Three days later, Charles returned to his unit, and by Boxing Day he was on his way overseas. Our time together had been glorious, although after he’d gone, I did occasionally check my left hand to see if I really did have a wedding ring. I was newly married but without a husband, and therefore in exactly the same boat as thousands of other girls. I decided to look at it as a badge of honour.
We spent our honeymoon in a quiet little hotel in Surrey. It was far enough from London to feel like a trip away and close enough to where Charles was stationed so that we could leave it to the very last minute to say goodbye.
Every single moment of our stay had been a joy.
Parting, on the other hand, was awful. I wasn’t keen on goodbyes at the best of times, but this was the absolute worst.
Charles and I went to the railway station together so as not to spoil the lovely memories of the hotel. I also hoped that putting on a brave face might be less difficult in public. I wasn’t going to let either Charles or myself down by crying, but that was easier said than done.
Charles’ train was the first to arrive, adding insult to injury by being on time.
“Here we are then,” I said heartily, even though my chest felt as if someone was standing on it.
“Right you are,” said Charles equally vigorously. Then he broke ranks on the chipper front. “Damn it,” he said under his breath.
I had been doing quite well until that. Now I couldn’t trust myself to speak.
For our last seconds together as the train came into the station, we held on to each other as hard as we could.
“I love you, my darling,” said Charles. “More than anything else in the world. Never forget that, will you?”
I pulled back to look at him.
“I love you too,” I said.
Then he was gone.
I waved until after the train was out of sight, and then I stood in the middle of the platform staring at the empty track until I felt a hand on my arm.
“Well done you,” said a well-dressed lady in a long blue coat. “It’s hell, isn’t it?”
A horrid great tear ran down my cheek. I hastily wiped it away.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” I said as another tear threatened to jump ship as well.
“You didn’t,” she said. “You did tremendously well, and that’s the picture he’ll remember while he’s away—your smile and how lovely you are. Now, if you’re waiting for the London train, shall we sit in the ladies’ waiting room? It’s awfully chilly today.”
The lady’s name was Mrs. Ives. I would remember her kindness for a very long time. She chatted to me and asked questions, and told me it was quite all right not to try to be Boadicea all the time as it was impossible to keep up. Sometimes you just had to give in to the odd watery day.
“You should have seen me in the first war when my husband went off to the Front,” she said. “I didn’t know what to do with myself. But saying goodbye is the worst part, I always think.” She patted my arm. “He’s a crotchety old major now who’s been in a terrible mood ever since war broke out, as he can’t go and fight. I’m expecting a medal for having to put up with him.”
You could tell that Mrs. Ives loved the old Major to bits.
When our train arrived, we talked all the way to London, and as we parted and wished each other good luck, it was as if a friend rather than a stranger had popped up at exactly the moment I needed them.
On Christmas Day, Hong Kong fell to the Japanese. Even the British newspapers found it hard to make anything positive of it, and while Charles hadn’t told me where he was being posted, it was a very gloomy start to the New Year.
My answer to the gloom was to write letters to him every day and throw myself back into my work.
After the march for nurseries, there had been a small flurry of activity. The pictorial paper kept to its word and printed a piece on “Nurseries for Women Workers” and included the photograph Bunty had taken of Anne bending down to adjust Ruby’s crown. Bunts had captured the moment when Anne was caring for her little girl while still pushing Tony in his pram. You could clearly see the sign saying MY MUMMY WANTS TO HELP WIN THE WAR. It couldn’t have been better.
Although Chandlers hadn’t been named, Anne’s local Gazette had picked up on the story, using another photograph by Bunty and causing a momentary stir. Several members of the public who had been at the march guessed which factory the women were from and said they were going to write to the person in charge to say they sided with the women. It was a step in the right direction.
Mr. Adams, the Public Relations Manager, was no fool. Just a handful of female workers had managed to get themselves in the papers, and a policeman had ordered the man from the council to meet with them. Mr. Adams had also seen the response of the crowd. Sacking patriotic women war workers at Christmas would not be a good move.
Anne phoned on Boxing Day to tell me that Chandlers had offered her her old job back.
“Well done,” I said, feeling surprised. “What did you say?”
“I asked them for a decent reference and to take the sacking off my record,” said Anne. “I don’t want to go back only to see Mr. Rice have a seizure every time I clock in. And more to the point, nothing has changed. Mum would still struggle with the children and I’d be back in the same position.”
It was a brave stand, especially as Anne was now out of work, and I admired her resolve. Since the march, she sounded just like when we first met, if not stronger. No one was going to mess her around now.
“It helps that Betty’s moved in,” she said. “She’s going to pay a little bit of rent and pitch in with the children while I’m looking for work, depending on her shifts. She’s sharing my room, so we’ll be horribly squashed, and Ruby will drive her crackers, but Betty hates her landlady and says she’ll stay at least until I’m back on my feet. And she’s pushing the union at Chandlers to let women join. We’re not giving in.”
Not everything, however, was a fairy tale. Irene had had to move back in with her mother in the West Midlands. They didn’t like each other one little bit, but on a widow’s pension and struggling to find work, Irene hadn’t a choice. Everyone felt dreadful about it, but there was nothing they could do.
“There are thousands of girls in the same spot,” said Anne. “It’s an absolute disgrace.”
“I’m writing to our MP again,” Bunty had promised. “He’s becoming the worst pen pal ever, as he never manages to write back.”
Bunty was on good form all round. Two weeks into January, the weather seemed to think it would be funny to give everyone another challenge by becoming horribly cold and snowing heavily. Bunty and I spent as much time as possible in the kitchen as it was warm, and when we went out to work, thick boots and several layers were in order. We happily relived the wedding and the party, especially remembering the food, and just when we thought we’d run out of things to talk about, Thelma or Fred or Roy would call round and we’d start all over again. Roy now called Bunty Ginger Rogers and joked that he was holding a grudge, as she had danced with Charles and Jack, but not him. Bunty called his bluff by turning on the wireless and asking him for a turn around the kitchen. He was delighted to oblige.
At Woman’s Friend, now that the factory series had finished, I had been researching other areas of war work to cover. The Ministry’s recruitment campaign was still in full swing, and we were keen not to be a flash in the pan. In between spending more time than ever in railway sidings, trying to get access to obscure training grounds for the WAAF, or to interview new recruits to the Women’s Land Army in a field in the back of beyond, I found Yours Cheerfully was taking up most of my time. Every week, the number of letters seemed to double. I couldn’t write replies fast enough, and the leaflets we printed were gone as soon as they came in. Circulation was up, and as Mrs. Mahoney was busy keeping up with Production, I was more than happy to look after the readers’ letters almost entirely on my own.
On a very dark Wednesday afternoon, Kath and I were putting on our coats and woolly hats, ready to take on the snow and leave for the day. I’d had a letter from Anne that morning, which had been jam-packed with news.
“Apparently,” I said as Kath adjusted her new tam-o’-shanter to try to cover her ears, “Betty says the local authority reckon it will take them two months to contact the Ministry of Health just to ask if they will have a meeting about getting Chandlers a nursery. Two months. For a meeting!”
“How is Anne?” asked Kath.
“She’s doing well,” I said. “She’s got an interview for a job working as the Women’s Officer at the Labour Exchange. Nine to five hours and everything.”
“Good for her,” said Kath. “I’m so glad it’s gone well.”
“So am I,” I said. “Even if getting anything done is like pulling teeth.”
I tutted crossly as Mr. Collins came in.
“Who’s the sticking point?” he asked.
“The Ministries and local authorities,” I said forcefully. “Anne’s not getting anywhere very fast. And we’ve had three letters to Yours Cheerfully in the last week from women who say they’ve read about the Government Nurseries, but no one has a clue how to get one. I’m still trying to work out what to say in response.”
“Can I show you something?” said Mr. Collins. “Sorry, I know it’s the end of the day, but I’ve just seen it myself.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, realising my vehemence was no way to speak to one’s boss, new brother-in-law or not.
He turned to Kath. “I’ll only keep Emmy a minute, unless you’re in a rush to get home.”
“Not at all. I’ll wait,” said Kath. “We’re going to the cinema.”
“Very nice,” said Mr. Collins as I followed him into his office, where his desk was covered in a large mock-up of a page for the magazine.
“I’ve been working on something and want to know what you think,” he said. “I thought it could go on page three instead of the usual rather dull welcome from me. I think Mr. Brand has made it look very nice. Go ahead, have a look.”
He stood back as I bent over the desk to look more closely.
There, under a large heading, Woman’s Friend to Friend, was a new page full of letters. At the top of it, it said, Government Nurseries—What’s the Holdup?
I looked at him in surprise.
“I’ve used letters we already had from readers,” Mr. Collins explained. “If we do the page, topics could range from anything—from the nurseries issue to tips on darning socks. Seriously, a real mix of things, but the Editor’s letter will highlight any significant issues we think are causing the most concern. This first one just explains the page.”
I began to read his piece.
Welcome to our new page, Woman’s Friend to Friend. This is your page—it belongs entirely to you, our readers. It’s here for you to get things off your chest—talk about what’s bothering you or share your favourite helpful ideas.
Why the change?
I would like to tell you that the other day a wise friend of mine, a young woman not afraid of making a stand, said to me that as well as doing one’s bit, she felt it terrifically important to stick together and stand up for each other, now more than ever.
I must say I agree. We’re in this together, and while no one likes moaners, that doesn’t mean we have to take everything sitting down! We want to share your thoughts and questions on how we can make things better for each other, both while we are at war, and on that wonderful day we know is coming, when the world is free again.
We at Woman’s Friend know that you are all working your socks off to help the war effort and make sure we win the war, so we want you to have your say about the things that matter the most to you.
I very much hope you like our, or rather, your new page. Woman’s Friend to Friend. Please feel free to write in and let me know what you think.
I look forward to hearing from you. Yours,
The Editor
I could hardly believe what I had read.
Woman’s Friend was joining the call for Government Nurseries and asking our readers to air their views in the magazine!
“If you think it hits the right note, I plan to run this in the next issue,” Mr. Collins said. “I think it could go down quite well. As you’ve been saying all along, it’s about time we started sticking up for the readers.”
It was the most splendid news.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said. “Thank you.”
Mr. Collins smiled. “It was your idea,” he replied. “I just took some time to get there. Bit slow. It’s my age. Far too old. Oh, and I have this for you.” He handed me an envelope. “You can open it now if you like.”
Dear Mrs. Mayhew,
It is with pleasure that I confirm your promotion with immediate effect to Readers and Advice Editor for Woman’s Friend magazine. Your duties will include full responsibility for the page Yours Cheerfully together with reader-interest-based features and articles…
For the second time in a matter of minutes, I gaped at my boss.
“It’s a new role,” he said, “but I assure you it is real, not a made-up one this time.”
“Seriously?” I said, still at a loss.
“Seriously,” he confirmed. “And before you ask, no, it isn’t nepotism. You thoroughly deserve it and I’m delighted for you. Are you going to say anything?”
Now he was smiling broadly.
“Thank you again,” I managed. I very much wanted to give him a hug, although even with my head spinning, I realised this was entirely inappropriate in a work setting. It was still early days on the boss/brother-in-law front and a tricky one to navigate around. “And by the way, you’re not old,” I said. “You can’t be, not if we’re related.”
“Ha!” said Mr. Collins. “Sometimes I feel it. I’m going to go home in a minute and have a quiet sit-down.”
“That sounds awful,” I said. “We should be celebrating. Come with us to the cinema. We’re meeting Bunty and having an early dinner first.” I looked at my wristwatch. It was a quarter past five. “As my brother-in-law,” I said, “not Mr. Collins. It’s after work hours now.”
Navigational concerns solved in one blow.
“That’s very kind, Emmy,” he said. “But I hardly think you’d want me…”
“ ‘A very wise friend of mine said it’s terrifically important to stick together,’ ” I quoted back at him. “That doesn’t come with an age limit.”
Before he could say anything else, I went to the door. “Kath,” I called, “would it be just too awful if we took a grumpy old editor with us tonight?”
“We don’t know any grumpy old editors,” she shouted back. “Only occasionally grumpy, really quite young ones. I wouldn’t mind if they came along.”
Mr. Collins, or now that it was after five o’clock, Guy, looked at a loss, but quite pleased at the same time.
“If you’re absolutely sure,” he said.
I nodded. Of course I was.
I paused for a moment.
“You do know that Charles told me I have to look after you, don’t you?” I said.
Guy nodded. “I thought he might. And you do know he said the same thing to me about you? And about Bunty. And then a really quite extensive list of what turned out to be nearly everyone I’d met at your wedding.”
We both laughed. My darling boy.
“Well then, you’re lumbered,” I said. “There’ll be no shaking us off now, even if you want to.”
“I wouldn’t dream of trying,” he answered.
“Good,” I said, “then that’s agreed. Now, would you mind if we get going? I am told that Humphrey Bogart waits for no man, and as I think you’re probably going to get used to, neither do Bunty or Kath!”
Feeling more cheerful than I had done for weeks, I carefully tucked the letter away and began to do up my coat.
Charles knew, of course, that we would all look after each other while he was away.
“I have complete faith that everyone will be fine,” he’d said, “despite the fact I am entirely aware you won’t be able to resist the odd challenge, should it crop up.”
I smiled and thought of my notebook, which, as ever, was crammed with jotted-down thoughts.
“About the new job,” I said to his brother. “If you have a spare minute tomorrow, I’m awfully keen to tell you some of my ideas.”