They were knitting for victory. The war was into its fourth year and the five women sat around the open fire as they had done every week for the last seven weeks. Sally had to marvel at the way that the older women (she was only twenty-six, and the youngest by quite a way) were able to talk and look each other in the eye and still not drop a stitch. She couldn’t do it; never mind using the knitting needles, she had trouble just holding them. When she first started she had been so embarrassed, and kept apologising, which the old women were polite enough to wave away and tell her they were all like her once, and we all had to learn sometime. Still, as the weeks progressed it was slow work to knit the scarf she had decided on making for the brave boys at the front.
“I was thinking,” said Mrs. Onslow, a widow woman, who had lost her husband in the last war. “Perhaps we should knit something for our allies, you know they can’t be getting much comfort, with their countries overrun by those awful Nazis.”
“You mean for Canadians?” asked Mrs. Strangelove in a squeaking voice.
“No, they’re from the Empire, and the Nazis haven’t got that far dear. I’m talking about real foreigners.”
“And being in a strange country, with a different language,” Mrs. Strangelove shook her head sadly.
“There is nothing strange about England,” Mrs. Onslow wagged a finger.
“I know, I meant being from a strange country, with all that foreign food they have to eat.”
“Yes they are an odd collection, I went to France once. Didn’t like it. Still we must try to help, be civil and all that.”
“Too true,” said Mrs. Farrier, whose husband ran the village post office, a task he took particular pride in, “but would foreigners be interested in knitted scarves?”
“And why shouldn’t they be?” Asked Mrs. Richardson, a stern, large bosomed woman, “After all they are flesh and blood, just like you and me.”
“Too true,” chipped in Mrs. Strangelove. “Too true.”
They all looked at Sally. She was lost for words. Still she must try to be part of the conversation, mustn’t she. “I think it is a…splendid idea.” There she had said something, and she thought it was rather good.
The four older women nodded in agreement.
“It will make them feel wanted,” said Mrs. Richardson.
“Sally, how are you finding village life?” asked Mrs. Onslow changing the conversation suddenly.
“I’m sure Sally has settled down nicely by now,” said Mrs. Richardson. I could have answered for myself, thought Sally, somewhat put out.
“Ah, but for a young girl used to the hustle and bustle of the city…” said Mrs. Onslow.
“It is very busy, the city I mean. Here I can relax more,” said Sally softly.
“See,” said Mrs. Richardson, almost triumphantly, “a village is much more civilised, and no more nasty German bombs to worry about.”
“That’s true,” said Mrs. Strangelove.
“It is good to get away from all that for a while, isn’t it Sally?” Said Mrs. Onslow.
“Yes,” and she meant it. Here in these surroundings, the vast city she had called home for her twenty six years, and the millions of passing impersonal faces that crowded the streets, could be forgotten for a while. The women around her seemed pleased at her contribution and smiled indulgently at her.
Sally now felt daring, she said, “How are your chickens Mrs. Strangelove?”
“Laying well, Sally dear.”
“Rhode Island Reds, aren’t they?”
“No dear, Light Sussex…”
Drat, thought Sally, I forgot. This will never do, she had to try harder, remember, if she was going to be a part of things. She would look up chicken breeds when she got home, so she could converse in more detail.
It was restful sitting here in the front room of the small, perfect English cottage. It was a warm summer day, so a fire was unnecessary. Sally couldn’t wait for winter and the blazing log fire it promised. She imagined warming her hands in front of it. A vase of roses gave off a pleasant scent. A framed photograph of the King peered at them over the mantelpiece. Sally remembered that he stammered and last week had dared to venture in the conversation that his stammer had improved in the last Christmas broadcast. It had brought wise nods of agreement, and pleased her. It was a comfortable room, with its pre-war decoration, that held an image of how the rest of England should be, if it wasn’t for this horrible war. The word “cosy” came into her head. Yes, that was it, a cosy room. Very cosy.
The women chatted about the egg laying ability of various breeds of chicken, but Sally didn’t dare contribute, she was too afraid of making a mistake; she might say blue eggs, instead of brown. It was odd to think that while these women chatted and gossiped about the minutiae of village life, of a new baby, or a drunken husband, beyond these walls a brutal, destructive war was being waged, with civilization at stake. Its scale was something they couldn’t grasp. The village was everything to them. The talk of chickens continued and then Mrs. Onslow turned to Sally and said, “Sally dear, who do you think we should knit our scarves for?”
Sally dreaded Mrs. Onslow’s sudden questions; it always seemed as if they were part of some great test, a test Mrs. Onslow knew Sally would fail. She became nervous and blurted out, “Soldiers.”
“Why of course Sally dear,” replied Mrs. Onslow nodding her head sagely and embarrassing Sally, “but what nationality?”
Oh dear thought Sally, she hadn’t expected this. “Err, Italian?” she asked, a degree of hope in her words.
“Italian!” declared Mrs. Richardson. “Why they are the enemy!”
Oh no, she had done it again. Sally had made another mistake, and she had studied so hard for this, it was nerves, she knew that, nerves can make you say the strangest things when they get to you. “I meant…Japanese.”
“What!” Mrs. Richardson almost dropped her knitting. “I don’t believe my ears.”
Oops, thought Sally.
“You appear to have forgotten Pearl Harbor.”
Yes she had. “I was in error, the Japanese were our allies in the first, Great War.” she said to the four stunned women.
The women began to make tut-tutting noises and then the flood gates opened:
“Well I never!”
“I’ll say!”
“Japanese, my word!”
“And don’t forget Italians!”
“She has really gone too far.”
“Scandalous.”
“It’s today’s youth, no respect.”
“And our brave boys fighting over there as well.”
Sally felt annoyed now. After all, it was a small slip up when all is said and done, anyone could have made it. How Mrs. Richardson annoyed her so.
“Sorry,” she said raising her voice, “I meant…GERMANS.”
Well now she had done it, the women froze, there chatter stopped, then they flung their arms around as they realised what she had said. And a dam burst.
“Outrageous.”
“Traitor!”
“Too much!”
“Should be locked up!”
And did she care, not one jot, as the women would say. In fact she found it liberating.
“How about,” she called over the tumult “knitting some special socks for…HITLER!”
It got a bit out of control after that. Mrs. Richardson began to make butbutbut noises, Sally thought Mrs. Strangelove, who had gone an odd red color, might pass out, or should that be explode. But still, she had paid enough and she wasn’t doing any real harm was she, so she stood up and did the Nazi salute.
The room went dark. There was complete silence, then a red light began to flash over the cottage door, and a buzzer sounded. Her time was up, they had finished it early, which, in view of what had happened, didn’t surprise her. It hadn’t gone quite the way she had expected. She walked over to the door and it slid open, to let her pass.
Outside the chamber the overseer in charge of the 1940s room wasn’t happy.
“Well Sally?” he said.
She squirmed and rubbed one foot against the other. “I got confused.” she replied. “I got my nationalities mixed up.”
“And the old women nearly blew their circuits.” Then seeing how apologetic she looked he smiled, revealing gold capped teeth, which was the current fad amongst the fashionable crowd. “Well not that they would really. But you have to treat them more gently. They are meant to be lifelike you know. Mentioning a liking for Hitler isn’t the best way to integrate in their social circle. Which is the general idea.”
“It’s difficult remembering all those things ain’t it.”
“It is, but you can’t rush it, it takes time. Try one of the other chambers, the 1980s or 2010s. You might fit in better there.”
“But I likes the 40s. It’s calming. Y-y-you’s won’t ban me will you?” She began to stutter.
“No, we won’t ban you, but you have to try to act like you belong there. Remember the guide book for the 40s, re-read it. If you don’t like the way the conversation is going then change it. Don’t be shy.”
“You’s right, sorry.” Sally said. “An’ I thought I did so well at the start.”
He touched her shoulder. “You did,” she liked the way he spoke, just like the old women, who now sat frozen by the fireplace in the cottage chamber, waiting to be turned on, to live out another day of that long distant time when an entire world had been at war. Waiting for Sally, or another like her, to cross the chamber’s threshold and there sit and relive those days, knitting for victory.