January 1944
The banging coming from the shed suggested that George had not quite finished his latest round of renovations. It was Sunday afternoon and Bunty and I were looking out at the snow-covered garden from the window of the Woman’s Friend office.
“I can’t help but think the chickens are quite snug enough as it is,” she said, “what with the amount of newspaper the children have already wadded in there. The salvage man would have a fit.”
“Laurel and Hardy look very nice in their jumpers,” I said. “You’ll be knitting for the duck brothers next.”
Bunty laughed. “Speaking of knitting, how’s the new Fashion Editor getting on?” she asked. “I like her, don’t you?”
“She’s super,” I said. “I mean she’s no Pamela Pye, of course, but needs must. War on and all that.”
“How is Mrs. Pye?” asked Bunty. “Has anyone kept in touch?”
I let out a guffaw. “Oddly enough, no,” I answered. “But I would imagine she’s far too busy at her salon for socialising. Dermatologique by Madame won’t run itself.”
“Dermatolo…?” said Bunty.
“It’s French,” I said. “Naturellement.”
“Of course,” agreed my friend. “But who in their right mind would let Pamela Pye at their skin with an ultraviolet light? Aren’t they supposed to be rather intense?”
I shook my head. “She puts a piece of cotton wool over your eyes before she switches it on,” I said. “Monica showed me an advert in the back of one fancy magazine. It had a picture of Mrs. Pye holding an alarm clock and looking angry about skin.”
“Ah well,” said Bunty, “as long as she’s happy.”
“I hope so,” I said. “There’s a rumour that the salon has been financed by the Honourable Mrs. P. Which sounds, well…”
“A Bit Mis,” we said at the same time.
Bunts and I laughed as I turned away from the window and looked around the office. “Can you believe this actually happened?” I asked.
“I’m so glad you and Guy made Harold your Business Director,” Bunty replied.
“He’s terrifically good,” I said. “Mr. Newton adores him. I’m far happier with readers and words. That world, I understand.” I turned back to the view out of the window. “Oh, goodness, poor Guy needs to move much faster than that.”
Outside, the Editor in Chief of TJP Limited, Pimlico, was being battered with snowballs from the company’s typing and post room trainees, who were also known as Margaret and Stan. Our Business Director was making a far better show of it and was lobbing snowballs back at them, effortlessly winning, despite only having the use of one arm.
“To think we were worried about them living at a publishing company,” Bunty said fondly. “I know a lot of kids live above the shop, but this place isn’t exactly normal, is it?”
“No kids are exactly normal anymore, Bunts,” I said, watching them all. “Lost parents, siblings, homes—even the luckiest have lost the chance to just feel safe and have fun. There isn’t a child in the country who is having the childhood they deserve. I think our lot are doing all right. I hope so. At least we got through Christmas. We can try to look ahead a little bit now.”
“Their dad’ll be back soon,” said Bunts. “You’ll see. And Charles.” She put her arm through mine. “We’ve got Woman’s Friend sorted, the children are coping… Now we just need to get the boys home.”
“1944, Bunts,” I said, perking up. “Charles and the chaps are thundering through Italy. Arthur’s ship is in the Med too. It won’t be long now. They’ll all be home before you know it.”
“Damn right,” said Bunty.
For a moment we were quiet in the rare stillness of the office. Usually, typewriters were hammering away, people were writing articles, designing pages, opening letters, or trying to find the best way to help readers on the Yours Cheerfully problem page. Mrs. Mahoney would be chivvying everyone about deadlines, and Mr. Newton was likely to be announcing the return of an advertiser, to cheers from the rest of the team.
I glanced over to the front of the room where I had set up shop at one end of the long dining room table. A large postbag sat between my chair and Mrs. Shaw’s, waiting to be sorted first thing in the morning. On the wall was a home-made noticeboard covered in letters and photographs, including one of two babies dressed as Easter chicks. In pride of place, however, was an airgraph featuring a quite awful drawing of a Christmas tree. It had arrived just before the new year.
Happy Christmas, my darling.
Just you wait—one day we’ll have a tree that’s even better than this!
Thinking of you my dearest love, and looking forward to the masses of Christmases we’ll have together.
Yours always, C xxxxx
“Damn right,” I said back to my best friend.
Bunty and I were silent for a moment as we looked at the higgledy-piggledy office set up in what had once been the fanciest room in the house. Everything was entirely second-hand—begged, borrowed, or in the case of two of the pencils and the only hole punch we owned, stolen. We had the finances, but we were careful, intent on putting everything we could into the future of our magazines. Mismatched furniture had been brought from a dozen different homes. Filing racks and staff pigeonholes proudly made by George were prized possessions.
Just one thing in the whole company was brand spanking new—a metal sign that had been fixed with the hugest of care by the front door:
TJP LIMITED. PUBLISHERS OF
WOMAN’S FRIEND
AND
THE PIMLICO GAZETTE
George, Margaret, and Stan had proudly made the announcement at an unveiling ceremony just a few weeks previously.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we name this company Thelma Jenkins Publishing, after our mum, who came up with the idea.”
Now shrieks of laughter floated up from the garden, as George had finished his woodwork for the day and joined the others in their snowball fight.
I thought of Thelma, as we all did a hundred times every day.
“What are we doing in here, Bunty?” I asked her mock seriously. “It’s Sunday, and there’s an opportunity to shove snowballs in the faces of people we love. Come on,” I said, taking hold of her arm. “Last one there misses out on the larks.”