by AJ Pearce
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Maeve. ‘But we’re not the only ones. My cousin works in munitions up past Birmingham and it’s the same there. As I say, they just haven’t thought things through.’
‘Mind you,’ said Anne, ‘I’m not sure a Government Nursery is ready for my Ruby. Unless it’s run by the police.’
Everyone laughed, although no one actually disputed it, and I took the opportunity to ask how the children were. Anne had been right about not mentioning Irene Barker until I had got to know the others a little. The tone of our discussion had certainly changed.
Perhaps Anne was aware of this as she began to say how Ruby was keen on next door’s rabbits and now wanted one of her own. Conversation became lighter again and with more than enough food for thought on my part, I stopped asking questions and joined in with the chat.
As Workers’ Playtime came to an end with a song and then a cheering message from Vera Lynn, a piercing whistle sounded which was the sign for everyone to go back to their work. Perfectly on cue, Mr Rice appeared in the canteen. He was looking less apoplectic than when we had left him, although Anne and her friends stopped talking as soon as he came over.
‘Well, ladies,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ve given Miss Lake the information she needs.’
‘Oh, yes. Everyone has been enormously helpful,’ I said, beaming at him. ‘They are an absolute credit. Mr Terry must be very proud of such a committed workforce.’
Betty who was sitting next to me, innocently smiled at Mr Rice and started humming ‘Our Mr Terry’ under her breath. The rest of us tried to ignore her although Violet looked as if she was going to burst.
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Rice, in quite the most neutral voice I had ever heard. He took his fob watch out. ‘Isn’t your photographer supposed to be here soon?’
I said that he was due any minute now, as my new friends took the hint and began to gather up their trays. I knew they all wanted to find out about Irene.
I thanked them all profusely for their help. I had much to be grateful for. Anne and her friends had given me the sort of honest views I would never get from official information.
My challenge now was what to do with it.
As Anne and her friends left the canteen Mr Rice said he would show me back to reception to wait for the photographer.
‘Mr Rice,’ I said, as we walked back down the corridor, ‘what is your view on children in the factory?’
Mr Rice looked at my notepad as my hand hovered over it, ready to write. ‘Are you from a women’s magazine, or the Daily Herald?’ he said, shortly.
I softened my approach. ‘It’s just that shift work and all the travelling looks quite hard if you have a family?’
‘That’s why conscription is for unmarried women,’ said Mr Rice, which was rich, seeing as Chandlers must have had hundreds of mothers working right under his nose.
‘But it’s not just about conscription, Mr Rice, is it? A lot of married women have to work, don’t they? Especially if their husband has gone.’ I thought of Anne. ‘And you’ve said yourself that they are really pulling their weight.’
I waited, hoping I hadn’t pushed my luck. I now knew full well that Mr Terry had allowed my visit as he thought it would make Chandlers – and him – look good. I hadn’t been allowed in to ask difficult questions. More to the point, I didn’t want Mr Rice thinking that Anne and her friends had been trying to use my interview to make any sort of demands. I thought quickly. ‘I don’t wish to speak out of turn,’ I said, before he could answer. ‘I’m just concerned about the children I saw.’
Mr Rice sucked his teeth. Finally, he spoke. ‘Miss Lake,’ he said, evenly, ‘all you need to tell your readers is that our sole aim is to do everything we can to help win the war, and that that is what we will do if more of them work for us and the other munitions factories. Now, after your photographer has finished, what time is your train?’
He hadn’t gone red and didn’t even sound cross, in fact he was peculiarly mild, considering the fury he’d been in earlier.
Then the penny dropped. This may have been my very first assignment, but I’d bet a week’s wages Mr Rice had been speaking to Mr Terry’s Public Relations Manager. Mr Rice may not have been Mr Terry’s biggest fan, but when it came to it, he was very much a company man. I felt like a rather green young boxer who had ambled into a ring unprepared.
Luckily, he hadn’t quite knocked me straight out. There would be lots more rounds to go.
‘They’re every hour,’ I said, pleasantly. ‘But Mr Terry said we would speak again.’
Mr Rice looked at me as if I had said that the Factory Director had offered to buy me a pony.
‘I think you’ve had your chance there,’ he said. ‘He’s a very busy man.’
So much for Mr Terry’s big show this morning.
‘I quite understand,’ I said, smoothly. ‘You and the ladies have been more helpful than I can say.’
A phone rang which was answered by Mrs Noakes, who then informed Mr Rice that Security at the main gate needed him to come and sort out a funny-looking chap with a camera.
Mr Rice made one of his Hmmf noises and told me to come with him, so I dutifully followed as he began to talk about tool shops. My mind, however, had already turned to the article I was planning to write. What if Maeve was right and the women of Chandlers weren’t the only munition workers feeling the strain? I thought of “Yours Cheerfully”. There had certainly been letters about war work, but had I taken them seriously enough, or had I been concentrating too much on the lovelorn and romantically baffled?
Who exactly was I trying to help? The Ministry I was so desperate to impress, or the readers I had promised to do everything I could to support?
‘Do you have what you need for your magazine now?’ asked Mr Rice.
‘Very much so,’ I said. ‘I have lots to be getting on with for now, thank you.’
I gave him my best professional, yet approachable smile and said nothing more.
I was thinking what to do with the information I was sure the Ministry would want me to leave out.
CHAPTER TEN
Actually, I Don’t Want You To Shut Up
‘DARLING,’ SAID MY mother, ‘I’ll put a penny to a pound that nothing has changed since factories in the last war. Thousands of perfectly capable women being managed by a lot of silly old men without an ounce of sense between them. Don’t start me.’
Father gave Bunty a look as if to say, ‘Too Late’, and she stifled a smile. It was the weekend after my visit to Chandlers, and Bunts and I were visiting my parents in Hampshire, as it was my mother’s birthday. As was always the case, we had been greeted with open arms. My parents had known Bunty since she was tiny, and she was as much a part of the family as my brother and me.
‘The problem is,’ continued Mother, sitting on the sofa in a new cardigan and hardly giving the impression of leading a workers’ revolt, ‘that most men haven’t the faintest idea how to cope with women in an industrial setting.’
She glanced at my father. ‘Alfred, you’re making a face.’
‘My face can’t help it,’ said Father, fondly.
My mother turned to Bunty.
‘When I was working in the first war, I gave the men in charge some suggestions on how I thought things could be done a little better. They weren’t enormously keen.’
‘What was wrong with them?’ said Bunty. ‘Idiots.’
‘Thank you,’ said my mother, squeezing Bunty’s hand. ‘I knew you’d understand.’
‘And the moral of the story,’ said my father, grinning, and gesticulating with his pipe in a learned way, ‘is that this is where Emmy gets her somewhat direct approach from. Chip off the old block.’
‘Hurrah!’ I said.
‘Hear, hear,’ added Bunty.
Mother smiled at us all. She knew Father worshipped the ground she walked on.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘It’s the best present I
could have had.’
‘It can’t be,’ I said. ‘We’ve brought proper ones.’ I handed over a small package. ‘These are from me. I made them.’
‘You shouldn’t have, darling,’ said Mother, untying the string as I watched with anticipation. I had worked on them all week. ‘Thank you very much. You’ve knitted something splendid. I love them.’ She looked up at me. ‘What are they?’
‘Mother, they’re mittens,’ I said, trying not to look crestfallen. Knitting was not my forte.
‘Of course they are!’ cried Mother. ‘Now I can see it. Thank you. Look, Alfred. Mittens. Just what I wanted. I shall wear them to church. Which hand is which?’
She started to try them on. Even though I had unpicked them both several times, one was still considerably larger than the other.
‘I’ve done a matching hat,’ said Bunty, giving my mother her present. Bunty could knit in her sleep. ‘Emmy did the pompom,’ she added, loyally.
‘Yikes,’ said Father.
‘Alfred, stop teasing,’ said Mother happily. She held out her mittened hands, one of which was now the size of a hot-water bottle. ‘I love them. And we know Emmy is awful at knitting, so it makes them all the more special.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, unsure exactly as to why.
‘Now,’ said Mother. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Ten past eleven,’ I said. It was the third time she had asked in an hour. ‘Are you expecting someone?’
‘Absolutely not,’ she replied.
There was a loud knock on the front door.
‘That can’t be for me,’ said Mother. ‘Emmy, would you go and see who it is, please?’
‘It’s probably a patient for Daddy,’ I said, getting up.
‘I’ll be there right away,’ said my father, not moving an inch from his armchair.
I made my way out of the living room and down the hall. Even though it was a Saturday, my father, a doctor, would always see people if they needed him. It was probably someone with a colicky baby, or a grateful patient with something from their vegetable garden as a thank you.
Tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear, I opened the heavy front door, thinking how nice it would be to be greeted by a bunch of parsnips.
But it was something even better than parsnips.
‘Hello, Em,’ said the man on the doorstep, taking off his army cap.
‘CHARLES!’ I shouted. I hadn’t a clue what he was doing here. I threw myself into his arms. We hadn’t seen each other in weeks.
‘Am I interrupting?’ he asked as he kissed me and then hugged me into his chest. ‘I heard there was a birthday.’
‘You rat,’ I said, taking his hand and dragging him into the house. ‘You kept this quiet.’
Charles laughed as we went into the living room and everyone got up to greet him. Bunty was as surprised as me to see him, but my father shook his hand warmly and Mother admitted they had known all along.
‘Many happy returns, Mrs Lake,’ said Charles, handing her a pot of jam. ‘My landlady said I couldn’t come empty-handed. It’s plum. I hope that’s all right.’
‘It’s my favourite,’ said Mother, which I was fairly sure wasn’t true, but I knew how much she liked him. ‘Thank you.’
‘How long do you have off?’ I asked Charles, still in a delight at seeing him.
‘Just this afternoon, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘It was late notice and as I knew you were visiting your parents, I phoned up and they very kindly said I could call in.’
‘It’s my best present so far,’ said Mother. ‘Other than the mittens. We must make the most of your time. Why don’t you and Emmy go for a walk? I need to call into next door to thank them for the piccalilli.’
‘Wouldn’t you like a cup of tea first?’ I said to Charles. He hadn’t even sat down.
‘Of course not,’ said Mother. ‘Charles can have tea later. You two don’t get any time together – go and make the most of it.’
I looked at Bunty.
‘I’m going to sit here and have another biscuit,’ she said.
‘So am I,’ said my father. ‘And I want to bore Bunty about my chickens. Go on, Emmy. If you have to pretend you’re not about to go pop at seeing Charles for much longer, I’ll be treating you for an embolism when I should be enjoying an oatmeal button.’
I needed no encouragement at all. ‘Let’s walk down to the canal,’ I said. ‘We can easily get there and back in time for Mother’s birthday lunch.’
Charles was quick to agree and a few minutes later I was wrapped up in my coat and we were walking along the lane arm in arm.
‘This is the best ever surprise,’ I said. ‘I really hadn’t a clue.’
‘Ha,’ said Charles, not giving anything away. ‘I must say I am chuffed to see you.’
Even though he and I had only been together a few months, as my friend Thelma had once said to me, time worked quite differently during war, and it already felt as if Charles and I knew each other enormously well. He was intelligent and kind, quieter than me and more measured, but he could make me laugh with almost no effort at all. We were quite different in some ways, particularly as I had a tendency to charge into situations without thinking things through first, but I could make him laugh even more than he did me, and modesty aside, I wasn’t a dimwit. We could hold our own with each other and I liked that very much. Falling in love with him had been the easiest thing in the world.
‘I can’t quite believe it,’ I said. ‘Although you’re looking at me in an odd way. Is it my new beret?’
Charles broke into a smile. ‘Not at all. It’s delightful! Very red.’
He ran out of steam.
‘You’re hopeless,’ I said.
‘Thank you. I always think it must be such a relief living in Russia where everyone seems to wear the same thing.’
‘Communist,’ I said and a man walking past gave me a look as if he was about to call the police.
Charles rolled his eyes. ‘Only sartorially,’ he said. ‘Now then, we need to get cracking.’
He began to pick up some speed, which as I was half a foot shorter than him, threatened to turn my part of the walk into a jog.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, pulling him back. ‘We’ve lots of time. We could be late for lunch and no one would mind. Let’s just wander for a bit and pretend we’re two normal people who see each other all the time.’
Charles stopped and for a moment looked at me, his blue eyes quite serious. Then he broke into a smile. ‘You’re right. I’m gabbling on and being a twit. I’m just glad to be spending some time with the girl that I love. That’s you by the way,’ he added, taking my hand.
‘That’s a relief,’ I said, smiling back.
‘It’s only because of that hat. I can’t resist a girl in a beret,’ he said. Then he kissed me.
‘Bloody war,’ I said, and holding tightly on to the beret with one hand, I kissed him back.
*
We walked on, past the church where Reverend Wiffle shot by us on his bicycle with a wobbly wave, and then down to the towpath by the canal. In the weak winter sun, it was the loveliest walk. There had been little rain, so the ground was more than dry enough without a galosh. A small flock of swans, along with one rather bossy goose, patrolled down the centre of the water and if it hadn’t been for the occasional plane flying overhead it would have been almost possible to pretend everything was right with the world. As much as I loved living in a city, I always enjoyed coming home to the countryside. You could never forget the war in London. Here, sometimes, you could forget almost anything apart from being together.
Despite the letters and phone calls, whenever we saw each other it always felt as if there was tons to catch up on.
Charles knew about the Ministry, of course, and how much I wanted to make a good fist of things for Woman’s Friend. I’d told him about Freddie and Diane, and while he had assured me not to worry about Guy, as he said that beneath the writerly exterior his brother was used to t
his sort of pettiness, it was quite clear that Charles was as eager as I was to put them smartly back in their place.
‘I’ve written my first war work article,’ I told him, trying not to sound too proud of myself. ‘I did it after I got back from the factory, so everything was still fresh. Guy said he’ll read it this weekend. I hope he thinks it’s all right.’
‘Have faith,’ said Charles. ‘He wouldn’t have sent you if he hadn’t thought you could do it. How was the place?’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Interesting.’
We were quite alone as we continued to walk along the towpath, and I was able to tell him about Chandlers without being overheard. Charles listened quietly, occasionally asking questions, but letting me get my thoughts off my chest.
‘I told my parents about it just now,’ I said, dropping my voice as we followed the canal under a brick-arch bridge with 1802 written on it. ‘Not where it is or what they do or anything of course,’ I whispered, as my words echoed slightly. ‘Just about Irene and what Anne’s friends had said. Mother says men don’t know what to do with women.’
Charles laughed.
‘I’m not saying a word,’ he said, stopping to hold up a branch which was overhanging the path by the bridge. ‘I say, is this near the ruins you’ve mentioned?’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘I thought you might like to see them.’
We walked a few yards and then turned off from the canal and through a kissing gate onto a narrow path next to a field that then turned into woodland. Although Charles had been to my parents’ house once before, we hadn’t been down here together, and I was eager for him to see where I had spent some of the very happiest times of my childhood. We stopped talking about work and the war, and turned to simpler times as I pointed out where my father had first taught me and my brother Jack how to pitch a tent, during what had become the grand adventure of sleeping outside for a whole night.
‘That’s where Bunty tried to get on a cow,’ I said, pointing across the field. ‘She was about eight and convinced it was the same as riding a pony.’
‘And was it?’ asked Charles.
‘Not at all,’ I laughed. ‘The cow was quite clear about it.’