by AJ Pearce
‘Is there anything we can do here while you’re away?’ I said, wishing I could be of more use.
‘That’s very kind, Emmy,’ he said. ‘Just keep up the good work. Mrs Mahoney will be in charge, but I have complete faith in you all.’
He stood up from his desk and began putting some papers into a case.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll let the Ministry know we won’t be at the meeting.’
Mr Collins stopped, peered at me and said, ‘No need. Just go without me.’
‘To the Ministry of Information? On my own?’
He smiled just a little. ‘Emmy, you’re a journalist now. You’ve been marching off to interview an egotistical munitions tsar without turning a hair, and Mrs Mahoney says you pretty much run “Yours Cheerfully” on your own. You aren’t the well-intentioned, if obvious lunatic I interviewed a year ago.’
‘It’s just that I find it hard to forget that it’s only six months since I was nearly sacked,’ I said.
‘Never disclose your weaknesses,’ said Mr Collins, trying to be his usual self. ‘You’ll be fine, I promise. I have every faith that you’ll represent Woman’s Friend perfectly. Now I must go, or I’ll miss the train. I’ll see you soon.’
He nodded and began to walk out of the office, but then paused in the doorway and turned round. ‘Don’t start any fights,’ he said. ‘And just to be sure, perhaps use the lavatory here before you go.’
Then he gave me a brief, kindly smile and was gone.
I sat for a moment in the empty room.
Yesterday I had been organising a factory workers’ protest march. Today I had been told to perfectly represent Woman’s Friend on my own.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, I could hear the same words.
Everything was going to be fine.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Stick To It and You Won’t Let Them Down
I WAS NERVOUS about going to the next Ministry meeting on my own, but more concerned about Mr Collins. He was usually utterly unflappable, always had an answer to a problem and, I realised, since becoming Editor had become pivotal to everything the whole team did.
None of us had any idea how long he might be away, but as Mrs Mahoney said, we all knew what we were doing and had more than enough of it to be getting on with.
‘And that includes you, Hester Wilson,’ she said sternly, as on the news of Mr Collins’ sudden departure, Hester had taken to pulling dramatic faces and muttering about fatalities. ‘For someone so giggly, you have a very strange fascination with the Grim Reaper.’
Hester looked pained but like the rest of us, made a concerted effort to keep the Woman’s Friend ship on its course.
‘It is rough,’ said Charles when we spoke on the phone. ‘Some of the chaps he was with in France haven’t had a terribly easy time. The others try to help out. He’ll be pleased if you all carry on as normal.’
It was very much Charles’ way to downplay things and remain calm. I knew I could learn from both him and his brother, and particularly as I was representing Woman’s Friend on my own, I was determined to do my best to put on a good show of things.
The morning of the meeting, I was wearing a very smart dark suit that belonged to Bunty, and a blouse I had run up with some off-cuts of Jack’s parachute dyed a rather decent blush pink. I did have some nerves, but this time I knew where I was going and what to expect. There was a decent chance I would be something of a wallflower, but I didn’t mind. I would look confident and hope for the best. My only jittery moments were when I thought about what I might do if I came face to face with Freddie Baring and her friend. My plan was to stick my nose in the air and ignore them, even if that hadn’t exactly worked the last time.
Striding up the steps and into Senate House, I felt quite the old hand as I was signed in and made my way to the third floor, trying not to feel intimidated by its imposing stairs and endless corridors.
Once again, mingling appeared to be a key part of the event for most of the journalists, and I surreptitiously looked around to see if I recognised anyone from the last time.
I tried not to think of Freddie and Diane. I had more than enough on my mind and since I was confident that Woman’s Friend’s efforts had been decent so far, in general they had slipped from my concern. Now that I was back in Senate House, however, I felt on the defensive, but I was more than aware that Mr Collins’ jovial remark about not picking fights was his way of reminding me to act in the appropriate manner.
As I walked into the meeting room, the entire British women’s press seemed to be deep in conversation with one another. Either they knew exactly what was going on with everyone else’s publication or were pretending not to know a thing, but their conversations were lit up with expressions of surprise, exclamations of interest and a fair amount of good-natured repartee.
I was relieved not to see Freddie and Diane, but not necessarily delighted at the first person I recognised.
‘Billings! Is that you? I thought you were dead.’ Mr Jarrett had not updated his routine.
For a horrid moment, I thought I might be unlucky enough to be in his eyeline, but to my huge relief and delight, a familiar voice called my name.
‘Miss Lake, how nice to see you again,’ said Mrs Edwards, appearing from nowhere. Impeccably turned out in a grey suit and pearls, she shook my hand warmly. ‘Shall we move over here?’ she added, smoothly steering me out of Mr Jarrett’s orbit and making me wonder if I would ever operate with such élan. The answer was almost certainly No.
‘I should imagine your ears have been burning,’ she said. ‘I’ve been hearing some very good things about your magazine from all sorts of places. And quite right too. Is Guy with you today?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ I replied. ‘He has been called away for a few days, but I understand he will be back soon.’
Mrs Edwards’ smile did not fade, but an interested look very fleetingly crossed her face.
‘I do hope he is not unwell?’
‘Oh no, he is quite well,’ I said. I didn’t know just how friendly Mrs Edwards and Mr Collins were, so felt I should err on the side of reserve.
‘Monica! How are you?’
I was saved from having to decide by the arrival of another of Mr Collins’ acquaintances, Mr Simons.
Mrs Edwards greeted him as she had Mr Collins, kissing him on both cheeks, which I was now entirely sure I would never get used to unless I moved to Paris for at least the next thirty years.
‘Miss Lake,’ acknowledged Mr Simons, and I managed to say hello, thankful that no one volunteered any cosmopolitan kissing as I didn’t feel quite ready for all that.
‘Have you seen Guy?’ said Mrs Edwards. ‘Miss Lake tells me he has been called away.’
To my surprise, Mr Simons nodded. ‘Do you remember Robbie Forrester? I’m afraid he’s not doing so well.’
Mrs Edwards did remember and said how very sorry she was. Then she turned to me. ‘Since your Editor has come out of hiding, several of us have been catching up,’ she said. ‘Old friends. It’s rather nice. Now as you’re here on your own, shall we stick together? Perhaps we should find somewhere to sit.’
Mrs Edwards led me to a row of three chairs which were neither too keenly near the front, nor hiding away at the back. Mr Simons came with us, and as we sat down, I had the distinct feeling I was being taken under her wing. Mrs Edwards could have chummed up with anyone. It was more than kind of her to invite me to sit with her, not least because everyone else in the room knew who she was. To my eternal shame, I couldn’t help hoping Freddie and her unpleasant friend were here to see.
Before I had much more of a chance to become entirely full of myself, there was some clearing of throats and shushing, and the panel from the Ministry arrived. Mr Clough was absent, but once again Mr Stratton took the helm, introducing Mr Morton-Stoppard, and then Mr Boe from the Ministry of Labour. This time, a lone woman had joined them; Miss Eggerton, an imposing figure with neat greyi
ng hair which had been effectively permed.
‘As you know,’ said Mr Stratton, ‘we have recently asked you to increase the amount of support in terms of female recruitment, particularly in light of the second National Service Act which will be passed imminently. Indeed, Miss Eggerton, Mr Boe’s colleague from the Ministry of Labour, is with us today to go into more detail on this point.’
He bowed slightly in her direction and she gave an impassive nod in response. Mr Stratton cleared his throat and continued. ‘Before I hand over to Miss Eggerton, I have been asked to pass on the Ministry’s appreciation of your collective efforts over the last two months. In particular, Mr Clough, the Under-Secretary to the Minister, has himself asked me to mention a most instructive series of articles on munition recruits, in, I believe . . .’ He consulted his notes. ‘The Woman’s Friend magazine.’ He looked up briefly. ‘Very good. Now, I have several updates I will go through.’
Mr Stratton continued with the agenda, hardly drawing breath or sounding remotely excited about the commendation he had just made. But as far as I was concerned, it was as if he had made the announcement while riding around the room on an elephant, accompanied by the Band of the Coldstream Guards.
A most instructive series of articles on munition recruits . . . Woman’s Friend magazine.
Mr Clough, the actual Under-Secretary to the Minister, had specifically picked out our magazine for praise. I could hardly believe my ears.
I almost wanted to call out at Mr Stratton and ask him to say it again, just to ensure it was true.
Instead, I sat dead still, feeling my face burning as I stared at my hands which I had clasped together so tightly the knuckles had gone white.
‘Brava, Miss Lake,’ said Mrs Edwards, just loudly enough for the people immediately surrounding us to hear. I smiled a thank you and wished I wasn’t so red, as several of them casually looked round.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Freddie and Diane!
‘Good for you,’ whispered Mr Simons, who looked as if he was enjoying the moment immensely.
As I pretended to listen to Mr Stratton, now I didn’t hear a word he was saying. All I could keep thinking was that Woman’s Friend had Been Mentioned. It had been the quickest acknowledgement, but my goodness, it had been the only one by name, and as I sat among all the journalists and magazine editors and Ministry people, for the first time I actually felt as if I deserved to be here.
I just wished that Mr Collins and the rest of the team could have heard it as well. Mr Collins would have hated the attention, of course, but how lovely it would have been to see him publicly triumph as Woman’s Friend’s Editor. I had no doubt that Mrs Edwards would have kissed him all over again.
With my mind wandering, I took several careful deep breaths and tried to focus on Mr Stratton again, before my head grew to the size of a balloon.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he was saying, ‘even with conscription coming, every single one of you is needed to pull his weight to reach every last one of your readers. We still need to recruit hundreds of thousands of women. They must play their part.’
Although I had heard Mr Stratton say it before, as I managed to pull myself together and listen properly, it was impossible not to feel as if I was being personally asked to do more.
I certainly didn’t care about Freddie and Diane and their rudeness now. More fool them if the two of them preferred gossip and pettiness when so much was at stake.
After Mr Stratton’s call to arms, Miss Eggerton stood to run through recruitment areas needing significant support.
Barely referring to notes, she spoke well, although without emotion, of the need to encourage more women to step up, especially in the factories – munitions, armaments and planes. Unsurprisingly, she was cagey about details, giving, I was to realise later, hardly any information of substance, but at the time, perhaps because I was giddy in the moment, she might have been speaking for the Prime Minister himself.
‘The fight will be won,’ she said. ‘But we must add to the workforce, free up more men to go to war, and take on their jobs until we have peace. All women must play their part, whether conscripted or not.’
As I listened, I thought of Anne and Irene and the others. I wondered if Miss Eggerton, a female in the Ministry of Labour and National Service, might understand what women were going through, how hard they were working and what a strain it could be. Perhaps she would be on our side.
Each member of the panel took their turn to speak, and when they had all finished, Mr Morton-Stoppard nudged Mr Stratton and whispered something to him. Mr Stratton stood, thanked everyone and said that with regret there was no time for questions, but he and some of his colleagues would stay for another ten minutes to speak directly with those who required their attention.
Other than one journalist who said loudly, ‘I wanted to ask about carrots,’ everyone else began standing up, stretching, picking up bags and putting on coats.
Mrs Edwards and Mr Simons launched into a discussion about today’s speeches, in which I was kindly involved, and several people came over to interrupt and say hello. When she introduced me, Mrs Edwards made sure they knew which magazine I was from.
After several minutes I noticed that Miss Eggerton was standing quite near us and was in the process of shaking hands and saying goodbye to a serious, rather whiskery older journalist. I whispered a quick Excuse Me to Mrs Edwards and approached Miss Eggerton before it was too late.
‘Miss Eggerton,’ I said, planting myself between her and any possible exit route. ‘How do you do? Emmeline Lake, Woman’s Friend. I just wanted to say how much I admired your speech today. Especially what you were saying about women making all the difference.’
I said ‘Woman’s Friend’ slightly louder than I had meant. I told myself to calm down.
Miss Eggerton did not come across as the warmest person, but as none of the Ministry men did either, there was no reason why she should.
‘How do you do, Miss Lake,’ she said. ‘Are you connected with the munitions workers articles?’
That was interesting. They really were keeping an eye on us all.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I’ve been to a munitions factory several times now.’
‘And you have been impressed.’
I didn’t know if it was a question or a statement, but I knew the expected answer.
‘Enormously. The women are hard-working, utterly committed, and their senior managers speak highly of them all.’
‘Good,’ said Miss Eggerton. While she hadn’t cut me dead, she did not appear to want to chat to any great degree.
I kept talking, hoping she wouldn’t walk away.
‘I’ve been particularly impressed with how they manage to work and maintain their roles as wives and mothers, what with such long hours and difficulties in finding care for their children,’ I said in a rush. ‘Although we have heard from readers who are struggling in this area.’
I decided on the spot not to mention Chandlers so I wouldn’t get anyone into trouble.
‘Your point being?’ Miss Eggerton asked.
Her deadpan expression was hard to read. I had no idea if her interest was based on sympathy or disapproval, so I adopted what I hoped was an impartial tone.
‘I believe,’ I said, ‘that readers have queried how they might work full time and still care for their children should they be on shift-work. I also understand that some women who have been widowed find things a stretch on their pensions.’
‘Did your magazine answer them?’ asked Miss Eggerton. ‘I take it you do advise them about the Government Nurseries?’
‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘Although many areas do not have the Government facilities. I understand the factories themselves have to request them. At least so our readers report,’ I added, attempting to sound objective.
‘Your readers are most open,’ said Miss Eggerton. ‘I hope they are as patriotic as they are verbose.’
‘They see us as someone to turn
to,’ I said. ‘And there is no doubt they are as fiercely patriotic as anyone. Many have husbands, brothers or sons in the forces. They have more reason than anyone to want us to win. But it is hard for some.’
‘Miss Lake, we are at war. It is hard for everyone.’
‘I wondered if you could advise me on who women workers might apply to directly,’ I said. ‘For nursery facilities.’
‘I’m afraid this is between the factory management and their local authority,’ said Miss Eggerton. ‘Then of course the Ministry of Health needs to be involved, as well as the Ministry of Labour, in the decision.’
It all sounded interminable.
‘But if the factory management does not see the need, then in all probability, there isn’t one,’ she finished.
‘Miss Eggerton,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid we know from our readers that there is.’
She had begun to look unimpressed. ‘A handful at most?’ she said.
‘I believe they could be the tip of the iceberg,’ I said. ‘You’ve just said in your speech that all women are needed to play their part, including the ones who won’t be conscripted, which must include women who have children. What are they to do when working nights, or when they have to leave home before five in the morning for a six o’clock shift? Surely, more of them need help?’
If Miss Eggerton came across as a hard nut, she did not appear to like it in somebody else. ‘Miss Lake,’ she said, becoming tart, ‘you take my words too literally. It is highly unlikely we will need every single mother of young children to work. And should they be required, then utilising older women to care for their children is an obvious solution. I think we all agree that mothers’ true places are in their homes with their families, as of course they will return to when the war has been won.’
I wasn’t sure quite where to start in response.
Had Miss Eggerton ever been to a factory? Did she even know any women in real life? It didn’t seem to occur to her that some mothers needed to work, or might even actually want to.