by AJ Pearce
Even though I had never felt surer of anything in my life, or prouder that I was marrying this man, I wasn’t sure I could keep my voice steady for much longer.
‘Should we order more wine?’ I managed to squeak out. We had hardly touched the first bottle, but now I picked up my glass and took a very large gulp.
Charles still held my hand. We didn’t break eye contact, but he nodded, and reached for his glass.
We didn’t order another bottle. Neither of us were what you could call heavy drinkers and after two glasses I felt heady enough. We ate little, which was a waste of the menu, and instead talked, not about Charles going back overseas, but about getting married and what life was going to be like when we were together, after the war.
The peculiar thing was that the evening was lovely, which one probably wouldn’t have put money on considering the gravity of the conversation we had just had, but that was how it turned out. I was pleased Charles had been honest and told me how he felt about things. He hadn’t sloped off to volunteer for something, or pretended he’d been cornered by someone important and had no choice but to go, and that was something to put on a list of things to be cheerful about. It wasn’t a long list, but it was something.
I took several deep breaths and Charles ordered a large whisky, and then we talked about where we might like to live and how it should probably be near London as by then, Charles said, I would be a very established journalist and he, I said, would be in enormous demand for some sort of high-ranking job with the War Office. We wondered whether Guildford would be too expensive or perhaps somewhere near Reading instead, and then I wanted to know if Charles might be keen on getting a dog, which he was but then we worried that if we were both working it might be sad being alone all day so we might have to get another one as well.
Then one of us mentioned children and we both said two would be lovely, or more if it happened, and I would absolutely still work, probably writing articles in the study at home. I was very much looking forward to that and it also meant we realised we were going to need rather a large house what with the children and the dogs and the garden and the study, and also a garage as Charles wanted to keep his motorbike somewhere. Then we laughed and I said at this rate we’d be unrecognisably dull and doing everything purely to keep up with the Joneses.
‘From the sound of it, we’ll be the Joneses,’ said Charles. ‘I can’t see us as that. Come on, let’s go for a walk and come up with a more bohemian plan.’
We had gone out for dinner early as Charles had to get the train back to his billet for something operational and important at seven the next morning, Sunday or not. Neither of us though was in any mood for the evening to end. After we left the restaurant, we walked to Waterloo through the blackout, our arms around each other, purposely extending the journey by not hailing cabs and passing each bus stop without either of us suggesting we stop.
London was busy now, a typical Saturday night, or at least the typical it had become. Groups of people, lovers or friends, all hurrying along trying not to bang into someone in the dark, determined to enjoy themselves however they could. We were just another couple in the middle of the hubbub, but later I would think of how that night I felt as if I had more in common with everyone else than ever before. We were all in the same boat, and we just had to do whatever it took to make sure it didn’t go down.
As Charles and I walked across Hungerford Bridge, the wind whipped up from the river, making the night air bitter.
‘Do you know,’ said Charles, ‘when all this is over, one of the first things I want to do is to walk across this bridge with you when all the lights are back on.’
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ I said. ‘We could go to one of those restaurants on a boat. The ones that have lanterns hung up everywhere. And I want to go back to Piccadilly just to look at the advertisements lit up again.’
‘And in our enormous nouveau riche house we shall keep the lights on for a week,’ said Charles. ‘With no blackout, and all the curtains open.’
‘Damn the expense,’ I cried. ‘We’ll never switch them off!’
Charles hugged me tighter.
‘Isn’t it mad that leaving curtains open has become a great ambition?’
I sighed. ‘I shall make soufflés as if they are going out of fashion. Omelettes for breakfast and enough bacon to feed an army.’
‘You know, Em,’ said Charles, ‘it is going to be all right. The army that is. I’ll come back and we’ll do all these things, and thousands more. Everything you’ve ever thought of even for a moment, we’ll do it.’ He stopped walking and as we stood together in the dark, he wrapped his arms around me. ‘My darling Em, I promise you with every fibre of my body, I will come back. Never forget that. Nothing will stop me being with you.’
‘I know,’ I said, as I buried my head into his coat and held on to him as tightly as I could. ‘I know.’
I believed him. The whole world was full of people killing each other and destroying everything they had loved, but I believed him.
Because when it came to it, what else was I to do?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Miss Lake, Is It My Fault?
I WAS GLAD to have the taxi ride home to gather my thoughts, and I sat quietly, replaying the evening and everything Charles had said. No one in their right mind would want the person they loved to tell them they wanted to go off to fight, but as we drove through the dark streets towards Pimlico, odd though it may have sounded, I understood what he meant.
The simple fact was that Charles was an army man and had been for years prior to meeting me. He hadn’t been conscripted, he hadn’t volunteered, and he had always known that if a second war came, it was his job to go. As much as it made me shudder to think of him going into danger, it had been my choice to love him and agree to be his wife. It was up to me to have the strength of character to live this way.
I asked the taxi driver to stop a couple of streets away from the house, so that I could have a few more moments to think. I dug my chin into my scarf and used my dull little torch to help find my way home.
‘Right then,’ I said to myself. Along with hundreds of thousands of other women all over the world, I would have to get on with it. I felt a renewed surge of what was already ingrained hostility towards the enemy. ‘We’ll have you for breakfast,’ I muttered.
When I got back to the house, Bunty was still up and eager to hear how my romantic evening had gone. It must have been quite a surprise when I marched into the house with a look of fierce resolve on my face, rather than a dreamy smile.
‘It might be ages before he’s sent somewhere,’ I said, leaning on the banister at the foot of the stairs as we talked. ‘And that could have happened at any time, anyway. We just need to hurry up and win.’
‘I’ll say,’ said Bunty firmly, as if the two of us were about to sort it all out by ourselves. ‘First things first, we’d better crack on with the plans for your wedding. Can’t have Charles sloping off before he’s become the luckiest man in the world.’
‘I’ll have his guts for garters if he does,’ I said, not remotely worried.
Bunty grinned and suggested we have a full operational update over breakfast.
As the bongs of the hallway’s grandfather clock suggested it was time to call it a day, we headed upstairs to our rooms. When we got to the landing, Bunty gave me a hug.
‘Night, Em. If you need me, you will just call, won’t you?’
‘Thanks, Bunts,’ I said. ‘Honestly, I really am fine.’
From that night on, determination would become the heart of everything I wanted to do. I would marry Charles, I would know that he was going to be safe, and I would get on with everything back here in London, so that when he returned, we would properly start our life together.
Charles did not have a firm idea about what job or regiment he might move to, but now that we had talked about it, I knew he would be on the lookout for a posting. It made for a feeling of uncertainty all round. He coul
d be in England for some time, or, as I rather feared, picked up for something quickly. I decided not to badger him for updates, but to carry on as usual and focus on my work. In short, do what I always did when things felt as if they were going off on the wonk.
Luckily, there was no shortage of things to be getting on with. Plans for the wedding picked up some necessary steam. I finished making my dress and was well on the way with a rather pretty one for Bunty. Invitations had been put in the post and somehow we were planning to cater for thirty people. Almost everyone had said yes, with the notable exception of Charles’s parents. I knew he wasn’t close to them, but I was still concerned when they said his elderly father could not manage the journey and his mother would not leave him on his own. Charles had expected as much, so as he did not seem disappointed, neither would I.
The wedding plans, I knew, would be fine. It was work that was far more of a quandary. I had written another article on the munitions industry, telling the Woman’s Friend readers about the different jobs they might do in a factory. Once again, I had been gung-ho (‘Women excel at the most intricate details,’ says the Works Manager, with pride.) and left out anything controversial, while trying to give a realistic view (It’s hot work, but the welders can take it!). I’d even included a quote from Mr Terry, which I’d made up and attributed to him, the Factory Director, who reports that productivity is at a high, and tells us, ‘Our female workers show that patriotism wins!’
Mr Collins didn’t change a word of my draft and the Ministry approved. We even received some letters from readers who said that after they’d read “Woman’s Friend at Work” they had decided munitions work was the job for them. One asked us what sort of food to expect. Another was hoping she’d make friends like the nice girls we’d written about.
The letters didn’t come by the sackful, but the plan we had promised the Ministry appeared to be starting to work. I was pleased of course, but my nagging doubts about being too rose-coloured about things, if anything, became worse.
Mr Collins was sympathetic. He was well aware that I worried I wasn’t giving a realistic picture.
‘Emmy,’ he said, ‘this is all very good. I realise you have your concerns, but you are helping the war effort. You know that for every person who writes in, there are another fifty feeling the same way.’
It was a generous thing to say, and I knew he meant it. I was pleased too. My first attempt at writing articles for Woman’s Friend was getting noticed. I knew how important the work was, I wasn’t telling lies, I wasn’t even over-egging anything. I just wasn’t mentioning some of the things I thought were unfair.
Never mind, ladies! You may worry about who will look after your children! The local nurseries can’t fit in with your hours! You can’t join the union and you won’t get paid the same as the men!
Of course I would never write something like that, but I found it frustrating to write encouraging articles while knowing my friends weren’t being listened to in real life. Even my mild query to Mr Terry about a Government Nursery had been met with a wall of disinterest. I wondered what hope women like Irene had. I wondered what hope the readers I was writing for would have too.
As I had clearly irked him in our meeting, it was a surprise when I heard that my next visit to the factory remained unchanged. Even if he was unimpressed with my questions, Mr Terry was at least allowing the articles to continue. I assumed that he saw me as an irritant rather than any real problem, and I was happy with that if it meant I could carry on.
Two weeks after my last meeting with him, I was on my way back for my third visit. ENSA, the Entertainments National Service Association, were putting on a lunchtime concert for the workers in the canteen, and it was the perfect opportunity for a cheery piece I was writing, called ‘The Social Side of Factory Work’.
This time, however, Bunty came with me. Anne’s mum was going away for a couple of days to check on her elderly mother-in-law in Chippenham, and Bunts had volunteered to look after Ruby and Tony so that Anne could still go to work. I would have to go back to London on my own first thing the next day.
Bunty hadn’t seen Anne and the children since we had first met on the train, so it was the perfect excuse for a trip out of London. As we found our way to Anne’s house, the two of us were in a chipper frame of mind. I was relieved I hadn’t entirely blotted my copybook with Mr Terry and was looking forward to seeing the ENSA show.
‘If you see him, just put on your best smile,’ teased Bunty as we followed Anne’s directions and turned into Wilton Street, the small Victorian terrace where she lived. ‘Otherwise he’ll have you escorted off the premises and you won’t be able to do the article.’
‘I don’t think he’ll be there,’ I said. ‘I’ve been handed over to their Public Relations Manager. Apparently a Mr Adams will look after me.’
‘Does look after mean not let you out of his sight?’ said Bunty.
‘Without a shadow of a doubt,’ I answered. ‘And don’t worry, I shall be an utter delight. I’ve promised our Editor, so I have to be.’
We were both smiling as we came to a stop outside number thirty-two and knocked on the red front door. There was an immediate and unmistakable roar from inside, and as the door opened, Ruby fought her way out before Anne even appeared.
‘They’re here!’ shouted Ruby as she flung herself at me. ‘Do roundabouts, Aunty Emmy!’
‘Please,’ said Anne from the doorway, which Ruby dutifully repeated in an ear-splitting shriek.
As I swung the chubby thunderbolt round and wondered how she could have grown in the last fortnight, Bunty and Anne said hello, and then, oddly, Anne didn’t ask us to come in. I put Ruby down and gave Anne a hug, noticing she looked both tired and unusually serious.
‘It’s lovely to see you both,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much for looking after the children, Bunty. Ruby, be a good girl and go in and find your teddy, please.’
Ruby nodded obediently, and after she had trundled off, Anne closed the door behind her and stayed outside. She ran a hand through her hair and looked at Bunty and me.
‘Just to tell you,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Absolutely rotten news. Irene’s been sacked. She’s inside with the girls.’
‘Oh, Anne,’ I started to say.
‘I know. I’m sorry to land this on you, but do you mind looking after her two for an hour as well as mine? I said I’d go with her to the Labour Exchange and if we go now, I’ll be back in time to come in with you for the ENSA show.’
‘How is she?’ I asked.
‘Crushed,’ said Anne. ‘But she’s putting on a brave face.’ She paused. ‘Have you told Bunty about . . .?’
I nodded, assuming she meant Irene’s husband.
‘I’m sorry, I know it’s a secret,’ I said.
‘I haven’t told a soul,’ said Bunty, deadly serious. ‘Is there any news?’
Anne shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
A small hammering started from behind the door and Anne turned to open it, before picking up Ruby and asking us to come in. Bunty and I followed her inside and down the narrow hallway to an immaculate kitchen where a slight woman in her early thirties was sitting at a small table. She had Baby Tony on her lap, and her two girls were playing pat-a-cake while Irene got Tony to clap his hands.
‘Irene, these are my friends Emmy and Bunty I told you about,’ said Anne as Irene got up to hand her Tony. Although she smiled, Irene looked shattered, with huge dark rings under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept for a week, which I imagined was not far from the truth.
As we all said hello, Irene began to apologise.
‘I’m sorry I’ve pushed in on your visit,’ she said, then turned to look at Anne. ‘Honestly, Anne, I can go to the Exchange on my own.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Anne. ‘The girls don’t mind, do you?’
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ said Bunty. ‘We’ll just be playing so two more will add to the fun.’
‘Hello, girls,’ I said, being o
verly cheerful, when what I really wanted to do was to tell Irene how very sorry I was about everything.
‘These are Sheila and Enid,’ said Irene. ‘They’re seven and four. Girls, say hello to Miss Lake and Miss . . . oh I’m sorry, I don’t know your surname.’
‘Tavistock,’ said Bunty, smiling at the girls. ‘It’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?’
‘That’s all right, Miss Tavistock,’ said Sheila, in a shy voice.
‘Ruby calls me Aunty Emmy,’ I said. ‘Don’t you, Monster?’
‘Aunty Emmy,’ confirmed Ruby. She stopped, stared at Bunty and said, ‘You’re Aunty Bunty.’
Despite the situation, ‘Aunty Bunty’ sounded ridiculous, and Bunty snorted.
‘Bunty Aunty,’ declared Ruby.
‘Bunty Bunty,’ said Enid, looking pleased with herself.
‘BUNTY BUNTY,’ shouted Ruby, in delight.
Good-natured as ever, Bunty laughed, and looking at the grown-ups, said, ‘This is going to stick, isn’t it? No, please don’t tell them off, I rather like it.’
Everyone had a little laugh, grateful for something to take away the awkwardness of meeting in such very difficult circumstances.
Anne looked at her wristwatch. ‘We’d better get going,’ she said.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ said Irene to Bunty and me.
‘We’ll have a lovely time,’ I assured her. ‘Won’t we, girls? We’ve brought comics and sweets and we know tons of games, so if they’re happy to stay with us, we’ll have lots of fun.’