War Wife

The start to the day was always hard. Waking up before the sun arose to prepare for the work ahead made it feel like an eternity before she would be able to return to the comfort of her own bed.

Clare walked the mile-and-a-half journey from her home to the factory. It had snowed recently, the ground still rather crisp. Dried leaves crunched under her heavy boots, scattering into a thousands shards to the fierce winds that scurried past.

The factory wasn’t much better than being outdoors. In the morning, before the machines had been started, the building was much like a walk-in freezer. Breath chrystalized in front of her as she spoke, adding to the damp feeling in the air.

Work began sharply at 7am. More than a hundred women, of all ages and sizes, gathered inside and found their stations. Their clothes were plain; heavy, itchy fabrics, gathering dust and sweat the longer they stayed inside.

It was dangerous, very dangerous work that they did - building the weapons and bullets for the front line. The opportunity wasn't their first hope for a job, but it gave the ladies an income of their own; honest and steady work while their boys were away fighting.

It was their way of taking part in the Great War, since no one thought to ask if the women could fight too.

A loud shout from upstairs made Clare jump. Her boss, Mrs. Comp stood on the balcony overseeing the workstations. Clare hurried over to her space beside her new friend, Olive.

Olive was older than Clare by a few decades - her son was a good friend of Clare's husband Dom. They prepped their station, occasionally rubbing their hands together to drive away the chill. Olive's curly greying hair was twisted into a bun, hidden in her hat. She had a different style each day.

Clare barely had time for breakfast, let alone hairstyling. Everything in her house had to be in order before she left, to prepare for the late return each evening.

Olive reached into her pocket and took out something small and white. Opening her fist, she revealed a pile of feathers.

Clare laughed, confused. "What on earth are those for? I doubt they'll be much help with this." She gestured to the pile of bullets before her. A few hundred tiny things, ready to be packed and shipped away.

Olive shook her head.

"I finally heard back from my Meredith in London." She stuffed them quickly back into her pocket, and picked up a stray from the bench as Mrs. Comp walked past, sneering down her long hooked nose. "She sent me a parcel full of them. I'm going to the market later to hand them out." Olive leaned closer to Clare's face, too close for Clare's liking, and whispered in her middle-aged whisper, "We're meant to give them to the boys that stayed. Supposed to encourage them to enlist."

Clare stepped back from her friend, mouth agape.

"Olive! You can't want to embarass them, for not signing up? That's not right!"

Olive huffed and turned her back. "It's happening all over, Clare. They need more, and we've got to supply it."

A loud whistle took over the room. Everyone fell silent as the machines started up, even the group in the far corner who had walked in singing their dear old hearts out.

***

"VOTES FOR WOMEN!"

The wooden banner cut into Clare's already raw hands. Her arms ached, legs burned from being stood outside after hours on end counting bullets. Clare felt like her lungs would surely burst from shouting so much, but the pure thrill of it pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind.

Life had changed a lot in the last few months for the Movement.

The violence had decreased, thankfully. Clare didn't want to spend another night in a cell, though she understood that destroying a storefront display was cause enough to arrest her last time.

The work she had at the factory was paid well enough, that even with Dom away she could afford the basics. Her time as stretched thinner now, so she had less of it to partake in rallies.

The group had been discussing the protest during their measly thirty-minute break around 11am. A ten-hour shift was draining enough, but Clare wanted to keep up the work she'd started as a Suffragette three years ago.

From where she stood on a small platform, made of empty milk crates, Olive was clear as day on the corner. She was eyeing each man that hurried past the group, and practically threw the feathers after them.

It seemed after a while that the only people walking down that street were the women workers, of the very factory they stood in front of.

"Let's leave it there for today, Ladies. I very much doubt anyone else will come down these parts this late today."

Clare followed instruction and gathered her things, and watched another feather blow off in the wind.

"I'll come with you, if you don't mind Olive?"

***

Clare walked the rest of the way alone. The sun had already sunk below the rooftops, and the icy breeze had picked itself back up again since the morning.

After almost slipping twice on a patch of frozen leaves, Clare turned onto her street. Dimly lit, as usual. It was only in the dark that she saw it, really. The long shift meant the day passed by without her.

Her front door swung open quietly. A nice change.

The last of the food was ready and waiting, just as she'd laid it out before leaving for work. Just the same.

As she stepped over the threshold, she saw something different. Something that made her heart skip a beat.

There, on the floor beside her sodden shoe: a telegram, addressed to her.