We chat with author Jennifer Chiaverini about her new release Canary Girls, which is a lively and illuminating novel about the “munitionettes” who built bombs in Britain’s arsenals during World War I, risking their lives for the war effort and discovering camaraderie and courage on the soccer pitch. PLUS we also have an exciting excerpt for you to read at the end of the interview.
Hi, Jennifer! Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself?
I’m the New York Times bestselling author of thirty-three novels, including critically acclaimed historical fiction and the beloved Elm Creek Quilts series. I earned my BA from the University of Notre Dame and an MA in English Language and Literature from the University of Chicago. My husband and I have two absolutely wonderful adult sons, and we call Madison, Wisconsin home.
My favorite historical figures to base fictional characters upon are people who face adversity with moral courage and dignity, whose longing for justice and compassion for others lead them to stand up for what is right even at great risk to themselves.
When did you first discover your love for writing and stories?
I’ve wanted to be a writer ever since I learned to read, and many of the books I read in childhood sparked my interest in history, so it seems happily inevitable that I would embrace historical fiction as an author. For me, one of the great joys of writing historical fiction is the opportunity to bring little-known or forgotten historical figures to the forefront of the story. Women and people of color, especially, have too often been relegated to the margins and footnotes, if they make it into the historical narrative at all. I love introducing readers to courageous, extraordinary people that haven’t always been given the recognition they deserve, and allowing readers to witness transformative events in history through their eyes.
Quick lightning round! Tell us the first book you ever remember reading, the one that made you want to become an author, and one that you can’t stop thinking about!
The first book I remember reading is The Secret of the Old Clock, the first in the Nancy Drew Mystery Stories series. I was in kindergarten, and I read the entire book without knowing what a will was and why it mattered that one was missing. Since that was rather central to the plot, I’m not sure why I waited until after I finished the book to ask my mom.
When I read Tuck Everlasting as a child, it was a revelation, because I discovered how wonderous, inspiring, and heartbreaking a story could be. I’ll be forever grateful to the librarian who encouraged me to read it, because it was one of many books that nurtured my love of reading and inspired me to become an author.
The book I can’t stop thinking about lately is Still Life by Sarah Winman. It’s an absolutely brilliant mostly-post-WWII historical novel set in Tuscany and London, featuring a young British soldier, an aging art historian, and their eccentric, wonderful friends and found families. My description would never do this wonderful story justice, so I’ll just urge you to read it. You’ll be glad you did.
Your latest novel, Canary Girls, is out now! If you could only describe it in five words, what would they be?
Rosie the Riveter meets A League of Their Own. That’s nine words, but some of them are short, so I hope you’ll allow it.
What can readers expect?
An enthralling story, I hope. I wrote Canary Girls to honor the brave, loyal munitionettes whose perseverance and sacrifice broke ground for women in athletics as well as the workplace. In the factories and on the football pitches, they confronted discrimination and challenged expectations, redefining women’s roles for generations to come.
Where did the inspiration for Canary Girls come from?
While researching my previous novel, Switchboard Soldiers, I discovered that the women telephone operators of the WWI US Army Signal Corps passed through Great Britain on their way from the United States to France. To better understand what my characters would have witnessed and experienced during their brief visit, I delved into memoirs, newspaper archives, and historical accounts of the British home front during the Great War. This was how I discovered the fascinating details that inspired Canary Girls.
By the time my Switchboard Soldiers would have arrived in Liverpool in March 1918, Great Britain had been utterly transformed by nearly four harrowing years of war. Families longed to be reunited with their young men who had gone off to fight, while others grieved those who would never return from the battlefield. Cities and towns bore the scars of destruction wrought by German aerial bombardments. The German blockade had resulted in ever-worsening shortages of food and necessities.
And as hundreds of thousands of men left their jobs to take up arms, women determined to “do their bit” had replaced them in factories, businesses, and other workplaces from which they had traditionally been excluded. Nicknamed “munitionettes,” they produced guns, shells, explosives, aircrafts, and other materiel, working long, grueling shifts six or even seven days a week in factories scattered throughout Great Britain. Whether they were located in the industrial districts of cities or in the remote countryside, the munitions plants were nearly always deafeningly loud, teeming with noxious fumes, unheated in winter and stifling in summer, and rife with dangers inherent to the manufacture of explosives.
Over time, troubling reports began to emerge from factories throughout the UK that munitionettes who worked with the chemical trinitrotoluene—TNT—suffered from unexplained illnesses. The women complained of a bewildering array of symptoms—chest pains, sore breasts, sneezing fits, bad coughs, severe sore throats, profound digestive problems, vomiting, anemia, migraines, and a persistent metallic taste in their mouths. Eventually TNT workers’ skin took on a lurid yellow hue, earning them the nickname “canary girls.”
Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring?
I was intrigued to discover that women had filled in for men not only in the workplaces, but also on the football pitch, and I was very eager to learn more.
With professional football—soccer, in the US—essentially shut down for the duration, women’s teams met for matches on the dormant pitches that had not been appropriated for military use. The new women’s teams that sprang up during the war usually began as informal recreational clubs affiliated with a particular workplace. Before long, matches between different factories were organized, often as charitable fundraisers. As crosstown rivalries emerged and especially skilled players garnered fame, the press began covering the matches. Regrettably, though, condescending reporters often focused on the players’ beauty or perceived feminine foibles rather than their athletic prowess.
Like the press, the public didn’t take women’s football seriously at first either, but spectators were soon won over. Skeptical fans whose favorite teams were on hiatus turned to “girl footballers” as a last resort and with low expectations, only to be impressed by the women’s athleticism, competitive spirit, and dignity in victory or defeat. As the war dragged on, women’s football became increasingly popular, filling stadiums and raising impressive amounts of money for charity. Eventually a Munitionettes’ League was established, complete with regulation matches, a playoff tournament, and the awarding of the Munitionettes’ Cup in October 1918.
Can you tell us a bit about your research process? Were there any interesting tidbits you were fascinated by?
Whenever I write historical fiction, I begin by doing extensive research into the era and the significant locations, peoples, and events that will likely figure in my story. After that, I construct a timeline to help me understand the flow of historical events that my characters would have experienced, and I use this timeline to develop the rough framework of the book. Whenever possible, I also like to visit preserved historical sites that relate to the people and events I include in my novels in order to enhance my understanding of a place and its people.
One historical detail that has lingered with me ever since I began my research was that even after medical experts concluded that TNT was hazardous to workers’ health, most canary girls remained on the job as long as they were able. “The lads risk their lives in the trenches,” the canary girls were often heard to say. “We risk ours in the arsenal.”
What’s next for you?
My next novel, The Museum of Lost Quilts (April 2024), will welcome readers back to the world of Elm Creek Quilts, just in time for the 25th anniversary of the series.
Lastly, do you have any book recommendations for our readers?
Favorite books I’m recommending these days include Still Life by Sarah Winman, The Whalebone Theatre by Joanna Quinn, Women of the Copper Country by Mary Doria Russell, and Sea of Tranquility by Emily St. John Mandel.
EXCERPT
Entering a vast room about the size of a warehouse, Lucy observed rows of industrial machines, still with the shine of newness upon them, and a dozen or so munitionettes and at least as many men and boys turning out copper caps on huge pressing machines. As she approached the first row, a burly, dark-haired man in his mid-forties broke off an intense discussion with a slighter fellow who was wielding a wrench in the guts of the only silent machine in the room. The burly man scowled at the sight of her, which told her with immediate, dismaying certainty that he was the foreman. “I s’pose you’re the new girl who fancies herself an operator?” he fairly growled at her.
“I’m Lucy Dempsey, sir,” she replied, offering a courteous nod. “I’ve been assigned to finish shells. Superintendent Carmichael ordered me to report to the foreman.”
“Aye, that’s me.” To the man with the wrench, he added, “Keep at it. I’ll ask Donovan about those parts.” Turning back to Lucy with a glower, he said, “Let me make something clear: This is no place for a girl. Filling shells is one thing, but the Finishing Shop is for skilled work, union labor, and if not for the war I’d have nowt to do with training you.”
“Well, naturally.” She was too surprised to be intimidated. “If not for the war, I wouldn’t be here.”
“That’s true enough. Don’t think you’re keeping this job after we thrash the Germans, either. You’ll be out, and a soldier returned from the front will get his job back.”
“He’ll be welcome to it,” she said, bewildered. When the war was over, the government wouldn’t need munitionettes because they wouldn’t need munitions. In the meantime, she needed the wages, and surely the foreman didn’t think the jobs should go unfilled because there weren’t men enough to fill them. “I understand this job is only temporary. I’m just trying to do my bit, and to earn a wage while my husband is in the service.”
The foreman eyed her suspiciously, but apparently she had said the right thing, because his scowl became slightly less fierce. “Don’t think you can pass off second-rate work just because you’re a novice,” he warned. “A badly made English shell can kill our Tommies just as dead as a German bomb. I’ll be inspecting your work very carefully, and you’ll do over any mistakes until you get it right.”
“Thank you, sir.” Why did he keep thundering the obvious at her as if he expected an argument? This was her first factory job ever. She had hoped for close supervision, at least in the beginning, but she had been reluctant to ask for it, since the foreman was evidently very busy. “No need for ‘sir.’ Save that for the boss. Call me Mr. Vernon.” He turned away, gesturing sharply to indicate that she was to follow.
“Come on, then. We’ll get you started.”
He led her past the pressing machines to a more open space at the far end of the building, where munitionettes worked with a variety of hand tools before rows of large shells set up on their back ends. She expected to be taken through to another chamber containing the sort of machines she had trained on in her course, but instead he halted before the row of eight-inch shells in the far corner of the room, as if he meant to tuck her away out of sight.
“Other girls will bring you the filled shells on a trolley, and you’ll help unload them to your station,” he said brusquely. “Before you finish the shell, you need to fit the exploder.” He selected a hand drill from a rack of tools and demonstrated how to attach it to the tip of the shell and remove the plug with several vigorous turns of the handle. Setting the plug and drill aside, he inserted the nozzle of a long black rubber hose into the shell and tamped down the powder, scraping around the interior sides, presumably to catch every grain. “Where are your gloves?” he asked, eyeing her slender hands.
“I haven’t got any.”
He grumbled deep in his throat and jerked his thumb, showing off his own gloves, toward a wall of shelves where various caps, aprons, gloves, masks, and other gear were sorted. She hurried over and quickly searched through the gloves for the smallest pair, grabbed a heavy apron for good measure, and hurried back. Mr. Vernon had picked up a metal pitcher with a spout and was stirring the contents with a metal bar, scraping down the sides. “Don’t get any on yourself or you’ll be badly burned,” he advised curtly as he carefully poured a thick liquid into the shell. “You’ve got to top off the case with molten explosive.”
She nodded, feeling the heat of it on her face.
Setting the pitcher aside, he selected a tool that resembled a metal bar with an open, circular cutting tool in the middle. “This is a die stock,” he said, fitting the circular part on the head of the shell and grasping the two metal bars like handles. “When you turn it like so”—he paused to demonstrate several firm, clockwise turns—“it cuts uniform threads. Do you know what that means?”
As it happened, since her father-in-law was a carpenter, she did. “Yes, sir—Mr. Vernon.”
“Next, use the wheel to clear the screw threads.” Taking another tool from the rack, he inserted the shaft into the tip of the shell and turned the wheel clockwise several times with an effort she wasn’t sure she could match. Removing the wheel, he inserted a sort of spike into the tip and pounded the end again and again, then withdrew the spike, inserted a rod to measure the depth, and repeated the process until its contents reached the proper level, a number he ordered her to memorize. He then demonstrated how to insert the detonators, narrating the process with warnings and admonitions. Lastly, he stenciled the destructive mark on the shell. “Trolley workers will carry the finished batch away,” he added. “You’ll help them load. Then you catch your breath, if you can, before the next trolley of shells to finish arrives.” He eyed her, frowning. “Are you ready to give it a go?”
There was no other acceptable answer but yes, so she nodded.
For the first two hours Mr. Vernon hovered over her shoulder, observing her every move, correcting and reproving her whenever she fell short of perfection. From the corner of her eye she observed other munitionettes working deftly and assuredly at the same tasks, seeming to complete three shells to her every one. The work was physically demanding, especially turning the wheel and pounding the mallet, and by the time Mr. Vernon trusted her enough to proceed on her own, checking in only every ten minutes, and then every fifteen, her arm and shoulder ached.
Once, when the foreman stepped away, Lucy paused to wipe her brow with her jacket sleeve. “Don’t mind Mr. Vernon,” another munitionette called to her from the next row. “He doesn’t like any of us. You’re doing well.”
“Thank you,” Lucy called back, grateful for the first kind word she’d heard in hours. “Is it normal to feel like your arm is about to fall off?”
“Only on the first day,” the other woman replied, grinning. “Maybe the second too.”
Lucy was glad for the gloves and the apron, but she would have liked a veil too, or nose plugs. Traces of yellow powder lingered on the tools and her station, and the acrid odor of the molten explosive stung her nostrils and eyes. It was a relief when the bell rang to signal the dinner hour. She quickly finished stenciling a shell, left her gloves and apron on the table, and followed the other munitionettes back into the other building, where the workers were passing through a stone archway into a washroom with several rows of sinks. Chatting and teasing, they lined up to scrub their hands and faces, some vigorously, others indifferently, then passed through a doorway on the opposite wall into the canteen.
Lucy was one of the last to get a turn at a sink, and she took extra care to wash every yellow speck off her hands; somehow, despite the gloves, powder had gotten on her skin.
