WITH BUNTY STAYING on to babysit for one more day, I raced back to London on the first available train the next morning and headed straight to work, nearly crashing into Clarence as I ran up the stairs to the Woman’s Friend offices.
‘Sorry, Clarence,’ I yelled, as I swerved past him, unbuttoning my coat as I went. ‘All well?’
‘A full post-bag today, Miss Lake,’ he called back. ‘“Yours Cheerfully” is getting popular.’
I thanked him and rushed on. Mr Collins was very understanding about the hours I worked and about me fitting things in around volunteering at the fire station, but I didn’t want to muck him about. Strolling in two and a half hours late after a night at a friend’s was rather pushing it.
‘Morning, Kath,’ I said as I finally arrived. Clarence had not exaggerated as Kath was half hidden behind a huge pile of letters stacked up on her desk.
‘Morning, Emmy,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d sort these as Mrs M has taken Hester to the printers. How was your trip?’
‘Very good, thanks,’ I said. I hung up my coat and hat and gas mask, and pulled a chair over to her desk so that I could give her a hand.
‘Is Mr Collins in?’ I asked. ‘I’ll take his post into him if you like. I need to see him about the factory.’
‘I think he’s about to go out,’ said Kath. ‘So I’ll get a move on. Those are his so far.’ She pointed to a small pile of letters that looked more official than most of the others. They were next to the biggest heap. ‘Those are for “Yours Cheerfully”, and this pile is for you.’
I took the letters with interest. Since starting to write the “Woman’s Friend at Work” articles, I had begun to receive letters asking for careers advice, and more often from readers writing to say they had put in to do munitions work or had just started their training. I always replied with whatever information I could find, or sent a letter wishing them the very best of luck with their new job. It was still new to me to receive letters by name and one of my favourite parts of the job.
‘I’d better tackle the problems first,’ I said. ‘They’re becoming a small mountain.’
Kath continued the sorting, and I began to open the letters to “Yours Cheerfully”, now organising them by subject. It was a far cry from when she and I had first worked together, when a tiny trickle of letters had been very much the norm.
‘Goodness, another one about marrying a cousin,’ I said.
‘I wouldn’t want to marry any of mine,’ said Kath, without malice.
‘Hmm. My father tells his patients it isn’t exactly ideal.’
I carried on, making a new pile from women whose husbands were having affairs. It was one of the topics we had the most letters about. Some of them were horribly sad and we could easily have put a letter in every issue on the same subject. I frowned as I read one from a lady in Lincolnshire who was being badly bullied by her husband. She hadn’t given an address as she couldn’t risk us writing to her. I put the letter into a file marked URGENT and made a note to recommend to Mrs Mahoney that we put it into the very next issue. It didn’t feel nearly enough, but it was the only thing we could do.
The next letter was more unusual, from a lady who had told her fiancé she didn’t want to give up work once they were married.
I wondered what Kath would think and began to read it out loud.
Dear Yours Cheerfully,
I am twenty-eight and engaged. However, my fiancé is unhappy that I want to continue with my work after we marry. He has said I may until the war is over and then I must stop.
He is a good man and I do love him very much, but I also love my job (I work in analytical chemistry) and don’t see why I should give it up. He is a travelling salesman and truth be told, I earn more than him and mine is the steadier job.
Do you think I am marrying the right man?
Yours
Frances Gage (Miss)
‘I’m not sure that she is,’ I said.
‘Perhaps he’ll come round,’ said Kath. ‘I don’t even know what Analytical Chemistry is, do you?’
‘No idea. But can you imagine how hard that must be to get into?’ I shook my head at the thought. Science had not been my best subject at school. ‘You could do it though, Kath. You’re tons cleverer than me.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Kath. ‘I say, is that the Affairs Pile? It seems to get bigger every week.’
I nodded. ‘It’s not just the men. We’re getting them from women who have got themselves involved with someone else too.’
‘Does it ever make you feel down?’ asked Kath. ‘Now that we get lots of letters? There are so many people having such a horrible time.’
I put down the letter opener. It was a good question. ‘Mrs Mahoney says you have to try to keep a distance or it will catch up on you,’ I said. ‘But some of them are horrible.’ I thought of the letter I had just read. ‘Sometimes I just want to hare round to their house and stick up for them.’
‘You’re doing your best,’ said Kath, a bit glumly. She twisted one of her curls around her finger.
‘Mrs Mahoney says that too. She says we have to try not to worry, because if we do, we’ll end up as miserable as the people we’re trying to help. It’s not all bad,’ I said, as Kath still looked rather down. ‘Some of them are quite fun. This reader wants to know if you can become a vegetarian if you don’t like vegetables.’
‘Why does she want to do that?’ asked Kath.
‘She doesn’t say. But my Aunt Pat tried it once. She came for lunch and refused to eat anything. Then Father asked about her fur stole, and she said it had already been murdered by the time she liberated it from the shop.’
‘Did she stick to it?’ asked Kath.
‘No. She had a beef Wellington the next week and admitted defeat. The next time we saw her she’d nearly been arrested for punching a Blackshirt in the face.’
‘Good for her,’ said Kathleen.
‘I know. We all said she should be given some sort of award. She was a rotten vegetarian but spot on when it comes to walloping Nazis.’
‘Your family’s quite um, exciting isn’t it?’ said Kath.
‘I hope you still say that after the wedding,’ I replied, laughing. ‘Do you think that’s all for Mr Collins? I’ll go in before he disappears.’
Kath handed me his post and I took it to his office, knocking softly, in case he was in the middle of writing a story.
‘Come in. Emmy, hello. Hold on, let me just get this down. Have a seat.’
He went back to writing rather wildly as I sat down on the chair opposite his desk. As ever, his room was a rubbish tip of disorder, with books and magazines stacked into haphazard piles. His Anglepoise lamp had its head bent right down as if it was about to snatch a piece of paper off the desk and eat it. The shelves on the walls were overloaded, as were the three in-trays which all of us tried to keep under control for him. No one was ever allowed to move anything.
For anyone who didn’t know Mr Collins, it was the room of an intellectual or an eccentric, the sort of person who worked all night, slept all day and had only the slightest grasp on reality. But I had learnt that he was nothing like this. Creative of course, and a little unpredictable at times, but behind the office wilderness, Mr Collins missed little and cared far more than he let on.
Finally, he came to the end of his notes, looked at the paper with contempt and muttered, ‘Awful.’ Then he put it to one side and looked up. ‘Terrible piece of writing,’ he said. ‘I should retire immediately. Hello. How can I help?’
‘Just your post,’ I said. ‘And I wanted to update you about the factory.’
He looked at me vaguely.
‘But it can wait, if you’d rather?’
‘No, no, go ahead. Apologies. My head is elsewhere.’
I began to tell him about the previous day, saying that I’d written the next article, and then giving brief details about Irene and the concerns of Anne and her friends.
‘So I just wondered if I could ask someone at next week’s Ministry meeting if they have any contacts I could approach in the Labour or Health Ministries?’ I said. ‘To see if factory workers might petition them directly. I’d really like to help the women. I thought I might even do an article about them and try to get it placed somewhere?’
Mr Collins didn’t reply and seemed to just look through me. I wondered if he had been listening.
‘Would that be appropriate?’ I prompted.
‘Sorry. You just want to ask for a contact?’
‘From the Ministry, yes. And you can always stamp on my foot or something if I say the wrong thing.’ I waited for a droll reply, but it didn’t come.
‘Oh God, the meeting,’ he groaned. ‘When is it?’
‘Monday. Mr Collins, do you mind me asking, are you all right?’
He didn’t appear all right in the least. Usually, he was sharp as a knife.
‘I’m fine. Thank you. Yes. Ask your question. It sounds very appropriate, so, er, well done. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’
‘What?’
‘I’m taking a few days off.’
Mr Collins never took time off.
‘An old army friend isn’t doing too well, I’m afraid. A couple of us are trying to rally round.’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said, assuming it must be the same person he had been to see a few weeks ago. ‘I hope they’ll get better soon.’
‘Unfortunately, I think probably not. Here we are doing our bit to win this war, when too many people are still fighting the last.’ He looked contemptuous. ‘It never just ends when they say it does.’
‘Is there anything we can do here while you’re away?’ I said, wishing I could be of more use.
‘That’s very kind, Emmy,’ he said. ‘Just keep up the good work. Mrs Mahoney will be in charge, but I have complete faith in you all.’
He stood up from his desk and began putting some papers into a case.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll let the Ministry know we won’t be at the meeting.’
Mr Collins stopped, peered at me and said, ‘No need. Just go without me.’
‘To the Ministry of Information? On my own?’
He smiled just a little. ‘Emmy, you’re a journalist now. You’ve been marching off to interview an egotistical munitions tsar without turning a hair, and Mrs Mahoney says you pretty much run “Yours Cheerfully” on your own. You aren’t the well-intentioned, if obvious lunatic I interviewed a year ago.’
‘It’s just that I find it hard to forget that it’s only six months since I was nearly sacked,’ I said.
‘Never disclose your weaknesses,’ said Mr Collins, trying to be his usual self. ‘You’ll be fine, I promise. I have every faith that you’ll represent Woman’s Friend perfectly. Now I must go, or I’ll miss the train. I’ll see you soon.’
He nodded and began to walk out of the office, but then paused in the doorway and turned round. ‘Don’t start any fights,’ he said. ‘And just to be sure, perhaps use the lavatory here before you go.’
Then he gave me a brief, kindly smile and was gone.
I sat for a moment in the empty room.
Yesterday I had been organising a factory workers’ protest march. Today I had been told to perfectly represent Woman’s Friend on my own.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, I could hear the same words.
Everything was going to be fine.