by Mary Horlock
There is a surviving sample of steel wool at the Imperial War Museum. It’s hard to know how to describe it. One officer noted its ‘fuzzy-wuzzy texture’,15 another likened it to a ‘magnified but sparse door mat.’16 The steel threads are thin, flat and prickly to touch, woven in a loose kind of mesh. They look very brittle in their box but then, they are sixty years old. Without the supporting chicken wire they curl and bristle. It’s not hard to picture how they’d look on a larger scale – how they might conjure a curtain of undergrowth – and I’ve seen it for myself in the photographs Joe kept. There’s one that is taken from beneath a cover, showing a man walking over it, balancing on the long supporting wires, arms outstretched. Close up, you could see and fire through steel wool, but from a distance it vibrates with shadows, resembling an innocuous bit of grassland.
There’s no doubt about it, steel wool was the perfect cover. It also worked well as a decoy. Because if you are too busy hiding things, the chances are you will not always see what is being hidden from you.
Notes
CAB = Cabinet Papers
CD, TC, CDTC = Camouglage Development and Training Centre
HO= Home Office
IWM = Imperial War Museum
PREM = Prime Minister’s Office Records
TNA = The National Archives
WO = War Office
Jack Sayer, ‘The Camouflage Game’, refers to his unpublished, hand-written memoir, courtesy of Gillian Ward.
To avoid repetition, the majority of quotes from Joseph’s letters to Mary are not noted. Unless stated otherwise, they form part of the Barclay family archive. Similarly, images reproduced form part of this archive, except where credited otherwise.
1 See discussions in C. H. R. Chesney, The Art of Camouflage, Robert Hale Ltd, London, 1941, p. 112
2 ‘Static Camouflage’, p. 4, TNA CAB102/206
3 F. J. C. Wyatt, Notes on Deficiencies in Camouflage Organisation, October 1938, TNA HO186/390
4 Gray, Camouflage and Air Defence, p. 62
5 J. Gray, ‘Notes on Research’, February 1948, IWM Archive Gray Documents.4273, p. 6
6 J. Gray, draft ‘steel wool’ notes, Barclay Archive
7 J. Gray, ‘Notes on Research’, February 1948, IWM Archive Gray Documents.4273, p. 8
8 Ibid., p. 9
9 Statement by A. P. Sayer, Barclay Archive
10 CID Report 1516-B, 9/2/39, p. 9, TNA HO186/14
11 ARP Handbook No. 11: Camouflage of Large Installations TNA HO186/964
12 Jan Gordon quoted in Chesney, The Art of Camouflage, p. 18
13 J. P. Sayer, The Camouflage Game, p. 5
14 C. S. Schofield in an undated letter to Ministry of Supply, IWM Archive Gray Documents.4273
15 IWM Archive Capt. A. E. Havinden Documents.7762
16 IWM Archive Maj. D. A. J. Pavitt Documents.2790
is for Invention, consider the new Ways to conceal our secrets from view
My dearest M,
I cannot wait until we are married.
But the M wasn’t Mary. It was Maureen.
As 1939 progressed, London prepared for the worst – pavements were piled high with sandbags, paper was pinned onto every window, and barrage balloons blotted out blue sky. Young men, eager to enlist, seized the moment and proposed marriage. Young women, fearful of the future, threw caution to the wind and accepted.
Maureen didn’t think her actions particularly rash. After all, she had agreed to marry the man she loved, the man she’d been seeing for almost as long as she had been in London. Yes, Maureen had her own blossoming romance and had kept it expertly hidden, as was fast becoming a family trait.
It had started in December 1937, at a Christmas party at the Sutherland Hotel. Maureen didn’t know it but she’d become rather stunning: white camellia skin, dark, wide-set eyes and thick auburn hair just like her father. Her natural reserve only made her more intriguing. She had come to the party with Nancy, who was accompanied by Dick. Only Joe was missing, busy preparing for his interview with Francis Wyatt at Farnborough. Or perhaps he was with Mary. Either way, he would miss the sight of his only daughter being reluctantly drawn into an innocent parlour game.
All the young women present were asked to throw a hat in turn, the idea being that whichever gentleman caught the hat could partner them for a dance. It was a harmless way of breaking the ice and eliminating would-be wallflowers, but Maureen, selfconscious about her deafness and clumsy because of it, hated the attention. When given the hat she threw it quickly, keeping her eyes firmly shut. There was quite a scuffle but one young man – a keen rugby player – had a particularly tenacious grip. As the crowd dispersed there he stood: blond and bespectacled with a wide, toothy grin.
The name of this young man was Harold Barclay, but I must not call him Harold, because my grandfather always preferred people to call him by his second name, which was John. John Barclay, then, was also a Scot, born in Paisley. He was twenty-six and a trainee accountant, having followed his older brother David down to London to take his articles at Price Waterhouse.
David was also at the party, a rather domineering character who had lost his wife suddenly and tragically and become an alcoholic because of it. But David had been saved by and newly engaged to the dashing Betty Nuthall, a tennis star whose family owned a string of hotels including the Sutherland. John Barclay had no such colourful or complicated history, professing only to a deep terror of women. ‘They were people, they could express opinions, they could make you feel terribly inferior or terribly superior, although the latter was something I never experienced.’1
For the longest time John Barclay avoided all women. Until he met Maureen.
‘I don’t know how I caught the hat,’ he told her. ‘I have the most frightful eyesight.’
Maureen had to laugh.
‘Well, I’m badly deaf, so we shall make a fine pair.’
And they did. They truly did.
John and Maureen were seeing each other throughout 1938. In fact, John had moved closer to Maureen’s lodgings in Raynes Park so that he might see her more. All the time Joe was working at RESB, developing his secret material and his secret life with Mary. Had he not been spreading his attention across so many subjects he might have noticed how silent and self-contained his daughter had become. Equally, if Maureen hadn’t been so wrapped up in her glorious romance with John, she might’ve had time to speculate further on her father’s activities. The subterfuge deepened on both sides. Maureen had considered telling her father. She had gone to the Sutherland that Friday evening, and it would have been perfect, catching Joe alone with his work, but he’d thrown her off with this odd business about steel wool scrubbing pads.
So she had carried on lying. When John proposed marriage she accepted without hesitation, because there was no time to lose. In a world full of uncertainty she had no doubts about him. They were meant for each other, and for the rest of her life, wherever she went, Maureen would keep close a small framed photograph of the two of them, strolling arm in arm along the Strand. John and Maureen in their Sunday best. They look so very young and carefree, light as air. They are laughing with happiness. Because their secret hadn’t yet been discovered.
As Maureen planned her new life, Joe was doing the same. The coming war was a terrible prospect, but he had imagined it for so long the certainty came like a release. The irony was not lost on him – having spent years feeling relegated and redundant, he was suddenly in demand. Returning to uniform signalled something powerful, and a part of him wished he’d never left. He felt himself walking taller, looking younger, thinking clearly. At last there was an eager audience for his work, people hungry for his opinions.
But Mary Meade was not in that number. Joe sketched her cramming her belongings into a van and vacating Vale Court in a panic. Mary was too scared to stay in London and, true to her word, she had fixed herself a temporary job organising summer courses for the Crafts Council outside the capital. She was then going to retreat to her m
other’s in Bath. Joe was glad for it, since he had seen how nervy she’d become. His letters chased her all around the country, reassuring her: ‘The position in London is very fine. The people generally are ready for anything and afraid of nothing.’
Mary hated being parted from Joe and felt quite uprooted, though for him life was much the same. ‘Honestly P.F. time and distance are nothing at all. And we are as near now as at 17 Vale Court. Remember that!’
Maureen and John, Joe and Mary – the ground beneath them was shifting. But whilst Mary was consumed by worry, Joe thrived on it. He even imagined he might be sent abroad. Whatever was afoot, he hastily collected his artwork from Vale Court and the Sutherland, intending to send it down to Mary for safekeeping. It was rather therapeutic, bringing his etchings and paintings into the office.
Beddington said today are those drawings in the parcel? So I showed them to him. To cut a long story short he went off the deep end and is dying to show them to his Shell Mex brother. I think he would buy them and his brother, too. If we survive the War he says he will form a syndicate and back me financially so I can get down to it. Actually he really meant it and of course they are all frightfully wealthy and genuinely crazy about modern pictures. Well, I sure would like a syndicate!
Was it wrong to feel excited? He was facing another war – it was a terrible prospect – but at least he was doing something, and camouflage was a world where the unlikely did seem possible. Joe revelled in the fast-formed friendships, how men of wildly varying backgrounds were banding together. ‘The plutos’ (as he called them) were slumming it, welcoming him into their comfortable houses, ringing up endless bar bills at the Ritz. It felt like every door was swinging open. But he didn’t for a minute imagine it could last.
The announcement came on 3 September. Britain was finally and officially at war with Germany. The changearound was instant. Simmons was dispatched to France with the Expeditionary Forces, and Freddie Beddington followed hot on his heels as corps camouflage officer. RESB was to be reorganised and Joe was promoted to major and acting director. It was quite a leap, to go from private in one war to major in another, but rapid promotions were the order of the day.
‘As you can imagine the work is incredible. Practically every night till 11 or 12. I am now doing all [Simmons’s] work in addition to my own and trying to train new people too.’ Joe was involved in everything – making site visits and planning schemes, overseeing trials of steel wool, the recruitment and training of new camouflage officers. ‘We are swamped by applicants. I have put up a notice “No Camouflage Applicants for Commissions can be seen without Appointment. Gentlemen offering their services must write or phone.” Really this is a great country. Poor old Hitler!’
Each morning he was greeted by the same spectacle: groups of eager young men wielding letters of recommendation, mostly ex-students from the Slade and the Royal College, hoping to get ‘fixed up’. Joe was now meeting plenty of artists better off and more successful than he had ever been, and yet he was the one with influence. The penniless artist was now a major, in charge of a department, an expert in static camouflage. Who could have predicted it?
But then who could have predicted the telephone call that suddenly meant the floorboards seemed to open and swallow him? It was the only time Nancy had ever tried to get hold of him at the Board. Something terrible had happened.
Maureen was surprised by the sight of her father in his uniform – the peaked cap and major’s crowns looked most impressive – but it was strange to see him here, arriving unannounced at her place of work. This clearly wasn’t a social call, although it would have been lovely to pretend even for a few seconds that it was. Maureen had often hoped that her father might come to inspect her premises; she had wanted to take him to the Lyons tea house where they could people-watch and talk of trivial things. She had done this with John just the other week.
John, her fiancé.
My dearest M,
I cannot wait until we are married.
If only Susan hadn’t discovered the note, wrapped around an engagement ring. If only Susan hadn’t then called Nancy, who’d then called Joe. Susan had known Maureen since she was a baby, but she’d known Nancy longer and her loyalties were set in stone.
As if one declaration of war wasn’t enough.
Maureen hadn’t told her parents because she’d guessed how they would react. Everyone considered her naive and it was true she lacked confidence and had seen little of the world. The news of her engagement caused exactly the kind of fuss she had so wanted to avoid. Nancy was furious, quite inconsolable, and vented her fury on Joe.
She had summoned him back to the Sutherland and scolded him bitterly.
‘This is your fault!’ she said. ‘Maureen needed your guidance and you failed her.’
Did she? Had he?
It wasn’t the time to remind Nancy of where and when John and Maureen had first met – at the Sutherland, and right under her nose. Nancy ranted and raved at her husband. She saw him as a man who had neglected his family – who cared only for his work – but if she wanted a fight she’d be sorely disappointed. Joe didn’t argue back or defend himself, because he felt he was guilty. He listened quietly and then promised his wife he would put a stop to this nonsense. Even then, he wasn’t sure he could. Maureen was his creation, an only child who had learned long ago to keep her own counsel. There were times she didn’t hear but plenty more times she simply didn’t listen. Wasn’t that just like him?
Joe hung his head for shame. The present situation was his fault. He had neglected Maureen, assuming everything was fine, and that she was safely watched over by other people. He felt confused and angry, and by the time he reached the magazine offices he had fairly worn himself out.
Maureen noticed the slight stoop, the hand twitching at his side.
‘I think we should take a walk,’ he suggested curtly, turning on his heel back towards the door.
She dutifully collected her coat and bag, and followed her father downstairs. No word passed between then as they left the building. She knew, without asking, that they were heading down to the Embankment. Joe veered towards water whenever he needed to calm his nerves.
Father and daughter walked slowly towards the Thames, a chill wind cutting through their clothes. Everyone they passed was also walking with purpose, preoccupied by war and what it meant. Maureen turned her head once to check her father’s profile. She remembered their long walks along the Tay, when she’d been so small. They’d walk and talk for hours, with him eventually lifting her onto his shoulders, and he’d point out every incident in the landscape, keeping her eyes open long past her bedtime.
She stole another glance his way.
‘You look jolly impressive.’
Joe nodded gruffly and steered her through the gateway into the Embankment Gardens.
‘Sit down.’ He gestured to a bench.
Maureen did as she was told, perching neatly on her hands, like a schoolgirl before a teacher.
‘Well, young lady.’ Joe kicked at the gravel under his feet. ‘Perhaps you know what this is about. Your alleged engagement?’
Maureen held her breath. ‘Oh! So you know.’
He was gripping his hands behind his back.
‘Never have I heard of a more nonsensical and irresponsible notion. To get married now!’
Maureen tried to smile. Wasn’t it just what everyone was doing?
‘If two people love each other they should be together.’
Joe lifted his cap and scratched at his head, struggling to process this small declaration. He didn’t know how to reply. Yes, people who loved each other should be together, but hasty marriages in the shadow of war were simply wrong. Was this what had agitated Nancy – the idea of her daughter repeating her own mistake? He stood very still, struggling with a strange mixture of emotions and memories. Then he gathered himself up.
‘There are any number of reasons why this idea of marriage is madness, but firstly let me point
out you are far too young. This John Barclay is much older than you!’ (The age gap between Maureen and John was in fact half that between Joe and Mary.)
‘Secondly, this John is a mere bank clerk – not even a qualified accountant.’ (Was that really so much worse than being an artist?)
‘Next there is the issue of where and how you shall live. John will volunteer. I assume he already has and that’s the reason for your rush. But he could be sent God knows where.’
Maureen stopped him there. ‘Well, that won’t happen, in fact. John has already tried to enlist and been turned down, twice. He’s very upset but he’s got the most terrible eyesight . . .’ There was an awkward hesitation. ‘And he’s also rather crestfallen, as the last time they told him he was colour-blind.’
Joe stifled a small gasp. A colour-blind bank clerk. His daughter was rejecting him in so many ways. But what he hated most of all was the now familiar feeling that the world was changing and he couldn’t keep up.
Maureen was still talking: ‘We shall live in Wimbledon. I shall be a fire warden at the office and John has volunteered for the ARP.’2
They had planned it all out.
Joe took a long breath in, suddenly self-conscious about his new uniform.
‘Well, that is all very well. But neither of you young people know what this war will be like.’
‘We shall find out together,’ Maureen replied. ‘I need to be twenty-one to get the licence, so I’ll need your permisson.’