by AJ Pearce
Contents
Congratulations
London: Late May 1941
London: Four Months Later
CHAPTER ONE: Everyone Must Do Their Bit
CHAPTER TWO: A Meeting with the Ministry
CHAPTER THREE: Trouble in the Lavatory
CHAPTER FOUR: My Dear Little Pickle
CHAPTER FIVE: Woman’s Friend Goes to War
CHAPTER SIX: Stitched Up Like a Kipper
CHAPTER SEVEN: We Always Welcome Ladies
CHAPTER EIGHT: They’re Better Than a Lot of the Men
CHAPTER NINE: It’s the Same Everywhere
CHAPTER TEN: Actually, I Don’t Want You To Shut Up
CHAPTER ELEVEN: You’d Better Crack On
CHAPTER TWELVE: Dear Yours Cheerfully
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Stick to Stories for Your Ladies
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Unmistakably Like a Bride
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: An Army Man and All That
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Miss Lake, Is It My Fault?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Comrade Baby Tony
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Just Go Without Me
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Stick To It and You Won’t Let Them Down
CHAPTER TWENTY: It’s a Good Thing Isn’t It?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Smile and Look Innocent
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: I Don’t Like People Who Pick On My Friends
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: A Surprise That Goes Wrong
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: It Gives Me Nearly Four Hours
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Mr Collins Returns
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: All Aboard
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: I Want to Tell You About My Husband
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Demonstrations Are Not Allowed
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: A Nice Idea to Split Up
CHAPTER THIRTY: I’ve Got a Bride in the Back of the Van
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: The Best Wedding Present Ever
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Woman’s Friend
Acknowledgements
For my friends.
The heart and soul of Emmy and Bunty.
Congratulations
Letter to Woman magazine, 12 September 1942
May I congratulate all married women who are at present doing war work as well as running their own homes?
At present my wife and child are away from home, and every evening on returning from work I face washing, cooking, scrubbing, sweeping, and all the other household jobs which are normally my wife’s province. In my splendid isolation I marvel at the spirit of those astonishing women who can do all their household duties week after week, plus war work, and still look fresh and cheerful.
Truly, never has so much been done by so many for so little appreciation. —J. L. (Sydenham)
London
Late May 1941
AS MR COLLINS called a start to the Woman’s Friend editorial meeting, to anyone watching, it was a perfectly normal Monday morning affair. Kathleen had handed out the agenda, each member of staff had a folder full of their notes, and as usual, Mrs Bussell had brought teas up to the fifth floor despite the stairs playing havoc with her unpredictable leg.
‘Might I ask, why are you all staring?’ said Mr Collins. He looked down at his waistcoat. ‘Do I have something on my tie? I haven’t seen a fried egg in weeks.’
The entire Woman’s Friend team burst into applause.
‘Congratulations!’ said Kathleen and I at the same time.
‘Hurrah!’ cried Mr Newton, as if Hitler had just taken a knock.
Mr Collins continued to look baffled. ‘Hello?’ he said, as if he was struggling with a disappointing telephone connection.
Mrs Mahoney patted his arm, fondly. ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘We’re all ever so pleased.’
‘Lovely news,’ said Mr Brand in his quiet voice.
Mr Collins looked none the wiser.
‘About becoming our new Editor,’ I prompted.
‘Ah, that,’ he said, looking embarrassed. ‘Well, yes. Thank you, everyone. Bit of a turn up. Didn’t think it was my bag.’
‘Now you’re just being daft,’ said Mrs Mahoney. ‘With respect,’ she added quickly, remembering Mr Collins’ new Very Senior Role.
‘None needed,’ he replied quite happily. ‘Nothing will change. Mrs Bird was hardly ever in the office, so you probably won’t notice a difference. On the other hand, I hope, perhaps some.’
He paused and gave me A Look. It was only the third day of my probation, after all.
‘So far, so good,’ he smiled. ‘Plenty of time for a catastrophe, of course. Don’t worry, Mr Newton, I was only joking.’
Mr Newton, our Advertising Manager, had gone pale. He was very good at his job but did tend to look on the disastrous side of life.
I felt myself flush. My first six months in magazine publishing had not gone entirely to plan, due to what my mother had called Some Unfortunate Hiccups That Couldn’t Be Helped. It was very nice of her to put it that way, but not wholly true, as my father had remarked at the time.
‘I don’t wish to be unkind, Elizabeth,’ he’d said to her. ‘But I think Mrs Bird could be of the opinion that the Unfortunate Hiccup might actually be Emmy, herself.’
He did have a point.
Mrs Henrietta Bird had been Woman’s Friend’s longest-serving agony aunt and Acting Editress, and as the new Junior, part of my job had been to open readers’ letters so that she could answer their problems. It had sounded straightforward enough, but I had struggled to come to terms with Mrs Bird’s approach to giving advice, which was slightly in the manner of Attila the Hun. It didn’t matter that since the start of the war many of our readers had been through the most dreadful time; kindness was rarely her first port of call.
It was fair to say that Mrs Bird and I had not exactly got on.
Mr Collins, on the other hand, had been terrifically decent all round, and I was delighted he would now be in charge.
‘Thank you for your kind words,’ he said. ‘While I promise I will do my very best to give the Editor job a good bash, I’m afraid we do have a slight problem now that Mrs Bird has left us to join Livestock and Pet.’
The celebratory atmosphere disappeared in a flash. The threat of a blank page was unthinkable. But Mr Collins was reassuringly calm.
‘Clearly,’ he continued, ‘we need a new “Henrietta Helps”. I realise it is urgent, but perhaps we should take the opportunity to try to find someone who doesn’t actively terrify the readers.’
Everyone nodded their heads.
I said ‘Absolutely,’ and Kathleen joined in with, ‘Too right,’ and then Mr Newton used the moment to say, ‘There is a war on,’ in a grave voice, as if some of us had not yet cottoned on.
‘I’ve looked at trying to take someone from one of the other magazines,’ said Mr Collins. ‘But frankly, we can’t afford them, so I’d like to know who you think could do the job. Perhaps one of our existing contributors? Nurse McClay, for example.’
Nurse McClay was in charge of the Woman’s Friend ‘Mother and Baby Club’, and took a similar approach to Mrs Bird, only with a syringe.
‘She’s awfully busy with her baby advice,’ said Kathleen.
‘And she puts the fear of God into the mothers,’ said Mrs Mahoney, less diplomatically.
Kath nodded. ‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘Nurse McClay once told me that after the age of five, people are either quite sensible or absolute idiots. If you haven’t sorted them out by then, there’s nothing more you can do about it, so you might as well just leave them by the side of a road.’
‘Good grief,’ said Mr Collins. ‘Perhaps Livestock and Pet could do with a nurse.’
‘Mrs Croft is very nice,’ said Mr Brand of our cookery editor. ‘Although “What’s In The Hotpot?” does tak
e up her time.’
‘And her husband’s not very well,’ said Kath. ‘So she’s struggling as it is.’
‘Well, we certainly don’t want to add to that,’ said Mr Collins. For someone who always said he understood books far better than people, he was secretly enormously sympathetic at heart.
‘I’m sure we can find a new advice lady,’ said Mrs Mahoney, who was in charge of Production and known for her practical bent. ‘It’s not hard if you know what you’re doing. A bit of guidance and some sympathy, and most people will cheer up.’ She looked around the table. ‘You could do it yourself, Mr Collins, except for the fact you’re a man.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Collins, taking the blow in his stride. ‘I do apologise, Mrs Mahoney. It is a failing we must all try to bear.’
Mrs Mahoney gave him an understanding look. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said generously, and as if there was a possibility it could be. ‘Women are just better at being helpful, that’s all. Look at Hitler. No help to anyone outside of himself. I’d like to see him raise four daughters all on his own and make sure they’re happily married to good sorts. That’d shut him up.’
Mr Collins paused, tapped the end of his pen against his teeth and then smiled at her. At first, I thought it was because Mrs Mahoney had come up with her own plan to stop the world’s most obnoxious dictator where so far all of Europe’s leaders had failed, but it turned out it had given him an idea.
‘As ever, Mrs Mahoney, you are absolutely right. In fact, I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it myself. The answer is right under our noses.’
Mrs Mahoney frowned.
‘There you are, with four daughters, all excellent young women, all happy in their lives, having had the best possible support, growing up. What finer qualification? Your advice would be better than anyone’s. How about it? I can see it now: “Mrs Mahoney Helps”.’
Mrs Mahoney looked horrified. ‘But I’m Production,’ she said. ‘I don’t write. I organise. I like organising. I don’t like writing.’
Mr Collins’ face fell. ‘Not even to help out?’ he asked, looking sad.
For all Mrs Mahoney quite worshipping the ground Mr Collins walked on, she was nobody’s fool. An experienced and highly respected woman in her fifties, she was as sharp as a pin, and knew a set-up when she saw one. ‘Not even if you open your eyes as wide as soup plates and butter me up like a good’n,’ she said, as if he wasn’t her boss, but a slightly errant son-in-law trying it on.
‘I have an idea,’ said Kathleen.
‘There you are,’ said Mrs Mahoney, before Kath could say what it was.
‘What about Emmy?’ said Kath. ‘What if she did the writing? For Mrs Mahoney, I mean,’ she added quickly, as everyone looked at her as if she was mad. After all it was my fault Mrs Bird had decided to leave in the first place. In her view, in light of The Unfortunate Hiccups, I should have been sacked.
But Kath was terrifically level-headed and I could see she was being given the benefit of the doubt.
‘Emmy could open the letters the way she always did for Mrs Bird, then get Mrs Mahoney’s advice on each one and type it up,’ Kath continued, turning to the Head of Production, her eyes even bigger than Mr Collins’. ‘Honestly, Mrs Mahoney, you wouldn’t have to write anything. Just tell Emmy what you’d advise, and then check what she has written to make sure you’re happy. It would be smashing. Kindly and cheerful and just like getting a letter back from someone you really trust. A real change from before. We could call it “Yours, Mrs Mahoney”.’
My friend had made it sound wonderfully simple. Everyone waited while Mrs Mahoney considered things, and Kath adopted the most hopeful face imaginable. Turning her down would be like thumping a kitten. Mrs Mahoney was not the thumping a kitten type.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Put like that. But I wouldn’t want to have my name or picture on it. I shouldn’t want that at all.’
Almost all magazines had a picture of their advice columnist.
Mr Collins leapt in. ‘Of course not, not if you don’t want to. We can do a silhouette.’
Mrs Mahoney looked doubtful and put her hand to her face.
‘And we can call it something different,’ he said. ‘Whatever you want. We could do it as a trial and if you don’t like it, we’ll find someone else.’
Mr Collins gave a devil may care shrug for added nonchalance which nearly made me laugh. I could tell he was as keen as anything for her to take the job.
I didn’t dare say a word. I loved Kath’s idea.
Mrs Mahoney was exactly the sort of person you would turn to if in a fix. And I desperately wanted to be part of the problem page again.
I crossed my fingers tightly under the table. I had seen more than enough letters from readers to know how much help was needed. Although the bombing had recently eased off and our readers were not spending quite so much time in air-raid shelters, life was far from a breeze, in fact for most people it was still downright hard. If Mrs Mahoney were to answer the readers’ letters, Woman’s Friend could really live up to its name.
Mrs Mahoney took a deep breath. ‘Well,’ she said, slowly, ‘if you really think it would help.’
‘Enormously,’ said Mr Collins, taking this as a Firm Yes. ‘Enormously. Thank you very much, Mrs Mahoney. You have made my day, and I should think, everyone else’s. Including, if I can presume, Emmy’s too?’
He threw me a quizzical look.
‘How do you fancy working with Mrs Mahoney on this?’ he asked. ‘All above board.’
He said it lightly, but I was very much aware it was a chance to prove myself, to show that after my more than wobbly start at Woman’s Friend, I could really make a go of things. I had mucked up with “Henrietta Helps” but now I had a real chance to redeem myself.
‘Yes, please,’ I said, and then turned to Mrs Mahoney. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind?’
Mrs Mahoney gave me an encouraging smile but raised a finger in warning. ‘No silly business,’ she said. ‘Or making up answers all on your own. We shall work together as a team.’ She turned to Mr Collins. ‘Emmy is already quite busy as it is. If needed, could she work longer hours?’
It was a thoughtful question. I had joined the magazine as a part-time Junior, fitting it in with my voluntary job as a telephonist for the Fire Service, where I was on shifts. I had always worked more than my official hours at Woman’s Friend as we were a small team and everyone had to muck in. I didn’t mind a bit. I wanted to learn.
Writing up Mrs Mahoney’s advice, though, rather than just opening the letters as I had done for Mrs Bird, would definitely take up more of my time.
We both looked at Mr Collins.
‘A very good point,’ he said. ‘Can you spare us more time, Emmy? I don’t want your Station Captain accusing us of getting in the way of your work for him.’
‘I’m sure Captain Davies won’t mind,’ I said, quickly.
‘Excellent,’ said Mr Collins. ‘Mrs Mahoney, are you happy with everything?’
Mrs Mahoney pursed her lips and thought.
‘Yes, Mr Collins,’ she said. ‘I am. But it mustn’t get in the way of my production work. What do you think, Mr Brand?’
Our Art Director, Mr Brand, worked closely with Mrs Mahoney. Always more at home with pictures than words, throughout the meeting he had been quietly sketching, as usual slightly in his own world.
‘I’m all for it, Mrs Mahoney,’ he said, gently. Then he repeated Kath’s words. ‘“Written kindly and cheerfully, like getting a letter from someone you trust.” But not with your name, of course.’ He looked at his sketch book and then held it up for us all to see. ‘Just an initial idea, but perhaps something like this might look nice?’
It was the simplest illustration, just a few strokes of his pencil, showing an outline of a woman, clearly Mrs Mahoney, sitting at a desk reading a letter. Mr Brand had added a title for the page in a large friendly script.
Yours Cheerfully . . .
Woman’s Frie
nd is Here to Help
Everyone looked at him and then to Mr Collins.
‘It’s perfect, Mr Brand,’ he said, smiling. ‘As ever, you have summed it up beautifully.’
The new Editor looked at Mrs Mahoney and me.
‘Here’s to our new problem page,’ he declared, before Mrs Mahoney could have second thoughts. ‘I’m very pleased indeed. In fact, we must celebrate. Could somebody go out and find us some buns?’ He put his hand in his pocket and fished out half a crown.
Now we all cheered.
‘Well done, everyone,’ said Mr Collins, over the noise. ‘“Yours Cheerfully” it is.’
London
Four Months Later
CHAPTER ONE
Everyone Must Do Their Bit
IT WAS TWO minutes to nine on a mild late-September morning and Mr Collins was in danger of being on time. The entire editorial team looked at each other with some astonishment as we heard the doors to the Woman’s Friend office crash open, and our Editor march down the corridor whistling an upbeat big-band number which took everyone even more by surprise.
‘Gracious,’ said Mrs Mahoney, looking at her wristwatch.
‘That’s odd,’ said Kathleen.
‘Perhaps something bad has happened,’ said Mr Newton, looking simultaneously mournful and ecstatic at his dramatic thought.
‘Good morning,’ said Mr Collins, swinging into the journalists’ room as if his being prompt was perfectly normal and happened all the time, or even ever. ‘All well, I trust?’
We nodded and managed a collective Good Morning and Yes, Thank You although it came out feebly due to the punctuality shock.
‘It’s before nine o’clock,’ I said. ‘Mr Collins, you’re never here before nine o’clock.’
Mr Collins laughed, said, ‘Slanderous,’ and took off his hat and jacket, before sitting at the head of the table. In the four months he had been in charge, Mr Collins had never managed to join us any earlier than at least a quarter past.
‘Lots to get through,’ said Mr Collins, happily. ‘I say, is that a Peek Frean? Mrs Bussell has excelled herself.’