IT SEEMED AN absolute age before the Ministry finally gave the go-ahead for me to interview Anne and her friends, even if it was only just over three weeks. I was raring to go and began to grumble unpatriotically that everyone involved was just too slow to catch cold.
But that, as Mr Collins said, Was The Civil Service For You, and in his view, getting approval for interviewing workers at a munitions factory in such a short period of time was like watching Jesse Owens do the hundred-yard dash.
In the meantime, I had more than enough to be getting on with. I was working two half-days and three full days at Woman’s Friend and managing to fit my fire-station shifts around them as well. My friend Thelma at the station said I must be mad, but as she had two jobs and three children, she had to agree that I was hardly alone. As Thel said, everyone we knew was pushing themselves as far as they could.
In the office, all the ideas the team had come up with for our grandly named War Effort Recruitment Plan were put into a fancy presentation and sent to Mr Clough as well as the Ministry of Supply, the Ministry of Labour and National Service, and Lord Overton himself. The morning Hester took them down to the post room, Kath and I waved her off as if we were sending her across the Atlantic.
‘There’s no going back now,’ said Kath, cheerful in a fancy-neck knit.
‘You’ve just made my stomach go again,’ I said, feeling it flip. ‘Talk about people in high places. I’m surprised we’re not sending a copy to the King.’
‘His is in the next post,’ said Kath. She gave me a gentle nudge. ‘Don’t worry, Emmy. Think of how good it will feel when it’s all gone to plan.’
She had made a good point. As long as we delivered on what we had promised, our magazine would be able to hold her head up high. I had to admit to giving a thought to rotten Freddie Baring and her friend. So much for Woman’s Friend not being up to the mark. Already our plan felt far bigger than anything I could have imagined.
By the time everything was set up for the interview, Anne had been at the factory for nearly a month, which was perfect timing to ask her about both her initial reaction to a job in munitions and how she was getting on now that she had settled in.
When the day of the visit finally came, however, while I was very much looking forward to seeing Anne and meeting her friends, I had to admit to a forceful bout of first night nerves.
As much as I had tried to play it down both at work and with Bunty and Charles, the enormity of my very first journalistic assignment had been giving me butterflies for days.
At a quarter to six o’clock in the morning, I lay in bed looking forward to what felt like a mixture of Christmas Day and the biggest exam of my life. I had read and re-read a Highly Confidential document sent from the factory’s Public Relations Manager and now repeated parts of it out loud in the dark.
‘“Chandlers is a large engineering organisation reporting to the Ministry of Supply and making parts for guns,’ I recited. ‘Production is on a twenty-four-hour basis with three shifts per day. It employs over fifteen hundred women and aims to recruit at least double that figure.” It takes over an hour to get there on the bus, and on Thursdays the canteen always does sponge with a sauce.’
Anne had told me about the bus and the sponge.
‘Come on, Lake,’ I said. ‘You’ve been dreaming of this since you were twelve.’
Lolling in bed talking to myself was not going to get anything done.
My clothes and bag were ready and hanging up outside the huge Edwardian wardrobe that dominated my bedroom. I wanted to give the Factory Director an impression of maturity while also looking approachable to Anne’s friends, so had enlisted Bunty to help choose what I should wear. I even ran through my decision with Charles when he phoned to wish me good luck, although he hadn’t the slightest idea about clothes.
‘Well, Em,’ he said brightly, ‘that sounds top drawer. I had no idea that adding a square pocket to a jacket tells people you are both professional and friendly at the same time. I must say, it’s like some sort of code.’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘I am only sorry you didn’t realise it before. You have been missing vital information for months.’
‘I couldn’t be more ashamed,’ said Charles. ‘You’re going out with a dud.’
Then he had wished me good luck and told me that I already sounded like a journalist of the highest order and everyone would be enormously impressed.
I dressed quickly and checked my bag to make sure I had everything I needed. The brown leather case held a letter of introduction from Mr Collins, approvals in writing from two different Ministries and another set referring to the man from the Photographic News Agencies who was coming to take photographs after I had had lunch with Anne and her friends.
By far the best of all were the cards I had been given by Mrs Mahoney the previous day.
Careers Editor
Launceston Press Ltd,
Launceston House, London EC4.
Telephone Central 6271
Even though I knew the job title wasn’t true, it didn’t matter. I usually stood five foot four inches high. With these I felt at least six foot two.
I also had my reporter’s notebook including a long list of questions, a spare notebook, two pens, three pencils, and two hankies. I was fully prepared and ready, but at the last minute after a stern look in the mirror, I quickly took off my earrings, wiped away the precious lipstick I had applied and switched my perfectly acceptable and smart brown felt hat for a sort of flowerpot thing that did me no favours at all.
Bunty was already up and in the kitchen when I rushed downstairs to make a sandwich to eat on the train.
‘Morning,’ she said, then did a double-take when she saw me. ‘Good grief. I don’t wish to be unkind, but what on earth’s that?’
‘Do I look awful?’ I asked. ‘I was trying for gravitas.’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ said Bunty. ‘I love you dearly, Em, but if you turn up in that, they’ll lock you up. Go and get rid of that terrifying hat, and I’ll make you a sandwich. AND PUT ON SOME LIPSTICK,’ she shouted as I thanked her and belted back up to my room.
Three hours later, and looking slightly more acceptable again, I had arrived in Berkshire and was waiting outside the railway station for my lift to the factory. The rain was hurling itself down in the sort of way which makes you feel it is bearing a personal grudge, and I began to wonder if it would have been easier to try to find a bus. Unlike Anne who had a twenty-minute walk and then an hour’s ride to work, I had been told that Mr Terry, the Factory Director, would come to collect me himself.
Twenty minutes after the agreed time, finally, a shiny black Austin 16 drew up to the kerb. It was just the sort of impressive car one would imagine a man in charge of a large factory to own, not least as he must be getting special permission to have the petrol to run it.
As the windscreen wipers clunked their way back and forth, I could just make out a large, dark-haired man. He looked out of the window and stared straight past me.
Turning the collar of my coat up against the rain, I strode up to the car and knocked on the window. It didn’t feel the most dignified start to my reporting career, but it was either that or wave frantically and risk looking slightly mad.
The window rolled down an inch.
‘Yes?’ said the gentleman, clearly unused to lunatics accosting him in his car.
‘Mr Terry?’ I shouted, aiming to be heard above the wind which was whipping itself up into a state.
‘Mmm?’
‘I’m Miss Lake. From Woman’s Friend magazine. For the interviews?’
‘Oh!’ he said and wound up the window. Then, just as I thought he was going to drive away, he got out and ran around to open the passenger door for me.
‘In you go,’ he shouted, slamming the door behind me and just missing my foot. Then he ran back and got in again on his side.
‘How do you do?’ I said, wriggling round to face him.
‘Terry,’ he answered, shaking my hand, or rather, just holding it for several moments. ‘Factory Director,’ he said, still holding on. ‘Thought a chap was coming. Our Public Relations Manager mentioned a Mr Collie?’
‘Mr Collins,’ I said. ‘Our Editor. He has instructed me to write the feature. It should have been in the confirmation letter from the Ministry.’
‘Shame. Thought he’d like a ride in the jalopy. You won’t like cars of course, but we always welcome ladies.’
Then he smiled with lots of teeth and started the car, and before I could say anything we hurtled away from the station as if we were on the run from the police.
Mr Terry had the air of a man who was used to attention. He was perhaps fifty and although slightly going to fat, looked like the sort of man who would wallop himself in the stomach and say, ‘See that? All muscle,’ to someone who hadn’t really wanted to know.
As we drove at breakneck speed and Mr Terry narrowly avoided hitting a delivery boy on a bicycle and then a rag and bone man’s horse, he gave me his own version of the history of the factory, helpfully explaining that since he had joined the operation, it had started doing tremendously well.
‘I’m not surprised the Ministry is interested,’ he said. ‘The results speak for themselves – or would if the Censors let us. Ha! And our ladies couldn’t be happier. Good pay, good hours. They’ll all say it. Mr Rice will tell you what you need to know. He’s one of the Works Managers.’
Mr Terry spoke in the same manner as he drove, with the result that listening to him was like being verbally run over. I told myself not to go with my first impression. The journey took us just over fifteen minutes and Mr Terry didn’t bother with brakes until the very last moment when the car had to stop at the security gates to the factory.
‘Morning boys,’ he said, saluting the guard as if he was their Commanding Officer. ‘I have Miss Lake here from the press.’
The security guard looked at me and asked me to get out of the car. I did as I was told and passed him my identification documents together with the folder of introductory letters.
‘She’ll just be in Shed Twelve,’ said Mr Terry. ‘And the canteen.’
The guard pursed his lips, checking everything as I stood by the car being looked at by one of his colleagues until he gave me back the folder together with a piece of paper with my details, a stamp with the date and BLUE SHIFT DAY PASS ONLY. Then he handed me a large badge that read VISITOR and TO BE ACCOMPANIED AT ALL TIMES, and said that under no circumstances was I to go anywhere on my own. Finally, he looked through my bag, which I didn’t mind though I was self-conscious about the remains of my sandwich.
With the OK to continue, I rushed back to the car and Mr Terry made the engine roar before we took off again. As we drove along a wide road with numerous others leading off it to vast camouflaged buildings, all with blacked-out windows or no windows at all, we passed a long line of lorries on their way to the exit. The whole place was bigger than the village I had grown up in.
‘Can you tell me about some of these buildings?’ I asked.
‘You’ll like the canteen,’ said Mr Terry. ‘I don’t eat there.’
He drove to the front door of a huge two-storey building, stopping just before we hit a brass sign with his name on it.
I opened the door and climbed out of the car, pausing for a moment to straighten my jacket and compose myself after the dare-devil ride.
Mr Terry stood by the entrance to the building, waiting for my full attention. Looking very much like the cat who got the cream and was then offered a second helping, he opened his arms.
‘This is it, young lady,’ he said, loudly. ‘Welcome to Chandlers.’