I could not get away from Mrs. Porter and the headless fish fast enough. As she moved seamlessly from temporarily closing the whole magazine to saying how the war had been beastly news for tartare sauce, Guy pulled himself together and began a very clear and sensible explanation as to why we couldn’t just stop the magazine in its tracks.
“The newsagents, Mrs. Porter, the advertisers, the readers. If we don’t publish, people will want to know what on earth is going on.”
“Exactly!” she cried. “So when my new, wonderful Woman’s Friend is launched, they will have their answer. The enigma of silence, followed by the thrill of the arrival. It’s called Marketing. I read a book. Well, not an entire book, but enough to get the gist of it. Oh, do say you agree, Mr. Collins.”
But Mr. Collins did not agree. Not for all the eyelash-batting in London. He held fast, and when Mrs. Porter hardly noticed me excuse myself and leave after the main course, he stayed with her to try to negotiate, charm, and cajole. I ran to the nearest bus stop to race back to the office as fast as possible and see how the announcement had gone down.
Mrs. Mahoney was indefatigably calm. Mr. Brand would only quietly shake his head at the madness, and Mrs. Shaw and Miss Peters were interrogating Mrs. Pye, who didn’t help anyone by looking smug and saying how “merveilleuse” it was now that someone with actual flair was in charge. Poor Mr. Newton was nearly in tears at how furious the advertisers would be, and Hester spoke for us all when she innocently said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but Mrs. Porter’s only been here two weeks. How does she know what she’s doing?”
“She doesn’t,” I replied. “But Guy… Mr. Collins will sort it. He is with her now.”
“You really don’t understand vision, do you?” smiled Mrs. Pye. “Mrs. Porter could easily have just let you all go.”
“We understand how to run a magazine, Mrs. Pye,” I snapped back. “And Mr. Collins has forgotten more than most of us will ever know. As he always says…”
“Think of the readers,” said Hester and Mrs. Shaw at the same time.
“Exactly,” I replied. “You can have all the fancy visions in the world, but it’s the readers who matter. Muck them about and there won’t be a Woman’s Friend.”
Mrs. Pye said, “Hmm,” glared at everyone, and walked out of the room.
I’d said it in the heat of the moment, but it was a very good point. Mrs. Porter didn’t have a clue what she was doing. Even worse, she had no idea what that could mean for our magazine. I looked around at my colleagues—my friends. For all her gushing, all the compliments and the sweets, Mrs. Porter had now well and truly shown her real self.
A few chaotic days later, Thelma was asking me the very same thing. “Does Mrs. Pye have the foggiest idea what a publisher is actually supposed to do?”
It was Friday night and Thel and I were on the overnight shift together at Carlton Street Fire Station. It was a busy evening and half the boys were still out tackling a nasty kitchen fire started by an over-hot chip pan. It might have sounded mundane in the middle of a world war, but it was still threatening to burn down somebody’s home. In between phone calls, Thel and I had been sorting out paperwork, as Captain Davies was due to do one of his spot checks to ensure everything was first rate. There was no room for complacency. The Luftwaffe was still enjoying unwelcome visits to Britain, and while the newsreels called them “nuisance raids” in comparison with the nightly bombardments of the Blitz, they were still vicious and could happen at any time. Only a couple of months previously, a daytime raid near our friend Anne in Berkshire had killed fifteen people, including three children and their teacher on the way home from school. It was mad to think that currently I found working at a fire station a welcome break from the turmoil taking place at a magazine.
“It’s bedlam, Thel,” I said. “Guy’s managed to convince the Egg that we can make lots of her Lovely Changes without pulling everything from the printers, but she’s spent the whole week calling the office every two minutes telling us to change articles or add one of her ideas… I have no idea what the next issue is going to look like.”
“She sounds dreadful,” said Thel staunchly. “What’s happening about the readers’ letters?”
I sighed. “I managed to persuade her to include Enid Smith’s letter in the issue after next, but I had to edit it to the point where the husband sounded hardly more than mildly irritating, so my suggestion that she try for a divorce looks ridiculous,” I said. “But I used the name Enid Smith and as much of her situation as I could, so I hope she’ll see it. And at least I’ve explained the process of going to the courts, so if other readers are in the same situation, which some certainly are, they know the route to take. But I can’t keep giving serious answers to watered-down problems. We’ll look like idiots.”
Thelma grimaced. “Dare I ask when is your first society wedding?”
Now I let out a hollow laugh. “Next week. A chat with Miss Wilhelmina Bruce-Roberts before her big day. Actually, she’s in the Air Transport Auxiliary, so I’m planning to ask her about delivering Spitfires.” Now I smiled properly. “Mrs. Porter gives rich people a bad name. I bet most of the brides-to-be are pulling their weight like everyone else.”
“Did she not fancy joining up and wearing a smart uniform?” asked Thel. “Officers’ bespoke tailoring and all that?”
“She told Guy it wasn’t Her Thing,” I answered.
“None of this is Anyone’s Thing,” said Thel drily. “We’re at war.” She looked over to the door. “What is going on in the canteen?”
Loud cheers had broken out in the room above us, and moments later, we heard the thumping of heavy boots on the stairs and Roy appeared in the doorway.
“We’ve done it,” he roared, not bothering with a hello. “We’ve taken Tunis. And Bizerta. They just said on the news. ‘An official announcement of Allied victory.’ Enemy resistance has gone! I bet they’ll surrender within the week. Good night, North Africa, next stop Italy. Bloody wonderful!”
My heart nearly leapt out of my mouth, but I didn’t know whether to cheer or not.
Charles.
All thoughts of Mrs. Porter vanished.
Straight away, Thelma kicked her chair out of the way and put her arm around me, hugging me tight.
“He’s fine,” said Thel, throwing Roy a look. “This is smashing news, Em. It’s what we’ve been waiting for. If Charles is part of it, I bet you he’s waving a Union Jack as we speak.”
“Of course it is,” I said. “It’s wonderful. Charles may not even be involved, anyway.”
“Me and my big gob,” said Roy, coming over and sitting on the desk next to me. “Don’t you worry, Emmy. We’ve walloped them. Your lad’s probably led the whole thing. That’s if he’s even there, as you say.”
The fact was, other than knowing he had gone out to North Africa when he left England just days after our wedding and had been there ever since, I didn’t know where Charles was exactly, or what he was doing. He never gave details in his letters. None of the boys did. The censors would remove anything sensitive anyway, but mostly letters were crammed with replies to the news we had sent them about home, or how the food was all right or it wasn’t too hot, or what good sorts the other men were, and most of all, how much they missed us and loved us and couldn’t wait to get home. Those were the parts of the letters you didn’t read out to even your best friends.
… Always remember, my darling, that I think of you all the time. When I am back, I will hold you tighter than you could ever imagine, and I will never let you go…
Why talk about the war when you could talk about the future and being together again?
But I didn’t live in cloud cuckoo land. There was a good possibility Charles had been caught up somewhere in the Tunis operation. It was, after all, a huge campaign which was critical to the entire war. It had dominated the news for months. Victory in North Africa meant the Allies could now get into Italy, back into Europe. It was the best possible news. But those of us with boys out there watched it more closely than anyone. Battles won were a cause for joy, but there was always a cost. The only way you could keep yourself sane was to assume that he was all right. No news, on a personal level, was good news. Such a crucial military win was a big step closer to getting him home.
I squeezed Roy’s hand and smiled. “You’re right,” I said. “It’s bloody wonderful.”
The next morning’s newspapers were full of details about the Allied triumph.
“Emmy,” called Mr. Bone, our newsagent and friend, as Thel and I made our way home at the crack of dawn. “Here you are!” He was in the middle of sorting out his deliveries, and now he waved a copy of The Times as he strode across the street towards us. “That’s shown them,” he said, his eyes shining. “Well done,” he added, “well done, that man.”
I thanked him and gratefully took the paper to read over breakfast, before trying to get a short sleep in preparation for what was planned to be A Very Important Day.
Never mind the triumph in North Africa, after last week’s excitement of Bunty announcing she was going to Wimbledon for tea with Captain Harold Thomas, the biggest news on the Home Front was that today he was returning the visit.
According to Bunty’s report, after they had met up, Harold had turned out to be just as nice as we had remembered, and as luck would have it, also happened to have an interest in fixing old sheds.
“He’s a decent man, Em,” Bunty told me when we were on our own, “and he’s had the most awful, awful time.”
Nearly two years previously, when Harold’s team were trying to defuse an unexploded bomb in north London, the foul thing had decided to finally do its job and blown up. Two of his men had died. Harold suffered serious injuries. He had spent the next year in hospital.
He was of course invalided out of the army, and another year later, was trying to get used to a new life. Bunty said that if Bill was still alive, he would have told everyone to rally round and try to cheer up his old friend.
Now, as Thel and I arrived home, excitement was rising about the impending visit.
“Can I ask him about UXBs?” said George.
“Will he know about planes?” asked Stan. “I’d like to talk about planes.”
“You’ll talk about planes anyway,” said Margaret.
“Or we could discuss how we’ve thumped them in Tunis,” said George. “Emmy, is that where Captain Charles is?”
“I don’t know,” I said lightly, “but Walls Have Ears, remember.”
“George, you’re not to talk about bombs unless Captain Thomas mentions it,” said Thelma. “He’s not here to be interrogated.”
“He’s coming to have a look at the shed,” said Bunty.
I quietly thought that it didn’t need an expert in engineering to see that it was on its last legs, but I realised that wasn’t the point.
“A captain in the Royal Engineers,” said George. “I can’t wait.”
“He’s probably the bravest person ever,” said Margaret, “after our dad.”
“And Charles,” said Stan loyally. “After our dad and then Charles.”
As Thel’s kids held both men in the highest esteem, the bar for Harold was being set high. All he needed to do was to work a small miracle on a heap of wood in the garden.
“I’m going to polish the front doorstep,” said Bunty. “It’s a sight.”
The front doorstep was already sparklingly clean.
“I’ll help,” I said, following her upstairs.
As Bunty set to work. I sat down on the floor by the front door. “You know we won’t show you up, don’t you?” I said quietly. “He sounds a nice chap.”
“He is,” said Bunty, “but I don’t think he quite knows what to do with himself at the moment. When you’re in hospital for ages, you almost forget what normal life is like. Or at least that’s how I felt. Everyone treats you differently. I hated that.”
“I bet he finds it nice to talk to someone who understands,” I said.
Bunty stopped her work for a moment. “This might sound odd, but it’s nice for me to talk to someone who knew Bill,” she said. “Harold’s told me lots of things about when they were at college. And he really has been through the mill.”
“Bunts,” I said, “you don’t need to justify anything.” Then I gave her a nudge with my elbow. “By the way, I can already see my face in that step. Shall we go and polish the garden?”
The last and only time I had met Harold was in the spring of 1941 during a chilly walk in Hyde Park. I remembered him as good fun with an easy-going way about him.
Now, as Bunty reintroduced us, it was clear that Harold had had a rough time. He was still a tall man, of course, well over six feet, but where before he had looked like a mammoth England rugger player, now he was thinner than his clothes wanted him to be. While the friendly smile was still there, it was obvious he had taken a pretty grim hit.
“Harold, how lovely to see you!” I exclaimed as I walked towards where Bunty was showing him the garden.
“And very nice to see you again, Emmeline,” he said heartily. “Old Adolf got in the way there for a bit.” He held out his left hand, which was still the size of a tennis bat, and I shook it warmly.
“Well, I’m jolly glad you’re here now,” I said, very much meaning it.
Bunty had told us, of course, about Harold’s injuries. He had lost his right arm and most of the sight in one of his eyes. To hear him now, you’d have thought it was little more than a scrape.
“Last time we met, the old lugs had gone and I couldn’t hear,” he said. “Now I’m not so good on one side. God knows what shape I’ll be in if we leave it another two years. And may I also offer my belated congratulations, Mrs. Mayhew?” he added. “I understand you met your husband just after I’d missed out?”
“Thank you,” I said. “Although, if I remember rightly, it was you who said we should just be friends. So really it’s all down to that.” I paused just for a second. “I’m so sorry you got roughed up.”
“That’s very kind,” said Harold. “It could have been worse.”
He stopped abruptly and looked to Bunty. “Damn,” he said. “That came out wrong. I’m sorry. I’m lucky to be here.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Bunts, knowing he meant Bill. “There’s no walking on eggshells in this house. You’ll find that when you meet the children.”
“Will they be all right?” asked Harold, as for the first time his heartiness dropped. “I don’t want to scare them. Since I got out of hospital, I’ve petrified one or two youngsters. I think that’s been the worst thing. You feel awful.”
“Harold Thomas,” said Bunty severely, “you’re far too nice to petrify anyone.”
When she said that and I saw Harold’s face light up, my heart jumped a little. Whatever kind of friends Bunty and Harold were—whether they were just chums or if there might at some point be something else in it—the way she stuck up for him was all I needed to know. When Bunty was on your side, you would never face battles on your own. And if Bunty was on your side, so was I.
“Anyway, we desperately need your help with our rotten old shed,” she continued as Harold seemed a bit lost for words. “Everyone keeps wanting to bash nails in or pull the thing down, but I wonder if we can rebuild it properly. There’s no pressure, but we’re pinning all our hopes on you.”
“Right you are,” said Harold, now beaming. “I’m up for the challenge. Lead on.”
“I’ll sort out refreshments,” I volunteered, and headed back into the house, bumping into Thelma, who was loitering just inside the back door.
“Well?” she said in a stage whisper.
“I think you’ll like him,” I said.
Thel crossed her fingers. “It’s just like the films,” she said. “So romantic. I know, I sound like a right old duck.”
“Thel,” I said, “you’re thirty-one.”
“I’m nearer thirty-two,” she answered.
“Poor old thing,” I said. “So, where are the troops?”
“Look sharp, you lot,” called Thelma, as they were waiting impatiently in the kitchen. “Best behaviour, please, and that includes you, Stanley Jenkins,” she said as the children now filed past. “George, please don’t ask Captain Thomas how you disable a bomb. If you find one, you’re to run to a phone box. Margaret, he may not want to see your dancing, but you can always ask. Everyone got the glasses? Emmy and I will carry the jugs.”
She turned to me. “I should have been in the army.” She grinned.
Half an hour later, excitement had turned into blatant hero worship. The children had formed a Shed Restoration working party under the guidance of their new friend, and in the sunshine of the garden, they were all taking their roles very seriously indeed.
“Is this right, Captain Harold?” asked George, who was carefully painting numbers on the parts of the shed that weren’t beyond repair.
“Spot on,” said Harold. “Good man.”
“What about these, please? Are they straight enough?” called Stan, who had been stacking flowerpots along the side of the air-raid shelter.
“Excellent work,” answered Harold. “Well done, Stanley. How are you getting along with the inventory, Margaret?”
“All right, I think,” said Marg, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor and looking through a box of rubbish. “I’ve found something that’s metal, only I don’t know what it is.” She held up what looked to be part of an eggbeater.
“It won’t win the war sitting in the shed. It could make part of a tank,” said Stan, which was exactly what Harold had said as a joke two minutes earlier when Bunty had found a large bolt that didn’t belong to anything.
“Sorry, Stan,” said Bunts. “It won’t happen again.” Then she turned to Harold and whispered, “You do know I’m blaming you if half the kitchen cutlery disappears.”
Harold smiled widely but didn’t say anything. He could chat like anything to the rest of us, but sometimes he became tongue-tied around her.
“It’s very good of you to give up your Saturday to put up with us lot, Harold,” said Thelma, filling the silence. “I’ve never seen my three quite so industrious.”
“Can you tell us some more about the nurses who saved you, please?” asked Marg. “Do you think I could be one?”
“Of course you could,” said Harold. “It’s a very important job.”
“That’s a smashing idea,” said Thel. “It means working hard to pass all your exams.”
“You’ll be great,” said Harold to Marg.
Margaret nodded enthusiastically. Harold had been happy to be quizzed on his time in hospital and had told everyone that without the nurses he would probably have died. It was quite clear he had said this as a tribute to the hospital nursing staff, but all it had done was convince the children that he was even more of a hero than they had previously thought. Now Thel gave him the thumbs up and mouthed, “Thank you.”
As Stan interrupted his sister to ask Harold what subjects he had liked best when he was at school, Thel turned to me. “I hate to tell you,” she said under her breath, “but I think your husband has just been booted out of second place after their dad.” She looked at the children almost wistfully.
“I don’t think he’ll mind,” I whispered back. “Thel, is everything OK?”
“It’s fine,” said Thel. “I just miss Arthur. So do they. He’d be in his element here. That shed would be down and in bits all over the garden before you could say knife. He and Harold would make a good team.”
“They’ll all be home soon,” I said. “Won’t be long.”
“I know,” she answered. “Look at them, they’re like ducklings. We’d better count them when Harold leaves, or they’ll follow him out. Thank you, Captain Thomas,” she added. “They’re having the time of their lives.”
“Harold, please,” said Harold. “Really, the pleasure is entirely mine. I haven’t had so much fun in ages.”
“Then you’d better visit again,” said Thelma, quick as a flash. “But of course I’ll leave it with you and Bunty to sort out.”
“Can it be soon?” asked Stan before either of them could say anything. “Only, George can be very bossy about things, and if we’re going to get the shed ready in case we get pets, it’ll be loads better if you’re here.”
“I’d love to help,” said Harold immediately. Then he added, “If that would be all right with Bunty, of course.” He looked at her and smiled.
Stan now turned his attention to Bunts. It was hard to tell who was waiting for her answer with more interest, him or Harold.
I glanced up at the bright blue sky. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen.
“Do you know,” said Bunty, “I think Harold visiting again soon would be a very good idea indeed.”