LONDON, MARCH 1942
‘Jesus, you’re a bit tardy, aren’t you?’ Maura said with a scowl when Eleanor arrived half an hour late.
The atrocious weather meant that it had taken her much longer than usual to get to work, sandbags causing the smaller roads and pavements to flood, so she’d had to zigzag her way along Praed Street and down the Edgware Road rather than cutting through the backstreets as she usually did.
‘Good morning to you too,’ she replied, shaking out her wet mackintosh while resisting the urge to tell Maura how unbecoming her expression was. ‘Do you have a headache?’ she asked instead.
‘No, although this is enough to give you one,’ Maura replied, dropping the paper on the desk. ‘Honestly, why on earth don’t they just speak the King’s English?’
‘You’re not reading one of those American magazines, are you?’
Maura had been lucky enough to find a GI willing to trade copies of Good Housekeeping and Vogue for shared martinis, and so she had accumulated a stack of them in the past few months.
‘Beauty is our duty, remember,’ she said, pouting as she repeated her favourite slogan. ‘And no, I’m talking about this letter from the head of the Wartime Meals Division.’
‘Oh, he does use the King’s English,’ Eleanor said. She stood closer and peered down at the piece of paper. ‘Just not the sort of plain English that most English people use.’
‘So, which part of this do you understand?’ Maura asked, picking up the letter again and reading it aloud. ‘“No doubt you will be surprised to discover that Toft’s letter to you on the subject of paint for stencils, about which you wrote to Taylor this week, falls not within his province but mine, and I can imagine your being tempted to quote ‘You wrong me in every way’ (if not, ‘Ye Gods!’ Must I endure all this?)…”’ She looked up at Eleanor and grimaced before continuing in her best English accent. ‘“With the copy of my reply to Toft, which I enclose, I am therefore sending you his note to explain that Taylor is only concerned with expenditure incurred directly and that he is not therefore interested in the purchases for which other Divisions of the Ministry are responsible…”’
Eleanor had thought it sounded fine when she’d read it through with its creator’s voice in mind, but she could see how it did sound rather bizarre now.
‘Do you understand what any of that means?’ Maura asked.
‘It’s their repartee…’
Maura frowned at her.
‘It’s just their way of entertaining each other,’ Eleanor said, ‘keeping their spirits up.’
‘Oh.’
Eleanor walked over to the window and looked out at the rain as it fell heavily, bouncing off buildings and turning gutters into streams. ‘It has taken me a long time to get used to the different departments too,’ she said, looking back at Maura. ‘Not to mention the names of all the departments and divisions.’
‘What, you mean you don’t know the difference between His Majesty’s Stationery Office and the Public Relations Division, Miss Roy? Or the difference between the Ministry of Food and the Wartime Meals Division—I am surprised at you!’
‘And what about the Ministry of Supplies and the Ministry of Information? Oh dear, Miss Sullivan,’ Eleanor said with mock horror. ‘And, don’t you know, there’s a new one—the Ministry for Ministries,’ she added, giggling.
While this was amusing, Eleanor was secretly quite worried about the paint situation. There had been a volley of letters recently between Mr Steadman and HMSO regarding the large quantity of paint that had been used in London, some fifty-three pounds more than originally ordered: an amount that was considered ‘excessive’. She had sent off letters assuring them that there was no wasted pigment, and they had calculated the cost—including labour and materials, each picture worked out to be ten shillings and sixpence. Even so, Mr Steadman had commented that they might be refused the paint they needed and that decoration could come grinding to a halt. If she was honest, the choice between painting a Spitfire and a few more lithographs wasn’t a difficult one, but she was there to support the department, even if she still yearned to be producing her own art—if not overseas, then in the fields and factories, or ports and airfields like Ethel Gabain and Dorothy Coke.
Mr Steadman’s head appeared around his office door and he fixed her with his eyes. ‘Can I see you in my office please, Miss Roy? I need to speak with you.’
‘Certainly, sir. I’ll just be a moment.’
‘What do you think he wants?’ Maura asked when he had gone.
‘I don’t know.’
Hoping he hadn’t overheard them larking around, Eleanor headed straight for the ladies’. She quickly pulled a comb through her hair and powdered her nose with her mother-of-pearl compact, then snapped her tan crocodile handbag shut. While her mother sent her money to buy new clothes, she had no time for that, but the bag—which she’d inherited from her grandmother—smartened up most outfits.
She had woken in the early hours to find her sister sprawled across the end of the bed, fast asleep in her nurse’s uniform, a red ambulance blanket barely covering her. Eleanor had bundled Cecily in the eiderdown and placed her arms around her, listening to the air whistling in and out of her nostrils as she slept. Cecily’s nightmares had worsened in recent days, in part due to the arrival of more wounded soldiers from the front, their injuries so severe that Cecily refused to talk about them. That morning, Eleanor had tried to pep her sister up with a boiled egg before realising the time and dashing out into the pouring rain. She glanced again in the mirror: her blonde hair was still a little frizzy and the grey woollen suit slightly crumpled, but it would have to do.
Gathering her notebook on her way back through the office, she racked her brains about what Mr Steadman could need to speak with her about. The completed murals at the British Restaurant in Acton had been a success and more were planned for later that month; and she’d made certain that all the essential artworks and lithographs were in place. She couldn’t think of any reason to be worried; she had signed up several new artists—even though she’d been unable to locate Jack—and she didn’t think the paint shortages had slowed things down.
Then she noticed a copy of the The Illustrated London News on her desk. It had run a major feature on the Acton restaurant opening and the murals by the local art college, so it might not hurt to have it ready to show Mr Steadman. She tucked it under her arm.
He answered as soon as she knocked. ‘Come in, Miss Roy. Take a seat.’
Thankfully the windows were open, treetops just visible, because Steadman was seated behind his desk smoking, the end of his cigarette flaring and fading as each pull made the smoker’s lines around his mouth even more pronounced.
His large desk and the sizeable proportions of the other furniture made him appear to be in miniature and always caused her to think of Alice in Wonderland, not to mention feeling wonder at how the movers had fit all of it through the door.
‘How are you, Mr Steadman?’ she asked brightly, taking a seat opposite and hoping her still-damp clothes wouldn’t leave any marks on the leather upholstery.
‘I am very well, Miss Roy. You got caught in the rain, I see.’
‘Yes, I think I shall be getting the bus home tonight,’ she said, smiling. ‘Anyway, how is George? Any news?’
It was a coincidence that his young son had joined the Royal Navy at the same time as her brothers. George was crew on an escort carrier securing safe passage to the navy’s other vessels, while the Roy brothers were on board destroyers. They were defending the supply routes against enemy attack, which gave Eleanor and Mr Steadman plenty to discuss.
‘He doesn’t seem to be coping too well with the seasickness, to be honest,’ said Mr Steadman. ‘Funny, isn’t it? All the things you worry that will happen to them—it’s not the journey itself that would seem the most difficult.’
‘No. Still, I understand there’s a remedy for it?’
‘Nothing that appears to have worked so far.’ Mr Steadman sighed. ‘And what of Clarence and Francis?’
‘They’re alright, as far as we know. Mother is awfully worried, as you’d expect. In fact, I was hoping I might be able to get back home for a few days, if you can spare me.’
‘Oh dear, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I have some exciting news, and you are going to be very pleased, I’m sure.’ He paused, taking another pull on his cigarette.
The rain was coming down harder, a noisy drumbeat on the slate rooftop. It stole through a half-open window, splattering the papers on the sill. She raised a hand to close the window as Mr Steadman continued.
‘It has been a remarkable few months, Miss Roy. You really have made an impact on us with your work here. Mr Powell was quite right about you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She was grateful to her old professor too, but she wondered what this chat could have to do with him.
‘Do you feel that things are progressing well?’ Mr Steadman asked.
This wasn’t a trick question, she was sure of it; his approach had always been very direct. ‘Well, yes, Mr Steadman, I do believe things are going well. Of course, we could do with more help from Supplies with getting paint—and transport is sometimes still a bit of a problem,’ she went on cautiously. ‘Is Mr Butterworth happy?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Butterworth is delighted.’
Eleanor was relieved. Although the Ministry’s art adviser on British Restaurants rarely appeared at the office, he was prolific with his letters, circulars and memorandums. Each day they received one or more of his communications relating to the demands of the restaurants and the pressure on supplies.
‘It says here—’ Mr Steadman picked up a sheet of paper ‘—that you have arranged for the distribution of Old Masters carried out by the collotype method for eight shillings each and of lithograph copies of living artists for three shillings. All in all, close to three thousand pictures for display in British Restaurants.’
‘Yes, Mr Steadman, that’s right. London had the most, but the North, Merseyside and the Midlands received about half, and then Scotland and Northern Ireland fewer…on account of them having fewer British Restaurants, of course.’
‘Yes, indeed, Miss Roy. And it’s not been too much of a challenge for you getting around to the different London boroughs?’
‘Oh no, not with Clive’s knowledge of the city…and his useful short cuts.’
‘Jolly good—’
‘Although I was hoping to take my test soon, so I can start driving myself.’
‘We’ll see, Miss Roy. We’ll see…And how are you proposing to keep up with the demand from restaurants now?’
‘Art colleges, sir. They’ve had good results in Sheffield and Scotland with the murals. And it’s wonderful that we can now commission our own.’
A real highlight for Eleanor had been working with the students and watching their murals evolve. She thought that if there could be one good thing to come of the war, it was that art had come out of the galleries and museums and could now be appreciated by everyone—well, anyone who frequented a British Restaurant, anyway. It was heartening that the general public had also found a refuge from war in art.
‘I agree with you, Miss Roy, but that’s not why you are here,’ Mr Steadman said, standing up and leaning over the desk towards her. ‘You are here because of these commissions…’ He placed a copy of The Illustrated London News in front of her, the same article that she had brought to show him.
‘Is there a problem, sir?’ she asked.
‘No, not at all. Quite the contrary—it is because of the great success of the murals that you have come to the attention of the War Artists’ Advisory Committee.’
‘Oh…’ she said, straightening.
‘They are impressed both by the initiative and its success. And I know that part of your work here is already overlapping with that of the Ministry of Information. That you have been required to do extra.’
‘Yes, sir, but I don’t mind…I don’t mind in the least.’
‘Well, that’s what I need to talk to you about. The committee has asked if you can attend their weekly meetings. It’s a clerical role, but they need someone to work as an administrator, and they have chosen you. Apparently, they have more submissions from artists than they know what to do with.’
‘Really?’ she said with relief.
‘Yes, your hard work has not gone unnoticed. I realise that you are overqualified for the position, but your experience with artists and your background really set you apart,’ he said proudly. ‘In fact, there really was no competition—and Sir Robert felt inclined to agree.’
So that was what Sir Robert had been doing in their offices. She didn’t know what to say; it was flattering and exciting, but also a little concerning. ‘That’s marvellous, really marvellous, but what about my work here? How will I manage to get it all done?’
‘It’s only a part-time role and you will delegate more of your administrative tasks to Miss Sullivan.’
Maura wouldn’t be happy; the last thing she wanted was to do more of the paperwork when she had already told Eleanor that she was looking forward to the day when she could get out on the road, visit the restaurants and become more involved with the artists.
The leather cushion creaked as Eleanor leaned back into the chair, working out how she would be able to fit it all in. There certainly wouldn’t be any time for her to paint, and she considered telling Mr Steadman about her hopes to submit her own work to the committee one day in case this might change things; it was too soon to know if this would be an advantage, although at least she would be in direct contact with the people who made the decisions, the ones who nominated the war artists and selected their works.
She quickly decided that she would just wait, that when the time came she would be able to offer her work just as she had always intended to. ‘I don’t know what to say…Thank you, Mr Steadman.’
‘That’s quite alright,’ he said. ‘You are going to be a very busy young lady. Far too busy to be driving, in any case.’
Her father wouldn’t be pleased, of course—this would mean she’d have less time to keep an eye on Cecily, but she would talk to him and make him understand.
Mr Steadman continued. ‘You will spend two days a week on the committee’s work, the weekly meeting included. Maura will be here to help on those days.’
‘And when does the committee meet, sir?’
‘Today, Miss Roy. You need to get to the National Gallery by ten o’clock. And you might like to borrow an umbrella—first impressions and all.’
‘Quite,’ she said as she stood, realising there was barely any time.
‘Just a moment,’ he said, coming around the desk. ‘A word of advice: discretion is the other prerequisite for the role. It’s not just because of the sensitivity of the information, Miss Roy, but also the departments and personalities involved.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’ Eleanor asked worriedly.
‘You have some of the most powerful figures in government working together. I’m sure there will be many challenges and discussions in the months ahead.’
‘I believe that’s the case for everyone, Mr Steadman,’ she said, growing more anxious at the thought.
‘Yes, but there is fact and there is subjectivity. I didn’t want to spell it out for you, but if I must—do you remember the outcry when David Bomberg’s work was banned by the WAAC for being considered too abstract for public tastes? And the uproar between the Ministry of Information and the Air Ministry when they reported that Nash’s pictures of aeroplanes were not realistic enough?’
Eleanor nodded, remembering the scathing press reports on it and criticism of the WAAC’s decisions. The Tatler and The Illustrated London News had dedicated a whole page to a cartoon caricature of the people involved.
‘I see, yes,’ she said. ‘There will be a great deal of debate, I imagine.’
It was not something she had considered before but he was right; with the War Office, and representatives from the different museums and art colleges as well as other government departments, it struck Eleanor that there would certainly be some different points of view. War art was the public face of the warring nation; its visible response to the conflicts and a reflection of national grief. There would surely be many sensitive matters at hand.
‘There will be a secrecy paper that you will need to sign but I am confident that you will use your upmost discretion. And it may be as well to remember the high regard in which Sir Robert and the committee are held.’
‘Thank you, sir. I certainly will.’
As Eleanor left she thought about Mr Steadman’s words, about the people she was about to meet, and considered whether or not she was ready for the challenge.