by AJ Pearce
‘I’ve a brain like a sieve,’ she said. ‘Please tell us all about it. I could do with chatting about something exciting and fun.’
For the next hour we did exactly that. Anne was genuinely keen, and we both enjoyed playing up the frivolous side of things and talking about plans. I asked Anne if I might send an invitation to her and the children once we knew the date and then she really did perk up.
When it was time for me to head back to the station, where I had been told to wait for someone from Chandlers to pick me up, Anne and I parted fondly.
‘Good luck with him,’ she said as we hugged goodbye.
‘I won’t let you down,’ I said. ‘I’m going to make jolly sure he knows how good you all are.’
‘Thank you for trying to help,’ said Anne.
‘I’m just being a nosy journalist,’ I said, laughing. ‘Anyway, I’m the one that should say thank you. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have been given my very first assignment.’
‘Rubbish!’ said Anne.
‘I’m serious,’ I said. ‘The least I can do is to try to find out the lay of the land with his nibs, and report back.’
‘Just be careful,’ said Anne.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. Then I kissed Baby Tony, gave Ruby one last hysterics-inducing spin, and with a final Goodbye, headed off to face the factory’s boss.
*
Mr Terry was, I was reliably informed, a very busy man, with quite a short memory.
‘I’m a very busy man,’ he said. ‘What was it you wanted?’
I explained that I had written to him the previous week about the articles I was writing.
‘Your women workers?’ I prompted.
‘Ah, that,’ he said.
I smiled brightly, a hopefully winning effort that I had practised on Bunty at home. It was a tricky thing to pull off. I needed to be taken seriously, while pandering to the ego of a middle-aged showy type and strictly avoiding looking flirtatious or giving the impression of being in awe.
As Bunty had said, it would be far easier if I could just hit him over the head with a brick and then forge his signature on whatever it was I wanted him to do for Anne and her friends. However, as this was real life and not a Laurel and Hardy picture, I found myself sitting very stiffly on an uncomfortable leather chair in front of Mr Terry’s large but neat desk.
For all his fast car and fast life appearance, the Factory Director’s office steered clear of ostentation. The furniture, while of good quality, was functional rather than pretentious, and the overall appearance was of a recently formed gentlemen’s club where the focus was on business rather than pleasure. There was a musky smell explained by the walnut cigar box on his desk, and the only thing that gave a nod to personal interest was a large marbled Bakelite ashtray with ‘Rolls-Royce’ printed on it. I wondered if visitors were supposed to assume Mr Terry was a proud owner. Either way it had the air of sales department Christmas gift.
‘Mr Terry,’ I said. ‘Everyone is delighted with the first article about your women workers. It is exactly the sort of thing they think will encourage more women to go into munitions.’
‘Ah hah,’ he said.
‘Led of course,’ I added, not letting my smile slip, ‘by the Ministry.’
Mr Terry looked rather more interested. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘We very much welcome lady workers.’
‘Excellent. Consequently, I thought it would be helpful to include something from you in one of our next features. A quote perhaps on why you value the women working here? We wouldn’t mention you by name of course as a security issue, but a word from the very top could really inspire.’
I opened my eyes slightly wider and looked expectant.
Mr Terry came across as if I’d asked him to remember a particular brick in a wall. There were so many, and they all looked the same.
‘What do you think women contribute to the factory?’ I prompted.
‘They’re not bad,’ said Mr Terry. ‘Some of them can’t manage it. I don’t know what they expect. It’s a factory. But overall, they’ll do.’
Saying they would ‘do’ didn’t strike me as inspiring anyone. I pressed on.
‘What would you say to women thinking about going into munitions? Would you say it is their patriotic duty?’
‘Definitely. But productivity is the key,’ he said, finally warming up. ‘We only want the good ones, who get their heads down. If they’re young and willing to put in the hours, it’s a great life. I don’t mind if they’re old, either, as long as they get on with the job.’
‘That’s a super point about Patriotic Duty,’ I said, writing it down as if he had come up with it on his own. ‘Thank you. And “women of any age” is very encouraging as well. Does it make a difference if they’re married, or have children?’
I looked at him with what I hoped was a blank-faced interest, for all the world, hanging on his every word.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Many of our readers are in that position. They’re very keen to make a contribution.’
‘They’re all welcome,’ he said. ‘As long as they don’t go making a fuss.’
I watched Mr Terry closely. Sitting in his office he was more guarded than when he had driven me in his car. More careful, perhaps, of what he was saying.
‘What sort of fuss?’ I asked. My smile was beginning to make my face ache.
Mr Terry shifted in his chair and stared at me. ‘Do you really want my opinion?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
‘Will you print it?’
‘Only if you want me to.’
There was a soft tap on the door. It was Mr Terry’s secretary, Mrs Cleeve, who I had met earlier, a large woman with a no-nonsense stare.
‘Your next meeting, Mr Terry,’ she began.
‘Five minutes, Mrs Cleeve,’ he replied, and she backed out of the room. When the door was shut Mr Terry lit a cigarette from a case he took from his jacket. He did not offer me one, but gave me a long stare. I smiled back, as pleasant as the day was long.
‘Here’s what I think about women workers, Miss Lake,’ he said, inhaling deeply. ‘If they work hard and produce as much as the men, and to the same standard, that’s fine. If your readers want to do their bit, earn good money and help the boys, I’m all for them. The problem I have is when they expect special treatment. Asking for different shifts, or time off because Little Jimmy has a runny nose, or the butcher’s had a delivery and they want to leave early as they don’t want to miss out.’ He sniffed. ‘You don’t have those problems with men. There’ll be the odd one who comes on shift drunk and you just sack him, but with the females, half of them have personal problems they bother my foremen with. Quite frankly there are far more important things to be getting on with.’
‘I see. Perhaps if you had a Women’s Welfare Officer?’ I said. ‘Or a Women’s Union? The Government is keen for all workers to be looked after.’
Mr Terry stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it into the Rolls-Royce ashtray. ‘The Government wants to win the war, that’s what it wants. That’s what we should all want. You do realise that, don’t you?’
It was the second time in a matter of days that a man had told me how important winning the war was, as if I hadn’t a clue. It was beginning to grate. ‘I certainly do, Mr Terry,’ I said calmly. ‘And my understanding is that that is why they are recruiting more women to the Employment Agencies and as Welfare Officers. And of course, starting nurseries for women workers’ children. In fact on that point, I just wanted to ask . . .’
Mr Terry snorted so loudly he drowned out what I was trying to say. ‘Don’t start on that,’ he snapped. ‘We’re making armaments, not running a babysitting service.’
‘But wouldn’t it help the women stop making a fuss, as you put it?’ I said.
‘We’re very good to our lady workers,’ said Mr Terry. ‘We’ve just put mirrors in all their lavatories.’
‘And I believe they were thrilled,�
� I said.
‘A year ago, we didn’t even have ladies’ lavatories,’ said Mr Terry, defensively.
‘But a Government Nursery wouldn’t cost you anything,’ I said. ‘The Ministry of Labour and your Local Authority would sort it all out, if you told them you needed it.’
It came out in a rush, but I had done my homework. Mr Terry did not appear impressed.
‘What are you driving at, Miss Lake?’ he said, sharply. ‘I’ve agreed to see you to give you a quote, not to get the third degree. Has someone complained?’
I was still smiling, but my heart had sped up. ‘No one at all,’ I said, realising it would be wise to pull back. ‘Mr Terry, the women I’ve spoken to have had nothing but praise for their managers and the factory facilities. I also had several comments on the quality of the canteen, not to mention the fact they had been treated to Arthur Askey for free. No complaints whatsoever.’ I put my notebook down on my lap. Even a gentle questioning of the factory amounted to criticising him.
‘I only mentioned the Government Nurseries as we are working on an article about them.’ I smiled. ‘They sound rather helpful.’
Mr Terry grunted. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. If ladies’ other commitments mean they can’t do the job, then they shouldn’t apply.’
‘But wouldn’t that mean the country missing out on thousands of excellent workers?’ I said, failing to back down.
Mr Terry’s argument didn’t make sense and I was pretty sure he knew it. He didn’t look happy at all. I thought of my promise to Anne that I wouldn’t let her down.
‘Mr Terry,’ I chirruped, ‘your factory and your women workers are an inspiration. Thank you very much indeed for seeing me today. I have some lovely words that I know our readers will find most stirring.’
Mr Terry bit his lip thoughtfully as I put my things in my bag and stood up, smiling as confidently as I could while hoping I hadn’t pushed him too far. I extended my hand to shake his, and he slowly stood too. He was considerably taller and far bigger than me, but I kept my shoulders back and my chin up, and I didn’t move my arm until he somewhat reluctantly took my hand.
He didn’t quite shake it though, but just held it firmly.
‘I look forward to your next article, Miss Lake,’ he said. ‘As I am sure the Ministry will. I have many contacts within the various Governmental departments. It will be interesting to hear their views on whether the ladies’ magazines actually help. Mrs Cleeve will arrange for you to be escorted back to the station.’
‘That’s very kind,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much. I hope you will be happy with our next article.’
Mr Terry nodded, finally letting go of my hand, which was a relief, and walking me towards the door.
‘Stick to writing stories for your ladies, Miss Lake. And leave me to run my factory.’
I thanked him again and wished him a good morning. My smile didn’t drop until I was well outside his office door.
At least now I knew.
Stick to writing stories for your ladies.
My foot, I would.
No wonder Maeve had said that nothing would change. Mr Terry hadn’t the faintest interest in helping his female workers.
It was time to come up with a new plan.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Unmistakably Like a Bride
‘IF YOU DON’T stand still, I’m going to stab you and then we’ll get blood on the dress.’
I was standing in my bedroom with my arms out while Bunty pinned the bodice of what, if the pattern was to be believed, would be Every Bride’s Dream Dress.
‘The thing is,’ I said, trying not to wriggle, ‘I underestimated him and that was a mistake.’
‘It’ll be an even bigger mistake if I get this wrong and it looks like a sack,’ said Bunty, through a mouthful of pins. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. He sounds a difficult character to deal with, and this is your first big project. Now move round a tiny bit.’
She deftly added the last of the pins and stood back to look at her work. ‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘Now then, don’t move. I’m going to turn the record over and then you can look in the mirror and tell me what you think.’
It was Saturday afternoon, the day after I had met Mr Terry, and all talk of work was supposed to have been banned. With the wedding confirmed for the second Saturday in January, I had a wedding dress to make, and Bunty was keen to update me as she and my mother had been plotting reception ideas on the phone.
Charles was coming up to take me out for the evening but wasn’t due to arrive for several hours, and despite my misgivings over the meeting the previous day, there was a definite feel of giddiness in the air.
Bunty leant over to the gramophone, turned the record over and put up the volume so that when ‘Sing Sing Sing’ started, it filled the room.
‘DON’T DANCE,’ commanded Bunty as I started jigging about. ‘This fabric is precious.’
When Charles and I had got engaged, my plan had been to make myself something new out of whatever fabric I could get my hands on, ideally a nice day dress that I could easily wear again and again.
This plan had changed however, when two days after the engagement, my younger brother Jack, who was a pilot, turned up at the house in Pimlico on the back of his friend Chaser’s motorbike, wielding a large paper package. As Chaser waited on the bike, Jack ran up the steps to the house, rapped on the door, and after a brief kiss hello, shoved the package into my arms, and said, ‘There you are, Sis. Call it an early wedding present.’
I had forced them both to come in for a moment so that I could open the parcel, which turned out to contain a good five yards of parachute silk. It was ripped down one side, but Jack said not to worry as no one had died in it and it had just been mucked up in a training session by an idiot none of the squadron liked. As Chase helpfully pointed out, there wasn’t even a grass stain on it, let alone any blood.
Jack said it was a shame to let it go to waste, although should anyone ask, if I could deny any knowledge of where it had come from it would probably be for the best.
It was lovely of him and I had to admit, it was smashing fabric by anyone’s standards. Before I could entertain any idea of getting the material dyed, Bunty had declared the training mishap an act of God (which seemed a bit of a stretch, even if we did all love the RAF) and talked me into making a proper white wedding dress.
‘You can dye it afterwards and use it for informal evening events,’ she said, which rather suggested she had been reading fashion magazines. ‘Then you’ll get two outfits out of the one.’
Going the whole bridal hog with a traditional long dress didn’t feel quite my thing, so I found a very nice pattern for a three-quarter-length frock with rather elegant panels at the front and long sleeves that would be ideal for a winter wedding.
‘Do you think it’s a bit tight,’ I said, breathing out as far as I could. ‘I want to be able to fit in that vest you knitted.’
Bunty looked horrified. ‘The one I’ve just made?’ she said. ‘Why on earth would you do that?’
‘Bunts, it’s going to be January. I don’t want to freeze.’
‘You can’t go wearing a long-sleeved vest on your wedding day.’ Bunty was aghast. ‘It’s the most romantic day of your life.’
‘It won’t be if I get pneumonia,’ I said.
‘What’s Charles going to say?’
‘I can’t imagine he’ll mind in the least,’ I said. ‘He’s very practical.’
‘Of course he’ll mind,’ said Bunty. ‘Have you actually met a man before? You do realise a long-sleeved vest probably isn’t what he’s expecting on your wedding day, don’t you? You’re supposed to be a lovely young bride, wearing lovely things and looking, um, lovely.’
‘That’s three lovelies,’ I said. ‘I won’t be able to manage that many in one go, not even for Charles.’
Bunty was shaking her head, so I sought a compromise.
‘How about if it’s cold I’ll wear the vest to the church
and for the standing outside afterwards, and then when we come back here, I’ll sneak away and take it off.’
‘Then the dress will be too big,’ said Bunty, standing her ground.
‘No, it won’t. And anyway, you and Mother and the girls from the station are planning so much food that after the buffet I’ll be lucky if the buttons don’t fly off during the first dance. I have no idea how many people you’ve coerced into contributing.’
Bunty surveyed her pinning work. ‘A decent list,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s looking forward to a good do. How about making a little jacket? That’ll keep you nice and warm. I bet there’s enough fabric left.’ She stood back from me with her hands on her hips.
I smiled at her. Not because of the dress or the vest or any of that, but because I realised that she had been standing without her walking stick for the last five minutes. Her left hand was definitely better than it had been as well. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, but I was thrilled to see Bunty getting better. I knew how much it meant to her to get back, as far as she could, to her old self.
‘Absolutely,’ I said, happy now to agree. ‘A jacket is a super idea. I’ll go through my patterns to see what I can find.’
‘That’s the ticket,’ said Bunty, pleased to have won the vest debate. ‘Now then, have a look and tell me what you think.’
I waddled over to the long mirror, aware that a dozen pins were threatening to poke me should I make a wrong move. My hair was all over the place as I hadn’t done anything with it that day, and I hadn’t a scrap of make-up on. I was also wearing thick socks and a pair of beige shoes that were too big but we thought the right height for the dress. All in all, I was not exactly making an effort.
But despite all of that, and I supposed because normally I would never wear white, I realised I looked unmistakably like a bride. Bunty’s handiwork had made a huge difference and now that it was more fitted, the dress was beginning to hang as it should. The sleeves were just pinned in and everything needed finishing properly, but there was no doubt what it was going to be.