Yours Cheerfully

by AJ Pearce

  ‘Oh, Bunts,’ I said, moving round to sit next to her. ‘I can’t imagine even trying to do this without you. As long as you want to, of course.’

  Bunty looked at me, her blue eyes serious. ‘I absolutely do, Em,’ she said. ‘I can’t think of anything nicer than helping you, and Charles too of course.’ She paused and took hold of my hand. ‘And you know Bill would be cock-a-hoop for you too. He really would.’

  I squeezed her hand and nodded, a lump in my throat making saying anything quite impossible.

  For a minute we sat together in the quiet of the kitchen. I could hear laughter coming from the others and at that moment I’d have given anything in the world for Bill to still be here, even if it meant Bunty was the one getting married and not me.

  ‘Cock-a-hoop,’ said Bunty again, almost to herself. Then she gave me a big smile, cleared her throat and said, ‘Now then, there’s not a moment to lose. Where’s my list?’

  She rooted around in her skirt pocket and pulled out a pencil and small green notebook. Licking the end of the pencil as if she was about to take down an order for a week’s fruit and veg, she fixed me with a keen stare.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Do you have a wedding date in mind? Where are you thinking of having it? Do you want a big Do, or a quiet one?’

  She turned to a page which appeared to have a large number of headings.

  ‘Goodness,’ I interrupted. ‘You’re fast out of the traps.’

  ‘Just a few initial questions,’ said Bunty, sounding like a police detective intent on solving an exciting new murder case. ‘Honestly, Em, you might as well crack on.’

  Bunty of course knew this better than anyone. But I entirely agreed. Anything could happen at any moment. If you loved someone you needed to get on with it.

  ‘It depends on when Charles can get leave,’ I said. ‘But January might be rather nice. It’s always rather a duff time, isn’t it? This might cheer things up.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Bunty. ‘It will be the loveliest start to the New Year, and it gives us two months to organise.’

  I swallowed. That didn’t sound very long.

  ‘Which is tons,’ said Bunty.

  She wrote down, ‘NEED ACTUAL DATE’ in capitals and then, ‘URGENT,’ which she underlined twice.

  ‘In terms of a spread, we’ll have some pretty stiff work on the coupon side to be able to come up with very much,’ I said, frowning. I knew my family and friends would want to celebrate, but I couldn’t imagine how we were going to cater for a party.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Bunty, briskly. ‘Everyone will pitch in. People will find all sorts of things they’ve put by.’

  She gave a conspiratorial wink which made me snort. It sounded as if she was actively involved in the black market.

  ‘Crikey, Bunts,’ I said. ‘Do you have questionable contacts that I don’t know about, or will under-the-counter petty crime be a new venture for you?’

  ‘Lies, all lies,’ said Bunty, calmly. ‘I just mean that almost everyone is bound to have something stored for a special occasion and with Christmas coming up, it’s terrifically good timing.’

  Then I really did laugh. Clearly, Bunty was planning to filch seasonal fare wherever she could find it.

  ‘You won’t even know there’s a war on,’ she finished triumphantly, adding, ‘ALL MUST HELP WITH SPREAD’ to her list. ‘Moving on. The venue?’

  ‘London. Somewhere.’

  ‘Hmm,’ muttered Bunty, looking down the page. Then she wrote, ‘London’, followed by, ‘MUST NARROW DOWN’ in large, impatient capitals.

  ‘What else?’ she asked looking at me with a keen expression.

  I was beginning to feel I should have come more prepared. After all it had been a whole hour since Charles had proposed.

  Bunty went back to her notes, wrote, ‘URGENT’ again at the top, drew a big ring around it and then started tapping the end of the pencil on the kitchen table.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m still in shock that he asked. Although there was one thing we did talk about.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Bunty, looking expectant and flipping over a new page.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘It’s rather crucial actually.’

  Bunty nodded vigorously.

  ‘I just wanted to ask if you would be my chief bridesmaid?’

  Bunty put her pencil down. A huge smile spread across her face.

  ‘Oh, Em,’ she said. ‘Really?’

  I nodded. ‘Of course! But only if you’d like to, that is.’

  Bunty looked down at her hands. For a moment she didn’t say anything. When she finally looked up at me, her eyes were full of tears.

  ‘I would love to, Em,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing I would like more. Thank you. It’s going to be the best day ever, you know.’ She dabbed at her eye with her finger. ‘I’m sorry, I’m being a weed.’

  Then, picking up the pencil, she turned back to her notebook, and where she had put ‘BRIDESMAIDS’ as one of her headings, she very carefully added beside it, ME.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dear Yours Cheerfully

  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 day after the engagement, 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 looking forward to seeing him when I arrived at work.

  Mr Collins was in his office when I arrived, which was unusual, but I wanted to see 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 Col
lins!’ 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 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.

  ‘AAAAAGHHHHH!’ 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, and with 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 over-confident 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 as 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 tea house.’

  ‘Kismet,’ smiled Mr Collins. 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.