Frank - a Jake Auerbach film

For an insightful look into the life and work of Frank Auerbach, we recommend the film by his son, Jake Auerbach. Known for his tireless dedication to painting and reclusive nature, Frank Auerbach rarely ventures beyond his North London studio. However, when his retrospective opened at Kunstmuseum Bonn in 2015, Jake captured the exhibition on film to share with his father, offering a rare opportunity for Frank to revisit works he hadn’t seen in decades.

The resulting documentary reveals not only the artist's reflections on his oeuvre but also an intimate portrait of a father-son relationship. Interweaving Auerbach’s artistic philosophy, drawing on inspirations ranging from Gauguin to Shakespeare, with candid moments of personal connection, the film provides a compelling window into the mind of one of Britain’s most celebrated painters.

David Bomberg and Frank Auerbach

The recent death of Frank Auerbach marks the passing of one of the greatest painters of our time, whose commitment to his craft was unmatched. Yet, to fully appreciate Auerbach’s extraordinary achievements, we must turn to his early mentor, David Bomberg. A pioneering modernist, Bomberg not only shaped British art but influenced the course of Auerbach’s career. Their intertwined legacies speak to the transformative power of teaching and the enduring impact of creative mentorship.

David Bomberg: The Radical Innovator

David Bomberg (1890–1957), born into a working-class Polish-Jewish immigrant family in Birmingham, rose to prominence as a revolutionary voice in early 20th-century art. Works like The Mud Bath (1914) and In the Hold (1913–14) showcased his interest in the fragmented forms of Cubism and Futurism. But Bomberg’s artistic vision was never static. His experiences during World War I, where he served as a soldier and later as an official war artist, prompted a dramatic shift toward a more humanistic, emotionally charged approach to painting.

While his contemporaries gained recognition, Bomberg struggled for institutional support. This marginalization led him to focus on teaching, which became a central part of his legacy. Bomberg’s classes at the Borough Polytechnic (now London South Bank University) in the late 1940s and early 1950s became a crucible of creativity, attracting students like Frank Auerbach and Leon Kossoff, who would later define post-war British painting.

The Teacher and the Student

For Auerbach, Bomberg was more than a teacher—he was a philosophical guide who fundamentally altered his approach to painting. Auerbach, a refugee from Nazi Germany, arrived in Bomberg’s class at the Borough Polytechnic in 1947, a young artist grappling with the enormity of his displacement.

Bomberg’s teaching emphasized “the spirit in the mass”—a belief that the painter’s role was not to reproduce appearances but to engage deeply with the subject’s essence. This approach resonated with Auerbach, whose work would come to embody this same intensity. Bomberg urged his students to search relentlessly for truth in their work, to trust their instincts, and to accept failure as a vital part of artistic growth.

Auerbach absorbed Bomberg’s ethos of relentless experimentation, working and reworking his paintings over months—even years—until they captured the essence of his subject. This rigor became the defining hallmark of Auerbach’s career.

Bomberg’s Teaching Legacy

Bomberg’s classes were unconventional, rejecting rigid academic methods. Instead, he fostered an environment of creative exploration. He encouraged students to look beyond surface appearances, to immerse themselves in the emotional and physical reality of their subjects.

Bomberg’s insistence on the relationship between the artist and the material world was revolutionary. He viewed painting as a dialogue between the artist and the subject, one that required complete immersion and honesty. This approach transformed Auerbach’s understanding of painting, laying the foundation for his intense, tactile engagement with the medium.

Auerbach’s thickly layered canvases, capturing the streets of Camden or the faces of friends, embodied and extended some of the principles Bomberg instilled in him. The act of painting, for Auerbach, does engage with Bomberg’s concept of the “spirit in the mass”—a struggle to capture the essence of his subjects through relentless observation and revision.

Auerbach eclipsed Bomberg in public recognition, he never forgot his teacher’s impact. Bomberg’s vision, rooted in the search for truth and the emotional power of form, was a constant presence in Auerbach’s work.

The relationship between David Bomberg and Frank Auerbach exemplifies the profound, lasting impact a teacher can have on an artist’s life. Bomberg’s lessons—about searching, feeling, and daring to fail—shaped Auerbach’s art, while Auerbach’s success brought renewed attention to Bomberg’s work, ensuring his place in the history of British art.

With Auerbach passing, we celebrate not only his remarkable career but also the creative dialogue that began in Bomberg’s classroom. Together, they remind us that the most meaningful art is born not in isolation but through shared ideas and explorations of the medium.

Report by HM Inspectors on the Borough Polytechnic 1947 Bomberg at the Borough Road

Report by HM Inspectors on the Borough Polytechnic 1947 

P30-31, on the Art Department 

(ii) Composition 

The teacher is a painter of wide experience who has developed a very personal style in his own work. 

The Composition class takes place on two mornings each week in the Life room and is attended by both full-time and part-time students. The room is badly lit and there is hardly adequate accommodation for the full number of students working on large-scale pictures. 

The subject of each student’s work is carefully related to his interested and potentialities, and the students are then encouraged to develop their ideas in a direct and spontaneous manner concentrating from the beginning on the main construction of their pictures and evolving of forms expressive of the particular theme. Sketches are enlarged and revised in a number of stages until the final work is carried out, usually on a large scale. 

By means of considerable personal effort the teacher has been able to give confidence to his students and to maintain a high level of interest in the work. Although the majority of students have had little previous experience, their work shows a remarkable imaginative intensity and feeling for design. Most of them have at present small ability as draughtsmen and much of their work is characterised by a certain vagueness of form. 

The ultimate value of these rather unorthodox teaching methods will depend very much on whether the students can bring a strong personal perception of nature to the technical understanding of picture making they are now acquiring and thus avoid mannerism. 

(iii) Life Drawing. A Life Drawing class is taken by the same teacher on one afternoon during the week. It is attended by full-time and part-time students, and, as the number has grown too large for the size of the Life room, the Head of Department proposes to split the class. 

The approach to Life Drawing is related to the methods used in the Composition class. The teacher rightly insists on an atmosphere of concentration being maintained in the Life room and he aims at making the student regard each drawing as a creative exercise rather than a piece of passive copying. Many of the drawings in the Students’ folios had been done using charcoal or chalk in a broad sweeping manner which brought out the beauty of the material and gave an attractive suggestion of the main forms and movement of the figure. This method has enabled students of little experience to acquire rapidly a means of expression. If, however, the student came to rely too much on one approach, there is a danger of their developing an empty facility rather than a sound conception of drawing, and it was felt that these drawings should be supported by studies of a more detailed nature. 

The Tuesday and Thursday evening classes are attend mostly by part-time students and the instruction is given on orthodox professional lines. Most of the students are amateur draughtsmen who apparently make no use of their drawing either for producing pictures or for any other purpose. Life Drawing is best studied as a means to some end and it would be valuable if the Sketch Club that formerly used to run in the school could be revived so that these students could be encouraged to produce work for its competitions and put their drawing to some use 

Dorothy Mead and Edna Mann by Dr Nicola Baird

Text by curator and researcher Dr Nicola Baird for the exhibition ‘The line is an unreal thing’: Dorothy Mead and Edna Mann that opens January 19th, 2024.

Dorothy Mead (1928-1975)

Born in London in 1928 Dorothy Mead attended the South-East Technical College and Dagenham School of Art where she first encountered artist-teacher David Bomberg. Despite having lodged a formal protest against his approach – ‘I was 16 years at the time and understood little’ – Mead was subsequently won over, following Bomberg to the City Literary Institute and, in 1945, to the Borough Polytechnic, now London South Bank University. In 1946 Mead became a founder member of the Borough Group, formed, in the artist’s own words, to ‘further the aims of David Bomberg and to establish his students as professional painters’. She exhibited alongside its other members including Dennis Creffield and Cliff Holden, with whom she had an 11-year relationship, until the group disbanded in 1951.

In 1956 Mead enrolled as a mature student at the Slade School of Art where she continued to flourish, influencing younger artists, including Mario Dubsky, and becoming president of Young Contemporaries (1958-59). And yet, despite winning the Steer Medal for Landscape Painting and a Prize for Figure Painting, Mead was forced to leave without a degree, her failure to sit the perspective exam compounded by Professor Coldstream’s refusal to accept a thesis in which she had stated her belief in ‘the scientific method’ as ‘alien to me in my work as a painter’. Key to understanding the nature of Mead’s audacity and originality as an artist is a statement made in a letter to Andrew Forge: ‘It seems that I do not toe the line. I recognise no line. I accept only myself. The line is an unreal thing to me, and the gamble on myself has to be made, not just in energy and work, but in self-belief.’

Mead was an exceptionally dedicated artist of ‘monumental intention’, and ‘deep feeling’ whose paintings possessed ‘inner thrust and structural density’. And yet, unable to secure a permanent teaching position she struggled to sustain herself financially combining intermittent employment at Goldsmiths, Chelsea School of Art and Morley College with casual jobs including as a cartoon animator for Halas & Bachelor, a West End theatrical costume designer, and a waitress at Lyons Corner House.

Although included in the 1964 Arts Council exhibition, 6 Young Painters along with David Hockney, Peter Blake and Bridget Riley, an active member of the London Group since 1960 and its first female president, Mead was never given the opportunity of a solo show. For Holden, ‘Dorothy had courage, stuck to her principals … She … never sought to turn her work into a saleable commodity’ and yet she did once confide, half-jokingly to her younger sister Val that ‘she would change her name to George – our Dad’s name – giving her much more chance of being recognised as a painter’.

Indeed, Mead has not yet achieved the level of recognition she rightfully deserves, while her role as mentor to her one-time lecturer and married long-term lover Andrew Forge remains largely unacknowledged. For Mead their tempestuous relationship was at once, ‘the most wonderful thing’.

that has ever happened to me’ and the source of much hurt and distress. Although ‘a very abundant, very positive person’, Mead tragically attempted suicide on more than one occasion, resulting in periods of rehabilitation in Springfield University and Maudsley Hospitals. Mead died in 1975 at the age of 46 from a brain tumour.

Edna Mann (1926-1985)

Born in East London in 1926, Edna Mann was an artist, teacher and mother described by her siblings as a ‘brave’, ‘vivacious’ ‘lifeforce’. First educated at Romford County High School for Girls, Mann went on to study at the South-East Technical College and Dagenham School of Art where she encountered artist-teacher David Bomberg. Mann was one of the few female artists to attend Bomberg’s classes and, like Dorothy Mead, though initially sceptical, in 1944 she followed him to the City Literary Institute and subsequently to the Borough Polytechnic, now London South Bank University. Works executed while under Bomberg’s tutelage include charcoal renderings of the exterior of Westminster Abbey, the interior of St Paul’s Cathedral and Cityscape, likely drawn from the roof of the Borough Road building.

United in their appreciation of Bomberg, Mann, along with fellow pupils Mead, Cliff Holden and Miles Richmond founded an exhibiting society known as the Borough Group (1946-51). Prior to the group’s formation Mann had accepted a scholarship to study book illustration at the Royal College of Art, choosing to leave after a year because of her tutors’ trenchant opposition to Bomberg’s influence, a decision which seemed to those around her all the more controversial when having become pregnant, she was encouraged to leave the group as Bomberg did not believe that it was possible to be both an artist and a mother.

Mann would go on to raise three children, combining motherhood with both artmaking and teaching. Transitioning out of what husband Don Baldwin referred to as her “mud plum” period, between the late 1940s and 1960s, Mann began increasingly to embrace abstraction and the use of vivid colour. Moving during this time between Forest Hill, Romford, Leightonstone and Woodford, Mann also taught art at Lucton County Secondary Modern School in Debton near Loughton before gaining employment at Burnt Mill School in Harlow (1962-1978).

In 1965 Mann’s work was included in The Harlow Arts Festival, the same year in which she had her first solo show of paintings, drawings and prints at the Drian Galleries in London, founded by Lithuanian émigré Halima Nalecz. Also in 1965, having begun, from the late 1950s onwards to experiment with imaginative and observational writing, Mann succeeded in having a play – entitled The Leavers written with Frank Hitchcock and including Nigel Graham and Anthony Hall – broadcast by the BBC. Although she is well-represented in the Sarah Rose Collection, it is incredibly rare to see examples of Mann’s work on display elsewhere.

Art Unlocked: A David Bomberg Legacy: the Sarah Rose Collection

This talk provides an introduction to A David Bomberg Legacy: the Sarah Rose Collection. It was prepared and delivered by Curator (maternity cover) Emily Fuggle on 15 March 2023, for Art Unlocked, a series of events exploring UK museum and gallery collections, sponsored by Bloomberg Philanthropies.

In this video, Emily introduces six key artworks from the collection to explain how the artist David Bomberg inspired a new generation of painters as a teacher at the Borough Polytechnic (London South Bank University) in the 1940s and 1950s.

This talk is also accompanied by an Art UK Curation

The Representation of Women in Art

The Representation of Women in Art by Laney Gibbons

Art is, and always has been, a way for individuals to express themselves, and allow others to experience the magic. Before the generations of phones and social media, artwork was one of the few forms of entertainment that we had, and along the way, art has captured some of the most beautiful and heartbreaking events in history. 

Now, in the 21st century, we have more variations of artforms than ever before, yet if you ask any young individual to name a famous artist - 9 times out of 10 they will succeed, because that is how impactful art is. However, research shows that the top three most well-known artists are all male - Picasso, Van Gogh, and Da Vinci. And while this could just be a sign of the times, even the more contemporary groups of artists are overshadowed by the likes of Andy Warhol. 

This is why it is so important for new, younger generations to open up conversations about women in art and the work they created. I have always been intrigued by self-portraits and the stories that they tell, as they evoke such emotion both from the creator and the consumer. 

One of the most mesmerising pieces of art I have ever discovered is Ana Mendieta’s Untitled (Self-Portrait With Blood). On the surface, the artwork is extremely interesting, drawing the spectator in, wanting to learn more - searching for a deeper meaning. However, if you read more into Ana Mendieta’s life and upbringing, the artwork begins to make more sense. Growing up in Havana, Ana was born into a middle-class family of politicians. This would suddenly be cut short, though. At the age of just 12, Ana, along with her sister, was sent to the United States, where they were regularly moved from one foster home to another - which subsequently led to these emotions shining through within her later works. Unfortunately, Ana had quite an eventful life from birth, all the way up to her death in 1985. Ana passed away in early September of 1985, aged just 36, after falling from the window of the 34th-floor apartment that she shared with her husband, Carl Andre, in Greenwich Village, NYC. In fact, it was speculated that Ana’s husband - Carl - was responsible for her death, but he was later acquitted of all charges.

And while fans of Ana Mendieta and her work fight hard for her legacy, for her to be remembered for her talents, and not her death, it is quite bittersweet that she lived out the rest of her life in the United States. People believe that Ana Mendieta always felt a strong disconnect from the USA, which would be understandable due to her being sent there after being separated from her family. This sense of not-belonging and disconnect really shines through in some of Ana Mendieta’s work, with strong themes of landscape, nature, and the female body, which brings me onto her piece, Untitled (Self-Portrait With Blood). 

Untitled (Self-Portrait With Blood) is an extremely bold piece of art. It is raw, emotional, and strong. The piece features a close-up shot of Mendieta herself, as she makes direct eye contact with the camera, as blood drips down her face. This isn’t the first, or last, piece of Mendieta’s work to feature blood - which led Art Historians to theorise that this could be in reference to Santeria - the Cuban religion. This directly links the emotions of Mendieta’s sense of belonging, and the way she felt towards her native country, after being taken away from her home at such a young age. When discussing this theory in a  1981 artist statement, Mendieta explained that “I have been carrying out a dialogue between the landscape and the female body (based on my own silhouette). I believe this has been a direct result of having been torn from my homeland (Cuba) during my adolescence. I am overwhelmed by the feeling of having been cast from the womb (nature). My art is the way I re-establish the bonds that unite me to the universe. It is to return to the maternal source”. 

One thing I picked up on from Mendieta’s Untitled (Self-Portrait With Blood) is the fact that her face was obstructed by the blood, which reminded me of Dorothy Mead’s self-portrait from 1973, in which she is also faceless/obstructed. The piece is an oil painting of a nude Mead, with obstructed facial features. The piece is strikingly beautiful and captures a sense of of beauty and vulnerability. 

Dorothy Mead was part of the Borough Group . Mead was a talented artist but struggled to get the recognition her male peers received. Like other powerful women who are not afraid to follow their own path, Dorothy Mead was met with criticism and stereotypes for her work. For instance, critic David Sylvester singled Mead out, stating that she “tends to affirm the supremacy of light, as women’s painting often does”.  The lease of viewing work is restrictive and has lead to the erasure and pleasure of seeing more work by female artists.

Ana Mendieta and Dorothy Mead paved the way for aspiring women artists, and I am sure they will continue to do so for many generations. Their pieces are timeless, they capture so much strength and emotion, and I know I speak on behalf of numerous art-lovers when I say that we are proud of the women we have to look up to and thank them for the fight that they fought for younger generations.

Twisted Anchors by Matilda Bjorklund

Twisted Anchors by Matilda Bjorklund is part of a speculative fiction series influenced by artworks in the BRCA collection. Inspired by the Vorticism influence on Bomberg’s works such the drawing “Family Group” from 1914 and the visual element with the flat and two-dimensional surface, in addition to the rejection of the traditional belief that “art should imitate nature”, this story will feature ghosts that are not traditional in sense of appearance or character. The statues Cubist/ Vorticism style will allow the expression of another side of the human experience and reflect on various humans fates with violence, love and death.

TWISTED ANCHORS

Despite visiting the Vandell estate plenty of times while growing up, Edwin couldn’t recall the place being this echoey. The grand white marble rooms that were formerly filled with artworks and uncomfortable furniture now stood empty, making the house feel like a luxurious empty shoebox. Edwin squinted at the walls and the faint outlines of where paintings used to be. The Vandell estate was meant to live on forever, thought Edwin, as he struggled to remember what particular paintings had been hanging by the estate's entrance. If Edwin had known things would turn out like this, he would have made more of an effort to remember his grandfather’s paintings. However, considering that nothing lasts forever, Edwin saw the proof in that sentiment by realising that he would never see his grandfather's work again. 

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Vandell,” said Mr. Bimbley, a proper looking bankman that stood in the open doorway, glancing down his pocket watch.  Edwin approached him with his echoing footsteps and handed him an envelope with his final payment. The bankman went through the envelope and frowned a bit at the content. 

“Mr. Vandell, your ring please," Edwin looked down at the bankman's gloved hand as it was faced palm up. Judging by Mr. Bimbley's annoyed expression and slight angle towards the busy street, the bankman was eager to leave, similarly to most people in his life. Edwin twisted off his gold wedding ring, bitterly glanced at the engraved "Bianca", and then handed it to Mr. Bimbley. 

"With the value of your grandfather's estate and this final payment, your debt should be cleared. We will be in touch in a few days to sign the final documents." Mr. Bimbley tipped his hat and started to walk down the steps but turned around midway. 

"I almost forgot, according to Thomas's final will, he wanted you to have this when you had…." Mr. Bimbley trailed off, and Edwin knew why. As the only heir to Thomas Vandell's fortune and art collection, Edwin was supposed to inherit the estate and move in. However, after Bianca's scam, the entire estate had to be given to the bank. It, therefore, was surprising that Edwin was allowed to keep anything from his grandfather. He dared to think it was a family heirloom of some sort or something he could sell to get him back on his feet. Yet when the bankman handed him an old envelope, Edwin's hope deflated. 

“We will be in touch in a few days,” and with that, the bankman hurried away. Locking the buzzing street noises outside, Edwin stood alone inside and deciphered the faded ink on the envelope to form the word “secret”. Searching his childhood memories of why this sounded familiar, he went up the stairs to the estate's attic. Standing in his grandfather's studio, where the floors and walls were covered in old dried paint splashes, Edwin gently touched the wall to find the panel that gently budged. When a quiet “click” interrupted the silence, Edwin sighed with relief. That vague image of his grandfather showing him a secret workshop when he was little wasn't a dream after all. It had been over twenty years since he had seen the hidden room, but it had barely changed when he entered. The room was small and had a few round windows showing the rooftops of the city. Cobwebs decorated the furniture and a magazine from ten years ago laid open with an incomplete crossword puzzle. In the middle of the studio, under grimy sheets, stood four statues. As Edwin pulled off the covers and coughed while waving away the dust, he remembered why this room and these statues had been a secret. They were terrible. Thomas Vandell had been a ground-breaking painter and respected by his peers. However, he was far from a talented sculptor. The statues were clunky and oddly shaped, making it seem like they had been made of ice that started to melt and later refroze. His grandfather had always admired the detailed work of Greek statues and their realistic features, but he had developed a theory based on what an old seer told him decades ago. Edwin recalls his grandfather whispering stories to him about how statues become anchors for ghosts that still want to be part of the living world. Realistic sculptures became anchors for heroes and saints, and his grandfather had wondered what ghosts would anchor to a statue that was, for lack of a better word, unconventional. He had set out all those years ago to try out this theory, but Edwin had never heard what happened until now. Opening the letter, Edwin smiled at the recognisable cursive handwriting that had written him letters every school graduation and birthday. 

“Dear Edwin, I'm glad you remember my secret. However, upon reading this letter, it has become your secret now. I never finished these statues, as in the process of creating them, I felt they weren't mine to make. Art is about intention and determination. I have started the process, but only you can finish it. When your heart tells you the statues are done, speak the words out loud. If my theory is proven true, my only wish is for it to help you.”

Edwin wandered around the room, looking over the barely human-shaped statues that seemed to look different from every angle. The thought of what to do with them crossed his mind. Maybe he could sell them as a part of the Vandell legacy? Muttering to himself and letting his mind wander through various scenarios, Edwin concluded that it was most likely that no one would want to buy such strange-looking statues. Even if he managed to sell them, he doubted he would get much for them, considering they looked unfinished. They actually were unfinished. The carving tools on the table laid gently organised as if waiting for Edwin to get started. No doubt his grandfather had arranged it last time he was there. The thing was, Edwin wasn't a sculptor. He would not even know where to begin. Picking up a carving tool, his grandfather's theory came to mind again. Could there be some truth to it? Whether he liked it or not, now that the statues were his, they were technically finished as he lacked the skills to continue the work. Figuring it couldn’t hurt, Edwin shrugged his shoulders, put the letter in his breast pocket and said,

"You are done". 

There was an expecting silence at first. Edwin didn’t have any experience with the supernatural or otherworldly phenomenon. Still, he had heard tales of flying objects and written messages on the walls from seances his friends used to visit. The silence continued but became less and less expecting. Edwin pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes; maybe he could get the bank to pay for the statues or get rid of them, as they now technically owned the estate. He sighed and turned around to leave when something made him stop in his tracks. 

“Now why are ye sighing scrawny fella?” A female voice with a thick Irish accent took over the room. Edwin didn't dare to turn around; perhaps it was only his imagination. Maybe the last few months of stress and heartache had finally turned him mad? 

"Look at the state o'you, what got ye so troubled? There was a faint whooshing sound behind him, and suddenly it sounded like there were multiple people in the room with him. 

"Maybe it is hay fever?" This time it was a male voice with an accent that Edwin didn't recognise. The Irish woman made a dismissive sound.

“In October? Not a chance,” she huffed. 

“Lack of sun God?” A deep female voice chimed in, speaking the words so slowly and carefully but still with a power that made the words honey-like.  

"Don't know about yer God, but season sadness could be it,” They continued to talk to each other, coming up with reasons for Edwin's sad presence. Whilst the voices were occupied discussing amongst themselves, he turned around to see where the voices came from. Either sitting on top of the statues or leaning against them were the apparitions of four ghosts. The young Irish woman was a petite figure with fiery auburn hair and dirt on her shoes. Across her sat a Japanese man with his black hair tied up, and laughter lines by his eyes that became prominent when he smiled at the woman's eccentric arm movements when trying to explain the expression “get up the yard”. On top of a statue, as if riding its shoulders, a dark-skinned woman sat and adjusted her jewellery. She had gold cuffs on her arms and legs, as well as row after row of beaded necklaces. She looked like ancient royalty from a civilisation that history books probably didn't know much about. Below her, sitting on the floor, was a young boy in a school uniform. He didn't speak but listened attentively to the chatter.

“So ye finally turned around?” The ghosts fell silent and looked at Edwin. He didn't know what to do, so he did what his mother told him to do when meeting new people. He straightened his back and made a slight bow. 

"I'm Edwin,” he started but stopped when panic crept into his mind, whispering this was all in his head. It probably wasn’t wise to interact with figments of your imagination. It was a nervous tick, but Edwin went to fidget with his wedding ring, only to feel nothing but skin.                                                   

"I'm Saoirse," Edwin looked up and saw Saoirse pointing at the Japanese man.  

“This is Kiyoshi Yamamoto, the woman up there is Chantico, and the boy on the floor is Gregory Cardinham,” The other ghosts waved.  

“I must be going mad,” pulling his fingers through his messy hair, causing his grandfather's letter to accidentally fall out of his pocket. Saoirse walked over and picked it up. 

"His theory was right, ye know. We all have been looking for ages after an anchor that fits, and yer grandpa was the only clever man out there,” Accepting the letter that Saoirse reached out, Edwin figured that he couldn’t be imagining it. It was too real. 

“Besides, living in a fancy place like this, what ye got to worry about?” Saoirse smiled brightly at him, but Edwin couldn’t return the gesture. 

"Actually, I don't live here. I barely got a penny to my name," The words made Saoirse pause a bit before she curtsied in front of him. 

“Ah, a poor fellow like myself. Nice to meet ye penniless man,” Saoirse climbed back up on a statue and smiled cheekily at Edwin's puzzled expression. 

“Have ye ever heard of Black 47? If not, count yer blessings. If ye have, count them twice,” she began and went on to talk about her life during the Great Hunger in Ireland. Everyone listened to Saoirse as she vividly told the story of her people and family, of how they had been starving and spent all their days and nights worrying about the harvest. 

"However, in Castlebar, Earl Lucan's men ordered us to leave our land as it could not support us anymore. Yet, in the field, there was a wee sprout, one that gave us hope. When the Earl's men came around, I stood my ground, saying that my family refused to leave," It dawned upon Edwin that this was the story of how Saoirse died. He listened attentively, but his focus shifted as he noticed how her face slowly started to change. As she talked about how she got trampled to death by the Earl's horses, Saoirse's soft face twisted itself into something unrecognisable. Her nose looked broken, and her forehead caved in. Soon her arms and legs dislocated themselves, causing her to look like a broken doll. Saoirse kept on talking as usual but caught Edwin's attention again when she looked right at him.

“There are not a lot of anchors out there for a girl trampled to death. Not really a hero or a saint, that's for sure.  I lived poor. I died poor. But I'm not less human, am I?”

The other ghosts nodded along. 

“But you lost everything. Aren't you mad about it? Everything was taken away from you," the words left Edwin's mouth before he could stop them. It was the slippage of a vulnerability that he had tried to suppress for months, but it slowly unravelled as Saoirse looked at him. 

"Don't get me wrong, I'm bloody furious. I've cursed Earl Lucan more than once for what he did to my people. However, despite the poverty, there is one crucial factor in my story that ye need to know,” Edwin took a step closer, almost as if she would whisper the secret of the world to him. 

“There is no Great Hunger in Ireland anymore. No wretched Earl either. All that pain eventually turned into something better. Memories still hurt, but life can't always bleed. Wounds are meant to heal," as she said this, her face slowly began to turn back to how she looked before. A snap echoed as her arm jumped back into its socket. 

“Are you married?" The question came from Kiyoshi, and Edwin realised what had prompted the question when he saw that Kiyoshi was watching him fiddle with his ring finger. It was a habit, one that seemed to be challenging to quit. 

"I was," Edwin started but stopped as he felt the sting in his heart that constantly cut him whenever Bianca entered his mind. Chantico frowned as she pointed at Edwin's chest. 

“Murdered heart?" she asked, and Edwin couldn't help but smile at the expression. Everyone knew that Bianca had broken his heart, gambled and partied away his money, and left London under a new alias. He didn't know what her name was now, or if it even had been Bianca to begin with, and to describe his pain as having a broken heart was too mild. Nevertheless, his heart had indeed been murdered. It continued to be so for every day as new revelations came what Bianca had done with his money. 

“If your heart was murdered, I know your pain,” said Kiyoshi. In a calm voice, he then went to tell the story of how his love had ended badly. Kiyoshi had been a farmer working for the aristocratic Takahashi family. He was talented and hardworking, and despite all odds, he managed to grow mulberry on the farm. Apparently, the mulberry plants had medicinal uses, and Kiyoshi smiled as he told them how he had helped the family's daughter, Haruhi, with her dizziness using the plant. As a result, they had fallen in love. The issue was that Haruhi was engaged to a man of her father's wishes. Despite this, they decided to run away together. When retelling the events of the night of their escape, everyone sat silent and, sadly, waiting for the worst outcome. 

"I stood and waited at our secret meeting place when two men wrestled me down and took me back to the main house. For hours they beat me, kicked me and cut my face, as apparently, while sneaking out to meet me, Haruhi had been caught. Afraid of her father and what he would do if he found out, she had lied and said that I was trying to kidnap her," a sombre expression came across Kiyoshi's face, but it was soon hidden by thick scars that appeared across his cheeks and eyes. As he sighed, his body started to shift, and only parts of him began to drift away. It took a few seconds for Edwin to register what was happening, and he placed a hand over his mouth when he realised where the story was going. 

“Her father came to see me, and by his hand, he killed me. His men chopped me into pieces and threw me away in the Shinano River," Kiyoshi's head floated in the air, and his arms, legs, and upper body drifted around a bit in mid-air. Saoirse took his stray ankle that was soaring above her head and pushed it back to him. 

“Do you also feel like love is just a fraud?” Kiyoshi looked at Edwin, and behind his scarred skin, there was a faint outline of a smile. 

“How could I do such a thing? If I had made it out alive that day, I would have continued to look for it. Dying just made me realise how important love is. I don't know who hurt you, but do they deserve the power to prevent you from truly living? Whether it be love for friends, family, a partner, or yourself, one bad love should not stop all the good ones,” Kiyoshi's body began to re-assemble again, and Gregory helped him with his knee that had drifted across the room. Edwin noticed how Kiyoshi's statue had larger cuts in it and how they connected back to him. His grandfather truly had been right. 

“Bond with family and friends?” asked Chantico.  

“No, not anymore. My parents died a while back, and I was the glorious son that was supposed to take on the family business, a law firm downtown. I studied to become an attorney, but then I met Bianca. She liked that everyone said I was intelligent and would become something great one day. Little did I know that after using me, no one would look at me the same anymore. I became a dropout as I couldn’t afford the tuition, and my former friends avoided me like the plague, as a pathetic has-been,” Chantico put up her hand, making Edwin follow it with his gaze. She gently patted her statues head and then put it on her knee. Comparing the ghosts to their statues, Saoirse's statue was the most contorted; Kiyoshi's had the most cuts and bumps, while Chantico's was the most disproportioned. Seeing her strong shoulders and assertive posture, he noticed how fragile-looking her legs were in comparison. Chantico nodded. 

“Body born broken, but soul was whole,” Chantico came from an ancient civilisation, and after her father passed away, she had become the ruler of her people. Despite not being able to walk due to a birth injury, she wasn't held back. Instead, she proudly recalled how she had protected her people several times by outsmarting their opponents and beasts in the jungle. Saoirse cheered her on, and Chantico gave her a broad smile back. 

“Home, people honour soul with statue. When soul moved on, statue was complete,” she began but paused for a bit while looking at her legs. 

"Statue was strong, a warrior in the battlefield, standing on two legs. It could not be my anchor; it wasn't me," the rest of the ghosts nodded and reached out to pat Chantico's hand and shoulder. However, Edwin didn't understand. 

"They honoured you with a statue of you on the battlefield? That means they looked beyond your injury. They saw you as their protector," began Edwin but stopped when he saw Chantico's gently nodding.  

“Yes, but anchors truth. I body and soul. Proud of both. My sons' sons not know real soul. Good or bad, expectations shackles,” Saoirse pointed at Edwin. 

“Do ye get it? Other's expectations of you, whether good or bad, doesn't matter. Ye can be a dropout or a goddess-like Chantico here, and it doesn't matter. What ye think of ye only matters. Chantico can't anchor in her statue as she feels it's not her, no why should ye connect to others opinions of ye? And if ye agree with their opinions, then change somethin'." 

“Like what?” 

Gregory was about to speak, but he fell into a coughing fit as he opened his mouth. It was a rattling sound, and Edwin couldn't believe such horrifying noise came from that young boy. Kiyoshi jumped down, body now intact, and gently patted Gregory's back. 

"I believe it's called Pott's disease," Saoirse jumped down as well and sat down next to Gregory. Her face had started to shift again. As the boy continued to cough, his eyes became red, and his back curled itself to form a hunchback, matching his statues forward leaning posture. 

“He got tuberculosis at a young age, and it spread to his spine. He died at a boarding school. Poor lad. Sometimes he can't speak without coughing. However, I think what he wants is for ye to go back and finish your degree, Edwin.”

"I can't go back to school. I don't have the means for it," The ghosts looked up at him, and as if it was the simplest thing in the world, Kiyoshi said;

“There is always a way, it might be the most unexpected, but no matter what, we will be here with you, we won't leave,” and just like that, something clicked in Edwin's heart. It wasn't the pain that Bianca had caused, nor the stress of his situation. Instead, this was a warm feeling, one he had not felt in a long time. 

“I have to go,” he began, walking towards the secret entrance. 

“I will see you soon, promise,” and he was gone. The ghosts remained behind, confused at his sudden departure, but Edwin had realised the situation. The bank owned the estate, and if the new buyer found the statues and decides to alter them in any way, the ghosts would be gone. 

“Thank you for your donation, Mr. Vandell,” said the receptionist at Artica, a newly opened art museum in London. Edwin smiled as a response and signed the final paperwork. It had taken him a couple of days, but eventually, he managed to sort things out. The museum was small, but it took care of its art. In the middle of a room stood the four statues, now clean and spotless. The receptionist had ensured Edwin he could come and see them anytime, and that had brought him some comfort. 

“Have a nice day, sir,” said the receptionist as Edwin was about to leave. A young man, probably an assistant, stood by the window and put up a sign. As he went out the door, he glanced at the flier and read the words "nightguard wanted". There had been burglaries in the area lately. Despite not having any valuable pieces in their collection, Artica was more about historical and social value than a financial one. Edwin hurried into the museum again and exclaimed before even entering the hall. 

“I would like to apply for the Night Guard position!” The receptionist smiled as a response. 

Later that evening, when Edwin sat by a desk with candlelight, he watched the four statues and sighed with a sense of relief. 

"Now why are ye sighing scrawny fella?" Saoirse's familiar voice filled the room again, and Edwin greeted them all as if they were old friends. He told them about the museum and ensured them that nothing would happen to their anchors, that they were safe. Saoirse eyed Edwin's work uniform and raised an eyebrow. 

"I am working here as a nightguard, figured I need to start saving money so I can finish my degree," Gregory's back was now straight, and he looked like a healthy young boy again. He walked cheerfully up to Edwin and handed him a pen. 

“Good, I can help you study.”

So, in the end, it wasn´t heroes or saints that helped Edwin back on his feet. Instead, it was four unconventional ghosts with their twisted anchors that had changed his life. No matter when they had lived, or what they had been through, despite their various fates, they all united in the human experience and the beauty of their stories being told. 

Gear Girls by Matilda Bjorklund

Gear Girls by Matilda Bjorklund is part of a speculative fiction series influenced by artworks in the BRCA collection. Inspired by Bomberg´s experience as a soldier during WWI and his tendency of turning human subjects into “simple” and “angular” shapes, the steampunk genre conveys themes of the machine age and war and their physical/psychological impact on the individual. The Underground Bomb Store (1942) by David Bomberg and its element of machinery and almost cave-like structure was an inspiration was an inspiration for a scene in the story.

Jack Thorp hurried across the military camp with a cardboard box in his arms. He dodged and zig-zagged between the excited young soldiers that were headed towards the base´s newly built performance area. It had rained the night before, and the humid summer heat had not dried up the camp as expected. Instead, it had turned the camp into a mud pit that was covered in a lingering smell of damp tents and sweat. However, there was a cheerful buzz in the air and in the monotone ocean of green uniforms, a few men were carrying the colourful red and blue poster that had been hung around the camp, informing the men of the arrival and once in a lifetime performance by the “Gear Girls.” While Jack was gliding and slipping past the laughing soldiers, and occasionally falling with his knees into the mud, he thanked everything holy that the box was taped shut. It was a miracle that he had found the box in the first place, and if the content in the package was to be ruined, he would need another miracle to witness the next sunrise. 

“I found it! I got it!” exclaimed Jack when he arrived at his destination that was a lonesome wobbly tent on the outskirt of the camp. Upon his grand entrance where he dragged mud into the tent and accidentally dropping the package, four young women turned around to look at him. During his absence, the girls had gotten ready and despite touring across several British military camps in France, he never got used to the outfits. All the girls were wearing playful corsets dresses that displayed both collarbones and upper thighs, but their arms and legs were covered with white gloves and stockings. A solider from their previous stops had cheered on the girls, calling them “dilly pirates,” which became an image that Jack could not get out of his head. The dresses were in rich emerald and mulberry colours, and the corsets were trimmed with that scratchy black lace that Elise had used for some of the theatre costumes back home. However, given their situation, Jack knew better than to comment on their costumes considering what options they had from the beginning. 

“You better not be pulling our legs Jack,” Margaret snatched the box from his arms and immediately tore it open. Elsie, who was putting on another layer of blush and struggling to pin a strand of her blonde hair, walked over and gasped at the sight of brand-new gloves and stockings. Bertha and Rosie rushed over and all the girls were looking at the pearl white fabric sticking out of the package as if it were a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow or a meal that wasn´t canned soup. Carefully, Bertha reached to take a pair of gloves but Margaret slapped away her hand. 

“Old ones off before new ones on,” and with that, they all started to get undressed. Jack stood silent as he watched Rosie and Elsie take off their worn-out gloves, only to reveal metal prosthetic arms and hands underneath. Bertha pulled down a stocking and when she reached her knee, she stretched the fabric so it would go down the smooth surface of her metal leg. Margaret had for some time had issues with the mechanics of her right hand, so she had some difficulty undressing. However, her stubborn nature never subdued and soon there was a pile of steam and oil-stained gloves and stockings on the ground.

“These came in the nick of time,” Rosie reached towards the box, but stopped when she saw her hand. With a hefty pull followed by a loud snap, she tweaked her obtruding left pinky. Her fingers tended to dislocate and point in unnatural directions whenever she moved her arms too much. This was the result of misfire in one of the British military bases at the beginning of their tour, where Rosie had been shot in her wrist, causing the mechanics of her prosthetic to malfunction. Jack, the girls´ manager, but also mechanic, could temporarily fix them but often the damages they got during their travels were beyond the help of a screwdriver or backup bolts. That was partly the reason they had gotten this job to begin with. At a time of war, they could withstand much more than the average human. However, this was a fact that they had to cover up at any cost. Three years of fighting, the soldiers needed to be reminded of joy, so when Elsie and the others made the best of their situation and offered to perform for the British soldiers, they had been granted the opportunity with the condition that they needed to hide their prosthetics, as “the men did not need to be reminded of the war.” 

“Jack, do you mind?” Bertha´s voice cut through Jack´s daydreaming and he realized that he had been staring. He was so used to seeing the girls´ metal arms and legs, that he was ashamed to admit that he often forgot that they were not supposed to be there. 

“I will go and let them know that you are ready soon,” Jack awkwardly turned around and left the tent. Soon there was a silence, and the girls all looked at each other. 

“They must all be by the stage by now,” said Rosie, shaking her hands nervously. Not wanting her fingers to dislocate again, Bertha walked up to hold her hands, feeling Rosie´s cool touch. In the accident, Bertha had been the only lucky one to not have her hands or arms injured, but she often wondered whether that had been a curse or not. With the constant upkeep and maintenance of her leg prosthetics, her hands seemed to have turned permanently cold due to the chilly metal, and when touching the others, the goosebumps on her skin not only served as a reminder of what happened to her, but also to the others. 

“Ease up on the blush, will you?” Elsie looked away from the mirror and met Margaret´s eyes as she sat on the bed, gently pulling up a stocking over her stiff leg. Even without hearing Margaret's thick Scottish accent, Elsie would always be able to pinpoint where Margaret was based on her scent. She was amazed that even in the stuffy air of perfume and damp tent fabric, that Margaret still managed to smell like freshly picked oranges.

“It´s called stage makeup, it is supposed to be a lot,” hmphed Elsie, and padded on another layer for good measure. They were all bit on the edge for this performance, and the tell-tale signs were that Bertha could not focus on her French crossword puzzles, Rosie didn´t scribble down ideas in her recipe book, Elsie didn´t quietly recite lines from Shakespeare and Margaret wasn´t fast asleep on the bed five minutes before showtime. The new stockings had calmed them down a bit, they looked good, and the several rough days of travel and lack of sleep was neatly covered by makeup and hairpins. 

“This is the last one, and then we go home,” stated Bertha, still holding Rosie´s hands. 

“That´s right,” Margaret stood up and placed her hands on her hips. “We have travelled across France unharmed...” She paused for a bit, unconsciously looking at Rosie´s wrist, Elsie´s bump on her calf and her own tilting ankle. 

“Well, almost. It has been rough, but ladies, we did it. After this performance we can go home, with everything we have earned and start our lives again. I know it is more pressure today as we are performing in front of Captain Winford and his men, them being war heroes and all, but this is just like any other performance. We will knock their socks off, they won´t know what hit them,” and with that, the girls determinately pulled on their long coats and left for the stage, for one final time. 

* 

“We have some very special guests tonight...” while the presenter spoke to the crowd, Elsie, and Rosie, peaked between the curtains to see them men in the crowd. They were cheering and screaming “Gear Girls” and the presenter made big downward gestures to calm them down, but it was to no avail. 

“Lively aren't they, “started Rosie but paused when she came across a familiar face in the audience. She squinted her eyes and tried locking eyes on the man´s face but it was difficult as they were all wearing helmets and moving around. 

“Say, isn´t that Joshua Winford? That must be him,” Elsie tried to follow Rosie´s gaze but Margaret stepped forward and squeezed in between them. 

“Please tell me you are joking,” Margaret scanned the crowd until she saw Joshua´s warm smile and dimpled cheek. Elsie leaned over to tap Rosie´s shoulder, making a who-is-Joshua-gesture.

“Joshua is a former classmate of Margaret and I, we used to be really good friends. He moved away a few years back to join the military. That serious looking man at the right is Captain Winford, his father.” 

Bertha leaned over them. 

“He is cute,” she stated simply, but was met with Elsie´s surprised expression. 

“Captain Winford?” 

“Don´t be a bunny,” scowled Margaret, but Elsie spotted the blush behind her freckles.

“I think we´re up,” The men´s cheering got increasingly louder, and the presenter's patience was running out. The girls removed their coats and got in formation. They spotted Jack running over to the record player and giving them the thumbs up. They got in their cheeky, smiling poses and stood still for a few seconds. Margaret felt the weight of her unstable ankle but smiled even brighter as if it would weigh up for the pain. 

“Give it up for the Gear Girls!” The curtains pulled aside, and the music started. They had lost counts of how many times they had done the routine, but this time it felt special, in a bittersweet sort of way. Bertha and Rosie started of the song, singing “All night long, you are the one I miss, so when I will see you again, prepare for my kiss,” followed by a choreographed air kiss which drove the crowd crazy every time. They sounded good tonight, but a few songs in, Elsie noticed Margaret´s distant expression. When Bertha was doing her solo “Baby come home,” Elsie stood next to Margaret and tried to get her attention, but Margaret was just blankly looking over the crowd and into the dark forest behind them. This had happened for the first time in Calais when they performed at a military camp. When seeing the men's rounded helmets, it had reminded them of shells, bringing them right back into that ammunition factory. The girls had pushed down their emotions and smiled, only to vomit and struggle to breathe after the performance. They had done their duty to help with the war by working in Silvertown, but after the factory explosion they had lost limbs and during the rehabilitation period, the will to live. 

It was a scientific miracle that their prosthetics worked and wasn´t rejected by their bodies, but the aftermath was not only the pain of living, but also the struggle of how to actually make a living. It was Elsie´s idea to perform, as she had long dreamed of becoming an actress. The money was good, and every night before they went to sleep the girls went over what they would do when they got home. Bertha would study to become a teacher, Elsie would pursue acting, Rosie would open her own bakery and Margaret, well Margaret did not have a concrete answer to that question. She answered every night “be happy,” but never went to explain what this meant. Towards the end of Bertha´s solo, and Elsie still had not gotten any contact with Margaret, she whispered in her ear.

“He doesn´t know what happened to you, does he?” Elsie was half-expecting for Margaret to chop her head off, but there was an unfamiliar vulnerability in Margaret´s eyes that she did not recognize. The truth is that they all suffered from that explosion, but Margaret lost both her arms and legs. The white stockings and gloves made her look like an ordinary young woman, but beneath it all she was the one who had changed the most. 

“Darling I am all alone, so baby come home, “applauds ruptured and Bertha took a bow. Margaret was the first to walk back on stage to continue with the next song, and the men became ecstatic that there was more to come. As the night went on, for the final act, Elsie stepped forward and did her usual thing, ensuring the audience that this would be a performance to remember. With a grand pose she finished singing the song “Stop Me” which the girls agreed was a crowd favorite. 

“There is nothing, nothing, in the world that could stop me from loving you!” The men stood up, whistling and applauding, chanting their name and for a brief moment, the girls were in total bliss. They had done it; they had made it through the show. The girls swam in warm sounds of compliments and affection, but suddenly they drown in the sounds of terrified and agonizing screams. Chaos erupted as a bomb fell from the sky and shell fragments and dirt flew up on the stage. Jack ran over and tried to grab the girls and pull them away, but he couldn’t reach all of them. Alarms went off, men were screaming they were being attacked, and the ground rumbled as more bombs were dropped into the camp. Rosie covered her ears but the ringing wouldn’t stop. She ran off the stage but turned around at the faint sound of Margaret screaming “Joshua.” She saw her running towards him, but also the appearance of two civilian dressed men that appeared from the woods. Rosie called out Margaret´s name but another explosion threw her to the side, and the world went dark. 

*

“Where is my son? Where is Joshua?!” Captain Winford ran across the camp and looked at his men for any response. Jack was gently shaking Rosie to wake up, and Elsie was looking for the others. The smell of smoke covered the camp like a heavy fog that refused to dissipate. When taking a deep breath, Rosie woke up coughing and her eyes teared up, smudging her makeup. 

“Where is Margaret, is she gone?” Jack answered that Elsie was looking for her, but Rosie clumsily moved towards the spot where she last saw Margaret. 

“Joshua!” Captain Winford´s voice echoed in the camp´s ruins and amongst the injured. Rosie went over to the grass and saw a large puddle of oil. Following the drops, she saw that the oil became a trail into the woods, where on the ground there was a small note. 

“Is she awake? I couldn´t find Margaret,” Elsie and Bertha joined up with Jack and they saw Rosie turn around with tears in her eyes. 

“She is gone. They were taken, Joshua and Margaret were taken,” she held up a note with the scribbled words les aliments. Bertha took the note, “It´s food in French.” 

Rosie was about to ask what that meant but Captain Winford barged over and grabbed her by the shoulders. 

“What do you mean taken?!” Jack pushed off the captain and stood to shield Rosie. 

“During the attack, I saw two civilian dressed men appear from the woods. They approached Margaret and Joshua, and...” Rosie caught herself from mentioning the oil. She choked on her words knowing the implication of the spill, Margaret had been injured somehow. 

“... and they left this note,” finished Bertha, handing over the paper to the captain. A solider with a fresh wound on his cheek and a limping step approached them. 

“Sir, there is an abandoned village on the other side of the forest. Our scouting intel informed us that the village was empty, but a few civilians could have stayed behind,” Captain Winford turned around, and the veins in his forehead didn’t match his sudden calm tone. 

“Those bastard civilians know we won´t harm them, and they take advantage of us like this when we are attacked by the Germans. They are holding my son hostage for the promise of food. We will take care of our wounded and pack up tonight, seek cover and get some rest. It is too dangerous to move anywhere tonight. At dawn we will head to the village, and if possible, it might be a good temporary refuge. Could be nice to escape these tents for a while. Take care of the wounded, we will leave before dawn,” and with that, the wounded were carried away and the men started to organize their departure. Soon, they stood alone around the puddle of oil. Their pinned-up hair, now falling in soft waves, and their white stockings covered in dirt and blood. 

“We have to go and get her now, we can´t wait for dawn,” said Rosie. Elsie objected, reminding her of the captain´s orders but Bertha quieted her with a hand on her shoulder. 

“Margaret is a gold mine for them with her prosthetics, they can sell those off and make a lot of money. We can´t wait, “Rosie and Bertha looked at each other and nodded. 

“I´ll go and get my secret pastries and bread,” said Rosie, not listening to Jack´s objection. He sighed and looked at Elsie and Bertha.

“There is never a calm moment with you, is there?”

*

“Remind me of the plan again,” They had left the camp unseen and managed to follow the oil spill trail through the forest. The abandoned, small, and rustic village was located down the hill in a valley and looked peaceful in the moonlight. The journey had taken longer than they expected, and soon the troops would arrive at the village as the first light of day broke by the horizon, but judging by the oil trail, they could not have waited. 

“Go to the villagers, hand them this basket of food and ask them to give our friends back. That’s it,” As they reached the first houses, they signaled amongst themselves to be quiet. As silent as possible they stepped in overgrown flowerbeds to sneak alongside the house walls to avoid the gravel. A few voices were heard around the corner. 

“Hast du ein Feuerzeug?”  a man said, followed by some rummaging sound as if someone was digging in a bag. Elsie sighed of relief and went to take the basket. 

“Finally, we have found them, “she began but was quickly pulled back and silenced by Bertha´s hand on her mouth. 

“That is not French, they are speaking German,” Bertha´s whisper was barely audible, but the point came across. They had walked into a trap.

“We need to get Margaret and Joshua out of here, and warn the soldiers,” Jack pointed to the ground where the small oil specks shimmered in the moonlight, indicating by their dispersed trail that Margaret had been taken to a place in the middle of the village. The girls nodded in response and they headed back the way they came. They dodged windows and gathered courage each time they ran between the houses. The trail led them to a basement door that luckily enough for them was unlocked. Jack quickly swung it open and without any hesitation they all went in. 

“Margaret?” Rosie´s whisper was interrupted by a grunting noise, and she lost all train of thought when Elsie pinched her arm. Despite the dusty and stuffed basement, there was the clear scent of oranges. There were large metal objects in the way and the darkness made it difficult to navigate a path to follow the scent. However, where the scent of oranges was drowned out by oil fumes, they found Margaret on the dirt floor, with no arms or legs. Rosie fell by her side, embracing her and ignoring the sticky oil that covered her. She saw Margaret´s destroyed prosthetics and a bullet wound in the legs oil pipes which explained the leakages. She had taken a bullet for Joshua. Jack found that Joshua was still wounded, but Bertha tied one of her gloves around his injury to prevent the minor bleeding. 

“He will be fine, “she stated, before heading over to Margaret. 

“You need to leave, take Joshua with you. They are going to blow this whole village up once the British gets here. They ruined their camp to force them to come here, it was all planned out.” Margaret´s voice was weak. Her lips were chapped and her hair was filled with leaves and dust. Elsie clasped her face. 

“We are not leaving you,” she began but Margaret shook her head. “You need to leave, warn the others. This is a trap, they want the troops to come here to a seemingly harmless village, but look around you, you need to escape,” Their eyes had gotten used to the darkness, but with the soft blue colour creeping in from the basement door, hinting at the sunrise, they saw that the metal objects they had bumped into and navigated in between were actually bombs. They were in a bomb storage. 

“Please take Joshua, please save him,” Jack placed Joshua´s arm around his shoulder and lifted him up, but Bertha had to help to steady him. 

“To save you we need to go now, before the sun rises and we will be spotted,” Jack looked at Margaret when he said this. “We will see you in the forest on the way to the base.” There was a determination in his voice, accompanied by reassurance, but as Bertha and Jack left, that feeling of hope went with them. 

“You need to leave me,” began Margaret but was interrupted by Elsie. 

“We are the Gear Girls; we have survived this bloody war and we are going to continue to do so!” Margaret wanted to touch Elsie´s face but she couldn’t. She couldn´t reassure her that it was okay, that she wasn´t sad about the outcome. 

“In my state, I will have no life after this. My body has been affected by this war; it belongs to it. Let me help prevent the prolonging of it, help me end it,” She nodded her head to a small object on the floor. A lighter that one of the Germans had dropped. Rosie shook her head, whispering the word no several times before Margaret said her name. 

“You ask me every night what I want to do when I come home. I always answer ´be happy´,” Elsie´s tears streamed down her face, leaving a mascara trail down her blushed cheeks. “You have become my happiness, and I say I will be happy because you will be home with me. Please let me be happy, go home and live your lives as the best Gear Girls you are,” Rosie gently touched Margaret´s face, and when she realized that it was light enough in the basement to see Margaret´s freckles and auburn hair, she knew the time was up. Rosie placed the lighter so that Margaret could light it using her teeth. 

“We will see you soon,” Rosie said while furiously wiping away her own tears. She grabbed Elsie and they ran out from the basement. The dawn was about to break the horizon and despite their heavy legs, they ran with all that they had left in them to reach the forest. The Germans started shouting and firing after them, but when they reached the hill, the world exploded. Rosie and Elsie landed in the grass and covered their heads. Rocks, bricks, and dirt flew up in the air and an immense heat covered the area. When the dust eventually settled, Bertha dragged them up the hill and they looked out over the valley. The soldiers arrived and were shocked to see the commotion. Captain Winford was reunited with his son and embraced Jack with all the gratitude that was left in the world.  

“What is going on?!” exclaimed the men, and the remaining Gear Girls stood silent, watching the horizon as the orange sun welcomed a new day. They were all drenched in oil and dirt, reeking of smoke, and sweat, but with the soft sunlight, they could still smell the warmest scent of oranges.