Whoever said that flattery gets you nowhere had not met Mr. Terry. Keeping my fingers tightly crossed that my first article about Chandlers would go down well with both the Censors and the Ministry, I wrote to Mr. Terry again, this time taking the opportunity to say what a mark his factory had made.
I understand the Ministry has been most pleased with the article, which I fully credit to the help Woman’s Friend received from the Chandlers’ staff. Perhaps I might send you a copy of the issue for your interest? Might it be possible to gain a short meeting? A quotation from you in the next article would very much inspire our readers.
I was beginning to sound like a modern-day Uriah Heep.
But it worked. Two days after the letter had been sent, Mr. Terry’s secretary called. Mr. Terry would be away for the rest of this week but could see me for fifteen minutes at some point during the next.
It had been remarkably easy. Even Mr. Collins was impressed. “I thought you said he wouldn’t recognise you again in the street,” he said. “It sounds like you made an impression.”
“I buttered him up,” I admitted. “I thought it was the sort of thing Mrs. Edwards might do.”
Mr. Collins laughed. “Quite possibly,” he said. “But be careful. He sounds a tricky sort. Are you sure you don’t want my help?”
“I’ll be fine, thank you,” I said. “I really am just going to get a quote for another article and ask him one or two things about female workers, like part-time work and nurseries. I’m going to talk to Anne Oliver before I see him, so I don’t put my foot in it.”
As well as writing to Mr. Terry, I had sent a letter to Anne at the same time, filling her in and asking for her opinion. The last thing she and her friends needed was me rushing in like a bull in a china shop and saying the wrong thing. Anne wrote back quickly, saying she’d spoken with Betty and the girls and they reckoned it was worth a go. She suggested meeting her in town before my appointment.
At ten o’clock on the day of the interview, I once again caught the train out to Berkshire, and this time, following her directions, walked out of the railway station and headed up to the high street where we had arranged to meet.
I easily spotted her, standing near a very long queue that was going into the fishmonger’s. She was wearing her green coat and work trousers, with a shopping basket hooked over one arm and Baby Tony very much taking up the other. Ruby, dressed in a dapper tweed coat, was showing Anne how high she could jump off the pavement.
“Emmy!” cried Anne, putting down her basket and giving me a wave. “Ruby, look who it is.”
I ran over to greet them, swinging Ruby round in a circle, which made her scream and, understandably, ask that I do it again. Once she and I were both thoroughly dizzy, the four of us headed to a very small tea shop, where an appropriately very small lady called Mrs. Phillips welcomed us in out of the cold.
“It’s so lovely to see you,” said Anne as we settled down in our seats. “And congratulations! I want to hear all about the wedding plans. I do hope I don’t smell out the place, I’ve just got a nice piece of haddock.” She spoke quietly. “Mr. Andrews, the fishmonger, is very kind. His daughter works at you know where, and he knows we do funny hours, so he makes sure there’s always something when we come in. Nothing under the counter or anything, but it does help.”
“Where’s the lady with the stick?” asked Ruby. “She was pretty.”
“Do you mean Bunty?” I asked. “She couldn’t come, I’m afraid.”
Ruby thought for a moment. “I’m getting a rabbit,” she said, recovering well, which was rather crushing for poor Bunts.
Anne grimaced. “Ruby, we’re only thinking about it at the moment, aren’t we?”
“It’s called Bun Bun,” confirmed Ruby. “And it’s going to have babies.”
“I hope not,” said Anne under her breath.
She helped Ruby take off her coat. “I made this from Anthony’s jacket,” she said in passing. “I’m quite pleased with it.”
The little coat was tailored beautifully and looked as if it could have come from a grand department store. Anne folded it carefully and put it on the seat next to her. She looked tired, which was no surprise as she had been working all night.
“How was the night shift?” I asked sympathetically. “They really turn your clock upside down, don’t they? It took me ages to get the hang of them at the fire station.”
“They’re wretched, aren’t they?” agreed Anne. “But it does mean I can get things done during the day and give Mum a break from these cheeky monkeys.”
“I’m not a cheeky monkey,” said Ruby.
Anne and I looked at her.
“I think you probably are,” I said. “Would you like a bun? A special one that only monkeys can have?”
“I’m a cheeky monkey,” said Ruby, now able to clarify things.
As Ruby concentrated on her Monkey Bun and Baby Tony gnawed contentedly on a crust, Anne and I continued to chat, mostly in code, partly as she wasn’t supposed to talk about work and partly so that Ruby, who had the hearing of a bat, wouldn’t understand.
“I’m interested in what Mr…. ahem… thinks about some of the things we spoke about when we last met,” I said in a low voice. “But are you happy for me to ask about specifics? I won’t ask if you’re worried.”
“We’ve talked about it,” whispered Anne back. “Me and the others, and we think if you’re quite casual about it, and perhaps talk generally about other places, you might get a response. Some of the girls have said things but not got anywhere.” She glanced at Ruby, who I assumed was not strong on confidentiality. “B-e-t-t-y asked the u-n-i-o-n, but there’s no interest from them. The factory is short-staffed, so I can’t see them allowing p-a-r-t time.” She paused to have a sip of tea. “I hope I don’t sound flat, Emmy, but productivity is the key thing, so I’m not holding my breath.”
I said of course she didn’t sound flat, but actually, Anne did. “Is everything all right?” I mouthed.
Ruby was a picture of happy concentration and not interested in her mother and me in the least.
“Yes, thanks,” said Anne. “Although my m-u-m is being run ragged, I think. But she insists that she’s fine.” She shook her head. “I hope so. She may just have forgotten what hard work m-o-n-k-e-y-s are. Ah, Ruby, I see you’ve finished. Do you think you could go and ask Mrs. Phillips to give your hands a wipe with her cloth? Good girl.”
Ruby, slightly surprisingly, did what she was told and pottered off to see Mrs. Phillips. Anne leant towards me. “There is one thing,” she said, looking around and lowering her voice again. “I’m really not supposed to say anything, but it’s about Irene and it makes everything even worse.” Anne hesitated. “This is really secret. Seriously.”
“I won’t say a thing. I promise.”
Anne pursed her lips and then seemed to make her mind up to tell me. “Her husband’s ship is missing,” she said in a whisper. “No one else knows except me. Not that she should have told me, but she thought I might know what to do, you know, because of losing Anthony.”
“Anne, I’m so sorry,” I said. “And I assume Mr. Rice has no idea?”
“Gosh, no. Honestly, you’re absolutely not allowed to say anything until it’s confirmed one way or the other.” She looked worried. “I really shouldn’t have told you. But I feel so awful for her. Irene’s having such a difficult time with the children. She’s on her final warning. If she brings them to the factory she’ll be sacked, and she just can’t lose her job now she’s the only one earning.”
“But she’ll get his pay, until, well, as usual?”
Anne shook her head. “Irene gets her allowance, but because he’s missing, they stop his pay, and she won’t get anything else, as he might not be dead. I’ve told her not to give up hope, because you can’t, but obviously Irene’s been knocked for six.”
“What can we do to help?” I said without thinking. I didn’t even live in this town.
“People would rally round, but as she can’t tell anyone, no one knows how badly she’s struggling. I’d get her to bring the girls to ours, but Mum’s up to her neck as it is.”
“Well, that settles it, doesn’t it?” I said. “I know I mentioned it last time I was here, but I’m going to ask you know who about a Government Nursery. There aren’t many yet, but they do exist. That would make things easier, surely? They’re supposed to be very reasonable.”
“If they could fit in with the shifts, yes,” said Anne. She ran her hand through her hair. “Although Irene needs help now. Betty was ever so fed up with the response from the union.”
“What did they say exactly?” I asked.
“Men only. I mean, she knew that, but she wanted to push them. They wouldn’t even discuss it.”
“They won’t be any help, then,” I said, noticing that Ruby was now on her way back, proudly holding a tiny teacup and saucer. “Has anyone asked about nurseries before?”
“I know Irene said something to one of the foremen once, but didn’t get anywhere.” She turned to the cherubic figure wobbling towards her. “Hello, Ruby Oliver, you’re looking very grown-up.”
As Ruby announced that her cup belonged to an elf, Anne clapped her hand over her mouth and started apologising like mad as we hadn’t talked about Charles and the wedding.
“I’ve a brain like a sieve,” she said. “Please tell us all about it. I could do with chatting about something exciting and fun.”
For the next hour we did exactly that. Anne was genuinely keen, and we both enjoyed playing up the frivolous side of things and talking about plans. I asked Anne if I might send an invitation to her and the children once we knew the date and then she really did perk up.
When it was time for me to head back to the station, where I had been told to wait for someone from Chandlers to pick me up, Anne and I parted fondly.
“Good luck with him,” she said as we hugged goodbye.
“I won’t let you down,” I said. “I’m going to make jolly sure he knows how good you all are.”
“Thank you for trying to help,” said Anne.
“I’m just being a nosy journalist,” I said, laughing. “Anyway, I’m the one that should say thank you. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have been given my very first assignment.”
“Rubbish!” said Anne.
“I’m serious,” I said. “The least I can do is to try to find out the lay of the land with his nibs and report back.”
“Just be careful,” said Anne.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. Then I kissed Baby Tony, gave Ruby one last hysterics-inducing spin, and with a final goodbye, headed off to face the factory’s boss.
Mr. Terry, I was reliably informed, was a very busy man, with quite a short memory.
“I’m a very busy man,” he said. “What was it you wanted?”
I explained that I had written to him the previous week about the articles I was writing.
“Your women workers?” I prompted.
“Ah, that,” he said.
I smiled brightly, a hopefully winning effort that I had practiced on Bunty at home. It was a tricky thing to pull off. I needed to be taken seriously, while pandering to the ego of a middle-aged showy type and strictly avoiding looking flirtatious or giving the impression of being in awe.
As Bunty had said, it would be far easier if I could just hit him over the head with a brick and then forge his signature on whatever it was I wanted him to do for Anne and her friends. However, as this was real life and not a Laurel and Hardy picture, I found myself sitting stiffly on an uncomfortable leather chair in front of Mr. Terry’s large but neat desk.
For all his fast car and the appearance of a fast life, the Factory Director steered clear of ostentation in his office. The furniture, while of good quality, was functional rather than pretentious, and the overall appearance was of a recently formed gentlemen’s club, where the focus was on business rather than pleasure. There was a musky smell explained by the walnut cigar box on his desk, and the only thing that gave a nod to personal interest was a large, marbled Bakelite ashtray with Rolls-Royce printed on it. I wondered if visitors were supposed to assume Mr. Terry was a proud owner. Either way it had the air of a sales department Christmas gift.
“Mr. Terry,” I said, “everyone is delighted with the first article about your women workers. It is exactly the sort of thing they think will encourage more women to go into munitions.”
“Aha,” he said.
“Led, of course,” I added, not letting my smile slip, “by the Ministry.”
Mr. Terry looked rather more interested. “Yes, of course,” he said. “We very much welcome lady workers.”
“Excellent. Consequently, I thought it would be helpful to include something from you in one of our next features. A quote perhaps on why you value the women working here? We wouldn’t mention you by name, of course, as a security issue, but a word from the very top could really inspire.”
I opened my eyes slightly wider and looked expectant.
Mr. Terry came across as if I’d asked him to remember a particular brick in a wall. After all, there were so many, and they all looked the same.
“What do you think women contribute to the factory?” I prompted.
“They’re not bad,” said Mr. Terry. “Some of them can’t manage it. I don’t know what they expect. It’s a factory. But overall, they’ll do.”
Saying they would do didn’t strike me as inspiring anyone. I pressed on. “What would you say to women thinking about going into munitions? Would you say it is their patriotic duty?”
“Definitely. But productivity is the key,” he said, finally warming up. “We only want the good ones, who get their heads down. If they’re young and willing to put in the hours, it’s a great life. I don’t mind if they’re old, either, as long as they get on with the job.”
“That’s a super point about Patriotic Duty,” I said, writing it down as if he had come up with it on his own. “Thank you. And women of any age is very encouraging as well. Does it make a difference if they’re married or have children?”
I looked at him with what I hoped for all the world was a blank-faced interest, hanging on his every word.
“What do you mean?”
“Many of our readers are in that position. They’re very keen to make a contribution.”
“They’re all welcome,” he said. “As long as they don’t go making a fuss.”
I watched Mr. Terry closely. Sitting in his office, he was more guarded than when he had driven me in his car. More careful, perhaps, of what he was saying.
“What sort of fuss?” I asked. My smile was beginning to make my face ache.
Mr. Terry shifted in his chair and stared at me. “Do you really want my opinion?” he said.
“Of course.”
“Will you print it?”
“Only if you want me to.”
There was a soft tap on the door. It was Mr. Terry’s secretary, Mrs. Cleeve, whom I had met earlier, a large woman with a no-nonsense stare. “Your next meeting, Mr. Terry,” she began.
“Five minutes, Mrs. Cleeve,” he replied, and she backed out of the room. When the door was shut, Mr. Terry lit a cigarette from a case he took from his jacket. He did not offer me one, instead giving me a long stare. I smiled back, as pleasant as the day was long.
“Here’s what I think about women workers, Miss Lake,” he said, inhaling deeply. “If they work hard and produce as much as the men, and to the same standard, that’s fine. If your readers want to do their bit, earn good money, and help the boys, I’m all for them. The problem I have is when they expect special treatment. Asking for different shifts, or time off because Little Jimmy has a runny nose, or the butcher’s had a delivery and they want to leave early as they don’t want to miss out.” He sniffed. “You don’t have those problems with men. There’ll be the odd one who comes on shift drunk and you just sack him, but with the females, half of them have personal problems they bother my foremen with. Quite frankly there are far more important things to be getting on with.”
“I see. Perhaps if you had a Women’s Welfare Officer?” I said. “Or a Women’s Union? The Government is keen for all workers to be looked after.”
Mr. Terry stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it into the Rolls-Royce ashtray. “The Government wants to win the war, that’s what it wants. That’s what we should all want. You do realise that, don’t you?”
It was the second time in a matter of days that a man had told me how important winning the war was, as if I hadn’t a clue. It was beginning to grate. “I certainly do, Mr. Terry,” I said calmly. “And my understanding is that that is why they are recruiting more women to the Employment Agencies and as Welfare Officers. And of course, starting nurseries for women workers’ children. In fact on that point, I just wanted to ask—”
Mr. Terry snorted so loudly he drowned out what I was trying to say. “Don’t start on that,” he snapped. “We’re making armaments, not running a babysitting service.”
“But wouldn’t it help the women stop making a fuss, as you put it?” I said.
“We’re very good to our lady workers,” said Mr. Terry. “We’ve just put mirrors in all their lavatories.”
“And I believe they were thrilled,” I said.
“A year ago, we didn’t even have ladies’ lavatories,” said Mr. Terry defensively.
“But a Government Nursery wouldn’t cost you anything,” I said. “The Ministry of Labour and your Local Authority would sort it all out, if you told them you needed it.”
It came out in a rush, but I had done my homework. Mr. Terry did not appear impressed.
“What are you driving at, Miss Lake?” he said sharply. “I’ve agreed to see you to give you a quote, not to get the third degree. Has someone complained?”
I was still smiling, but my heart had sped up. “No one at all,” I said, realising it would be wise to pull back. “Mr. Terry, the women I’ve spoken to have had nothing but praise for their managers and the factory facilities. I also had several comments on the quality of the canteen, not to mention the fact they had been treated to Arthur Askey for free. No complaints whatsoever.” I put my notebook down on my lap. Even a gentle questioning of the factory amounted to criticising him.
“I only mentioned the Government Nurseries as we are working on an article about them.” I smiled. “They sound rather helpful.”
Mr. Terry grunted. “It’s nothing to do with me. If ladies’ other commitments mean they can’t do the job, then they shouldn’t apply.”
“But wouldn’t that mean the country missing out on thousands of excellent workers?” I said, failing to back down.
Mr. Terry’s argument didn’t make sense, and I was pretty sure he knew it. He didn’t look happy at all. I thought of my promise to Anne that I wouldn’t let her down.
“Mr. Terry,” I chirruped, “your factory and your women workers are an inspiration. Thank you very much indeed for seeing me today. I have some lovely words that I know our readers will find most stirring.”
Mr. Terry bit his lip thoughtfully as I put my things in my bag and stood up, smiling as confidently as I could while hoping I hadn’t pushed him too far. I extended my hand to shake his, and he slowly stood too. He was considerably taller and far bigger than me, but I kept my shoulders back and my chin up, and I didn’t move my arm until he somewhat reluctantly took my hand.
He didn’t quite shake it, though, but just held it firmly. “I look forward to your next article, Miss Lake,” he said. “As I am sure the Ministry will. I have many contacts within the various governmental departments. It will be interesting to hear their views on whether the ladies’ magazines actually help. Mrs. Cleeve will arrange for you to be escorted back to the station.”
“That’s very kind,” I said. “Thank you so much. I hope you will be happy with our next article.”
Mr. Terry nodded, finally letting go of my hand, which was a relief, and walking me towards the door. “Stick to writing stories for your ladies, Miss Lake. And leave me to run my factory.”
I thanked him again and wished him a good morning. My smile didn’t drop until I was well outside his office door.
At least now I knew.
Stick to writing stories for your ladies.
My foot, I would.
No wonder Maeve had said that nothing would change. Mr. Terry hadn’t the faintest interest in helping his female workers.
It was time to come up with a new plan.