“Comes A Long A Love”

After the hooter blew, the canteen quickly filled with steam, laced with the smells of tea, hemp dust and boiled cabbage. Enamel mugs clattered. Women talked over one another, voices rising and falling like waves, laughter cutting through the rattling windows as another gust of January wind pressed against the building.

Elsie pushed through the crowd with the confidence of someone who’d been doing it for thirty years. “Budge up,” she said, nudging a chair with her hip. “I’m not standing. My feet are killing me.”

Maggie, perched at the very edge of the table like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to take up space, changed chairs and moved her mug aside. “Sorry, Elsie.”

“Don’t apologise, love. Just don’t make me fall on my backside in front of the whole place. They’ll never let me live it down.”

Maggie smiled, cheeks pink from the cold and from being spoken to. She still had that new‑starter look: hair too neatly pinned, hands too clean, eyes too hopeful.

From the shelf above the urns, the wireless crackled. A familiar bright trumpet intro burst through the static and a few women groaned good‑naturedly.

“Oh, not this again,” someone muttered. But Maggie straightened, eyes lighting up.

Elsie caught it immediately. “Oh lord,” she said. “Here we go.”

Kay Starr’s voice swung into the room, bold and cheeky, cutting through the clatter:

“Comes a long a love…”

Maggie’s fingers tightened around her mug. She tried to hide it, but Elsie saw everything.

“So,” Elsie said, pausing to straighten her dentures, “which one is it?”

Maggie blinked. “What?”

Elsie snorted. “Don’t play daft. That look on your face. Like someone’s just whispered your name.”

Maggie stared into her tea. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing,” Elsie repeated, rolling the word around her mouth like a boiled sweet. “Is it the lad off the lorry?”

Maggie’s blush gave her away.

A ripple of laughter travelled down the table. Someone called, “Ooh, Maggie’s got an admirer!” and someone else said, “About time we had some romance round here.”

Maggie shook her head, mortified. “It’s not like that.”

Elsie leaned in, lowering her voice. “He’s only after one thing, you know.”

Maggie’s eyes widened. “Elsie!”

“Oh, don’t ‘Elsie’ me. I’ve seen his type since before you were born. Comes in with his hands in his pockets and his hair all Brylcreemed, thinking he’s God’s gift. Gives you a wink, makes you feel special. Then he’s off to the next place, doing the same to the next girl.”

Maggie swallowed. “He’s not like that.”

Elsie raised an eyebrow. “What’s he said to you, then?”

Maggie hesitated. “Well… nothing. Not really.”

Elsie barked a laugh. “Exactly.”

“He looks at me,” Maggie said quietly.

“He looks at everyone,” Elsie replied. “He’s got eyes, ain’t he?”

Maggie’s shoulders hunched. She stared at the steam rising from her mug, as if something might be written in it.

The wireless crackled again, the song bouncing along, bright and fizzy, out of step with the grey day outside. A draught crept under the canteen door, carrying the stink of industrial ink. From down the corridor, the printing machines thumped, whirred and clicked with their own rhythm.

Elsie softened. Just a little. “Listen, love,” she said, nudging Maggie’s arm. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of fancying. Keeps you warm in this weather. But don’t go building castles in the air. They fall down soon enough.”

Maggie didn’t answer. Her eyes were far away, fixed on something only she could see: some imagined version of the lad, all charm and promise, stepping out of the yard like the hero of a picture‑house film.

Elsie followed her gaze and sighed. “You’re hearing the song, not the lad. That’s the trouble.”

Maggie looked up. “What do you mean?”

Elsie waved towards the wireless with her spoon. “That tune’s all sparkle. Makes you think life’s about to sweep you off your feet. But life’s more like this canteen. Steam in your eyes, cold draught under the door and someone nicking the last cube of sugar.”

Someone down the table shouted, “Elsie, you miserable cow!” and the women laughed.

Elsie grinned. “See? They know what I mean.”

Maggie smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

The song hit its final chorus, Kay Starr belting it out like she meant every word. A few women hummed along. One tapped her foot. Another rolled her eyes.

Maggie listened as if the world depended on it.

When the song ended, the room felt flatter and colder. The clatter seemed to get louder. Someone complained about the price of coal. Someone else said the river smelled funny that morning. A woman at the far end unfolded her copy of Picturegoer and pretended to swoon over a picture of Tony Curtis.

Elsie drained her mug and stood. “Come on, love. Back to it. Those sacks won’t sew themselves.”

Maggie rose slowly, still half in the song.

As they walked toward the door, Elsie put a hand on her arm. “Just… keep your wits about you, alright?”

Maggie nodded, though she didn’t understand. Not yet.

The hooter sounded. The women filed out as the wireless crackled into another tune; something older, something softer.

Maggie glanced toward the window, where the wind pressed close, a spatter of raindrops hiding the yard, the lorry bay and whatever she thought she’d seen there.

Elsie watched her watching. “Come on,” she said gently. “Work won’t wait.”

They stepped back into the factory’s roar, the song still echoing faintly in Maggie’s mind, bright and impossible, like something that might happen if she just believed hard enough.

Elsie shook her head, but there was no malice in the gesture... only memories.