As I had feared, my arrival did not go down well.
“What the hell is this?” barked Mr. Terry, rising out of his seat. He had been at his desk, talking to a man who I recognised as Mr. Adams, the Public Relations Manager.
“Good morning, Mr. Terry,” I said. “Mr. Adams. I apologise for the interruption.”
“I should damn well think so,” said Mr. Terry. “Who let you in?”
Mrs. Cleeve had followed me into his office and was looking more than perturbed. “Mr. Terry,” she said, “I have no idea how this young woman got through security.”
“Then I should get her out,” said Mr. Terry rudely.
“Please!” I said. “I have come to apologise. And to offer you an explanation. I believe you have heard Mrs. Anne Oliver brought her daughter into work. This is entirely my fault. I’m afraid I let her down over babysitting and left her no choice.”
“Mrs. Oliver?” said Mr. Terry.
Mr. Adams muttered something to him.
“Oh, her. One of the troublemakers protesting.”
“No, they’re not,” I said, almost forgetting my plan to be as pleasant as possible. “There’s no protest, sir. There was going to be a Patriotic Parade, but that was about recruiting more women if there were the facilities to help them.”
It wasn’t an untruth.
“But it has been cancelled,” I continued. “And Mr. Terry, please know that the parade idea was entirely down to me as well, not Mrs. Oliver.”
I moved further into the room in case Mrs. Cleeve felt the need to try and bundle me out.
“Really?” said Mr. Terry sarcastically. “Why aren’t I surprised? The last time you were here, under the pretence of interviewing me, I was harangued about employees’ childcare. Then your friends started sending me demanding letters and arranging anti-patriotic demonstrations. And now here you are, having found your way into a high-security munitions supplier to the Government. It’s all somewhat rum, don’t you think?”
“That was no pretence, sir,” I said. I quickly unlocked my briefcase and brought out a copy of the latest issue of Woman’s Friend. “I hope you will see that I have quoted you—not by name, of course, but as Factory Director—quite extensively.” I put it on his desk with the page open. “There. Just under the picture of all the women enjoying the entertainments. I hope you’ll see the article is fulsome in its praise.”
Mr. Adams craned his neck to study the magazine, but Mr. Terry just continued to look furious and increasingly unattractive.
“Mr. Terry,” I said. “I am so very sorry if I have caused trouble. The articles in our magazine have all been terrifically positive, but perhaps personally, I had become overenthusiastic about the Government’s excellent initiative of providing nurseries for war workers. Please do not penalise the women. Especially Mrs. Oliver. I understand she is a very effective employee, and I know she is thoroughly committed to her job.”
While I was finding my own words quite sickeningly obsequious, I tried hard to make my voice calm, keeping the pitch low, even attempted to be slightly charming. Flattery had worked with him previously, and I knew Mr. Adams had no axe to grind with me. I tried to catch his eye, but he was staring fixedly at his hands.
I thought of how I had managed to back down in the face of Miss Eggerton’s crossness, and of how Mrs. Edwards would have managed my current situation.
She would have glided in, enraptured the two men, and got them to sign an agreement on a veritable chain of nurseries, decent working hours, equal pay, and wall-to-wall lavatory mirrors within minutes.
But I was no Mrs. Edwards.
Mr. Terry sat back down in his large chair and crossed his arms.
“Mr. Terry, should I escort Miss Lake out?” asked Mrs. Cleeve.
“I can handle this,” said Mr. Terry testily. “You can go.”
I wondered how Mrs. Cleeve put up with him.
“Miss Lake,” said Mr. Terry, “you must be aware that anti-patriotic dissent is a matter for the police.”
“It isn’t anti-patriotic, Mr. Terry,” I said as sweetly as I could. “They just want to be able to work. That’s what the Government’s recruitment campaign is for: getting more women into war work. It’s just that they can’t easily do that when the shifts make caring for their children impossible. That’s not a criticism,” I added.
“And what does the Ministry of Information make of your views?” said Mr. Terry.
I hesitated. “They are fully committed to recruiting more war workers,” I said. “Just last week, my magazine was praised by the Under-Secretary to the Minister, for the articles about your factory. I am not here to be troublesome.”
By now I was almost pleading. I hated myself for doing it, but it was worth a shot. If I could make Mr. Terry feel like the big man, perhaps he would be a little better disposed.
I was wrong.
“Miss Lake, as you appear to be quite the name with the MOI, I am sure my friends at the Ministry of Labour will be delighted to hear all about you and your magazine, and the way you have infiltrated and influenced my workers. Protests and marches and whatever else you’ve been stirring up don’t quite fit with your little articles.”
I opened my mouth to defend myself, but Mr. Terry had had enough. “Mrs. Cleeve!” he shouted.
Mrs. Cleeve hurried back into the room. She must have been standing right outside the door and was looking even more severe than ever.
“Please ensure Miss Lake is removed from the premises,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Terry,” said Mrs. Cleeve. “I’ve arranged transport. Many of the workers are on their way to early lunch, so I thought it best not to make a fuss.”
Mr. Terry nodded curtly.
But I hadn’t had my say, and far more important, Anne hadn’t had her say.
“What about Mrs. Oliver?” I asked. “Will you give her her job back? She will not bring her child in again.”
Mr. Terry shrugged. It was written all over his substantial face. He didn’t give a fig.
Mr. Terry. Rich from Jerry.
That’s Mr. Terry.
“You know, sir,” I said, speaking quietly now, “the women I’ve met who work in your factory really do care about what they do here. They may never earn your kind of salary or drive a big car like yours, or have a Rolls-Royce ashtray.” I looked at the one on his desk with contempt. “And neither will I. But they’ll give everything they possibly can, including the men they love, to help win this war.”
I thought of Anne and Anthony, of Irene and her husband Douglas. Of Bunty and William, and of my brother Jack flying across the Channel in the dead of night. And as my heart lurched, I thought of Charles, my darling boy who I loved more than anything.
We all wanted factories like Chandlers to produce munitions and armaments and every other thing the boys needed for the war effort, because then they might come back alive. But it didn’t mean a woman doing her best for them should be treated as if she was just another spare part.
The only way we were going to get through this war was to help carry each other along. If it took him a hundred years, Mr. Terry would never understand.
“And, Mr. Terry, I’d put my hat on it that if my friends were in your position, they wouldn’t bully people or ignore polite requests for some help to which they are perfectly entitled. They’d do everything they could for the war effort, only they would understand that it’s not about money and Government contracts and friends in high places.” I held eye contact until he looked away. “It’s about doing your bit and helping to win this war for all of us.”
Then I turned on my heels, and followed closely by Mrs. Cleeve, I walked out.
I may have managed to get the last word, but I was under no illusion that I had won. With my heart in my boots, I waited for Mrs. Cleeve to call for Security to escort me off the premises.
“Miss Lake,” she said forcefully. “Time for you to leave.” She took me by the arm and guided me out of the managerial offices in no uncertain manner. “Through there,” she said, half pushing me out of the doors towards the stairs as a man in a brown overall who I judged might be a foreman stood and stared.
She led me downstairs, where to my surprise Noreen Noakes was standing outside her booth looking anxious.
“Miss Lake,” said Noreen, “what happened? Mrs. Cleeve called to say Mr. Terry is in an absolute fury.”
“Did you manage to find Mr. Noakes?” asked Mrs. Cleeve grimly.
“He’s outside in the van,” said Noreen.
I nodded. I didn’t have the foggiest idea what was going on.
“I should get a move on, Miss Lake,” said Mrs. Cleeve. “You’ve been a silly little fool today and probably just made things worse for your friends. Thank you, Mrs. Noakes. Good day to you.”
As Mrs. Cleeve marched solidly back to Mr. Terry, Noreen Noakes ushed me out of the building. “Make sure you tell Wilf everything,” she said. “Then he can tell me. Go on, before she changes her mind and calls Security. And don’t worry. I don’t know what you’ve just done, but I bet it’s not half as bad as she says.”
It was a kind sentiment and I thanked Mrs. Noakes profusely, but Mrs. Cleeve’s words rang in my ears. I was still seething over Mr. Terry, but what if I had been a fool? More to the point, what if I had made things even worse for my friends?
Wilf Noakes didn’t just escort me off the premises, but all the way to Maeve’s flat. As I had promised his wife, I told him what had happened, although swearing him and Mrs. Noakes to secrecy. I didn’t want either of them to get mixed up in my row with the head of the entire Chandlers operation.
Wilf listened intently as I tried not to overdramatise what had just taken place. “I admire your gumption,” he said as he wound his way to Maeve’s address without looking at a map. “Noreen and me live two streets away,” he explained as he stopped the van outside Maeve’s and put the handbrake on with a crunch.
“That explains it.” I smiled. “Wilf, do you think I went too far? And are you sure you won’t be in trouble?”
“I think you said what was right,” said Wilf. “And sometimes that has to be done. Don’t worry about me. I think old Terry will want to keep all of this quiet. Good luck to you, Emmy. Take care of yourself.”
I thanked him again and got out, waving goodbye as he drove off. I was hugely grateful for his help but more than aware he hadn’t answered my question. I waited for a moment before ringing the doorbell. The peculiar euphoria of giving Mr. Terry a piece of my mind was beginning to wear off. Now I had to confess that I had failed.
Maeve answered the door. “Blimey,” she said, “you look awful. Come on in. My girls are playing with Ruby and Tony in the bedroom, so we won’t be disturbed.”
We climbed the stairs and went straight into the front room, where, to my surprise, as well as Anne, Betty and Violet were there too. It was a small but cosy room with framed family photographs covering the wallpapered walls, and a bookcase laden with paperback books. A large ginger cat sat on the back of the sofa, and Violet was leaning forward so that she didn’t get in his way.
“Let me take your coat, Emmy,” said Maeve, bustling about. “Marmalade, get off there. Emmy, sit on that chair.” Marmalade didn’t move.
“Hello, everyone,” I said, failing to put on a very good smile.
“How was it?” asked Anne. The four women waited anxiously.
I sat down on the chair with a bump. “He wouldn’t move an inch,” I said, feeling worse by the minute. “It’s quite clear that he doesn’t care. It’s an inconvenience to him. I’m really sorry I got you into all this.”
A chorus of denials came in response.
“Don’t be soft,” said Violet.
Maeve patted my shoulder.
“He’s foul,” said Betty. “Tell us everything.”
Taking a deep breath, I recounted the entire episode. At the second time of telling, my actions sounded even more desperate, like a goldfish trying to take on a shark.
“He ended up by saying we were unpatriotic and that what he called a ‘protest’ could be a matter for the police. I told him it was a Patriotic Parade, but thank goodness you called it off. He’s nasty with it.”
Finally I came to what I really wanted to say. “I’m so sorry, Anne. You said not to take any of his nonsense, but he wouldn’t listen. I’ve really let you down. All the talk about letters and marches. It was easy for me to say. I shouldn’t have let you risk so much. I’ll do everything I can to help you get another job.”
Anne was sitting bolt upright in an armchair at the other end of the room. I could hardly look her in the eye. “That man is a pig,” she said. She was as pale as ever, but her cheeks were highly coloured and red blotches had appeared on her neck. She looked even angrier than she had earlier this morning.
“How dare he?” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “Don’t you dare apologise, Emmy. You aren’t the one who took her little girl into a factory. That is entirely on my head. You could have just written your articles and taken all the praise from the Ministry people, but you didn’t. You’ve shown more interest in our welfare in the last few weeks than Mr. Terry ever will.”
“That’s true,” agreed Betty.
“Well, damn Mr. Terry,” said Anne, which took everyone by surprise. “And his bullying.” She looked around the room, her face set and her eyes almost black. “I’m going to bloody well march anyway.”
She stood up, as if she wanted to start right there and then. “All I wanted was to go to work. Look after the children and Mum, do my bit and pay my way. And I’m going to write it on a flipping sign and walk to the town hall, just as we had planned. I’ll leave the kids with Mum. She won’t need to know.”
I looked at the others.
“Then I’m coming with you,” said Betty. “You’re not doing it on your own.”
“He’ll sack you, Bet,” said Anne.
“Not if I’ve resigned first.”
Marmalade had jumped onto Violet’s lap. She stood up, holding him to her chest. “I’ll be there,” she said. “I’ll walk with you too.”
I watched on. Betty was holding Anne’s hand.
Marmalade wriggled and leapt out of Violet’s arms, landing on the floor and arching his back. He strutted past Maeve and out of the room.
Maeve watched him, her lips pursed. Of everyone, she was the one with the most to lose. I could hear the children laughing in the other room.
“No, Maeve,” said Anne. “It’s too much of a risk. He will sack you if you come.”
Maeve gave a little smile. “Can we all stay at Bunty’s if he does?” she said, looking at me.
“Every single one,” I said, without a shadow of a doubt.
“I’m only joking,” said Maeve.
“I’m not,” I said. “If you don’t mind it being a bit of a squeeze.”
“Count me in, then,” said Maeve. “I don’t like people who pick on my friends.”
“You lot are mad,” said Anne. Her eyes were full of tears. “Let’s do it then. Not just for me. Let’s do it for Irene as well.”
There was “Hear! Hear!” all round.
“If it’s on the twentieth as planned, would it be all right if Bunty and I still come?” I said. “We’ll stand with you or cheer you on. Whatever you want.”
“No reason to change it. You can be our reporter,” said Anne. “Absolutely. If you’re sure.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said.
“You can be the press,” said Betty, looking inspired. “Take notes and interview us when we stand there, so people can see. That’ll make it look more impressive.”
“Although we’re going to need someone to look after the children,” said Maeve. “Would your mum do it, Anne?”
“You could bring them with you,” I suggested. “We said last time it’s really important you don’t look as if you’re trying to bring down the Government. What could be less threatening than a group of women with children and prams? Unless you think they’d be frightened or upset by it, of course.” I screwed up my face.
“Mine will be fine,” said Maeve. “They like a parade. We’ll tell them it’s a jolly to help get somewhere for them to play while we’re at work—bingo!”
“Ruby loves a parade too,” said Anne. “She did May Day this year and wore her little paper flower crown for days afterwards until it fell to bits.” She stopped and thought for a moment. “Why don’t we do that? Make paper flowers for them to wear. It’ll be more of a carnival. We can have the signs. No one will think we’re a group of troublemakers then.”
“Anne, it’s perfect,” I said. “If it’s all about being able to help the men win the war and you have the children with you, no one will have any doubt about what you’re marching for.”
“There’s nothing more patriotic than a kiddie in a flowery crown.” Betty laughed. “We’ll have to take it in turns to carry Tony, though.”
“I know, he’s a lump.” Anne grinned. “He can come in his pram.”
As Maeve went to check on the children and the other women sat down again to restart their plans, I watched quietly, joining in a little, but mostly deep in thought.
Often at work, when I opened letters to Yours Cheerfully, the readers referred to something a friend of theirs had said. They weren’t always complimentary, but invariably you knew that their friends were a central part of their world, especially with so many men now away. Whether it was Anne and the girls, or me with Bunty or Kath or Thelma, we were just the same. Sticking with each other through the best bits and the worst in the war, without even thinking—it was just what we did.
“That’s sorted, then,” said Anne. “Full steam ahead for the twentieth.”
There was a whoop from the bedroom, and moments later, Ruby galloped into the front room.
“Aunty Emmy,” she cried, “why are you here? It’s not our house.” She bundled herself onto my lap.
“I’ve just called in to say hello,” I said, giving her a hug. “How are you, Monster?”
“We’re getting a bun bun,” said Ruby.
I looked at Anne.
“I’m still not sure about that,” she said. “But I’ve got the very next best thing.”
“Is it biscuits?” Ruby shrieked.
“Better even than that,” said Anne. “How would you like me to make you your very own crown?”