Etta.

I was barely in my twenties, married already to a vivacious little woman, six months younger than me. Jane was really, quite small, both in stature and figure. Going in and out in all the right places. Also, she was very pretty, which was a bonus and, I guess, the thing that attracted her to me in the first place.

Somehow, we had managed to qualify for a council home, a first floor flat in a converted house. Looking back, it was a death trap with glazed doors to each room. Absolutely no fire breaks and no alternative escape route should a fire ever happen. Fortunately, it didn’t but setting fire to a chip pan made it a close-run thing.

To be absolutely honest, neither of us knew what love was. We were far too young to fully appreciate the nuances of such a deep emotion. We did, however, understand lust and practiced that particular emotion like little bunnies. Of course, we had to learn what sex and anatomy were all about and boy, did we learn fast, and often. But, despite the frequency of our exploits, a year of nuptials, we had been fruitless.

Jane worked in a sweat shop, knocking out dresses for the mass market. Rainbow Fashions wasn’t exactly haute couture and the pay reflected that. Fortunately, the factory was local, within walking distance. We didn’t own a vehicle.

My job was in a factory, making one-gallon tin cans for motor oil. The assembly line started with sheets of printed tin being split into correctly sized oblongs before being dumped into a hopper where the oblongs were folded, soldered and then went into a constructed wire spiral before dropping into another machine that topped and tailed the cans before being transported to packing and shrink-wrapping before transportation out. It was monotonous work. Smelly and the fumes from the solder where probably damaging to one’s health. I hated it, but it was a means to an end. It allowed me to study while minding the soldering point. The only excitement was when the line got a blockage and tin cans started to fly around in mangled missiles. How no one was sliced to bits escapes me.

Much of the work force were women, mostly in their thirties and forties. They were a cruel bunch, united in their torment of the new recruits to the assembly line and utterly ruthless to any younger man. Many times, I was the victim of their wicked tongues that lashed any self-esteem I might have had. References to my manhood and its probable lack of length or girth were commonplace. Derogatory accusations of my perceived ineptitude as far as the opposite sex were a daily insult. Accidental tripping happened frequently and was positively dangerous, being in the workplace with hot metal and sharp edges abounding. The Foreman was next to useless. He had absolutely no control over these ladies. He was happy so long as the line kept on going. What the ladies said behind his back was shocking, to say the least. They had no regard for him at all.

It was one of those days when an accidental trip resulted in my head, meeting a corner of the cast iron machine I was working at. Head wounds bleed copiously and, in no time at all, blood was dripping down my face. It looked a lot worse than it actually was but, was enough for the line to be halted and the harridans, united as always, guiding me to the first aid point. That they had caused the accident in the first place was lost on them.

Once the flow of blood was staunched, they left me in the first aid room to go back to work. A young girl was left to keep watch over me. I say young, she was about the same age as me.

Etta had only been at the factory for a few weeks. We hadn’t had a chance to meet or become acquainted until she stood, sentinel like and probably a little relieved to be away from the monotony of the production line. Not much was said between us before Mr. Lovecraft, the foremen, allowed that I should probably go home. Concussion? What concussion?

The next day, I sat outside at the back of the factory on a grass verge that overlooked the park that backed onto the factory grounds. My lunch was carefully laid out on greaseproof paper beside me and a flask of coffee alongside that. I avoided the canteen. Apart from not being able to afford the food on offer, the ribbing by the harridans was too much to bear. The sun beamed down on a warm afternoon.

Etta sat next to me quietly. I hadn’t noticed her approach until the rustle of her uniform coverall announced her squat.