The Tea Break

Vi did what she always did when she escaped into the small staff room at the back of the shop, she flicked on the Bakelite Pye radio that lived on the window sill, before sinking into one of the old comfy chairs, the ones that were split with the stuffing hanging out. She lifted her shopping bag from the floor beside her and took out a copy of Woman magazine.

'Is that this week's?' asked Meg, busying herself with kettle and mugs.

'Bought it this morning on my way in. Never miss. My threepenny treat every Thursday.'

'Don't know why you bother, not with the War on and all. I mean, what's the point now they've started this rationing lark. It's not Paris telling us what to wear any more, it's now some bald bloke in Whitehall. It's a bloody liberty if you ask me.'

Vi smiled as Meg crossed the room with two steaming mugs of tea and handed one to her, before sinking down into an adjoining chair.

'I mean, sixty-six coupons for the entire year. What good's that when a new Winter coat uses up nearly half of them?'

'There's a War on Meg, in case you haven't noticed. We've got to cut back, whether we like it or not.'

'And have you seen the latest? These new regulations they've just brought out about their so called utility clothing. They're now telling us how long our skirts can be and that we can't have frilly knickers any more. My George was raving mad last week when he went into Cole Brothers for some new socks. No calf-length any more, like he always wears. It's ankle socks only now.'

Vi giggled. 'I thought for a moment you were going to tell me your George went into Coles for some frilly knickers.'

Meg guffawed, nearly spilling her tea. 'What, to line the nesting box in his pigeon loft?'

The two girls settled down, determined to enjoy their thirty minute break accompanied by the BBC Forces Programme now quietly whispering, When You Wish Upon A Star, from the window sill.

'Well would you believe it,' chirped Meg. 'We went to the Regent last night to see this.'

'See what?' asked Vi, engrossed in her magazine.

'Pinocchio. Me and George saw Pinocchio last night at the Regent. This song on the radio's from Pinocchio, the film we saw last night.'

Meg sat humming along with the song, with a look of genuine delight on her face.

Vi gave her the space to enjoy her moment, as she had suddenly become captivated herself, by a full page advertisement in her Woman magazine.

'This is what we need Meg, look at this,' said Vi, holding out her magazine.'What every girl needs in an air raid,' she recited. 'A tailored shelter suit, good looking and practical in every way. Slipped on as one garment in half a jiffy, and only 69s/6p from Simpsons of Piccadilly.'

'For £3-9s-6p, I'd want a nice fit Air Raid Warden to go with it,' grinned Meg. 'It's freezing in our shelter and it's no fun at all when George is away all night on fire watch.'

'Well, it's got to be better than the communal one mum and I use in Attercliffe,' replied Vi. 'That keeps everything out except the weather. It's musty, damp and smelly in there and it's so crowded that if someone starts snoring, every bloke in there gets nudged by his wife.'

'Well, at least I suppose we're safe in a shelter. I heard on the bus this morning that Atkinson's on The Moor copped it during the night. We could see the red glow from the fires in the city centre from where we are on Nether Edge. I was bloody terrified. Nine hours it went on for. The bus conductor told us that one of our RAF boys got at least one of them. Came down on Brightside apparently. I hope it's true and that all the buggers in it are dead.'

Meg looked a bit remorseful after her outburst and stared down into her tea stained mug.

'Talking of flying boys,' said Vi, keen to brighten the tone, 'have you seen all those American Air Force blokes knocking around in the city centre? There are dozens of them on week-end leave, and Sheila in accounts has been on a date with one. She says they had a great time and he gave her fags and chocolate and a pair of nylon stockings. Can you believe that; a real pair of nylons?'

'I hope that's all he gave her,' mocked Meg. 'She's a real flibbertigibbet that one. She'll probably end up with a lot more than she bargained for the way she carries on.'

'What I wouldn't give for a real pair of nylon stockings,' continued Vi, flicking casually through her magazine. 'I'm sick of gravy staining my legs on a Saturday night and having to get my mum to pencil me a seam down the back. I'd die with embarrassment if it rained before we got into the Mecca.'

'I hope you use Bisto,' quipped a voice from behind them, as Ted from the meat counter burst into the room. 'Can't have our girls going out in anything but the best. Browns, Seasons and Thickens in One, does Bisto. That's where the name comes from you know.'

'Ted,' gasped Vi, indignantly. This is a private conversation. How long have you been earwigging?'

'It's my radar, Vi. If ever the word gravy is uttered, I'm there like a shot with my shade chart, ready to help any girl in need.'

'You dirty old bugger,' cried Meg, grinning from ear to ear. 'What would your Mary say if she could hear you now?'

'She'd probably say “a pale chestnut shade please, Ted, as far as the eye can see and a bit more for luck”,' and with as lecherous a flourish as he could manage, Ted pinned the poster he was holding to the staff room notice board and closed the door behind him in one theatrical flourish.

Unable to resist, Meg jumped out of her chair and approached the notice board.

'It's a warning notice Vi. It says don't talk, because the enemy has ears everywhere. Here, listen to this. It says the enemy has spies, both male and female, the latter frequently being particularly clever. Would you believe it, it's taken a war for them to finally admit that we girls are smarter than the blokes.'

'It's taken a war for them to acknowledge we even exist,' said Vi, flicking over to an advert extolling the virtues of the new side pleat skirt with the so-very-useful patch pocket used to better advantage than ever before. 'My neighbour Vera is on twelve hour shifts, churning out bearings on a lathe down at Vickers Armstrong, doing the job her husband did before he was called up. We go to war, and all of a sudden the idea that such jobs could only ever be done by men is out of the window.'

'Come to think of it,' mused Meg, as she sank back into her chair, 'if we're keeping the country running, and making everything needed to keep this war going, and looking after the kids, and driving the trams and flying the aeroplanes and cooking the meals and making the beds......what do we need blokes for anyway?'

Vi turned another page of her magazine.

'Well, for a start, who would we be buying these for if we didn't have men?

'Buying what?' queried Meg.

'Coopers Y-front underwear,' replied Vi, holding out the page with the half page advert. 'Moulded to fit your man's masculine figure, with the Y-front opening that never gapes.'

Meg snorted into her tea.

'There's nothing worse than a gaping man,' cackled Meg, hastily brushing tea from her overall.

'And someone has to carry the shopping home,' added Vi. 'Preferably when they're not gaping.'

'Or gawping, like most of 'em do,' Meg added, triumphantly.

The radio suddenly burst into life with Glenn Miller's invigorating, Woodpecker Song, and the two girls instinctively jumped out of their chairs, embraced, and began to Foxtrot their way around the room with peals of laughter. For another few more precious minutes, the war and all its frightening consequences would remain outside the staff-room door.

Image free to use by Dola