After spending the rest of the morning thinking up ideas, I decided to put all concerns about Woman’s Friend’s Entirely Fictional War Effort Recruitment Plan to one side until Monday. Charles had a rare and exciting forty-eight hours’ leave and he was coming up to London from his billet the next day.
Or at least that was what we had planned until he phoned the night before.
“I’m so sorry, Em, they’ve cancelled all leave for at least the next week.” Charles sounded as downcast as I felt.
“Not to worry,” I said, building myself up to a lie. “Honestly, it doesn’t matter a bit.”
“Are you sure, darling?” said Charles. “I really hate doing this to you, especially so late in the day.”
“Absolutely,” I said, sitting down with a bump on the bottom stair. I had been counting the days to seeing him. “I wasn’t bothered about seeing you, anyway,” I added.
Charles made a good attempt to laugh. “You know you’ll have a far better time with Bunty,” he said.
“You’re right.” I hammed it up. “I really couldn’t care less.”
Then I ran out of steam on the “chin up” front, and neither of us said anything for a moment.
“God, I’m browned off,” said Charles.
“Bloody war,” I said.
“Bloody war,” he said back.
That cheered us both up momentarily. Charles would never swear in front of a woman, and my parents would have been horrified to hear me swear at all. But this didn’t count. It was the way Charles and I checked if the other one was all right, just between ourselves. It had started when we first admitted we were serious about each other and I had said it as a joke in recognition of the fact that if it hadn’t been for the war, we’d never have met in the first place. It was the most peculiar thing, that something awful had led to finding someone you couldn’t imagine being without.
“I’d better go,” said Charles. “I’ll call you again later so we can talk properly then. I want to hear about your meeting even though you won’t be able to say anything.”
“You’re right, I can’t,” I said gratefully. “But it was awfully exciting. Lots of interesting people. A couple of odd sorts,” I added. “But I enjoyed myself.”
Neither of us mentioned names, places, or specifics.
“I knew you’d do well,” said Charles. “You’ll be in charge of the lot of them before you know it.”
“I’m not sure about that,” I said, pulling a face as I thought about the two women in the lavatory. “But you’ll get told off if I start going on about it now.”
We said our goodbyes and I made a good stab at being hearty as far as I could. Putting down the receiver, though, I sighed heavily. “Oh well, that’s that, then,” I said in a low way now that I didn’t have to pretend otherwise.
When Charles had first been posted back to England, I had been thrilled to bits, and he had said I was by far the best thing about being in a staff job here rather than fighting with the others overseas. But the fact was, the combination of his work and my haring around between Woman’s Friend and the fire station meant opportunities to see each other were few and far between. Snatched phone calls and long letters had got us through so far, and I knew we were lucky to have that. First-class postage overnight was tons better than waiting ages for news from the other side of the world.
As I sat feeling sorry for myself, the front door opened.
“Hello, Em. You’ll never guess what,” said Bunty breathlessly as she fought her way through the blackout curtain, waving a small package and looking as if she’d won the Pools. “Mr. Parsons has managed to get some elastic. I didn’t ask how but got a yard and a half. I say, you look a bit blue. Are you all right?”
“Charles’ leave has been cancelled,” I said. “Again.”
Bunty looked sympathetic. “Oh no, what a stinker,” she said.
I nodded. “Sorry, I’m being mopey. I’d been looking forward to seeing him, enormously. I’ll be all right in a minute. Good news on the elastic.”
“That’s rotten luck,” said Bunty, taking off her hat and putting it on the hall table. She crossed her arms and leant against the curled end of the banister. “He might as well be in Hong Kong or somewhere for all you get to see him. I tell you what, why don’t you come with me to Granny’s? There’s a new litter of puppies at the farm. That can cheer anyone up. I know it’s not the same,” she finished.
It might not have been, but it was awfully kind of her to offer. “It sounds lovely,” I said. “Thank you, I’d love to come.”
Bunty looked pleased and I slapped my hands on my thighs to gee myself up. The situation couldn’t be helped, and there was no point being a gloom-bag about it.
“Now,” said Bunty, “if it won’t land you in prison for Loose Talk, I’m dying to hear how it went today at the You Know Where.”
“Ah,” I said, glad to have someone to talk to about it. “Very well, and then not quite as straightforward.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Bunty, taking off her coat and gloves. “Are you allowed to tell me?”
“It’s all confidential,” I said, fully preparing to ignore that point. “But to say that I am in a fury is under-egging things, to say the least.”
“Oh, crikey,” said Bunty. “That puts my news about the elastic in its place. Come on,” she said. “This sounds as if it calls for a large cup of tea.”
She looked at me again. I was scowling fiercely. While I was understanding about Charles having his leave cancelled, I could quite happily swing for Freddie and Diane.
“Blow tea,” said Bunty. “By the sound of it, I think we’re going to need some of Granny’s gin.”
“In my view,” said Bunty the next morning, “there are women who stick up for each other, and women who don’t. You’re either one or the other. It’s as simple as that.”
We had just arrived at Paddington station to catch the train to Bunty’s granny, Mrs. Tavistock’s, and as ever, the station was busy. Women were herding children in berets and caps onto platforms, holding tightly on to the smallest and optimistically calling out to the biggest to do as they were told and not wander off. A large group of sailors with their huge kit bags smoked cigarettes and stared at the Departures board, while a trio of soldiers bantered with each other as they cut in front of us with some swagger.
Bunty and I were discussing my row at the Ministry in a kind of shorthand, leaving out any identifiable details, but still dissecting the scenario.
“I just want to tell Guy and get it over and done with,” I said, using Mr. Collins’ first name as it was the weekend. “I really shouldn’t have lost my head like that.”
“You were defending his honour,” said Bunty staunchly. “And it’s not your fault he had to rush off. Do it first thing on Monday and you’ll be fine. Anyway, Freddie Frog and her gormless friend deserved it.”
I grinned. Bunty purposely made them sound like two washouts in the lower fourth at school. Nothing more than an irritant, and certainly not to be seen as a threat.
We joined the queue at the ticket office, behind a handsome young man in uniform, who was arm in arm with an elderly lady in a long coat. In her free hand she was clutching a hankie, but when she looked up at him as he chatted about the weather with an almost desperate interest, her face was a picture of determination.
“I used to like railways stations,” I said to Bunty quietly as the lad and his grandma reached the window and he asked for a single ticket. “Just watching people. Now I don’t really. There are too many of them saying goodbye.”
Neither of us turned to watch them as they walked away. We bought our tickets, and after a diversion to buy a copy of Woman Today, as I wanted to read Mrs. Edwards’ latest column, Bunts and I headed to the platform and a second-class carriage.
I opened the train door and Bunty carefully climbed in first as we joined a young woman in a thin but smart black coat and a green hat knocked slightly to one side by a large, crying baby. The lady was speaking calmly to a very cross little girl while holding the baby on her knee. She apologised to me as I helped her move several suitcases to one side and the little girl said hello, her name was Ruby, she was four, and she wanted to be sick.
“Nonsense, Ruby,” said her mother cheerily. “We aren’t even moving, and anyway, no one is ever sick on a train. Now come and sit nicely with me.”
Ruby looked peeved and hoicked herself up to sit beside me instead, glowering until the train passed through Ealing Broadway, at which point she whispered loudly that she wanted her potty. When reminded that she had Only Just Been, she shuffled herself backwards into the seat and adopted the self-righteous expression of someone thinking, On your head be it.
Bunty, who was sitting opposite, gave Ruby an encouraging smile and valiantly tried to take the small person’s mind off things.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Bunty.”
“What’s that?” asked Ruby, pointing at Bunty’s walking stick.
“Ruby,” said her mum, “come on now.”
“It’s quite all right,” said Bunty. “This is my stick,” she said.
“Why?” said Ruby.
“It helps me walk,” said Bunty.
“Are you old?” said Ruby, looking unconvinced.
“I’m so sorry,” said her mother, bouncing the enormous baby on her lap. “Ruby, come and sit next to me.”
“Grandad’s old,” said Ruby, unmoved. “And he’s got no hair.”
“I have a bad leg,” said Bunty helpfully.
Ruby’s eyes widened. “Does it hurt?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” said Bunty.
“Will it fall off?” said Ruby, now agog.
Her mother looked mortified, but Bunty laughed. “Possibly,” she said. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
“I really am so sorry,” said the young woman again. “What do we say, Ruby? Curiosity killed the cat.”
Ruby looked concerned, as if this might get in the way of seeing someone’s leg fall off, and as she began to ask another question, I offered to hold her little brother to give his mum a break.
“That’s so kind of you,” she said. “As long as you don’t mind. He’s not eighteen months yet, but he weighs a ton.”
“Fatty,” whispered Ruby.
I ignored her and insisted it would be a pleasure, and she happily handed him over. As we all fell into a chat, I realised his mother had not been exaggerating. The bonny young man was definitely on the cuddly side.
“I’m sorry, we’re stopping you reading your magazine,” she said, nodding towards the unopened copy of Woman Today I had put on the opposite seat.
“Not at all,” I said. “In fact, would you like it?” I could always get another copy later.
The young woman, who introduced herself as Mrs. Oliver, looked pleased at the offer. “That’s very kind,” she said. “Are you sure? A sit-down and a read is such a treat. I don’t have time during the day with them both, and as soon as Ruby goes to sleep, Baby Tony usually wakes up.” She took a deep breath. “We’re on our way to my mum’s now. I’m starting a new job on Monday.”
I was impressed. Mrs. Oliver looked as if she had quite a lot on her plate already.
“Good for you,” I said. “Are you allowed to say what it is?”
She sat up straighter. “I think so. It’s at an engineering factory. My friend Betty just started there. Mum’s going to look after these two while I’m at work.”
Baby Tony gave a loud burp. I stopped bouncing him, just in case.
“That’s rude, Mummy,” said Ruby. Tony laughed.
“My poor mother,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s all right, Ruby, he doesn’t realise. Shall I take him from you? No? Well, please have this cloth.” She handed me a large square of muslin. “Tony, don’t be sick. I hope I’m not asking too much. My mother’s quite young and Ruby loves her granny, don’t you, love?”
“Granny,” said Ruby, a woman of few words.
“I’m sure they’ll have loads of fun,” I said to Mrs. Oliver. “Did you work before the war?” I didn’t want to pry but was interested to know. She only looked about my age.
“Not for long,” she said. “I got married when I was eighteen and had Ruby the year after. I know we were young, but Anthony, my husband, was in the army, and he said he reckoned that what with Hitler throwing his weight around, it was only a matter of time before things got nasty.”
“Daddy,” said Ruby.
“Well done, Ruby,” said Mrs. Oliver, beaming at her. “Yes, Daddy. Good girl.”
Ruby said Daddy again and put her thumb in her mouth.
Mrs. Oliver began to talk about her husband, and as Bunty gave Ruby one of her gloves to play with, I held Baby Tony and listened. It was something I’d learned from Mrs. Mahoney. People, she said, liked to know someone is listening.
Bunty asked Mrs. Oliver how she and her husband had first met, and as our journey dawdled on, with the train stopping at random as trains always did these days, Mrs. Oliver chatted happily. They had both been sixteen and he was a cadet, and then they’d got married in 1936, which seemed a very long time ago now. A new calm descended on the carriage as Ruby stroked the fur on Bunty’s glove and Baby Tony began to nod off.
“Young missy there was only two when Anthony went to France,” said Mrs. Oliver, dropping her voice. “She doesn’t really remember.” She looked at her daughter for a moment and smiled. “I know she’s a pickle,” she said. “My dear little pickle. Anthony’s company was caught at Dunkirk.”
She said it quietly, and then after a glance at Ruby, gave a small, swift shake of her head.
“I had Baby Tony just after we heard. He’s been such a good boy, and everyone’s been very, very kind.” She smiled at me and then Bunty, proudly this time. “They’re both the spit of their dad.”
“Your husband must have been very handsome,” Bunty said. “The children are beautiful.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Oliver softly. She was very pretty too, with dark eyes and almost black hair, which was unfussily but immaculately styled.
“Goodness,” she said brightly, “I’ve rattled right on. You must think me awful. I don’t know what brought that on.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Oliver,” I said. “It’s nice to have a chat.”
“Isn’t it?” she replied. “And please, call me Anne. What about you girls? Do you have beaus?”
It was always difficult for Bunty when someone asked something like this, and as she had made her other glove into a puppet and was now playing with Ruby, I briefly mentioned Charles. I didn’t say much, just how we’d met and that I worked for his brother, which I thought would be a good detour to take. I didn’t want to say that Charles had also been at Dunkirk but had been lucky enough to come back.
“Is it difficult working with his brother?” asked Anne.
I said not at all, and that he was jolly nice. Then Bunty joined in and mentioned Woman’s Friend.
“Goodness!” said Anne. “My mum takes Woman’s Friend every week. I bought a copy the other day and made the Celery Fingers. How exciting. It must be very glamorous.”
I told her that it really wasn’t, but I very much enjoyed it, nevertheless. “Your new job will be tons more important,” I said. “Are you looking forward to it?”
We were somewhere near Slough and the train had come to a halt again. Anne took a tiny sandwich out of her bag, unwrapped it, and gave it to Ruby.
“Sort of,” said Anne. “I’ve done my Government training course and I got through that all right. Mum managed to keep up with the children, so at least she knows what she’s letting herself in for. I’ll probably just be sitting by a machine, but I am looking forward to it.”
I said I was sure there would be far more to it than that. But as Bunty nodded in agreement, it occurred to me that I didn’t have a clue what went on in what I assumed by Anne’s saying engineering was a munitions factory. So much for my claim that Woman’s Friend had a spectacular plan for supporting women war workers. Other than knowing quite a lot about the Fire Service and what friends said about their work, I wasn’t up to speed in the least. When readers wrote in, all I did was give them the name and address of the relevant Government source of information. It all sounded rather limp now.
I wondered if Mr. Collins or any of the others knew.
“Anne,” I said, slightly on a whim, “once you’re settled in, do you think I could ask you a few questions about what it’s like? If you were allowed and didn’t mind, of course. Perhaps what your friend thinks too? It might be something our Editor would be interested in.”
Anne thought I was kidding around. “Would we be in the magazine? Can you imagine? Although the trainers did say we have to be careful who we speak to. I don’t mean to be rude, but you could be a spy.”
“Quite right too,” I said. “We can give you and your bosses lots of proof that Woman’s Friend is above board.”
Anne told me I was mad, but that it sounded great fun if I really meant it.
“Emmy means it,” said Bunty loyally. “She wouldn’t say it if she didn’t.”
“It’s up to my boss, though,” I said. “I don’t want you to think I’m being a Flashy Type or anything. Shall I give you my address so you can have a think about it and then write to me if you really do like the idea?”
Anne happily agreed. I thought it would be nice to keep in touch anyway, as she seemed such a good sort.
Ruby had finished her sandwich. She wanted to know if we were there yet and wasn’t at all impressed when the answer was not quite. I volunteered to take my turn in trying to entertain her, and had a spirited time attempting to answer questions that all started with “Why?”
Ruby was a bright button who made me laugh, and I hoped we would become friends.
Anne and Bunty chatted, and while I tried to explain to Ruby how clouds were made, I heard Bunty telling Anne about William. As was her way, she spoke briefly of her loss before turning the conversation to far happier memories. Anne listened and then joined in, understanding Bunty more than most.
As the train trundled on, it was just as well no one joining it made the rash choice of our carriage as we made a cheerful group until Ruby declared that Baby Tony Has Done a Smell. With very poor timing, our station came into view, and Bunty and I had to gather up our things and abandon Anne. She was quick to assure me that her mum would be at their stop to get them off the train and they would be perfectly fine.
“Thank you for helping me with these two,” she said as Ruby asked if she could come with Bunty and me because Baby Tony still smelled.
Bunty and I assured Anne that the pleasure really had been all ours. Then we stepped down onto the platform.
“BYE-BYE,” shouted Ruby, doing her best to wave.
We stopped and turned to wave back. Anne was sitting behind Ruby, smiling widely and making Baby Tony move his pudgy little hand as well. As the train began to pull out of the station, I thought of Mr. Collins’ words the other day.
Think about the women. They’re the ones keeping everything going while the boys are away…. Our job is still to help them, just as much as we help the war effort.
Anne Oliver was exactly that woman. Keeping going, doing everything for her little family, earning a living, and now signing up for war work as well. And all the time with the knowledge that her own boy would not be coming home. We needed to be thinking of Anne and the thousands of women like her. And not only thinking about but listening to them as well.
Bunty had summed it up. There are women who stick up for each other, and women who don’t. It was as simple as that.
Anne had given me pause for thought. I was no longer worried about telling Mr. Collins about the argument I had had with Freddie and Diane the previous day. Anne was worth a hundred of either of them.
As Bunty and I made our way to the ticket collector, ideas of what Woman’s Friend might be able to do had already begun to plant themselves in the back of my mind. If we could focus on what would help our readers the most when they were being asked to join up, then that really would be doing our bit.
“Anne’s such a trooper. Isn’t she?” I said to Bunty. “Especially with everything she has on her plate.”
Bunty looked up from where she had been fishing in her coat pocket for her ticket.
“Do you think the Ministry cares what women like Anne have been through?” She said it lightly, but it was the most valid of points.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I think they’d say that if she works, it’s up to her, because she’s volunteered. She won’t be conscripted because she has young children.”
Bunty made a hmmf noise. “Have you any idea how much pension war widows get?” she asked. “Because unless they’re married to an officer or born with a silver spoon in their mouth, they don’t have much choice but to go out to work.” She pursed her lips. “Don’t start me,” she said. “Or I’ll get stuck on my soapbox.”
I put my arm through hers. “I don’t mind if you do,” I said. “I really hope Anne will write to us.”
“Me too,” said Bunty. “Ruby still has one of my gloves.”
I laughed. Bunty didn’t care about her glove. Anne Oliver had struck a chord with us both.
“She’ll write,” I said confidently. “Ruby will see to that.”