by AJ Pearce
‘Mrs Barker?’ said Wilf.
‘And now Mrs Oliver too,’ I said.
Wilf snorted. ‘I heard it from Noreen. And this is why you want to see him?’
I nodded. As we drove out of the town and towards the factory, I made another confession. ‘Mr Noakes, I haven’t any papers for the security guards,’ I said.
‘Now there’s a turn-up,’ said Mr Noakes, quite calmly. ‘And call me Wilf, although probably not in front of the guards.’
‘Thank you, Wilf, and please call me Emmy.’
Wilf nodded and was silent for a moment.
‘Emmy,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘When we get to the gates, tell me if you recognise any of the lads. It could be helpful.’
We were nearly at Chandlers, and I was beginning to feel nervous.
‘This isn’t going to get you or Mrs Noakes into trouble, is it?’ I asked.
Wilf shook his head as he expertly drove the van around a tight bend. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I can always say I assumed you were back for an official meeting. Noreen will be fine. To be honest,’ he added, ‘we’re leaving anyway. She doesn’t like the way Terry looks at her, and neither do I. You see, everyone has their secrets. Right, are you ready?’
We had drawn up to Chandlers’ main gates. I looked closely as two security guards walked up to the van.
‘The one on the right has seen me before,’ I said.
‘Good. Now smile and look innocent and leave this to me.’
Wilf rolled down the window of his van and leant out.
‘Frozen to death yet?’ he called, handing over a sheet of paper. ‘It’s all on the list. Here’s the key to the back, and I’ve picked up Miss Lake again for the chief.’
If I’d thought Wilf was hatching a complicated cover story, it was clear he was more of a Look Confident and Tell the Truth sort of man. Handing over my identity card, I tried to look innocent, or failing that, unthreatening at least. I had nothing to prove I should be there.
Before the guard could question it, Wilf turned up his chatter. ‘Somebody here’s made quite an impression on the boss,’ he said, giving me an unsavoury wink. ‘I think this one has an open invitation.’
‘Hmm,’ said the guard. ‘Stay there until I get you a pass.’
I almost gasped. Wilf might just have done it.
‘You could look a bit less shocked,’ he said through his teeth, trying not to laugh. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he added as the guard returned and handed him my pass.
As soon as we drove away, Wilf let out a guffaw and thumped the steering wheel. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Noreen would have a right old go at me for that. Although you’re going to have to work on your Mata Hari impression if you want a career in spying. Your face!’
‘I think this one has an open invitation? Wilf, I’m engaged!’ I said, in mock-protest, then beginning to laugh, ‘And as for the wink.’
Wilf roared. ‘You’re a good sport,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘I couldn’t think of how else to get you in. Never mind, at least it worked.’
A few moments later he brought the van to a stop at Shed Twelve. ‘I can wait just down here if you like,’ he said. ‘In for a penny and all that.’
‘Thanks, Wilf,’ I said, getting out. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘Try to tell Nore that I know what’s going on.’
I nodded a thank you and walked the short way to Shed Twelve. A large, shiny black Austin 16 was parked at an angle outside.
Mr Terry was here.
Noreen Noakes was sitting in her little booth. We exchanged Hellos, and now, feeling slightly dry-mouthed, I told her I was here to see Mr Terry. I didn’t say I had an appointment.
‘Thank you, Miss Lake,’ she said. ‘I’ll call up for someone to come and get you.’
‘No,’ I said, in a stage whisper. ‘Please don’t.’
Mrs Noakes looked at me with surprise.
‘I’ve come about Anne Oliver,’ I said, speaking urgently and hoping she would get my drift. ‘And Irene Barker. I saw Mr Noakes at the station, and he kindly gave me a lift. He said to tell you I’ve told him why I’m here.’
Despite my lack of coherence, Mrs Noakes cottoned on. ‘It’s a poor business,’ she said quietly. Then as if everything was perfectly normal, she said, ‘Just sign your name here. If Mr Terry said to go straight up, then please take the doors on your right. You know your way of course.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and had never meant it more.
As I made my way up the stairs to the offices, I wondered how many other people at Chandlers were less than fans of the Factory Director. The thought gave me a small boost of confidence. Perhaps other people would stand up on Anne’s side?
There was no time to think about it. A middle-aged man in a suit came out of the doors on the first floor, so I smiled and thanked him which meant he held them open for me. I was just another young woman in a suit. Now I needed to get past Mr Terry’s secretary, Mrs Cleeve. There was no way my luck was going to stretch this far.
Her desk was directly outside his office, like a sentry who had been to the perfume counter at Boots. I couldn’t risk a row, so I didn’t dare stop.
‘Excuse me?’ she said as I walked past, rudely ignoring her. ‘Is that Miss Lake? Do you have an appointment?’
Mr Terry’s office was within touching distance. The door had his name on it, on a sign above the sort of glass that you couldn’t see through.
‘Miss Lake,’ demanded his secretary, loudly. ‘I must insist.’
I thought of Anne. And so must I, I thought to myself.
Then I reached for the handle, opened the door, and went in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I Don’t Like People Who Pick On My Friends
AS I HAD feared, my arrival did not go down well.
‘What the hell is this?’ barked Mr Terry, rising out of his seat. He had been at his desk, talking to a man who I recognised as Mr Adams, the Public Relations Manager.
‘Good morning, Mr Terry,’ I said. ‘Mr Adams. I apologise for the interruption.’
‘I should damn well think so,’ said Mr Terry. ‘Who let you in?’
Mrs Cleeve had followed me into his office and was looking more than perturbed. ‘Mr Terry,’ she said, ‘I have no idea how this young woman got through security.’
‘Then I should get her out,’ said Mr Terry, rudely.
‘Please!’ I said. ‘I have come to apologise. And to offer you an explanation. I believe you have heard Mrs Anne Oliver brought her daughter into work. This is entirely my fault. I’m afraid I let her down over babysitting and left her no choice.’
‘Mrs Oliver?’ said Mr Terry.
Mr Adams muttered something to him.
‘Oh, her. One of the troublemakers protesting.’
‘No, they’re not,’ I said, almost forgetting my plan to be as pleasant as possible. ‘There’s no protest, sir. There was going to be a Patriotic Parade, but that was about recruiting more women if there were the facilities to help them.’
It wasn’t an untruth.
‘But it has been cancelled,’ I continued. ‘And Mr Terry, please know that the parade idea was entirely down to me as well, not Mrs Oliver.’
I moved further into the room in case Mrs Cleeve felt the need to try and bundle me out.
‘Really?’ said Mr Terry, sarcastically. ‘Why aren’t I surprised? The last time you were here, under the pretence of interviewing me, I was harangued about employees’ childcare. Then your friends started sending me demanding letters and arranging anti-patriotic demonstrations. And now here you are, having found your way into a high-security munitions supplier to the Government. It’s all somewhat rum, don’t you think?’
‘That was no pretence, sir,’ I said. I quickly unlocked my briefcase and brought out a copy of the latest issue of Woman’s Friend. ‘I hope you will see that I have quoted you – not by name of course, but as Factory Director, quite extensively.’ I put it on
his desk with the page open. ‘There. Just under the picture of all the women enjoying the entertainments. I hope you’ll see the article is fulsome in its praise.’
Mr Adams craned his neck to study the magazine, but Mr Terry just continued to look furious and increasingly unattractive.
‘Mr Terry,’ I said. ‘I am so very sorry if I have caused trouble. The articles in our magazine have all been terrifically positive, but perhaps personally, I had become over-enthusiastic about the Government’s excellent initiative of providing nurseries for war workers. Please do not penalise the women. Especially Mrs Oliver. I understand she is a very effective employee, and I know she is thoroughly committed to her job.’
While I was finding my own words quite sickeningly obsequious, I tried hard to make my voice calm, keeping the pitch low and even attempting to be slightly charming. Flattery had worked with him previously, and I knew Mr Adams had no axe to grind with me. I tried to catch his eye, but he was staring fixedly at his hands.
I thought of how I had managed to back down in the face of Miss Eggerton’s crossness, and of how Mrs Edwards would have managed my current situation.
She would have glided in, enraptured the two men and got them to sign an agreement on a veritable chain of nurseries, decent working hours, equal pay and wall to wall lavatory mirrors within minutes.
But I was no Mrs Edwards.
Mr Terry sat back down in his large chair and crossed his arms.
‘Mr Terry, should I escort Miss Lake out?’ asked Mrs Cleeve.
‘I can handle this,’ said Mr Terry, testily. ‘You can go.’
I wondered how Mrs Cleeve put up with him.
‘Miss Lake,’ said Mr Terry. ‘You must be aware that anti-patriotic dissent is a matter for the police.’
‘It isn’t anti-patriotic, Mr Terry,’ I said, as sweetly as I could. ‘They just want to be able to work. That’s what the Government’s recruitment campaign is for: getting more women into war work. It’s just that they can’t easily do that when the shifts make caring for their children impossible. That’s not a criticism,’ I added.
‘And what does the Ministry of Information make of your views?’ said Mr Terry.
I hesitated. ‘They are fully committed to recruiting more war workers,’ I said. ‘Just last week, my magazine was praised by the Under-Secretary to the Minister, for the articles about your factory. I am not here to be troublesome.’
By now I was almost pleading. I hated myself for doing it, but it was worth a shot. If I could make Mr Terry feel like the big man, perhaps he would be a little better disposed.
I was wrong.
‘Miss Lake, as you appear to be quite the name with the MOI, I am sure my friends at the Ministry of Labour will be delighted to hear all about you and your magazine, and the way you have infiltrated and influenced my workers. Protests and marches and whatever else you’ve been stirring up don’t quite fit with your little articles.’
I opened my mouth to defend myself, but Mr Terry had had enough.
‘MRS CLEEVE,’ he shouted.
Mrs Cleeve hurried back into the room. She must have been standing right outside the door and was looking even more severe than ever.
‘Please ensure Miss Lake is removed from the premises,’ he said.
‘Yes, Mr Terry,’ said Mrs Cleeve. ‘I’ve arranged transport. Many of the workers are on their way to early lunch so I thought it best not to make a fuss.’
Mr Terry nodded, curtly.
But I hadn’t had my say, and far more importantly, Anne hadn’t had hers.
‘What about Mrs Oliver?’ I asked. ‘Will you give her her job back? She will not bring her child in again.’
Mr Terry shrugged. It was written all over his substantial face. He didn’t give a fig.
Mr Terry. Rich from Jerry.
That’s Mr Terry.
‘You know, sir,’ I said, speaking quietly now, ‘the women I’ve met who work in your factory really do care about what they do here. They may never earn your kind of salary, or drive a big car like yours, or have a Rolls-Royce ashtray.’ I looked at the one on his desk with contempt. ‘And neither will I. But they’ll give everything they possibly can, including the men they love, to help win this war.’
I thought of Anne and Anthony, of Irene and her husband, Douglas. Of Bunty and William, and of my brother Jack flying across the Channel in the dead of night. And as my heart lurched, I thought of Charles, my darling boy who I loved more than anything.
We all wanted factories like Chandlers to produce munitions and armaments and every single other thing needed for the war effort, because then the boys just might come back alive. But it didn’t mean a woman doing her best for them should be treated as if she was just another spare part.
The only way we were going to get through this war was to help carry each other along. If it took him a hundred years, Mr Terry would never understand.
‘Mr Terry, I’d put my hat on it that if these women were in your position, they wouldn’t bully people or ignore polite requests for some help to which they are perfectly entitled. They’d do everything they could for the war effort, only they would understand that it’s not about money and Government contracts and friends in high places.’ I held eye contact until he looked away. ‘It’s about doing your bit and helping to win this war for all of us.’
Then I turned on my heels, and followed closely by Mrs Cleeve, I walked out.
*
I may have managed to get the last word, but I was under no illusion that I had won. With my heart in my boots, I waited for Mrs Cleeve to call for Security to escort me off the premises.
‘Miss Lake,’ she said, forcefully. ‘Time for you to leave.’
She took me by the arm and guided me out of the managerial offices in no uncertain manner.
‘Through there,’ she said, half pushing me out of the doors towards the stairs as a man in a brown overall who I judged might be a foreman stood and stared.
She led me downstairs, where to my surprise Noreen Noakes was standing outside her booth looking anxious.
‘Miss Lake,’ said Noreen. ‘What happened? Mrs Cleeve called to say Mr Terry is in an absolute fury.’
‘Did you manage to find Mr Noakes?’ asked Mrs Cleeve, grimly.
‘He’s outside in the van,’ said Noreen.
I nodded. I didn’t have the foggiest idea what was going on.
‘I should get a move on, Miss Lake,’ said Mrs Cleeve. ‘You’ve been a silly little fool today and probably just made things worse for your friends. Thank you, Mrs Noakes. Good day to you.’
As Mrs Cleeve marched solidly back to Mr Terry, Noreen Noakes ushered me out of the building.
‘Make sure you tell Wilf everything,’ she said. ‘Then he can tell me. Go on, before she changes her mind and calls Security. And don’t worry. I don’t know what you’ve just done, but I bet it’s not half as bad as she says.’
They were kind sentiments and I thanked Mrs Noakes profusely, but Mrs Cleeve’s words rang in my ears. I was still seething over Mr Terry, but what if I had been a fool? More to the point, what if I had made things even worse for my friends?
*
Wilf Noakes didn’t just escort me off the premises, but all the way to Maeve’s flat. As I had promised his wife, I told him what had happened, although swearing him and Mrs Noakes to secrecy. I didn’t want either of them to get mixed up in my row with the head of the entire Chandlers operation.
Wilf listened intently as I tried not to overdramatise what had just taken place.
‘I admire your gumption,’ he said, as he wound his way to Maeve’s address without looking at a map. ‘Noreen and me live two streets away,’ he explained as he stopped the van outside Maeve’s and put the handbrake on with a crunch.
‘That explains it,’ I smiled. ‘Wilf, do you think I went too far? And are you sure you won’t be in trouble?’
‘I think you said what was right,’ said Wilf. ‘And sometimes that has to be done. Don�
��t worry about me, I think old Terry will want to keep all of this quiet. Good luck to you, Emmy. Take care of yourself.’
I thanked him again and got out, waving goodbye as he drove off. I was hugely grateful for his help but more than aware he hadn’t answered my question. I waited for a moment before ringing the doorbell. The peculiar euphoria of giving Mr Terry a piece of my mind was beginning to wear off. Now I had to confess that I had failed.
Maeve answered the door. ‘Blimey,’ she said, ‘you look awful. Come on in. My girls are playing with Ruby and Tony in the bedroom, so we won’t be disturbed.’
We climbed the stairs and went straight into the front room, where, to my surprise, as well as Anne, Betty and Violet were there too.
It was a small but cosy room with framed family photographs covering the wallpapered walls, and a bookcase laden with paperback books. A large ginger cat sat on the back of the sofa, and Violet was leaning forward so that she didn’t get in his way.
‘Let me take your coat, Emmy,’ said Maeve, bustling about. ‘Marmalade, get off there. Emmy, sit on that chair.’
Marmalade didn’t move.
‘Hello, everyone,’ I said, failing to put on a very good smile.
‘How was it?’ asked Anne. The four women waited anxiously.
I sat down on the chair with a bump. ‘He wouldn’t move an inch,’ I said, feeling worse by the minute. ‘It’s quite clear that he doesn’t care. It’s an inconvenience to him. I’m really sorry I got you into all this.’
A chorus of denials came in response.
‘Don’t be soft,’ said Violet.
Maeve patted my shoulder.
‘He’s foul,’ said Betty. ‘Tell us everything.’
Taking a deep breath, I recounted the entire episode. At the second time of telling, it sounded even more desperate, like a goldfish trying to take on a shark.
‘He ended up by saying we were un-patriotic and that what he called a “protest” could be a matter for the police. I told him it was a Patriotic Parade but thank goodness you called it off. He’s nasty with it.’
Finally, I came to what I really wanted to say.