I was glad to have the taxi ride home to gather my thoughts, and I sat quietly, replaying the evening and everything Charles had said. No one in their right mind would want the person they loved to tell them they wanted to go off to fight, but as we drove through the dark streets towards Pimlico, odd though it may have sounded, I understood what he meant.
The simple fact was that Charles was an army man and had been for years prior to meeting me. He hadn’t been conscripted, he hadn’t volunteered, and he had always known that if a second war came, it was his job to go. As much as it made me shudder to think of him going into danger, it had been my choice to love him and agree to be his wife. It was up to me to have the strength of character to live this way.
I asked the taxi driver to stop a couple of streets away from the house so that I could have a few more moments to think. I dug my chin into my scarf and used my dull little torch to help find my way home.
“Right, then,” I said to myself. Along with hundreds of thousands of other women all over the world, I would have to get on with it. I felt a renewed surge of what was already engrained hostility towards the enemy. “We’ll have you for breakfast,” I muttered.
When I got back to the house, Bunty was still up and eager to hear how my romantic evening had gone. It must have been quite a surprise when I marched into the house with a look of fierce resolve on my face, rather than a dreamy smile.
“It might be ages before he’s sent somewhere,” I said, leaning on the banister at the foot of the stairs as we talked. “And that could have happened at any time, anyway. We just need to hurry up and win.”
“I’ll say,” said Bunty firmly, as if the two of us were about to sort it all out by ourselves. “First things first, we’d better crack on with the plans for your wedding. Can’t have Charles sloping off before he’s become the luckiest man in the world.”
“I’ll have his guts for garters if he does,” I said, not remotely worried.
Bunty grinned and suggested we have a full operational update over breakfast.
As the bongs of the hallway’s grandfather clock suggested it was time to call it a day, we headed upstairs to our rooms. When we got to the landing, Bunty gave me a hug.
“Night, Em. If you need me, you will just call, won’t you?”
“Thanks, Bunts,” I said. “Honestly, I really am fine.”
From that night on, determination would become the heart of everything I wanted to do. I would marry Charles, I would know that he was going to be safe, and I would get on with everything back here in London, so that when he returned, we would properly start our life together.
Charles did not have a firm idea about what job or regiment he might move to, but now that we had talked about it, I knew he would be on the lookout for a posting. It made for a feeling of uncertainty all round. He could be in England for some time, or, as I rather feared, picked up for something quickly. I decided not to badger him for updates, but to carry on as usual and focus on my work. In short, do what I always did when things felt as if they were going off on the wonk.
Luckily, there was no shortage of things to be getting on with. Plans for the wedding picked up some necessary steam. I finished making my dress and was well on the way with a rather pretty one for Bunty. Invitations had been put in the post, and somehow we were planning to cater for thirty people. Almost everyone had said yes, with the notable exception of Charles’ parents. I knew he wasn’t close to them, but I was still concerned when they said his elderly father could not manage the journey and his mother would not leave him on his own. Charles had expected as much, so as he did not seem disappointed, neither would I.
The wedding plans, I knew, would be fine. It was work that was far more of a quandary. I had written another article on the munitions industry, telling the Woman’s Friend readers about the different jobs they might do in a factory. Once again, I had been gung ho (“Women excel at the most intricate details,” says the Works Manager with pride) and left out anything controversial, while trying to give a realistic view (It’s hot work, but the welders can take it!). I’d even included a quote from Mr. Terry, which I’d made up for him and attributed to him: The Factory Director reports that productivity is at a high, and tells us, “Our female workers show that patriotism wins!”
Mr. Collins didn’t change a word of my draft and the Ministry approved. We even received some letters from readers who said that after they’d read “Woman’s Friend at Work,” they had decided munitions work was the job for them. One asked us what sort of food to expect. Another was hoping she’d make friends like the nice girls we’d written about.
The letters didn’t come by the sackful, but the plan we had promised the Ministry appeared to be starting to work. I was pleased, of course, but my nagging doubts about being too rose-coloured about things, if anything, became worse.
Mr. Collins was sympathetic. He was well aware that I worried I wasn’t giving a realistic picture. “Emmy,” he said. “This is all very good. I realise you have your concerns, but you are helping the war effort. You know that for every person who writes in, there are another fifty feeling the same way.”
It was a generous thing to say, and I knew he meant it. I was pleased too. My first attempt at writing articles for Woman’s Friend was getting noticed. I knew how important the work was, I wasn’t telling lies, I wasn’t even over-egging anything. I just wasn’t mentioning some of the things I thought were unfair.
Never mind, ladies! You may worry about who will look after your children! The local nurseries can’t fit in with your hours! You can’t join the union and you won’t get paid the same as the men!
Of course I would never write something like that, but I found it frustrating to write encouraging articles, while knowing my friends weren’t being listened to in real life. Even my mild query to Mr. Terry about a Government Nursery had been met with a wall of disinterest. I wondered what hope women like Irene had. I wondered what hope the readers I was writing for would have too.
As I had clearly irked him in our meeting, it was a surprise when I heard that my next visit to the factory remained unchanged. Even if he was unimpressed with my questions, Mr. Terry was at least allowing the articles to continue. I assumed that he saw me as an irritant rather than any real problem, and I was happy with that if it meant I could carry on.
Two weeks after my last meeting with Mr. Terry, I was on my way back for my third visit. ENSA, the Entertainments National Service Association, were putting on a lunchtime concert for the workers in the canteen, and it was the perfect opportunity for a cheery piece I was writing, called “The Social Side of Factory Work.”
This time, however, Bunty came with me. Anne’s mum was going away for a couple of days to check on her elderly mother-in-law in Chippenham, and Bunts had volunteered to look after Ruby and Tony so that Anne could still go to work. I would have to go back to London on my own first thing the next day.
Bunty hadn’t seen Anne and the children since we had first met on the train, so it was the perfect excuse for a trip out of London. As we found our way to Anne’s house, the two of us were in a chipper frame of mind. I was relieved I hadn’t entirely blotted my copybook with Mr. Terry and was looking forward to seeing the ENSA show.
“If you see him, just put on your best smile,” teased Bunty as we followed Anne’s directions and turned into Wilton Street, the small Victorian terrace where she lived. “Otherwise he’ll have you escorted off the premises and you won’t be able to do the article.”
“I don’t think he’ll be there,” I said. “I’ve been handed over to their Public Relations Manager. Apparently a Mr. Adams will look after me.”
“Does look after mean not let you out of his sight?” said Bunty.
“Without a shadow of a doubt,” I answered. “And don’t worry, I shall be an utter delight. I’ve promised our Editor, so I have to be.”
We were both smiling as we came to a stop outside number 32 and knocked on the red front door. There was an immediate and unmistakable roar from inside, and as the door opened, Ruby fought her way out before Anne even appeared.
“They’re here!” shouted Ruby as she flung herself at me. “Do roundabouts, Aunty Emmy!”
“Please,” said Anne from the doorway, which Ruby dutifully repeated in an ear-splitting shriek.
As I swung the chubby thunderbolt round and wondered how she could have grown in the last fortnight, Bunty and Anne said hello, and then, oddly, Anne didn’t ask us to come in. I put Ruby down and gave Anne a hug, noticing she looked both tired and unusually serious.
“It’s lovely to see you both,” she said. “Thank you so much for looking after the children, Bunty. Ruby, be a good girl and go in and find your teddy, please.”
Ruby nodded obediently, and after she had trundled off, Anne closed the door behind her and stayed outside. She ran a hand through her hair and looked at Bunty and me.
“Just to tell you,” she said in a low voice. “Absolutely rotten news. Irene’s been sacked. She’s inside with the girls.”
“Oh, Anne,” I started to say.
“I know. I’m sorry to land this on you, but do you mind looking after her two for an hour as well as mine? I said I’d go with her to the Labour Exchange, and if we go now, I’ll be back in time to come in with you for the ENSA show.”
“How is she?” I asked.
“Crushed,” said Anne. “But she’s putting on a brave face.” She paused. “Have you told Bunty about…?”
I nodded, assuming she meant Irene’s husband. “I’m sorry, I know it’s a secret,” I said.
“I haven’t told a soul,” said Bunty, deadly serious. “Is there any news?”
Anne shook her head. “Nothing.”
A small hammering started from behind the door, and Anne turned to open it, before picking up Ruby and asking us to come in. Bunty and I followed her inside and down the narrow hallway to an immaculate kitchen, where a slight woman in her early thirties was sitting at a small table. She had Baby Tony on her lap, and her two girls were playing pat-a-cake while Irene got Tony to clap his hands.
“Irene, these are my friends Emmy and Bunty I told you about,” said Anne as Irene got up to hand her Tony. Although she smiled, Irene looked shattered, with huge dark rings under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept for a week, which I imagined was not far from the truth.
As we all said hello, Irene began to apologise. “I’m sorry I’ve pushed in on your visit,” she said, then turned to look at Anne. “Honestly, Anne, I can go to the Exchange on my own.”
“Don’t be daft,” said Anne. “The girls don’t mind, do you?”
“It’s no trouble at all,” said Bunty. “We’ll just be playing, so two more will add to the fun.”
“Hello, girls,” I said, being overly cheerful, when what I really wanted to do was to tell Irene how very sorry I was about everything.
“These are Sheila and Enid,” said Irene. “They’re seven and four. Girls, say hello to Miss Lake and Miss… oh, I’m sorry, I don’t know your surname.”
“Tavistock,” said Bunty, smiling at the girls. “It’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?”
“That’s all right, Miss Tavistock,” said Sheila in a shy voice.
“Ruby calls me Aunty Emmy,” I said. “Don’t you, Monster?”
“Aunty Emmy,” confirmed Ruby. She stopped, stared at Bunty, and said, “You’re Aunty Bunty.”
Despite the situation, “Aunty Bunty” sounded ridiculous, and Bunty snorted.
“Bunty Aunty,” declared Ruby.
“Bunty Bunty,” said Enid, looking pleased with herself.
“BUNTY BUNTY,” shouted Ruby, in delight.
Good-natured as ever, Bunty laughed, and looking at the grown-ups, said, “This is going to stick, isn’t it? No, please don’t tell them off, I rather like it.”
Everyone had a little laugh, grateful for something to take away the awkwardness of meeting under such very difficult circumstances.
Anne looked at her wristwatch. “We’d better get going,” she said.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” said Irene to Bunty and me.
“We’ll have a lovely time,” I assured her. “Won’t we, girls? We’ve brought comics and sweets and we know tons of games, so if they’re happy to stay with us, we’ll have lots of fun.”
Sheila nodded shyly, and Enid didn’t seem to mind, as she was now whispering “Bunty Bunty” with Ruby and jumping up and down at the same time.
I took off my hat and shooed the women out of the kitchen, hoping Anne didn’t mind my making myself so at home.
“We’ll be fine,” I said once again as Anne and Irene said goodbye to the children and made their way to their coats, which were hanging up in the hall. Irene wrapped a flowery scarf around her neck, but then hesitated again.
“Good luck,” I said firmly. “We’ll see you later.”
I gave a small wave as the two women left, and once the front door was shut, let my smile drop.
Irene Barker: two daughters, a missing husband, and now without a job, and I was sure, with no reference.
It just wasn’t fair. Something had to be done.
With their mums off to the Labour Exchange, I quickly announced buns all round in case anyone felt wobbly lipped about being left behind. The children, though, were good as gold. Ruby and Tony were happy with us, and Enid was keen to be best friends with Ruby, so they were no trouble at all. Sheila was quieter but joined in with the buns, and a shambolic version of hide-and-seek. The younger girls were happily awful at it, which was just as well as Bunty and I hadn’t a clue where anything was.
I couldn’t help but notice that Sheila watched over Enid rather than enjoying things for herself, and when to the amazement of the other children Bunty revealed her ability to make chains of little animals out of sheets of newspaper, I asked Sheila if she would like to make a cardboard dress-up dolly with me instead.
Baby Tony was happy to sit at Bunty’s feet and rip up the rest of the news, so Sheila and I retreated to the front room with an empty packet of cornflakes and some scissors. As we sat together on the sofa and thumbed through some magazines for ideas about clothes for the doll, Sheila became chattier.
“Can we do frocks, Miss Lake?” she said. “I’ve been learning to sew on Mum’s machine and I’m making a skirt on my own. Mum watches, but I haven’t gone wrong,” she added proudly.
“Gosh, you’re very clever,” I said. “Well done you. Shall we make a paper version of it so that you match?”
Sheila was keen on the idea and began to tell me about all the clothes she planned to make one day when she was older and you didn’t need coupons.
“I want to be a dressmaker when I grow up,” she said shyly.
“What a great idea,” I said. “You’ll be so good at it.”
Sheila looked pleased, but then her face clouded over. “Mummy’s got to find a new job,” she said. “Will she get one?”
“I’m sure she will,” I said. “I don’t know how long it will take to find one she likes, but I bet she’ll get something just right.”
Sheila sat for a moment looking down at the magazine. Finally she spoke, but didn’t look up. “Miss Lake?” she said. “Was it my fault?”
“About what, love?” I asked.
“Mum getting the sack. Was it because I couldn’t make Enid sit still? She did try, but she’s only young.”
I put on what I hoped was a kind and encouraging smile, but my heart could have wept. “Oh, Sheila, of course not,” I said gently. “Nothing is your fault. You’ve been such a good girl and the very best big sister to Enid. Mrs. Oliver told me you look after her ever so well.”
“Mum said that,” said Sheila. “But then she kept crying.”
I put down the card I was holding and moved to sit closer to her. It was one of the saddest conversations I had ever had. “Shall I tell you a secret?” I said. “Sometimes grown-ups cry. I do sometimes, if I’m a bit tired—and I’m twenty-three, so absolutely ancient.”
“Do you really?” said Sheila, finally looking up.
“I do.” I nodded. “And afterwards I feel a bit better about things. That’s why people talk about having A Good Cry. Does that make me sound a bit silly?”
Sheila shook her head. “Not really.”
“That’s good,” I said. “And do you know, I even feel better now I’ve told you. The main thing is, you mustn’t worry if you hear a grown-up having a cry. And never feel you have to fix things, because you don’t. That’s our job. The grown-ups.”
“So it isn’t my fault?” Sheila looked at me hopefully.
“No, my lovely,” I said, smoothing back a strand of her hair that had fallen across her eyes. Then I put my hand over my heart. “Sheila, I promise that absolutely none of this is your fault.”
I didn’t know how far Sheila believed me, but it was the easiest thing I had ever sworn to. I thought of Mrs. Mahoney saying that I couldn’t change the world overnight. All Irene was trying to do was keep Sheila and Enid’s world going. I wondered how many thousands of other mothers were doing the same thing across Britain.
Woman’s Friend might have been doing our bit on the recruitment front, but we had to do so much more to offer these women support. There had to be more that Yours Cheerfully could do.
As Sheila began to cut out pictures again, I promised myself that we would.