by AJ Pearce
I wrote the “Woman’s Friend at Work” articles to help the Ministry’s plans. The aim of “Yours Cheerfully”, however, was to help the readers as much as I could.
Tucking the file under my arm, I strode off to see Mrs Mahoney. Perhaps that was where Anne’s friends could be helped.
*
Dear Yours Cheerfully,
I am eighteen years old and my mother told me the facts of life when I was young. Now though, my friends have been talking about this and I am worried I have misunderstood. Please could you clarify the things on this list as some of them sound awful.
Yours,
Wrong End of the Stick
Mrs Mahoney ran her eyes down the attached sheet of paper. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I don’t think the poor girl quite knows one end of the stick from the other. And this list is no help either. I’m all for each to their own, but some of it is rather exotic. Let’s put her in the pile for a personal reply and an informative leaflet.’
Mrs Mahoney tutted to herself quite happily as I scribbled down notes. It was such a pleasure to work with someone who wanted to help everyone and didn’t shy away from some of the more colourful queries. When Mrs Bird was in charge, you only had to mention the opposite sex and she went into a blue fit.
‘There seems to be some confusion in this one as well,’ I said, handing Mrs Mahoney a letter written in a wild, spidery hand by a worried young reader. ‘There’s no name or return address though.’
Dear Yours Cheerfully
I’m fifteen and haven’t had my monthly period. My friend Pearl says she bets I’m going to have a baby because I used the public toilets when we went on a day trip to Hull. I think that’s rubbish, but Pearl says you can and she’s older than me. Please help as I’m ever so worried.
I can’t give you my name, but I live in Sheffield.
Mrs Mahoney read it and frowned.
‘That rotten girl’s pulling her leg,’ she said. ‘Although she could be pregnant from the conventional route so let’s put, “To Worried From Sheffield” in the next issue and say it’s very unlikely from that source, but to see her doctor about her health in general.’ She sighed and took her glasses off to give them a clean with her hankie.
‘It’s a funny old job, this,’ she said. ‘As far as sex goes, sometimes I think half of them don’t know even the basics, and the other half know far too much. No wonder they get so confused, poor loves. Who’s next?’
‘A lot of affairs still,’ I said, going through my shortlist of letters that I thought should go in the magazine. ‘Husbands going off, wives finding themselves new loves as well. It does put you off getting a lodger. But we’ve featured so many recently. This one is a bit different, though. It made me quite cross and I think we should put it in the next issue.’
I began to read.
Dear Yours Cheerfully,
I’m in the WAAF and had a day off yesterday so I decided to treat myself to a film. None of the other girls were free so I went on my own. The cinema was full, and I ended up next to a man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. I told him three times to stop it, but in the end I had to give up and leave.
I feel angry with myself that I didn’t do something more. I’m not feeble but all I wanted was a nice afternoon to myself. I went home feeling quite humiliated. What should I have done?
Yours
L. Hayward (Corporal)
‘Horrible behaviour,’ said Mrs Mahoney, with contempt. ‘I wish Corporal Hayward had reported him, but I know that’s not as easy as it sounds. That sort of third rate wants you to feel embarrassed. If it was one of my girls, I’d march her straight back to the picture house and demand they put the lights up and find him.’ She paused, thoughtfully. ‘Of course, she could always do what my Milly did to a sad article who bothered her on the top of a bus.’
‘What was that?’ I asked.
‘Lighted cigarette,’ said Mrs Mahoney, mildly. ‘She accidentally burnt his leg. Milly said he ran off so fast, he fell down the stairs.’
‘Good for her,’ I said. ‘No one should have to put up with that.’
Mrs Mahoney nodded.
‘That’s what I say,’ she said.
I looked at Corporal Hayward’s letter again.
‘It’s not on,’ I said. ‘Here we are doing this big campaign to get the readers to sign up and work themselves silly for the war effort, and they can’t even go to the cinema without being manhandled.’
‘Let’s definitely print the Corporal’s letter,’ said Mrs Mahoney. ‘Say that she had every right to complain to the cinema and that we’ve heard of a way she can fend off unwelcome attention. That will answer her letter and it might help some other readers as well.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘We haven’t put anything like this in “Yours Cheerfully” before.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Mahoney, ‘perhaps you and I are getting into our stride now we’ve been doing it for a while. The readers have enough on their plates without being bothered by this sort of behaviour.’
For the hundredth time I thought how lucky I was to be learning from Mrs Mahoney. Her confidence and experience couldn’t help but rub off.
‘Can I ask your opinion, please?’ I said and began to tell her about the factory visit, and Irene and her girls. ‘I know they’re desperate for workers and as Mr Collins says, it’s the only way we’ll win the war. But how can I encourage our readers to go into munitions when if anything goes wrong, or they have problems at home, no one is interested, or worse, they might even be given the sack?’
We were sitting in the Production Office and the notice boards were plastered with the front covers Mr Brand was working on for future issues. Our new styling made a colourful and even stirring display where women, often in uniform, looked positive and optimistic, and cover lines announced, How to Find the Right War Work for You and We Answer Your War Work Questions, alongside the usual Three Woollies for Winter and Is Baby Teething? How to Tell It’s A Yes!
Were we really answering the questions that mattered?
Whether it was Wrong End of the Stick, or Corporal Hayward, or the women whose lives were falling apart because of errant husbands or because they had fallen in love with the wrong man, we always tried our hardest to help as well as we could.
I turned back to Mrs Mahoney. ‘What would we say to Irene Barker if she wrote in?’ I asked, starting to make up a letter.
‘Dear Yours Cheerfully,’ I said. ‘I have two young daughters (aged seven and four) and I work in munitions. My husband is in the navy and I have no family nearby to help out. None of the local nurseries can fit in with my shifts and there are only so many times the neighbours can help out. I’ve had to take the girls into the factory with me, but I hate having to do it, and I’m worried I’ll lose my job if I’m caught doing it again.’
‘What would we say?’ I finished, turning to Mrs Mahoney.
‘She needs to find proper, reliable help,’ said Mrs Mahoney, straight away. ‘Someone to have the children if she can afford it, or a nursery that fits in with her shifts. And she should have a word with her manager too, rather than trying to avoid him. That never works.’
Mrs Mahoney’s solid, practical response made perfect sense.
‘But what if she’s tried all of those?’ I said, pretty sure that from what Anne had said, Irene had.
‘Then we’ll have to come up with some other ideas, won’t we?’ said Mrs Mahoney, looking me squarely in the eye. ‘I can’t imagine that Mrs Barker is the only one. Emmy, we can’t fix the whole world in twenty-four pages a week, but if this is a problem you think affects other readers as well, then it’s our job to try to sort something out.’
Mrs Mahoney had a wonderfully comforting ability to make you feel that there was always an answer if you looked hard enough.
‘I’d like to,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to let down the Ministry or Woman’s Friend, but I worry that we’re not doing enough to help our readers if they sign up to do what we ask.’
I
must have looked as concerned as I felt.
‘I don’t know what is going on inside that one-hundred-mile-a-minute mind of yours,’ said Mrs Mahoney, gently, ‘but don’t go getting yourself in a muddle. We will come up with something.’
She smiled at me warmly. ‘Now, can I suggest we go through the rest of this pile so you can start drafting some replies?’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs Mahoney,’ I said, my mind racing straight past the one-hundred-mile-a-minute mark. ‘Would you mind awfully if I write one other letter before I start on the drafts?’ I smiled to myself as I began to think of a plan. ‘I know we can’t go trying to change the world just like that, but all the same, there’s a Factory Director I would very much like to meet up with for a bit of a chat.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Stick to Stories for Your Ladies
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.’ She 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 assu
me 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 again, 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 as 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?’
‘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.