by AJ Pearce
You see I was like her – my parents are very strict too even though I am going to be twenty this summer. They didn’t want me to have a boyfriend, especially not if he is in the army or anything – not even ones that everyone says are nice boys you’d want for a son-in-law. I was really worried because I met ever such a lovely boy at a church dance that I’d gone to without my parents knowing. You see he is in the navy and I knew they would be cross.
I’d been worrying myself sick thinking what if they caught me seeing Leonard (that’s his name), but then I read where you told Fed Up to be brave and talk to her parents and so that’s what I did. And it turns out that my mum’s friend Edith is second cousin to Leonard’s mum and she told my mum that you couldn’t wish for a better boy for anyone and that he is nearly as good as marrying a vicar and everything.
So anyway, now my mum is happy and Leonard came to tea like you said he should and they got on so well my dad called him Son at the end and now we’re going out properly and I’m so glad.
Anyway, I wanted to thank you very much for giving me the courage to pipe up.
Yours sincerely
Lilian Banks (Miss)
PS: I have told my friend Jennie to write to you as her mother is being properly horrible.
It was a lovely letter, but it knocked me for six. This was the first time a real, live person had actually said she found my advice useful. And she wasn’t even the one I’d answered. Until now, the Woman’s Friend readers had been a faceless mass, soothed and entertained by Mr Collins, and treated as one great slow-witted child by Mrs Bird. I had known that I liked them and wanted to help, but this was different.
I wouldn’t have had the nerve to write in but I was ever so glad when I read your answer to her.
I hadn’t thought of the letters in the magazine like this before. I’d been concerned I might come a cropper and give the wrong advice to the person who had written in. I hadn’t thought that hundreds, even thousands of people would read my advice and other readers who were having a rotten time of it might be encouraged as well. I was pleased as punch.
All the sneaking around, walking on hot coals, even lying about it to Bunty. Lilian Banks’ letter made it all feel worthwhile. I wondered how many other readers might have been reassured too?
As I heard the door to the corridor open, I quickly put Lilian’s letter back in its envelope. I would read it again when I got home.
‘Morning, Emmy,’ called Kathleen as she came into our office, removing her hat and letting her hair bounce out of control from its clips. She took off her coat to reveal a bright yellow cardigan with leather buttons that looked like little footballs.
‘Morning, Kath,’ I replied. ‘That’s a smashing woolly. Thanks for putting the post on my desk. You’ll never guess what. I’m going to the Café de Paris.’
I started to chat, keen to tell her about it, but Kathleen looked preoccupied. Before she’d even sat down, she looked at the letters on my desk and interrupted me. Her voice had a nervy edge in it.
‘That’s almost a pile,’ she said. ‘Are there any good ones?’
‘Oh, nothing exciting,’ I replied airily. ‘One about hair. Bound to be lots of Unpleasantness to go in the bin.’
Kathleen nodded.
‘It’s funny, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think that Mrs Bird is becoming, well, almost nice? She was very patient with one reader whose fiancé was being difficult. I thought Mrs Bird would have called her an idiot but she was actually quite kind.’
Kath smiled briefly. Her voice was higher than usual. I shifted slightly in my chair.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I can’t remember exactly.’
‘There was one this week,’ she continued. ‘About a girl who was seeing a soldier behind her parents’ back. I was surprised she didn’t give the girl a real telling off.’
I went hot and began to take off my jacket.
‘Oh that one? I say, spring is on the move, don’t you think?’ I said, getting one arm stuck behind my back as I tried to get out of a sleeve. ‘It’s so much warmer now than it was last week.’
There was a stiff breeze outside and the day before Mr Brand in Art had been off with his chilblains. Kathleen carried on.
‘It just seems strange. You know, she’s very clear on things like that. Quite a turn around. Don’t you think, Emmy?’
My stomach lurched. I had always thought that if anyone was likely to find me out, it would be Kathleen. She read Woman’s Friend from cover to cover and was sharp as a tack. I must have been mad to think I could fool her. My brain raced around, weighing up whether I could confide in her. It would be awful not to tell the truth and actually I desperately wanted to confess, get her on my side and be in it together.
But it wouldn’t be fair. Kathleen was the most honest person I knew and terrifically strong on Moral Fibre. I had been impersonating the Editress. I couldn’t expect her to keep this from Mrs Bird.
‘Emmy?’ said Kathleen again as I felt hotter than ever and couldn’t look her in the eye. ‘I’m not being horrid, honestly. But there’s nothing you’re keeping from me, is there?’
The thought of dragging her into this with me was dreadful. It just wouldn’t do.
‘Actually,’ I said. ‘There is something. Kath, can you keep a secret?’
Kathleen looked as if her nerve would fail, but nodded bravely.
I took a deep breath.
‘It’s just that, I’ve, um . . . I’m seeing Mr Collins’ brother Charles.’
It came out in a big rush. Taking Kathleen into my confidence about something exciting but not terrible was the most diversionary tactic I could have found. Even if using Charles as a front made me feel an absolute pig.
For a moment Kathleen hesitated, and then as her eyes grew wider than ever, she managed to whisper.
‘NO!’
I nodded back with the most two-faced smile in history. Through habit we both glanced at the door in case Mrs Bird might appear. When she didn’t, and with an expression of absolute delight and even greater relief, Kathleen clasped her hands to her cardigan and said Gosh Mr Collins’ Brother, and Fancy That, several times in a row.
*
Kathleen and I talked nineteen to the dozen for the next ten minutes as I gave her the full story about Charles and hinted that having a secret might have made me seem a bit shifty recently. I even went close to the mark and innocently asked her what had been concerning her about the letters, but she waved the topic away and said she was being silly and it was nothing. Kathleen was so good-hearted and thoroughly thrilled for me that she had completely fallen for the Charles excuse. In the space of a quarter of an hour I had gone from being on a high about a thank-you letter from a stranger to feeling quite sick with myself.
As I tried to enjoy what should have been a lovely chat about romance, I made a proper promise to myself. Absolutely no more letters in the magazine.
I had meant well, but I’d nearly put dear Kathleen in the most difficult position. The thought brought me up short. It was bad enough not telling Bunty I was writing back to the readers, but if Mrs Bird ever thought Kathleen had suspected me of tampering with advice in the magazine and not reported it to her, it would be very serious indeed. I just couldn’t risk getting Kathleen into trouble.
I would carefully continue to write back to readers, but in terms of printing things, that really would have to be that, even if it did seem to help people like Lilian Banks.
A door banged loudly as it was flung open in the corridor, and as if to prove my point, Mrs Bird appeared in our office, looking determined in tweed.
‘I cannot stay,’ she announced. ‘There has been a farming accident.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, as Kathleen and I both stood up.
‘The man’s own fault,’ replied Mrs Bird rather brightly.
There wasn’t much to be said to that so Kathleen and I nodded and looked stern. Mrs Bird glanced around the office.
‘I shall re
turn from the country on Monday. I trust you both have enough to be getting on with? Do you have Acceptable Letters for me, Miss Lake?’ She looked at my desk where Lilian’s thank-you letter sat in its envelope. My heart started to beat faster. ‘Dreadful handwriting,’ she muttered. ‘No Unpleasantness I trust?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I said with huge conviction. ‘In fact there’s a very interesting one from a lady who has been perturbed by a palm reader,’ I said. ‘She is most keen to be helped.’
Mrs Bird frowned. ‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ she said. ‘I shall consider it on Monday. Are you sure you are both busy? I thought I heard Chatting.’
Kathleen and I looked injured at the suggestion and issued a wild denial.
‘Very well,’ said Mrs Bird. ‘Then I must go. Miss Knighton, there is correspondence in my out-tray. Please ensure it is dealt with. Good day.’
And with that, she swept out of the office.
If the near miss with Kathleen had already given me the jitters, Mrs Bird appearing out of nowhere like a substantial ghost had tipped me over the edge. Pleading the need for more room to go through the post, I squeezed around my desk, gave Kathleen one last mad smile, and escaped into the corridor.
Then I stopped and leant against the wall, shutting my eyes and hugging the letters to my chest.
‘Just got away with something?’ said Mr Collins, who was standing by the door to his office. For anyone else I would have described it as lurking, but somehow Mr Collins could pull off standing around in what should be a suspicious manner. He had a journalist’s ability to make himself unnoticeable.
‘Oh. Me? Oh, gosh no,’ I said, following up with an unlikely laugh. ‘It’s just been a bit hectic, that’s all. TONS to do,’ I added, hoping to look industrious.
‘Well that’s good,’ said Mr Collins. ‘We may all have work for another week or two if for some incomprehensible reason we’re busy.’ He gave a little laugh, almost to himself. ‘Don’t tell me people are actually buying the magazine?’
‘Well, I think so,’ I said, hoping to head off another possible inquisition. ‘It’s probably down to the gypsies,’ I added wildly.
‘The gypsies?’ He raised an eyebrow at me and sighed heavily. ‘I sense a crushing inevitability that I will regret asking this, but really, Miss Lake, what gypsies?’
It always seemed to amuse Mr Collins to call me Miss Lake.
‘The ones in your stories. Gypsies. And foraging. In woods. Readers are mad for it, sir.’
My diversionary act wasn’t going half so well as it had done with Kath, and now I’d called him sir, which I never did.
Mr Collins came a little nearer. ‘Is everything all right, Emmy?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I’m about to sort the post. I was just taking it to the old reporters’ room if that’s all right. Ours is so small, it seems silly not to use it sometimes. I wasn’t sure if Mrs Bird might mind.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘In fact if you want a bit more space, why don’t you set up a desk in there? Tell Henrietta I made you, if you want.’ He flashed a smile at the thought, as I thanked him and said I would go and see if Kathleen would mind.
Kathleen thought it a jolly good plan and wished she could use the bigger office too, only Mrs Bird liked to be able to hurl herself across the corridor at her and wouldn’t want the walk. She came with me to do a little housekeeping and with Mrs Bird away, I finally managed to tell her about the night out at the Café de Paris.
Mrs Bussell the tea lady popped in bang on time as usual and managed to produce a rare garibaldi biscuit which she apologised for What With It Being Bloody Italian.
‘At least it’s not called a Mussolini,’ I said, trying to help and hearing her say something unprintable as she wheeled the trolley back off to the lift.
‘What are you going to wear?’ asked Kathleen, who was picking the currants (there were two) out of her biscuit and eating them very slowly. ‘Will it be evening dress?’
I nodded. ‘I’ve got a silk gown from when I was twenty-one.’ I smiled. It felt like a very long time ago. ‘I think it will do.’
I shifted around as I sat on an abandoned desk. ‘It seems a bit showy what with everything else going on,’ I added, feeling self-conscious.
‘Oh no,’ said Kath. ‘It’s lovely. And you should enjoy every minute. Anyway, it’s our duty to celebrate things like this, isn’t it? The Nazis would hate it.’
I laughed, pleased that we were chatting like we usually did and I didn’t have to be cagey about the letters.
‘I’m not sure Hitler will be terribly worried about me going to a nightclub,’ I said. ‘But I know what you mean. I promise on Saturday I’ll flounce about the West End like mad.’
I struck a pose with my hand behind my head, and tried to look like a mannequin out of a society fashion magazine.
There was a polite cough from the doorway.
‘I take it Henrietta is still out?’ said Mr Collins, as Kathleen and I jumped to our feet looking guilty. ‘Oh, come now, you don’t need to start standing to attention, I’m only joking. What’s all this about gadding around the West End?’ He threw me a mock Hard Stare.
‘Oh, not really gadding,’ I said. ‘Bunty’s William is taking us out on Saturday as a sort of pre-wedding treat. They didn’t have an engagement party.’
‘To the Café de Paris,’ added Kathleen, who had recently become braver about talking to Mr Collins and was buoyed by the excitement of the event.
Mr Collins let out a long whistle. ‘Miss Lake,’ he said. ‘I say. Good band. Over-priced champagne.’
That stopped Kathleen and me in our tracks. Mr Collins knew about dance bands?
Mr Collins rolled his eyes. ‘I’m not entirely ancient, you know.’
‘Of course not,’ I gasped as Kathleen nodded emphatically.
‘In fact, really quite young,’ I carried on, which was clearly taking it too far. Kathleen gave me a look.
‘All right, Emmy,’ said Mr Collins, ‘don’t go mad. Youth’s not all it’s cracked up to be anyway. Well, I’m sure you will have a very fine time. If there’s a raid you should be as safe down there as anywhere,’ he added.
‘Have you been to the Café de Paris, Mr Collins?’ asked Kathleen.
I could see she was carried away with the promise of stories about dancing and music and frocks. I wished Kathleen was coming with us as I knew she would love it and I promised myself that in future I wouldn’t wait for momentous reasons to do dashing things. A common or garden birthday would be enough.
I was sure Mr Collins would draw the conversation to a close, but to my surprise, he just smiled, and crossing his arms, leant back against the doorframe.
‘Once or twice, Kathleen,’ he said. ‘Not recently, I should add. What with me being so terribly old.’ He raised an eyebrow just slightly. ‘But yes, in the days when it first opened. I was rather snazzier then.’
Kathleen and I stared, agog.
Mr Collins. Snazzy?
This was a turn up! We hoped for more, but after the briefest of moments, when he was clearly thinking of a very different time, Mr Collins stopped leaning, jerked the bottom of his waistcoat down and made a Hmm noise.
‘Long time ago,’ he said, briskly. ‘Now then. You’d better get on with some work or we’ll all be for the high jump.’ He snapped back into work mode. ‘Emmeline, I have a stack of typing for you if you can spare the time. A story set by the sea. Rather dull but it has a happy ending. I’m going to be out for the next couple of hours so I’ll see you on Monday. Have a good time on Saturday. I’ll see you later on, Kathleen.’
He turned to leave and then had second thoughts and came back into the office.
‘Be careful on Saturday. It may be busy up there.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. Then he gave a brief nod and left.
Kathleen turned to me. ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘I think he’s trying to look after you while his brother is away.’ She giggled and then looked ne
rvously into the corridor.
‘Oh shush,’ I said. ‘He was just trying to be nice. And look at you, asking if he’d ever been to the Café de Paris.’
‘I don’t know what came over me,’ she said, putting her hand to her forehead. ‘I really don’t.’ Then she beamed. ‘But, oh isn’t it going to be lovely?’
I nodded. It was. Now I had managed to smooth things over at work, my mind went back to the wedding plans and Bunty. I just needed to sort things out once and for all with William, and then everything would all be all right.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Safest and Gayest Restaurant in Town
As much as we didn’t get on, I was immensely grateful to Vera for covering for me on Saturday night. In return I was doing her shift with A Watch earlier in the day. I was hopeful I might even get a chance to have a quick nap and be fresh for the Café de Paris. The firemen had their bunk rooms of course, but there was also a tiny back room for us girls if we needed it which had two camp beds and some mice who had eaten three ounces of cocoa that Joan had brought in and rashly left in the little wooden locker overnight.
The plan was that I would race back home after the shift, try to make myself presentable and be ready for William and Roy to arrive for drinks at the house before setting off to the club to be there by nine. It was tight but doable.
I marched off to the station on Saturday morning, early so that I could find William who I knew had changed his shift round as well. As usual, Roy was already at work when I arrived, head inside the engine of one of the pump vans and whistling away to himself.
‘Morning, Roy,’ I called. ‘Are you thinking through your steps for our waltz?’
Roy straightened up from the van and greeted me with enthusiasm.
‘That, Ginger Rogers,’ he said, ‘was a quickstep.’ He pulled a daft face.
I laughed. ‘Don’t panic, Mr Astaire, I knew.’ He looked relieved. ‘Are you all ready for the big night?’