BUNTY AND I returned to London after a weekend full of cheer, and laden with provisions from the country including a slightly damp cardboard box which held most of a chocolate biscuit cake baked with two real eggs and four tablespoons of caster sugar. We knew the sugar had been saved especially, despite Mrs Tavistock’s heated denials, and having each wolfed down an enormous slice, Bunty and I agreed we would happily believe her if it meant we were able to take the rest of it home.
I was grateful to Mrs Tavistock for far more than the cake. The house in Pimlico, where Bunty and I lived, belonged to her, and since before the war the two of us had shared the small flat on the top floor. It had been great fun, but after Bunty had been hurt in the bombing we had moved down to the main house. It was easier for Bunts to manage with fewer stairs, but more than that, it was because the little flat was supposed to become her and William’s first home. After Bill died, it wasn’t the same. With Mrs Tavistock living permanently in the country, Bunty and I had moved into a couple of the bedrooms and opened up the old kitchen on the lower-ground floor. It was more than roomy, but warmer than the rest of the house, and once Roy and Fred from the fire station had helped move some comfy chairs in from unused rooms, it quickly became our new centre of activity.
Now, it wasn’t just the cake that had given me a boost. It had been fun meeting Anne, Ruby and Baby Tony, and workwise, Anne had really got me thinking about speaking to readers who were already doing war work.
As I left for the office on Monday morning, the first post arrived with a letter from Charles, and I read it on the bus, grinning like a loon.
Darling E,
I’m so sorry to muck up the weekend. Please see the following which I am sure can stand as a binding agreement.
IOU A DECENT DAY OUT.
INCL. CAKE.
NEXT TIME I WON’T LET YOU DOWN.
PROMISE.
SIGNED: CAPT. C.H. MAYHEW
Actually, it’s more like heaps of days.
I miss you, Em.
All my love. Always.
C xxx
PS: Excuse haste – trying to catch the post.
PPS: Bloody war.
He’d written the IOU in mad, swirly writing and drawn a square round it.
‘Idiot,’ I said, and buried my face in the paper. Then I put it in my pocket to re-read later, which as it turned out was in about five minutes.
I had tons I wanted to tell him, but while I had written to him at the end of both days of the weekend, it was never the same as just being able to chat.
As the bus stopped to let on two smart young women in uniform, I turned my thoughts to work. This morning would be my first opportunity to talk to Mr Collins about my rashly promised Big Plan, and I was keen to get things out in the open.
By half-past eight, everyone other than Mr Collins was in the office and all speaking at once. Inspired by his news from the Ministry on Friday, we all wanted to share our thoughts now we were safely back at work and could speak openly about what was already being referred to as You Know What.
‘I must admit I jotted down some ideas in a rather rudimentary code, just in case,’ said Mr Brand. ‘I haven’t done that sort of thing for quite some time, but it was a wonder how swiftly it came back.’
He looked quietly pleased. In his early sixties and always spotlessly turned out, Mr Brand seemed to live in another world behind his little round spectacles, but I always had an inkling there was more to him than met the eye. That he would effortlessly remember writing in code struck me as a clue to possible adventures in his past. But he was giving nothing away and quickly retreated to sketching a cartoon.
‘Well,’ said Mr Newton, looking around as if he was about to give out Goebbels’ address. ‘I said to Mrs Newton, “I can’t say why, but As A Matter of National Security, I’m going to sit in the cellar and think.” It’s quieter there, you see,’ he added for clarity. ‘Then she said, “Larry, I couldn’t be prouder.” And she wouldn’t let me go down without a flask of tea and two squares of Bristol Plain Chocolate which were meant for the children.’
Mr Newton’s eyes were shining, and I nodded keenly in support, partly because I liked him very much, but also because I was struggling with the image of him sitting in the coal cellar in the pitch dark, and I couldn’t think of quite what to say.
‘I’ve put together all the ideas from the editorial contributors that might be useful,’ Kathleen said, producing a great wodge of notes. ‘I don’t know why I haven’t done it before now.’
Everyone looked at their own efforts which now came across as a bit thin.
‘Honestly,’ said Kath. ‘I’ve done nothing, really, it’s everyone else’s work. Although I did come up with some thoughts on how to make your whole wardrobe for the year.’ She held up a page that looked like advanced mathematics. ‘I’ve worked out the coupons, but I’m still looking at the cost. It’s at ten pounds at the moment,’ she said, frowning.
‘Ten pounds,’ said Hester, glassy-eyed. ‘Imagine.’
‘It is a lot of money,’ I said, sympathetically.
‘Do you know,’ said Kath, ‘last month, Vogue said to buy a basic black dress and ring the changes with accessories. The one they suggested cost eight guineas. Eight guineas. For a basic frock.’
Hester’s eyes nearly fell out.
‘It’s another world,’ said Mrs Mahoney. ‘I treated myself to a new settee from the Army and Navy just before war started, and that only cost nine pounds ten. It’s very well sprung, as well.’
‘You could buy a nice little greenhouse for eight guineas,’ said Mr Brand.
‘Or go to Paris,’ I said, getting carried away and despite the fact that I didn’t have a clue how much it would cost. ‘If there wasn’t the war.’
‘I’d go to America,’ said Hester. ‘If I won the Pools.’
‘I wouldn’t spend eight guineas on a frock if I had it,’ I said, feeling socialistic.
‘Anyway,’ said Kath, hauling us back to the subject. ‘Between Mrs Pye on fashion and me on knits, we can come up with some patterns that are almost exactly the same.’
‘Well done,’ said Mr Brand, who was now drawing a greenhouse.
‘Hear, hear,’ said Mrs Mahoney. ‘We can’t have our readers feeling they can’t be as smart as they’d like just because they weren’t born with a silver spoon.’
I grinned. The Woman’s Friend office was hardly a hotbed of radicalism, but the idea of an eight-guinea dress as A Basic had fired everyone up.
There was a knock at the open door and Mr Collins put his head in.
‘Morning all,’ he said. ‘What’s going on? I thought I was early, but you’re already storming the Bastille.’
‘We’re doing no such thing,’ said Mrs Mahoney who was a keen royalist and still felt let down by the last king.
‘We’re thinking of new ideas,’ I said, before Mr Collins had a chance to say anything even more inflammatory. ‘We’ve got loads.’
‘Excellent,’ said Mr Collins. He was looking quite chipper, which I took as a sign that his friend must have taken an upward turn over the weekend. ‘I knew I could count on you all.’
He put his gas mask on the table and took off his coat, throwing it over the back of a chair and plonking his hat on top of it before sitting down. Mrs Mahoney frowned.
‘It’s already creased,’ said Mr Collins amiably. ‘I’ve been fire-watching. My God, it was cold. Now then, following on from our brief meeting on Friday, Kathleen, why don’t you carry on?’
Kath began to talk through her thoughts properly. Everyone listened intently, even though a phone began to ring in Mr Collins’ office next door.
Hester started to get up to answer it, but Mr Collins shook his head. ‘Thank you, Hester, but just ignore it. I trust you asked Switchboard not to put any calls through for the next hour? Thank you. Carry on, Kathleen.’
Hester said, ‘Yes, Mr Collins,’ and looked at him sympathetically, which I guessed was just in case The Worst had happened and he was putting on a brave front.
Kathleen ran through everything she had on file from the Woman’s Friend contributors. Mrs Pye who did Fashion had suggested a new column on how to look on top form at work. It was called “On Duty for Beauty (Pamela Pye Reporting To Help)” and everyone agreed would be good for morale. Mrs Croft from “What’s In The Hotpot?” had sent in some smashing ideas for dinners that took no time at all after a day at work, and after Mr Newton shared the results of his afternoon in the cellar, when Mr Collins turned to Mr Brand for his thoughts, things began to really motor.
‘I’ve had some thoughts about our covers,’ he said, reaching into his leather portfolio bag. ‘I thought this sort of thing might help us set out our stall.’
We all leant forward to look, as Mr Brand laid out his ideas.
There was a collective, ‘Oh I say,’ all round.
The pictures Mr Brand had created showed happy, confident women, but instead of wearing a cardigan or a nice frock, they were in uniform. One in khaki was wearing a tin hat, holding binoculars and looking up into the sky, while another who was clearly in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force was discussing something inspiring with a dashing-looking chap. You couldn’t see much of the man – the focus was entirely on the woman.
The last cover, though, really caught my eye. Under the large Woman’s Friend heading was a blue-eyed woman with her hair poking out from under a scarf tied around her head. She was wearing dungarees and holding a large tin mug. Even though she had perfectly plucked eyebrows and slightly more lipstick than I would wear for a night out on the town, it was clear she was at work, and no doubt in a factory at that.
Mr Brand sat quietly, waiting to see what we all thought.
‘Well,’ said Mr Collins as everyone crowded round to look more closely. ‘Mr Brand, you’ve created a triumph. These are spot on.’
I couldn’t have agreed more.
‘That one looks like my Gwen,’ said Mrs Mahoney, with a catch in her voice.
‘I wouldn’t mind being like them,’ said Hester shyly, from the back of the room.
‘Need I say more?’ said Mr Collins. ‘Has anyone seen other magazines with covers like this?’
We all shook our heads.
‘There we are then,’ said Mr Collins. ‘Thank you, again, Mr Brand. Now we just need to make sure the inside of the magazine lives up to your work.’
He looked over at me with an amused glint in his eye.
‘Emmy?’
I opened my notebook, took a deep breath and dived in. ‘The obvious thing,’ I said, ‘is a series with information on each of the Services and civilian war work, but other magazines have already done that. So, I thought we could give our readers a different approach – something more helpful.’
Everyone was listening so I ploughed on. I had decided to mention Anne Oliver at the end, once I’d tried to get everyone keen on the idea.
‘The careers articles never tell you what it’s really like to be a radio operator or a welder, or to be in digs with lots of strangers. From all the letters we get, tons of our readers don’t know what to expect. So, I thought we could give them proper practical advice about what the life is really like, not just what they say in the adverts.’
Mrs Mahoney agreed. ‘Some of the youngsters are as keen as mustard, but not in the least bit prepared.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Listen to this. Hester, don’t write these down as they’re private.’
I rifled through a pile of letters that I had brought with me, until I got to one that was carefully written in a very neat, rather schoolgirl hand.
‘Dear Yours Cheerfully,’ I read out.
I am nineteen years old and about to join the Women’s Royal Naval Service. I do so want to do a good job but as the work I have done before has just been with other girls, I am worried because I don’t know how to treat the men I will work with. I don’t have any brothers and my father died when I was small, so I don’t know who to ask.
I’m sure I might put my foot in it by doing or saying the wrong thing. Please could you help?
Yours,
Worried About Men
‘Bless her,’ said Mrs Mahoney. ‘It makes you want to go along on her first day and tell them all to be kind, doesn’t it?’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Then there are the ones who think it’s all one big jamboree. Last week some Bing Crosby fans wrote in to complain that their factory was boring and could we find them some soldier pen pals to liven things up. Preferably Australian,’ I added.
Mrs Mahoney looked weary. ‘I’m all for romance,’ she said. ‘But we’ve enough on as it is.’
‘The readers are already keen to step up,’ I said, turning to Mr Collins. ‘What they really need is practical advice. Look at this.’
I opened our current issue. There on the inside front cover was a striking advert by the Ministry of Labour and National Service. It had a headline that said, ‘War Workers Stay Womanly’, and included several drawings of women supposedly doing something vital involving heavy engineering. But the pictures just showed a girl drying her hands for no obvious reason and another one standing around with her hands in her pockets not doing anything at all. The only one doing any work was poking vaguely at a bit of pipe as if it might bite her.
‘You will probably be given dungarees, which women of all ages say suit them, whatever their figure!’ I read out.
‘I very much doubt it,’ said Mrs Mahoney. ‘I’d look like the back end of a bus.’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ said Kath.
‘Not in the least,’ I agreed.
The three men in the room joined in with a series of well-intentioned but uncertain noises. It was clear that none of them were sure if voicing an opinion on the trousers of an esteemed lady member of staff was quite The Done Thing.
I could have sworn I saw Mrs Mahoney roll her eyes. ‘The point is,’ she said, ‘Emmy is right. If our readers think they’ll be wafting around a factory looking like Greta Garbo in slacks, they’re going to have the shock of their lives.’
‘Exactly,’ I said, grateful for her support. ‘And this is where I think we might help. I’ve met someone who is about to start working in Munitions herself. She’s called Mrs Anne Oliver and I don’t think she’ll mind being interviewed for Woman’s Friend.’
‘Go on,’ said Mr Collins, looking interested.
‘Well, I thought we could ask her what war work is really like. The news magazines do it all the time. Picture Post did rat-catchers last month. It’s a horrible job but ever so important. They interviewed the men who do it and by the end of the article, you were cheering them on. We could do the same sort of thing, only with women doing war work. Women like Anne.’ I finally paused for breath.
Mr Collins leant back in his chair. When he didn’t say anything, I pushed on again.
‘Anne’s a Woman’s Friend reader and that’s the best part. Instead of us just telling them things from the Government, we can get the readers to tell each other instead. I thought we could call it “Woman’s Friend at Work”.’
Mr Collins narrowed his eyes and ruminated. ‘Good name,’ he said at last. ‘And I like the idea. Mrs Mahoney – your thoughts?’
‘Very good,’ said Mrs Mahoney. ‘If you ask me, most readers just want to know what they’re getting into and that they’ll be in it together with some other good sorts.’
‘In it together,’ repeated Mr Collins, more to himself than anyone. ‘That’s good too. Thank you, Mrs Mahoney. We could have a column with news on how women are working in areas that make a difference to the war. “A reader from Stafford is bolting ten thousand rivets a day”, that sort of thing. “In It Together”. Kathleen, can you look at this with Hester? Put that beside Emmy’s “Woman’s Friend at Work”, add Mrs Pye’s “On Duty for Beauty” and I think we have something. Mr Newton, could you sell advertising from this?’
Mr Newton nodded vigorously as Hester raced to write everything down.
While the whole team seemed very geed up, I was more relieved than anything. Without any of them realising, they had come through with what could be the Big Plan I had shown off about in the lavatories. Not that I deserved it, but my colleagues might have got me out of rather a jam.
There was just one problem.
‘Right,’ said Mr Collins. ‘Kathleen, can we kick it off with a small announcement in the next issue asking readers to write in with what they’ve been doing?’
Kathleen said calmly, ‘Yes of course,’ while Hester looked overwhelmed to be involved in a Ministerial project, but recovered herself after a hiccuppy swallow and a low-level guffaw.
‘So, that leaves you, Emmy. Can you do a proper outline for “Woman’s Friend at Work” by tomorrow? We’ll need a horrendous amount of Ministry permissions to go anywhere near a war worker, but we can sort that out as long as your friend is still keen. Perhaps follow her progress, meet her workmates, see how she settles in? If we drop enough Ministry names the factory will jump at it. I like this,’ he said finally. ‘It could run as a series.’ He stopped himself. ‘What’s the matter?’
I was staring at him and not writing anything down. My idea was getting bigger by the second, and from what I could make out, he was telling me to run the whole thing.
Mr Collins didn’t wait for me to reply. ‘It’s about time we had you out and about being a journalist.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Thank you very much everyone, excellent work.’
He thought for a moment. Then instead of calling the meeting to a close, he continued.
‘You know, this is our chance to do even more than our bit. I’ve absolutely no doubt that we’ll be in the running to show both the Ministry and all our publishing peers that Woman’s Friend is on form. But don’t think about that.’ He looked around the room at each of us. ‘I know I mentioned this on Friday, but as we put plans together, I want you to focus on the readers. The country needs them to volunteer for war work, but what do they need? What do our readers want – and come to that, deserve? As we ask them to step up, how can we help? Those of you who lived through the first war know how hard war work really is.’
He glanced at Mrs Mahoney and they shared a moment of mutual acknowledgement before Mr Collins went on. ‘Let’s show the Ministry what our readers can do, and let’s look after our readers while they’re doing it.’
I had never heard Mr Collins speak like this before. He usually operated in an understated way, but today it was as if going to the meeting at the Ministry had reminded him he used to be a member of the first eleven and not just on the substitutes’ bench. He could not have been more different from the man the two awful women in the lavatory had been discussing so rudely.
‘And that,’ he said, looking at everyone with almost a twinkle in his eye, ‘is the closest you’ll ever hear me attempt to be stirring. It won’t happen again. Everyone all right? Then I think that is all.’
We all replied with exclamations of Absolutely and I Should Say So, together with heartfelt promises of working as hard as we possibly could. Mr Newton nearly broke into applause but thankfully for Mr Collins’ blushes, Mrs Mahoney quietly put her hand on his arm, and he had second thoughts.
Inspired to the last man, everyone started speaking over each other with ideas on how everything could be done.
But I sat quietly. Mr Collins’ words had hit home.
Let’s show the Ministry what our readers can do, and let’s look after our readers while they’re doing it.
If this wasn’t inspiring enough on its own, it was a throwaway comment that had left me unable to speak.
It’s about time we had you out and about being a journalist.
Ever since school I had dreamed of this, and now it was happening. While it had been my idea to speak with Anne, I had not for a moment thought I would be running a feature series to be done with approval from the Ministry.
I was thrilled that Mr Collins thought I could manage. I hoped Anne would still be keen on the idea.
Just under a year ago, Mr Collins had been the person to give me a job at Woman’s Friend. Now he was giving me the chance to take my first steps to becoming a reporter.
I wouldn’t let him down, or the Ministry, of course. As I began to collect the readers’ letters and carefully put them back in my file, I thought of all the women who had written in wanting to help the war effort. So many of them had been waiting months for an official reply or been told they were too old or too young or were simply worried about doing the right thing.
This was our chance to help them.
And it was time for me to step up.