I Serve, I Rise

Join a woman from Tyneside on a journey across Newcastle toward North Shields as she support Britain’s war effort working as a conductress for the Northern General Bus Company. Writer, Amina Atiq, takes her character from city landmark to landmark, noticing the most personal details of everyday life in Britain during the Second World War from the Honduran soldiers arriving in Newcastle en route to Scotland to the women welders working at the docks...

This content was created during COVID-19

In my small city with heart, the sky
a tasteless ominous red, heavy in war. My home 
of Newcastle fires are burning, I feel it in bones.
Tyne bridge posing a rainbow, I am in awe 
of the silence after the storm but war is here
but will it ever leave me?

I prep my outfit, dark blue skies, what will my service 
bring today, smuggling war-dress like a dream,
stockings stretched up high, knees occupied
in conflict. No-one bothered to look anymore
four pockets and shimmery lining 
two brass buttons to lock the shoulder pads
sitting like a crown, we are service number 
stamped, I sometimes forget my own name
hope in the world if the land stretches
in ache and wonder nobody forgets 
the women who serve so men may fly.
This was war, it does not leave anyone behind
not even women in dresses, not even I.

I strap my leather bag across my body 
like a steel armour. You’ve grown to like me,
I like being here. My ribbons and silk left to sleep
a home filled with flowers and daisies
thorns left to bleed, will I miss what I know of home.
My lipstick stain on the breakfast tea cup 
crackle over the radio turns to station utters me to the frontline 

Unlocking the front door handle, tomorrow 
was unsure of its survival. I straighten my shirt
and pad down my hat, my sacrifice runs in a heartbeat 
in fear I may lose it all again. Trapped between my home
I leave parts of me. Farewell to my family 
greetings to a new day of duty but what of those of women
who wanted to stay behind? Who will wear my war-casket 
if my home fires are burning.

The Tyne shipyards have awoken, do they sleep?
The metal bashing and steam-engineers filling the streets 
in a pitch-black canvas of silence. The chimney black smokes 
sucked up our world in a handful of unknowns. I feel it in my bones. 
I spring across the street to keep my body warm, the neighbours
standstill, watching behind the drapes. These eyes grew louder
of the backstreet windows, to look differently at us. Washing
dishes and children to raise didn’t go away. Men may pay 
the debt but who owns the war pants in a dress when home 
still needs looking after? The children know it was never going to be the same again. 

Knock, knock, knock the tap of the heel, polished parade
my lower heel to run when the flames come racing, smuggling 
my body in a war dress fitting like a dream
or a terror. The battle-wounds do not belong to men only.

Five in the morning, women like me, line up to start their shifts 
at the Northern General Bus company. I notice my driver signalling
for my attention. I hop on and the bus leaves Gallowgate. It is a long journey 
but I feel on top of the world, a song of my own liking 
watching my city landmarks on route. I notice only the men, hanging
around the streets half-starved faces, calling for our service
now I see the women 

what if our men don’t return
who will move the wheels around?

Any more fares? 

Passengers roam differently between the city, then to North Shields 

I notice a woman standing outside The Neptune Yard
sorrowfully and looking into the space
gracefully. I wonder who she is
a welder, will we ever know? Half of her dies at port 
the other half dies at home left to grieve for their fathers
and sons, promised she will find love again
perhaps this is love story we yearn for

meeting my husband on this bus, 
I knit his socks; he is away fighting in Burma. 
They call it love but this is love in war, separation and despair.
Only I would know. We are far away from each other 
but he is close to my heart letters to mark the days 
our eyes met. I wore the mother, I wore the wife. 
I serve so he may fly and I may rise. 

This music to my ears, my port is alive
bridges crossing like an Angel of the North 
our men are lost, some were found, attracted tradesmen
and seamen and after midnight, the sirens were off. 
West Indies seamen arrived by morning at the Merchant seamen’s
hostel singing over the balcony floor. I wonder a suitcase full
of home flew to be here, share the war wounds grow our streets 
in service but a country not yet cultured to be fair
if open arms would welcome when war leaves? 

All journeys come to an end, war will return home
and I return to my small city with heart of Newcastle 
Days I feel heavy to move, some are light as a feather 
this was my one last prayer between the front door
and the world, the battle was to rise and I will rise.

Unlocking my door, tomorrow will come 
for another day of duty. 

This dress is war I smuggle to fit perfectly for my Country 
is Britain and my North-East is Newcastle. When my home fires 
are burning, I wear my war casket and make and stitch it in my own way.