‘It’s a man’s work, on a man’s wage, so do you think you’re up to the job?’
The editor of the Shipbuilder peered over his half-moon spectacles as Kitty stood, hands clasped in front of her, in the dusty office which was strewn with paper and stuffed to the gunnels with leather-bound copies of his publication. He must have been forty, perhaps, and he dressed in tweeds with a little handkerchief neatly folded in his breast pocket, but he had a boyish look about him.
‘I do,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye while trying not to tread on the plan of an ocean-going liner which was laid out on the floor. ‘I’m a fast learner and I have excellent shorthand and typing skills . . .’
‘I’m not looking for a secretary,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘But I suppose you’re the best of a bad lot. I’ve lost so many men to this blasted conflict in the last six months it’s a wonder I haven’t got my own mother on the payroll.’
‘I’m not afraid of long hours and hard work,’ she said, ignoring his put-down.
‘Not got a boyfriend away at the front, then?’ he said, stuffing some tobacco in his pipe and patting his waistcoat in search of some matches. Kitty spotted the box he was looking for, hidden underneath some documents at the edge of his green leather-topped desk. She handed it to him.
‘No, I certainly have not,’ she said indignantly, glaring at him. ‘I’ve no time to waste on affairs of the heart. I’m a working woman, with bills to pay. I help support my mother, and my brother is away in France with the Royal Field Artillery.’
‘All right, all right,’ he said, striking a match and putting it to his pipe. ‘It’s only fair of me to ask, you see, because the last thing I need is to spend months training you up only for you to run away up the aisle at the first opportunity or get yourself in the family way.’
‘Well, that sort of thing definitely doesn’t apply to me,’ said Kitty. The very idea was patently absurd. She had no time for romantic dalliances.
‘How old are you?’
‘I will be twenty-four later this month.’
‘Hmm,’ he gazed at her thoughtfully. ‘You’re leaving it a bit late to get married anyway, aren’t you? So, I suppose I’m minded to believe you.’ He put down his pipe and rapped his fingers lightly on the desk. ‘Remind me of your name again?’
‘Catherine, but everyone calls me Kitty.’
‘Well, I can assure you that in my office, you will be known by your Christian name, Catherine,’ he said with a laugh. She looked at the floor. It had been a mistake to tell him her pet name – it made her sound silly and girlish.
‘All right, Catherine, you can start on Monday. Eight thirty sharp, and on deadline days you’ll be working until the journal is put to bed, do you understand? We are a monthly publication and we have the highest standards of accuracy. Our readership includes the captains not just of ships, but of industry.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Kitty. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘Very well,’ he said, returning to a sheaf of papers on his blotting pad. He dipped the nib of his pen in a pot of ink and began to write. She stood there, not knowing whether the interview was at an end. He glanced up. ‘Still here? You can run along now. I don’t need any help with my editorial.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she stammered. ‘I will see you first thing on Monday!’ She practically skipped out of his office and into a bigger room, which was filled with middle-aged men in varying states of decay. A portly, grey-haired gentleman was quietly snoozing at his desk in the corner, while another, skinny with a bald pate, was frantically scribbling some notes. A third man, gangly, with a squint, was leaning back in his chair, idly blowing smoke rings into the air which was already blue with the fug of tobacco.
None of this mattered to Kitty. The words ‘a man’s work on a man’s wage’ were ringing in her ears. She emerged onto the street, her heart pounding with excitement. She had done it. She had got herself a proper job.
Somewhere in France
17th September 1916
My dearest Kitty,
I am writing to you from my dug-out at the front. We face a tough road ahead to crack the Hun’s defences, but I have every faith that we will do it, and so must you. I’m wearing the red rose of Lancaster on my uniform with pride and we have been training for this moment, so please do not worry.
I hope you are both in good health. Please tell Mum not to fuss too much around the house and to rest when she can. Well done to you on the sub-editing job! I always knew you were clever, Kit, but imagine how proud Dad would be. Next thing we know, you’ll be running the country. Just don’t expect me to salute you next time we meet!
We’ve had an awful lot of rain, which makes life a misery because the trenches fill with water and then we’re up to our necks in mud, rolling around in it like cattle in the fields. Mum would have a fit if she saw the state of me, all clarty. The horses find it tough-going when it’s like this, but they are as brave as the men. I ride up front driving the big guns into position, on a black stallion called Domino. He’s a fine animal, stands more than seventeen hands high and has smart white socks. His best mate is Top Hat, black as the ace of spades but with a white blaze down his nose, so he looks like he should be going for a night out on the tiles at the Assembly Rooms. I swear those two spend time plotting what jinks they’re going to get up to next when we come to get them in the gun harness. And Domino’s got a memory like an elephant. When the sergeant slapped him round the chops, he waited for his moment and kicked him up the rear! The sly devil. I had to laugh. Sergeant didn’t see the funny side, though.
Well, Kit, I’ll close now. We’re back on it bright and early, giving the Hun a pounding with our shells to help our brave boys break through the German lines. I’m sending all my love to you and Mum.
Godspeed,
Harry xxx
Kitty stuffed the letter into her jacket pocket and returned to the work in front of her before her boss could spot what she was doing. She’d only just had time to skim over it on the tram on the way in this morning and it wasn’t enough to read his words once. She wanted to pore over it, again and again, especially now he was at the front. She’d heard about people getting a letter from their loved one in the morning only to have a telegram from the War Office in the afternoon, bringing them bad news.
‘What’s that you’ve got there, Catherine?’
She hadn’t even realized that the editor was lurking over her shoulder. Honestly, she’d learned the hard way over the last few weeks, it was as if he had eyes in the back of his head and the ability to appear and disappear, like the Scarlet Pimpernel.
‘Nothing,’ she lied, blushing and returning to her typewriter. She started tapping out the details of the ships docking over the past week – their tonnage and freight.
He touched her lightly on the shoulder, which was unexpected, and she turned and found herself gazing up into his eyes, which were so green and reminded Kitty of an agate brooch that her mother wore.
‘Is it a letter from your brother?’ He gave her such a look of concern that it was pointless lying to him.
‘Yes.’ She pulled the crumpled paper from her jacket pocket. ‘It is.’
‘It’s fine to take time to read it,’ he said softly. ‘I know it must be terribly hard to have family away fighting. He’s a brave lad, your brother, by all accounts.’
‘Do you have anyone over in France, Mr Philpott?’ She’d asked the question before she could stop herself. She only hoped he wouldn’t find it impertinent.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never married so there are no Philpott minors; there’s just myself and my mother these days.’ He ran his hands through his wavy hair, which was dark brown, like a chestnut. ‘I’m always here to talk, if you need to share the burden.’
‘I see,’ said Kitty, who wasn’t sure she wanted to know any more about Mr Philpott’s family circumstances or share anything more than proofreading duties with him. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
He gave her a little smile and turned on his heel to go back to his office, which was half-glazed so that he could keep an eye on what his staff were up to. He never closed the door so that he could eavesdrop too; well, probably. He wasn’t a bad boss, though. She was still pondering how old he was; he had a calm air of authority like older gentlemen, but there was a sort of bounce to his step, which made him seem younger. Not that any of that mattered one jot to Kitty.
He expected the highest standards, but he gave praise where it was due. He’d never raised his voice to her, as he did with the other staff, particularly Gerald, the portly chief sub-editor, who was renowned for his long lunches and had once fallen asleep under his desk. But Kitty didn’t want to feel that she was being treated any differently just because she was a woman.
She worked every bit as hard as the men, if not harder, and was only too happy to proofread late into the evening, even when she was so tired that she was squinting. The blokes all grumbled about staying late these days because the pubs stopped serving after nine p.m., due to the war-time restrictions on alcohol. More often than not, Kitty would volunteer to stay behind with Mr Philpott, to painstakingly pick their way through page after page of small print about ships, checking for errors, while everyone else trooped off for a well-earned pint. Mr Philpott would light his pipe, put it down, mislay it and she would find it for him. Then he’d pat about his waistcoat for his matches and it would fall to Kitty to find those as well, just as she had done the first time they met. Not that she dwelled too much on that occasion. It had been a memorable and happy day because she’d got herself a proper job – man’s work.
The light was fading as she left the office, and the first chill of autumn was making itself felt on the evening air. She pulled her coat around her and glanced upwards to spot Mr Philpott at the window. He gave her a little nod and she smiled up at him, more out of politeness than anything else.
For some reason, she couldn’t get the image of Mr Philpott out of her head as she wandered up Percy Street towards Grey’s Monument to board the tram home. In the end, to banish him, she started humming a nursery rhyme that Dad used to sing to her when she sat on his knee as a little girl – ‘This is the way the ladies ride, trit-trot, trit-trot’ – and she thought about Harry astride Domino, hauling the heavy guns to the front, the rattle of the metal wheels on the French roads and then the deafening roar of shelling and explosions as the horses sank in the thick mud of the battlefield, struggling with their load; then the shouts of the soldiers and the screams of the injured. It was an awful thought but she’d overheard the sub-editors talking about the shocking truth of battle, and wounded soldiers seemed to be everywhere in Newcastle these days, dressed in their blue hospital uniforms, with their distinctive scarlet ties. Their missing limbs and terrible scars were proof enough of the horror of war. And they were the lucky ones.
She didn’t have much time for God, not after what had happened to her father, because although she’d prayed so hard, God hadn’t helped. Now, for Harry’s sake, she was prepared to turn to Him once more and as she waited for the tram she offered up a silent prayer to keep Harry safe. In her mind’s eye she saw her brother loading the shells and taking cover as the gun recoiled and they exploded on their target, the air thick with smoke and shrapnel.
The tram screeched to a halt in front of her and she boarded. She paid a penny fare, not to the conductor, but to a conductress. So many women were working on the buses and the trams now, it had become commonplace, even though such a thing would have been unthinkable before the war. She’d even seen women dressed in police uniforms patrolling the city streets. The suffragettes had ceased their campaigning at the outbreak of war, at the behest of their leader, Mrs Pankhurst, but no one could have imagined that the loss of life on the Western Front would lead to such a change of opinion towards women doing men’s jobs.
Women had proved themselves, in the most terrible of circumstances, but the question in the back of Kitty’s mind was what would happen once the war was over? Everyone wanted that moment to come and it seemed wrong to talk about the future of the female workforce once men returned from the trenches, but Kitty was thinking about it because she didn’t want to go back to being just a shorthand typist again. She was enjoying her job so much.
And then, just like that, despite her best efforts, she was back to thinking of that damned Mr Philpott again, with his eyes as green as agate.
Kitty wrote often to Harry, filling him in on the most mundane details of her daily life, and she’d taken to embroidering things for him, just little keepsakes, to stop herself going mad with worry. But it was nearly a fortnight before she received another letter from him and her hands were shaking with excitement as she opened it.
Somewhere in France
29th September 1916
Dearest Kitty,
Your prayers have been answered and I am safely back from my spell at the front. Came back with fleas all over me, worse than the neighbour’s cat! Next time, please mention that to the Good Lord Almighty and ask him to send hot water and Borax. Thanks so much for the baccy and the chocolate. A real treat and keeping my spirits up. The embroidered handkerchiefs are lovely – Top Hat and Domino are honoured that you have captured their likenesses so beautifully. I always knew you were a dab hand with the needle and thread, Kit, but they are so special to me. I can imagine you in the parlour working away on them. And they’re just what I need to keep my runny nose at bay!
We’re on a respite now for a week, which means lots of drills and checking over the guns plus a rest for the horses before we move on – Flanders most likely but we won’t know for certain for a few days yet. Domino is in good spirits. Top Hat showed signs of lameness, but he’s had a poultice and is doing much better. Tough as old boots, just like me. Talking of which, I’d love some more woollen socks if you can persuade Mum to knit me some to match the ones you sent. We have a hell of a job getting things dry.
Godspeed. I’m sorry I haven’t asked how your work is going, Kit, silly of me. I do hope you have got those men in the office marching to your tune by now!
Yours, lice-ridden but with love,
Harry xxx
He wrote letters to Mum too, of course, and that meant the pleasure of hearing from him was doubled, because he managed to report different things to them both. He was delighted to hear that Mum had been keeping so busy with charitable work to help the war effort and passed on his good wishes to her new acquaintances, the Misses Dalton – a pair of spinsters who were pillars of the local church, and helped to organize a voluntary fund for the military hospitals in the city.
The Misses Dalton had even come round for tea one day last week, which had left Mum in a state of high excitement. She’d dusted off her best china and used all the sugar and dried fruit in the pantry to make a cake for them.
With their lace collars, starched bosoms and rustling silk skirts, they reminded Kitty of Queen Mary herself, but in duplicate, and they were quite scandalized when they heard from Mum that Kitty was working in an office as a sub-editor.
‘An office full of men! How extraordinary!’ they chorused.
The next time they came calling, they peered at Kitty through their pince-nez spectacles as if she were a curiosity at a funfair. Kitty knew how much it meant to Mum to have their company, so she was always polite, answering all their questions about her work, which seemed to impress them more with every passing week.
‘You are so very modern, Kitty,’ they’d say, as Mum poured the tea. ‘But aren’t there any fine-looking journalists in the office who might catch the eye of a lovely girl such as yourself?’
Kitty shook her head and they listened intently as she told them all about Mr Philpott and his many editorials about important subjects in the shipping world, which were very widely read among the powers that be, not only in Newcastle but also in London. Rumour had it that the Prime Minister himself was an avid reader of his column. So, it was perfectly clear to everyone that, with her workload, she had no time for romance. That was just for giddy girls, not working women.
A particular concern of Mr Philpott’s was the sinking of so many ships that had been built on Tyneside, particularly after the Battle of Jutland back in the summer. The whole city felt their loss, because the shipyards were part of the lifeblood of the community and everyone poured their hopes for victory into them, for the war effort. The incessant hammering of the rivets into iron and steel rang out along the Tyne from Newcastle all the way to the North Sea and when a ship was sunk, it was like losing a member of the family.
A further menace was the German submarines sinking British merchant vessels, which only made food shortages worse, particularly after the potato crop had failed earlier in the year. Doctors had even seen cases of scurvy amongst the poorest children. The Misses Dalton had already helped set up a soup kitchen for the needy in the church hall, but they were planning to do more. Mum wanted to help but Kitty was worried that they barely had enough to feed themselves some days. Mum spent long hours queuing to get vegetables and fruit, often only to find that they had all sold out by the time it was her turn to be served. A decent cut of meat was hard to come by and everyone knew that the baker was adding sawdust and Lord knows what else to the bread to make it go further. The submarine blockades had stopped grain being imported and with so many men and horses away at the front, farms were struggling to keep pace with demand.
The hunger didn’t bother Kitty; she’d focus on her work, the words and proofreading. Besides, just being around Mr Philpott in the office seemed to take the edge off her appetite most days.
They struggled on through Christmas and New Year, feeling guilty for opening their presents in the comfort of their home while Harry was in the trenches. And whatever hardships they faced in Newcastle paled into insignificance next to what Harry was going through, as his letters showed that winter.
Somewhere in Flanders
February 1917
Ghastly few days. The brigade has suffered much but we are not broken, Kit. Top Hat and Domino, fine animals, showed their strength and bravery under a heavy artillery barrage from the Hun and are now having a well-earned rest.
It’s freezing cold here, snow on the ground. We do what we can in our dug-outs with straw and firewood to make them cosy. Our rations of bully beef are not enough to feed a fly so I’m grateful for the extras, Kit, and though we get our tot of rum and a smear of axle grease on our biscuits, it’s nothing like the parlour at home. How I miss you all. I have waking dreams, Kit, of Simonside Terrace and even on the darkest nights when I cannot sleep, Lily Avenue, as it was, the four of us, with Dad and his betting slips and Mum fussing around making steak and kidney puddings. It brings me such comfort. I could reach out and touch you all.
I am your loving brother, Kitty, and tell Mum she can hold her head high in Newcastle because everything I am doing here is not only for our country but for our family name.
Harry xxx