-toed shoes, and we were checked every
time we came onto the factory floor. One errant hairpin could cause a spark
and blow the entire place to kingdom come. The changing rooms at a royal
ordnance factory, therefore, are a magical place of transformation where
women morphed from canvas-covered caterpillars into cotton, linen, and
even silk-clad butterflies.
Even though it was only Tuesday, my colleagues were already making
plans for the weekend while they dressed. I’d tagged along to a couple of
dances when I’d started back in February, but I’d quickly lost my taste for
nights out where the ratio of men to women would be woefully skewed by
conscription. It wasn’t any fun dancing a foxtrot with another girl when we
both kept forgetting who was meant to lead and who to follow.
At my locker, I gave a few polite nods and demurred when several
women next to me asked where I was off to in such a hurry. Maman had
taught me at an early age that, whether they be male or female, it was best
to cultivate an air of mystery by leaving a curious audience wondering.
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