One of the nicest things about getting engaged, other than of course getting to marry Charles, was how happy everyone was when I told them the news.
The next day, once Bunty and I had returned to London, a double shift at the fire station turned into uproar as I broke the news to B Watch, who all decided the celebrations should begin straight away.
Somehow we all still managed to answer the calls when they came in, but it was pure luck, as when I made my announcement, Mary burst into tears, Joan nearly put out a hip when she leapt up from her chair, and Thelma shouted, “I bloody knew it!” Then she got told off by Captain Davies for swearing while in uniform, even though she tried to persuade him that when someone got engaged, rules like that shouldn’t really count.
Roy and Fred and the boys were even louder, and as soon as the pubs opened for lunchtime, Fred secretly dispatched Big David to see if he could get some bottles from the King’s Arms, particularly as the girl who served in the public bar was soft on him. Drinking while on shift was understandably even less acceptable than swearing, and it was fair to say that B Watch trod a very fine but celebratory line throughout the entire shift.
Someone was smiling on us, as it was an uneventful Sunday, and when Roy and Fred and a couple of the others had half a weak shandy each, Captain Davies sent the other lads out on a call. Nothing was said, but there had been many, many shifts when celebrations had been the last thought in any of our minds. An excuse to cheer and sing and look to the future was more than deserved for every last member of the Watch.
On Monday morning and still walking on air, I arrived early at Woman’s Friend, eager to share the news with the whole office. I had spoken briefly to my future brother-in-law and current boss when Charles had phoned him from my parents’ house, but I was still very much looking forward to seeing him.
Mr. Collins was already in his office, which was unusual, but I wanted to find Kath first so that I could tell her before the others got in.
“Morning, Emmy,” she called, already at her desk and typing at nineteen to the dozen. “Good weekend?”
“Morning, Kath,” I said. “Marvellous, thanks. How was yours?”
“I made Mum a very nice skirt.” She looked up from her typewriter. “I say, what’s happened? You look very much in the pink.”
My plan to be cool as a cucumber disintegrated on the spot. “I’m engaged,” I said. “To Charles,” I added, just to be clear.
Kath catapulted up from her desk. “Oh, my goodness, Emmy!” she cried. “That’s wonderful. Tell me everything. When did he ask? What did he say? Was it awfully romantic?”
I couldn’t answer any of her questions as she was hugging the breath out of me.
“Did somebody mention an engagement?” said a voice at the door. It was Mr. Collins, beaming like a lighthouse.
“Oh, Mr. Collins!” said Kath. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“It certainly is,” said Mr. Collins. “I’m getting a sister-in-law.”
He looked really very pleased indeed, which was ever so nice, but I felt suddenly shy. What was the etiquette in this situation? We were, after all, at a place of work. I didn’t know whether we should share a firm handshake, or perhaps I should just shout Hurrah! Hopelessly unsure, I did nothing and looked gormless.
“I’m delighted for you both,” said Mr. Collins formally.
I grinned, not at all the ticket. Kath was no help, as she just stood there as well.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Mr. Collins. “Kathleen, avert your eyes. I am going to have to kiss Miss Lake.”
Kath giggled and put her face in her hands, as Mr. Collins, or Guy, or whatever I was now supposed to call him, strode over and holding me by the shoulders, kissed me on the cheek.
“Well done,” he said.
“AGHHHHH!” A horrified Hester arrived and let out an ear-splitting scream, dropping a huge pile of buff folders all over the floor. “MR. COLLINS!” she bellowed.
“It’s all right, Hester,” I said as I hurried over to her. “I’ve just got engaged to Mr. Collins’ brother. Honestly, everything’s fine. Look,” I said, putting my arm round her and showing her my left hand. “I have a ring and everything. Mr. Collins was just being nice.”
Poor Hester remained unconvinced and continued to look daggers at him for stepping so terribly out of line.
“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Mahoney walked into the room, still in her overcoat and hat, wearing an expression that suggested she was ready to knock heads together should it be required. It was all too much for Hester, who promptly started having an embarrassed cry.
“Oh God,” said Mr. Collins, “this has gone well.”
It wasn’t quite how I had imagined sharing the news.
Amid the commotion I found Hester a clean hankie and Kath began to explain to Mrs. Mahoney that there was actually some very good news, despite appearances suggesting someone had let themselves down.
“Well now,” said Mrs. Mahoney, “that’s smashing and just what we all need. Now come on, Hester, let’s stop all these tears. Many congratulations, Emmy. And to your husband-to-be.”
Hester managed a wobbly smile and blew her nose loudly, which elicited a kindly “Well done!” from Mrs. Mahoney, and everyone got back on track with saying how pleased they all were.
Soon Mr. Brand and Mr. Newton arrived, and within ten minutes word appeared to have got around the building and Mrs. Bussell came in with a hitherto secret box of what she said were Seventh-Floor Biscuits. Even Clarence, the post boy, called in to very properly offer me his congratulations, before venturing to tell Kathleen that she’d “be next.” For someone who had only recently got over the most debilitating crush on Kath, Clarence managed well, until he became overconfident and attempted a slightly rakish wink. When he didn’t quite pull it off, he reverted to his old less senior self and backed out of the office, glowing a spectacular red.
It was the loveliest start to the day, and I only wished that Charles could have been there.
“You’re all invited to the wedding, of course,” I said. “It won’t be a big event, but I would love you to come.”
That went down very well, and I thought of Bunty as everyone immediately started volunteering various foods. Mrs. Mahoney and Kath said it was about time they gave up sugar so I could have their rations, Mr. Newton was confident Mrs. Newton had a tin of fine ham put away, and Mr. Brand revealed he had a range of home-made pickles that wouldn’t look out of place in Fortnum & Mason. Mrs. Bussell said she would be pleased to see what she could do on the sweet front, and when someone brought up the issue of alcohol, Mr. Collins nodded sagely and said to leave it to him.
As everyone reluctantly realised they had to go and do some work, as we had deadlines to meet, Hester shyly sidled up to me. “I’m sorry I made a scene and spoilt things,” she said. I assured her it was a misunderstanding anyone could have had. “Thank you ever so much for saying I can come to the wedding. I don’t think Mum’s got much in the way of party food, but I thought if you needed someone, I was a waitress in a café last summer, so perhaps I could help out?”
It was the nicest offer of them all and the straw that broke the camel’s back. Failing entirely to hold back the tears, I gave her a great big hug. This year had been a steep business to get through, and now I felt overcome by the happiness getting engaged had brought.
“Come on, soppy dates,” said Mrs. Mahoney. “Hester, I’m sure those folders need re-sorting, and Emmy, you and I have Yours Cheerfully to look after.”
I let go of Hester, who returned to form with a shy giggle and diligently took her folders away. I pulled myself together and began to gather my files before joining Mrs. Mahoney for our weekly meeting about the problem page.
Mr. Collins had stayed behind. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Sorry—I went a bit watery there.”
“Understandable,” he said, sitting back against one of the desks. “I do want to thank you, Emmy. I can’t tell you what it means to me to see my brother so enormously happy.”
“I’m blissfully happy too,” I said. “And I should be the one thanking you. I’d never have met Charles if Bunty and I hadn’t bumped into you at the teahouse.”
“Kismet.” Mr. Collins smiled. He looked at his watch. “Damn, I’m late for a meeting. Oh, one other thing. Your factory article is excellent. Really very good indeed. Two tiny changes from me, but nothing important. I’ll get Hester to send it to Clough and Stratton and the censorship chaps today, and we can put it in the next issue.”
I managed to stammer a thank-you. He thought my article about Anne and her friends was good!
“It wasn’t too… positive?” I asked.
When I had returned from the factory trip, I had told Mr. Collins everything, including what Anne and the others had said. He had listened sympathetically, especially about Irene and her daughters, but he was quietly clear about the article he expected me to write. Britain needed war workers and the Ministry had invited us to help find them.
“But we’re here to help our readers, as well,” I’d said. “You said that yourself.”
“I did, and I meant it,” said Mr. Collins. “But if we don’t defeat Hitler, the very worst of anyone’s problems will pale into insignificance.”
“Of course, we’ll defeat Hitler,” I said patriotically.
“Not if we don’t have enough kit, we won’t.”
It had been a sobering conversation, but I knew he was right, so I had gone away and written as cheery a piece as I could. Now at least I knew he was pleased.
“For someone whose very first article is going to be checked by the Government,” Mr. Collins said, “you’ve done a first-rate job. Look, Emmy, I know you’re concerned about your friends, but one step at a time. You’re doing well. Keep at it. Now I really must go, and I expect you to do very little but talk to the others about weddings today. That’s an order.”
And with that, he left.
In all the excitement of Charles’ proposing, it had been easy to put my visit to Chandlers to the back of my mind for the last couple of days. Sometimes your own happiness insists on being selfish. Now that Mr. Collins had approved what I had written, Anne and her friends shot right back to the front of the frame.
I had sent a letter to Mr. Terry to thank him for his hospitality, and to praise both Mr. Rice and the staff for their help with the article. I didn’t want to be too much of a toady, but some professional flattery was required. Several mentions of how impressed I was by his staff, together with what a fine example his organisation was, would, I was sure, go down well.
I hadn’t taken to Mr. Terry in the least, but I wanted to go back to the factory for more articles in our series, and he was the person who could say yes or no. When I was growing up, my mother always said to be nice to the people you like, and nicer to the ones you don’t. It had bewildered me when I was young, but now I was beginning to understand. As I wanted to find out if more could be done to make life a little easier for Anne and her friends, there was every reason to have the Factory Director on my side.
There was another reason as well. Meeting Mrs. Edwards at the Ministry had inspired me. She was intelligent and charming and not afraid to say what she thought. I had the feeling this was the reason behind her success, and while it might have sounded quite lunatic on my part, I quietly aspired to be in the same vein.
And now an article that I had written was about to be sent to His Majesty’s Government’s Censors. Everything had become rather real.
WOMAN’S FRIEND AT WORK
In the first of our new series, EMMELINE LAKE joins recent women recruits at one of Britain’s vital Munitions Factories.
They’re working long hours, of course, but the girls are proud to be pulling their weight and supporting our boys overseas. “Productivity is high,” says the man in charge, as the nimble-fingered women make short work of the most intricate jobs…. New recruit, widow, and mother of two, Anne has been quick to find her feet—as well as a grand bunch of new friends!
I had made the article informative and upbeat, and everything I had written was true. I just hadn’t mentioned any of the bad parts.
This would be the first time I had ever had my name in a proper magazine, and I wanted to savour, and even celebrate, the moment. As Mrs. Edwards had said, you never forgot your first commission. I just wished I had been able to report the full story, even if that wasn’t the aim. I had to remember that my job was to encourage readers to volunteer for war work. If Anne and her friends were doing their duty, then in writing this I was doing mine.
Nevertheless, it was hard to feel entirely proud about writing “Every woman is doing her bit” when I’d just seen a seven-year-old babysitting her sister in the middle of a gun factory.
Struggling to take my mind off that image, I picked up my Yours Cheerfully file.
I wrote the “Woman’s Friend at Work” articles to help the Ministry’s plans. The aim of Yours Cheerfully, however, was to help the readers as much as I could.
Tucking the file under my arm, I strode off to see Mrs. Mahoney. Perhaps that was where Anne’s friends could be helped.
Dear Yours Cheerfully,
I am eighteen years old and my mother told me the facts of life when I was young. Now, though, my friends have been talking about this and I am worried I have misunderstood. Please could you clarify the things on this list, as some of them sound awful.
Yours,
Wrong End of the Stick
Mrs. Mahoney ran her eyes down the attached sheet of paper. “Oh dear,” she said, “I don’t think the poor girl knows one end of the stick from the other. And this list is no help either. I’m all for each to their own, but some of it is rather exotic. Let’s put her in the pile for a personal reply and an informative leaflet.”
Mrs. Mahoney tutted to herself quite happily as I scribbled down notes. It was such a pleasure to work with someone who wanted to help everyone and didn’t shy away from some of the more colourful queries. When Mrs. Bird was in charge, you only had to mention the opposite sex and she went into a blue fit.
“There seems to be some confusion in this one as well,” I said, handing Mrs. Mahoney a letter written in a wild spidery hand by a worried young reader. “There’s no name or return address, though.”
Dear Yours Cheerfully,
I’m fifteen and haven’t had my monthly period. My friend Pearl says she bets I’m going to have a baby because I used the public toilets when we went on a day trip to Hull. I think that’s rubbish, but Pearl says you can and she’s older than me. Please help, as I’m ever so worried.
I can’t give you my name, but I live in Sheffield.
Mrs. Mahoney read it and frowned. “That rotten girl’s pulling her leg,” she said. “Although she could be pregnant from the conventional route, so let’s put ‘To Worried from Sheffield’ in the next issue and say it’s very unlikely from that source, but to see her doctor about her health in general.” She sighed and took her glasses off to give them a clean with her hankie.
“It’s a funny old job, this,” she said. “As far as sex goes, sometimes I think half of them don’t even know the basics, and the other half know far too much. No wonder they get so confused, poor loves. Who’s next?”
“A lot of affairs still,” I said, going through my short list of letters that I thought should go in the magazine. “Husbands going off, wives finding themselves new loves as well. It does put you off getting a lodger. But we’ve featured so many recently. This one is a bit different, though. It made me quite cross and I think we should put it in the next issue too.”
I began to read.
Dear Yours Cheerfully,
I’m in the WAAF and had a day off yesterday, so I decided to treat myself to a film. None of the other girls were free, so I went on my own. The cinema was full, and I ended up next to a man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. I told him three times to stop it, but in the end, I had to give up and leave.
I feel angry with myself that I didn’t do something more. I’m not feeble, but all I wanted was a nice afternoon to myself. I went home feeling quite humiliated. What should I have done?
Yours
L. Hayward (Corporal)
“Horrible behaviour,” said Mrs. Mahoney with contempt. “I wish Corporal Hayward had reported him, but I know that’s not as easy as it sounds. That sort of third rate wants you to feel embarrassed. If it was one of my girls, I’d march her straight back to the picture house and demand they put the lights up and find him.” She paused thoughtfully. “Of course she could always do what my Milly did to some sad article who bothered her on the top of a bus.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“Lighted cigarette,” said Mrs. Mahoney mildly. “She accidentally burnt his leg. Milly said he ran off so fast, he fell down the stairs.”
“Good for her,” I said. “No one should have to put up with that.”
Mrs. Mahoney nodded. “That’s what I say,” she said.
I looked at Corporal Hayward’s letter again. “It’s not on,” I said. “Here we are doing this big campaign to get the readers to sign up and work themselves silly for the war effort, and they can’t even go to the cinema without being manhandled.”
“Let’s put the Corporal’s letter in our next issue,” said Mrs. Mahoney. “Say that she had every right to complain to the cinema and that we’ve heard of a way she can fend off unwelcome attention. That will answer her letter and it might help some other readers as well.”
“Thank you,” I said. “We haven’t put anything like this in Yours Cheerfully before.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Mahoney, “perhaps you and I are getting into our stride now we’ve been doing it for a while. The readers have enough on their plates without being bothered by this sort of behaviour.”
For the hundredth time I thought how lucky I was to be learning from Mrs. Mahoney. Her confidence and experience couldn’t help but rub off.
“Can I ask your opinion, please?” I said, and began to tell her about the factory visit, and Irene and her girls. “I know they’re desperate for workers, and as Mr. Collins says, it’s the only way we’ll win the war. But how can I encourage our readers to go into munitions when if anything goes wrong or they have problems at home, no one is interested, or worse, they might even be given the sack?”
We were sitting in the Production Office and the notice boards were plastered with the front covers Mr. Brand was working on for future issues. Our new styling made a colourful and even stirring display where women, often in uniform, looked positive and optimistic, and cover lines announced How to Find the Right War Work for You and We Answer Your War Work Questions, alongside the usual Three Woollies for Winter and Is Baby Teething? How to Tell It’s a Yes!
Were we really answering the questions that mattered?
Whether it was Wrong End of the Stick or Corporal Hayward or the women whose lives were falling apart because of errant husbands, or because they had fallen in love with the wrong man, we always tried our hardest to help as well as we could.
I turned back to Mrs. Mahoney. “What would we say to Irene Barker if she wrote in?” I asked, starting to make up a letter. “ ‘Dear Yours Cheerfully, I have two young daughters (aged seven and four) and I work in munitions. My husband is in the navy and I have no family nearby to help out. None of the local nurseries can fit in with my shifts and there are only so many times the neighbours can help out. I’ve had to take the girls into the factory with me, but I hate having to do it, and I’m worried I’ll lose my job if I’m caught doing it again.’
“How would we reply?” I finished, turning to Mrs. Mahoney.
“She needs to find proper, reliable help,” said Mrs. Mahoney straight away. “Someone to have the children if she can afford it, or a nursery that fits in with her shifts. And she should have a word with her manager too, rather than trying to avoid him. That never works.” Mrs. Mahoney’s solid, practical response made perfect sense.
“But what if she’s tried all those?” I said, pretty sure that from what Anne had said, Irene had.
“Then we’ll have to come up with some other ideas, won’t we?” said Mrs. Mahoney, looking me squarely in the eye. “I can’t imagine that Mrs. Barker is the only one. Emmy, we can’t fix the whole world in twenty-four pages a week, but if this is a problem you think affects other readers as well, then it’s our job to try to sort something out.”
Mrs. Mahoney had a wonderfully comforting ability to make you feel that there was always an answer if you looked hard enough.
“I’d like to,” I said. “I don’t want to let down the Ministry or Woman’s Friend, but I worry that we’re not doing enough to help our readers if they sign up to do what we ask.”
I must have looked as concerned as I felt.
“I don’t know what is going on inside that hundred-mile-a-minute mind of yours,” said Mrs. Mahoney gently. “But don’t go getting yourself in a muddle. We will sort something.”
She smiled at me warmly. “Now, can I suggest we go through the rest of this pile so you can start drafting some replies?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Mahoney,” I said, my mind racing straight past the hundred-mile-a-minute mark. “Would you mind awfully if I write one other letter before I start on the drafts?” I smiled at myself as I began to think of a plan. “I know we can’t go trying to change the world just like that, but all the same, there’s a Factory Director I would very much like to meet up with for a bit of a chat.”