‘THE MINISTRY,’ SAID Bunty. ‘I know I keep saying it, but how exciting! Watch out, this bit of road is awful.’
It was the morning of The Meeting and my best friend and I were on our way to the bus stop just down the street from where we lived in West London. It was the sort of day that had decided to make a real show of itself and throw everyone into the deepest of autumns. There had been heavy rain throughout the night and the pavements were now a bomb-damaged jigsaw of puddles.
‘Morning, girls,’ called a middle-aged man from deep inside a brown jacket with the collar turned up. ‘Don’t forget to pick up those cottons I’ve been keeping for you. Mrs Richards has asked twice if I have any and I’m not one for living a lie.’
‘Right you are, Mr Parsons,’ replied Bunty as I gave him a wave. Mr Parsons had managed the wool shop until it was bombed out earlier in the year, but after a month at his sister’s, he’d returned to London. Now he was running Durton’s, the hardware shop, which he’d promised to keep ticking over as Dickie Durton had been called up and his mother said she hadn’t the heart.
‘Not that there’s much to sell,’ Mr Parsons had said at the time, which was true. He got hold of whatever he could, including haberdashery which was where his heart really lay. Now he gave us a cheerful wave back and marched off towards the shop, shouting a hello at someone else as his apron flapped about beneath his jacket.
The street was busy with people on their way to work and if you tried awfully hard you might almost, for a moment, pretend that we weren’t in the middle of a war. But the swiftest look around would tell you it was all too obvious that we were. Although things had quietened down over the summer and the constant bombing of earlier in the year had eased off, and while everyone had done their best to patch things up, the results of the Blitz were everywhere. What had been neat lines of Georgian terraces were now all higgledy-piggledy. There were bits missing from buildings, windows boarded up, railings gone to make munitions, and worst of all, too many gaps where people’s homes had been. Now, heaps of rubble sat in their place – disrespectful reminders of what had been lost. It didn’t matter how much you stuck your chin up and said that everything would be rebuilt even better after the end of the war, if you weren’t careful, you would start thinking about the people who’d been lost with those buildings. It was then that things could sometimes feel a bit much.
Bunty was negotiating her way across the road, which had more than its fair share of craters and holes. I tried not to be over-protective, but she had been through the mill. In March she had been seriously injured in an air raid, and her fiancé, William, had been killed. Bunty was often still in pain, but she said the worst thing was that people treated her differently, either assuming she could shatter in a second, or turning her into some sort of plucky but tragic heroine. Either way, Bunty said, they looked at her with what she called The Face, which she loathed.
‘I’m still me,’ she would say, always under-cooking what had happened. ‘Just with a gammy leg and some scars.’
She was doing terrifically well in some respects and the same old Bunty was still there, but anyone who knew her could tell she had changed.
It wasn’t the fact she walked with a stick, or even the splitting headaches that wouldn’t go away. It was when you saw her flinch at a sudden noise in the street, or when the siren went off. Or when she talked about Bill, the fleetest of shadows would cross her face before she smiled at a memory of him.
But as Bunts insisted, tons of people were in the same position, or even worse. With no end to the war in sight, the only thing we could do was to get on with it and try to enjoy what we could, even if some days she did just feel like staying in bed.
Now, Mr Collins’ dramatic announcement about the Ministry had given us both a real boost. Bunty, who was always keen on an event, was convinced it was a big step in one of us becoming the first female Prime Minister one day. I thought she was aiming quite high there, but Bunts said I was being defeatist and not to rule anything out.
‘It’s just a briefing,’ I said, trying not to let on that I was hugely excited and apprehensive in equal measures. ‘I’ll just be sitting quietly at the back. And after all, you go to the War Office every day.’
Bunty scoffed. ‘Em,’ she said, stepping around a sandbag which had fallen over outside the pub, ‘I could sit at my desk stark jolly naked and no one would give me a second glance. You’ll be there as an invited guest. It’s entirely different.’
‘I still think I’ll be turned away at the door,’ I said, as we arrived at the bus stop. ‘That would be awful.’
Bunty shook her head. ‘Mr Collins would never let that happen.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘As long as there isn’t a scene or he has to sneak someone five bob to let me in, which we both know he probably would. Anyway, I’m going to try to look serious and mature. Charles said I should practise in the mirror, but I’m not sure I’ve got it quite right.’
Captain Charles Mayhew and I had met earlier in the year just before he was sent overseas. I had written more letters during that time than I had ever done in my life, and he had written back to them all. When Charles was posted back to England in late summer to work on something he couldn’t tell me anything about, we were already in love.
More than anything, I was overjoyed to know that Charles was safe, or at least as safe as anyone in Britain could be.
I knew how tremendously lucky I was. I was also more than aware that I had fallen in love with a man whose brother, or at least half-brother, happened to be my boss.
It had been a little strange at first, but we had all pushed on valiantly, despite not having a clue what the etiquette was in this sort of scenario, and so far, my only problem was remembering to refer to Mr Collins by his first name when I was speaking to Charles. I was getting used to it, but still felt very bohemian every time I managed to splutter out, ‘Guy’.
‘Gravitas,’ declared Bunty. ‘That’s what you need. Give off the look of someone with hidden depths. By the way, I’m going to try to do the carrot sauce recipe tonight. I know it sounds foul, but they did say it tastes very nearly like chocolate.’
‘Worth a go,’ I agreed. Woman’s Friend had recently run an article called ‘Novel Ways with Vegetables’, which insisted that you could make carrots taste of virtually anything if you put your mind to it.
We continued discussing plans for the rest of the week’s dinners and what we might be able to get hold of as the bus arrived, and we got on to ride into central London.
Bunty told me that if in doubt to just sound confident at the meeting, and then we both got a fit of the giggles as I tried this out by speaking slowly in a new, lower-pitched voice.
‘You sound as if you’ve been heavily drugged,’ said Bunty, cheerfully. ‘Perhaps just nod and look thoughtful, instead?’
As Trafalgar Square came into view, she picked up her bag and stick and prepared to get off at her stop, then paused and gave me a nudge.
‘Good luck, old thing,’ she said, kindly. ‘You’ll be fine. Just don’t do that demonic voice. It really is quite unsettling.’
With that, she gave me a grin, lugged herself up out of the seat and headed carefully to the back of the bus.
*
An hour later, Mr Collins and I were walking up Montague Street on our way to the Ministry of Information’s HQ at Senate House.
I was wearing my best suit and quite a new hat and had three emergency handkerchiefs in my handbag, so felt well turned out and prepared. When I’d told Bunty that you never knew if someone from the Ministry might be about to have a nosebleed, she’d burst out laughing, which hadn’t been the response I had hoped for.
‘Thank you for letting me come along,’ I said to Mr Collins, for the hundredth time. ‘Are you sure they won’t mind?’
‘Well,’ he said, lightly. ‘For a start, you could be the Chairman for all they know, and for another thing, you’ve shown terrific get up and go in the last months and deserve to be here. It’s been a while since I’ve been to a publishing do. It might just be horribly dull.’
When I didn’t reply, he glanced at me.
‘If anyone speaks to you, just remember they probably haven’t been here before either. Oh, and try to look about twenty years older. That’ll do it.’
‘Right you are,’ I said, tilting my chin up a bit as I could tell he was trying to put my mind at rest. I was nervous, but it was a good nervous. Whatever the Ministry had to say to us, I was sure it would be exciting and important.
We couldn’t say very much more in the street for fear of Careless Talk, so we walked along in silence until Mr Collins motioned to turn left, and a few moments later we came to a halt outside a vast art deco building, its windows blacked out against the white stone.
I felt a flutter of anticipation.
‘Ready?’ said Mr Collins. ‘Come on.’
We made our way past the policemen and into the building where a well-dressed young woman at the reception desk looked at our identification cards, then checked our names on a list and asked us to write our details in a large book. I copied everything Mr Collins did and practised looking blasé as I didn’t want to give the impression I was An Hysteric. It wasn’t until we got into the lift that I remembered to breathe.
As soon as we arrived at the third floor, it was clear we were in the right place. A dozen or so men and women were standing in something approximating a queue, the women all terrifically smart, the men dapper to a T. Everyone was smoking and they were all a good deal older than me. A small bald man in a dark suit was holding a clipboard and scurrying around making notes and looking serious, when a door opened and a taller, equally serious man in an identical dark suit came out and asked everyone to have their identification ready again and would we all like to come in.
As we shuffled forward, a loud voice behind me boomed, ‘I say, Collins, is that you?’
We both turned as a man with an attention-seeking moustache and a limp marched up and walloped Mr Collins on the back.
‘I thought you were dead,’ he said.
‘Not quite,’ said Mr Collins. ‘Hello, Jarrett. How are you?’
‘Clinging on,’ said the man. ‘Wanted to fight of course but they’re picky about having both legs. How about you? Written that book yet?’
Mr Collins gave a short laugh which didn’t sound anything like him. ‘Rather busy with the day job. This is my colleague Miss Lake. Miss Lake, this is a fellow journalist, Mr Jarrett.’
Mr Jarrett looked me up and down in an off-colour way.
‘How do you do?’ I said.
‘Hmm,’ he replied and then nodded at Mr Collins before pushing past us and shouting, ‘I say, Thompson, is that you?’ at somebody else.
It was an interesting start.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Mr Collins in a low voice. ‘He likes to think he’s a character.’ He reached into his coat pocket and took out his cigarettes. I began to wish I smoked too, just to fit in.
The queue moved on and finally, we were shown into a large, brown-carpeted room with a number of rather utilitarian metal chairs set out at one end, a small platform at the head, and a long sideboard with cups of tea and an urn at the other.
‘Refreshments,’ muttered Mr Collins. ‘They must be serious.’
Everyone in the room appeared to know everyone else and there was a hubbub of noise as people greeted each other and chatted. I readjusted my handbag on my shoulder and tried not to stare as Mr Collins began quietly explaining who everyone was.
Not only did he know who the other journalists were, it appeared that many of them knew exactly who he was too. There were several nods and smiles in his direction, and to my secret relief, Mr Jarrett seemed to be the rude exception to the rule.
‘Guy Collins, is that really you? What a super surprise!’ A striking middle-aged woman in a fox-fur jacket glided towards us. ‘How many years has it been?’ She beamed at him and then kissed him on both cheeks.
It was the most Continental thing I had ever seen.
‘Oh, Guy,’ she said. ‘It’s been far too long. Is it true they’ve finally pinned you down and made you Editor?’
‘Hello, Monica, I’m afraid so,’ said Mr Collins, not looking remotely surprised by the extravagant greeting. ‘It’s good to see you. I must say, you never age. Although you’re far too thin.’
The woman hooted with laughter, which was another turn-up. She looked far too sophisticated to be a roarer.
‘That’s absolute rot,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘Now, introduce me to your colleague.’ She turned towards me with the friendliest of smiles.
‘Of course. How remiss. This is Miss Emmeline Lake,’ said Mr Collins. ‘Who has been making a name for herself at Woman’s Friend. Miss Lake, this is Mrs Edwards, Editor of Woman Today.’
Mrs Edwards shook my hand firmly. ‘How do you do,’ she said. ‘Is he an absolute bear to put up with? Actually, don’t answer that, you can tell me when he isn’t listening.’
She smiled again and then turning to Mr Collins said, ‘Word has it you’ve been working wonders on the dear old Friend.’ She didn’t give Mr Collins a chance to respond to the compliment, but touching him lightly on the arm, added, ‘I really am so pleased.’
Then she turned back to me.
‘I should explain, Miss Lake, I am embarrassingly sentimental, as Woman’s Friend commissioned my first ever feature. One never forgets that. I am glad it’s back. Room for us all and goodness knows people need a bit of cheering up. What I’d do to Hitler if I got my hands on him,’ she whispered, conspiratorially. ‘Now then, Guy, who have you said hello to? It’s so long since any of us saw you.’
I liked Mrs Edwards enormously. I had heard of her of course and was a keen fan of her weekly Editor’s Letter in Woman Today in which she sometimes expressed a strong view. Last week her column had been a powerfully worded argument for equal pay for women. Now here she was, chatting with Mr Collins as if we were at a cocktail party, and speaking to me as if I was one of the gang.
I was almost disappointed when a very smartly dressed man dinged his fountain pen against a teacup and cleared his throat.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘Would you please take your seats? The Under-Secretary will be here imminently.’
The hubbub of chatter changed to low murmurings as cups and saucers were placed back on the table and the journalists put out cigarettes, took notebooks out of handbags and coat pockets, and settled down in their chairs. Mrs Edwards made Mr Collins sit next to her and I followed, whipping out my notebook and hoping I looked the part. Mr Jarrett planted himself on the seat beside me, grunting as he sat down and then taking up half of my chair.
A few moments later, four gentlemen entered the room and took their places to be introduced.
‘Mr Clough – the Under-Secretary to the Minister, Mr Stratton – Assistant Deputy Director Public Relations, Mr Morton-Stoppard – Controller, and Mr Boe, representing the Ministry of Labour and National Service.’
It was just as well I had good shorthand.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Stratton, taking the stand. ‘It goes without saying that everything covered this morning is confidential and any breach of such is subject to prosecution under the 1939 Official Secrets Act.’
He paused momentarily to give a hard stare over the top of his spectacles (as if more of a warning was needed).
I took notes furiously.
‘I would therefore ask you not to take notes until I say so,’ he said, and my book and pen dropped to the floor with a thud. Mr Jarrett tutted ostentatiously and shoved his notebook back in his pocket.
‘Welcome to this briefing specifically for members of the British women’s press.
Mr Stratton said women’s as if it was some sort of peculiarity, as if he might have said two-headed sheep just as easily. I glanced at Mrs Edwards who hadn’t turned a hair, and taking her lead, I surreptitiously picked up my notebook and put it back in my bag, then sat with my hands in my lap and tried to look as serene.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ continued Mr Stratton, ‘I don’t need to tell you that the current War Effort requires the labours of not only our military forces, but the full commitment of our men, women and children on the Home Front.’
He paused and looked about the room. Perhaps in his early fifties, immaculately turned out and still enjoying a more than satisfactory head of hair, he sported a look which was very nearly suave.
‘To get to the point,’ said Mr Stratton. ‘Our Services and support services are facing a significant undersupply of manpower. Or, I should say, female manpower. Indeed, many of your publications are benefitting from substantial Government-funded advertising to this effect.’
He stared over his glasses again to press the point home.
‘Which is why your collective services are particularly required,’ he continued. ‘We wish to see an increased commitment in encouraging your readers to take up war work. As you know, the National Service Bill has been much discussed, and female conscription will commence when the Act is shortly passed. Many younger women will join the Services. But we also need older women, married women, mothers, even grandmothers, to volunteer for jobs, especially in munitions production. This, ladies and gentlemen, is where your part is to be played.’
Mr Stratton paused, possibly to ensure everyone was listening.
‘Today I am asking you all to inspire your readers. Our need for workers, particularly in the factories, is critical. One million women have joined our vital war industries, but we need at least one million more. Our men fighting need them. The country needs them. And the Government needs you to help us recruit them.’
He leant forward, his hands on the table, and seemed to look at each of us in turn. He may not have been Winston Churchill, but Mr Stratton certainly knew how to make a speech.
‘In summary, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, finally, ‘your hour is here.’
The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up.
Until today I had thought we had been doing our best. Woman’s Friend was full of tips and advice for our readers on all manner of challenges the war had thrown at them. We had even been congratulating ourselves on recent successes.
But this was different. It was a direct call from the Government to help recruit women to the war effort – to inspire them, he said. I had always hoped to be a journalist, but I had never dreamt it would involve being part of a campaign like this.
As Mr Stratton began to go into more detail, I was already fully signed up to the call.
After a few more minutes, he asked for questions. Several people put up their hands and made eager enquiries, then, after the most enthusiastic had calmed down, Mrs Edwards raised an elegant hand.
‘Mr Stratton,’ she said. ‘Woman Today will of course do everything we possibly can to support the Government, but may I ask how long you expect our readers to wait before they are actually given a position? We receive letters daily from women who have volunteered for the Services or factory work but say they haven’t heard back in months.’
One or two eyebrows shot up at that, but I leant forward. It was exactly what Kath and I had been saying earlier in the week.
Mr Stratton didn’t turn a hair.
‘I shall let Mr Boe answer that,’ he said.
Mr Boe stood briefly to say something convoluted about the Employment Exchanges doing their best in very difficult times, at which point Mr Stratton interrupted to suggest somewhat coldly that perhaps Mrs Edwards’ magazine could highlight the need for more careers advisors.
Mrs Edwards smiled graciously. ‘We will, of course,’ she said. ‘Then perhaps the bottleneck will pass.’
Mr Stratton said that was enough questions for now.
Having made her point and clearly had the last word, Mrs Edwards continued to smile beatifically at him, and I had the distinct impression she knew exactly how to both make her point and get her way in any possible situation. I decided this was a skill I very much needed to learn.
Mr Stratton again handed over to Mr Boe who stood up, only to have to sit down almost immediately when Mr Stratton interrupted again, which gave the impression they were on some sort of seesaw. I watched but could hardly take anything more in.
When I had woken up this morning, I had been anxious about not even being let into the building. Now, here I was at the Ministry of Information, sitting alongside journalists and editors, meeting women who effortlessly held their own in a room full of big-wigs, and more than anything, being told that the Government needed our help.
It was the clearest of calls to arms.
The Government needs you. Your hour is here.
Woman’s Friend had been asked to step up to help the war effort.
It was time for me to do so as well.