‘How amazing!’ exclaimed Mary O. ‘You know precisely the kind of men we set out to help! You can see exactly why we started the Marriage Bureau!’
The two Marys struck up such a rapport that soon they decided to write a book. Marriage Bureau, published in 1942, brought yet more clients to 124 New Bond Street.
Secretaries, receptionists and interviewers came and went. Some were too fearful to keep working in the ravaged West End, others were called up, or left to cope with family disasters. Administering the Bureau was a juggling act for Mary and Heather, who were run ragged. Mary had an added reason for feeling exhausted: she was working with the American Red Cross. In December 1941 Germany and Italy declared war on America, and thousands of US servicemen and women were drafted and sent to England. In the same month the conscription of women became legal, and the first to be called up to do essential war work were single women aged twenty to thirty.
Perhaps the authorities considered the good work of the Bureau counted as a reserved occupation, exempting the match-makers from joining up. Perhaps Mary felt she should also be doing something more obviously essential. Whatever the reason, she spent less and less time in the Bureau, and more and more helping to organize facilities for American troops in London.
Several American servicemen and -women found their way to the Bureau. With regret, Mary and Heather had to turn away the girls, as the US government would not permit servicewomen to be put in touch with strangers. The men were deemed able to protect themselves, if necessary, from strange women.
‘Most of us have never been anywhere far from home,’ complained GI Brad, a melancholy young soldier who sat puffing his way through a packet of Lucky Strikes while Mary listened attentively. ‘We sure didn’t want to go all the way to England and fight a war. The goddam war’s got nothing to do with us. It’s not our war.’
Mary gave him her most winning smile, murmuring, ‘But we are so grateful to you Americans for coming to help us!’
‘Good of you to say so, ma’am. Sure, we don’t like this Hitler guy, and we’re sorry you folks are having such a goddam awful time with the bombing and all. But when we arrived here there was a bunch of limeys waiting for us, smiling like crocodiles. They didn’t directly say it was about time we fetched up but boy, did we feel their resentment.’
Brad leaned back in the chair, angrily stubbing out his cigarette as he relived his chilly welcome to cold, wet, ravaged England. Anxious to soothe him, Mary smiled as she enquired, ‘Do you know any English people at all?’
‘No, ma’am, only you. It’s lonesome here. All the people on the streets are kinda nervous-looking, not friendly. I want a girl. I had a sweetheart, Sue, back home. But my mom wrote me last week that Sue’s got fed up waiting for me, so she’s going with another guy. That’s what’s happened to a lot of us here. Even wives have gotten fed up. They think we’re going to get ourselves killed so they’d best find another man.’
‘That’s sad, I’m sorry. Well, let’s fill in this form, and you can tell me more about the sort of English girl you’d like to meet.’
Brad reflected, puffing thoughtfully on his third cigarette, before replying: ‘I’ve met a few English girls who liked me on account of they knew Americans can give them nice things like chocolate and nylons and cigarettes and food. I don’t want a girl like that. I want a girl who wants me, not all the stuff I can get for her. Can you help me, ma’am? I’m a cheerful guy, but right now I’m real down.’
Brad’s life improved dramatically when Mary introduced him to some friendly, ungrasping girls who welcomed his frank and open approach. He often used to drop into the Bureau, giving Mary news of his progress and telling her about his life in America and in London.
Wanting to help people like Brad, Mary volunteered to work on the development of an American Red Cross club which opened in 1942, Rainbow Corner, in Soho. It rapidly became the London home-from-home of Americans, where they could jitterbug with volunteer hostesses, drink proper coffee, guzzle doughnuts in the basement Dunker’s Den, get spruced up with a hot shower, a visit to the barber and the valet service, play pool, listen to bands and singers, or select their own favourites on the jukebox. They might bump into Irving Berlin, James Stewart and other famous visitors, even General Eisenhower. Homesick Americans were comforted that despite the sign over the reception desk, ‘NEW YORK 3271 MILES’, their homeland was not lost to them.
‘It’s a wonderful place!’ Mary told Heather. ‘And it keeps the men off the streets, which is just as well because they’re sex-starved and often very predatory. I’ve heard that rape is on the increase, and VD too – not all the fault of Americans, of course, but they’re certainly not backward in coming forward!’
‘Nor’s them prostitutes neither!’ broke in Special Constable and client Alf, who was paying one of his regular check-up visits to make sure ‘my marriage girls’ were all right. ‘They don’t half love that Rainbow Corner. I sees them tottering down Shaftesbury Avenue, two together for safety – but I reckon it’s the Americans wot aren’t safe with them tarts. One of their sergeants said to me, he said, it’s suicide for a GI to go out in the evening, in the blackout, without a buddy. The girls are all over the place, outside the club is terrible, an’ by the underground entrance they flash their torches on a Yankee soldier’s ankles an’ put their faces right up to ’is an’ breathe at ’im, “Hello, Yank, looking for a good time?”’
‘Oh, Alf, you do see some life that we don’t!’ laughed Mary.
‘I do an’ all. Just you keep away from that Rainbow Corner, especially at night, Miss Mary, an’ you too, Miss Jenner. Them girls know them Yanks want sex, an’ they know they might catch some ’orrible disease, or be up the spout, but they’re desperate for money, an’ them Yanks are flush. That American sergeant, he told me even just a private gets $3,000 a year – that’s about £750 in our money – so he can lash out on a girl. But a poor ol’ British private gets £100. It ain’t right. No wonder our lads ’ates the Yanks.’
Mary heeded Alf’s warning, but she was growing to like most of the Americans she came across enormously. Their positive attitude to life she found very refreshing, and in tune with her own. Being courted by more than one made her reflect on what her life would be after the war – whenever that might be.
She had deep discussions with Mary Benedetta, whose husband, unlike most married men, encouraged her to have a career, so that she was happily making documentary films for the Ministry of Information, the Ministry of Food and the British Council. From her own settled situation, Mary B. could see clearly that her conscientious and kindly friend was worn out by the effort of setting up and running the Bureau, working for the Americans, and living in the appalling conditions of war-stricken London. She understood that Mary needed a change.
The dilemma was resolved by the insistence of an American suitor bent on marrying Mary, combined with her longing for pastures new, particularly American pastures. She resolved to embark on a new adventure: living in America.
Heather was at first distraught at the likely effect of Mary’s departure on the Bureau. But the whole situation had to be reappraised, for she too was on the verge of great change: she had accepted Michael Cox’s proposal of marriage, and was going to live with him in Scotland.
So Mary and Heather sat down to plan the future, just as they had done when working out how to start the Marriage Bureau. Mary was helpful, but at the same time distant, her thoughts always drifting to the new life ahead. Three years with the Bureau had broken her previous pattern of change and uncertainty, when she had travelled, tried many jobs and nearly married twice. Now she was ready once again for a new departure.
Heather was sure that with a responsible person in the office, keeping in constant touch with her in Scotland, the Bureau could continue to run efficiently. She had her eye on an interviewer she had just trained – but the girl was only twenty-eight, and was conscripted to join the WRNS.
Fortunately, Picot Schooling, a friend sinc
e Heather’s brief flirtation with the film world, was at a loose end. Passionately fond of the theatre, before the war Picot had acted in films and plays, and had been a casting director for a theatrical agency. But now that many theatres were closed, jobs were few and far between. Picot was over the calling-up age, a huge advantage for the Bureau; and she jumped at Heather’s invitation.
Mary sold her shares in the Bureau to Heather and they took their farewell of each other, promising to keep in touch while knowing that at least until the war ended, communication between America and England would be difficult.
Picot came into the office to be shown the ropes.
‘You need to keep a watch out for ear-nibblers,’ instructed Heather. ‘They can be quite harmless, but sometimes they turn out to be thorough-going wolves.’
‘How do I pick them out before they start nibbling?’ enquired Picot, looking perplexed.
‘Oh, it’s almost impossible!’ laughed Heather. ‘I thought I was rather good at spotting them, but I got caught once, by a suave client, Ralph, who complained that a gorgeous divorcée had turned him down, and that she and all the other girls I’d introduced him to were hard. Could I find him someone soft and feminine, if that kind still existed? And would I have dinner with him so he could explain better?
‘I lunch with clients but rarely dine with them, but he was very persuasive, regretted he couldn’t come into the office in the daytime because of his vital war work. So we had a very nice dinner in a quiet little restaurant. By then I’d heard from the divorcée, who didn’t say much except that she found him rather forward. Well, over the oysters Ralph told me he had never in his life tried to kiss a girl unless she encouraged him. His handsome face and honest blue eyes, looking straight into mine, oozed sincerity. I partly believed him, and resolved that a sophisticated girl would be able to handle him.
‘In the taxi going home I agreed to find him more introductions, but warned him firmly that if I had even one complaint he would have no more. He thanked me profusely and squeezed my hand gratefully – and then he pounced, grabbing my face and trying to give me a French kiss! I had to fight him off! When I managed to break free and sit back in the seat I was overcome by how funny it was, and was creased up with giggles – I snorted with laughter, I couldn’t stop! Ralph was mortified, wounded in his manly pride, couldn’t wait to dump me at my door and say a frosty good night! So there you are, Picot: you’re an actress, you’ll learn how to recognize the actors and play the right part yourself. Don’t say you haven’t been warned!’
14
Heather Chooses Mating over Chickens
For the next three years the Marriage Bureau prospered in spite of the total absence of Mary and the partial absence of Heather. Picot learned quickly, but as clients continued to flood in she needed help. She brought in two friends, both over calling-up age and overjoyed to be involved in such an original business. The new secretary worked quietly behind the scenes, answering the telephone, running errands, keeping the office supplied with essential writing paper, typewriter ribbons, registration forms and light bulbs. Dorothy, whose surname Harbottle inevitably led to her being called Bottle, found her niche as a sympathetic interviewer. Her diminutive size, wavy grey-white hair, cosy presence and welcoming manner endeared her to the more tentative clients.
Picot kept in regular touch with Heather, who was leading a very different life in Scotland. On Michael Cox’s farm, in the spectacular countryside of Angus on the east coast of Scotland, the air was pure, the view stupendous, the star-filled night sky a miraculous wonder, especially after the murk and gloom of London. Baaing, mooing, whinnying, barking, squawking and birdsong replaced the wail of sirens, the scrunch of broken glass, the screams of terrified people and the blood-curdling whine and thud and crump and bang of bombs, anti-aircraft guns, aeroplanes and crashing buildings. The farmyard smells were sweet compared to the noxious putrid stench of blitzed London.
But gregarious Heather yearned for the city. She was nostalgic for parties, conversation, new friends and clients. ‘I am nosey, you see,’ she confessed. ‘I enjoy people, I like to find out how they tick; it entrances me.’ Heather blossomed in restaurants, offices, theatres, clubs, crowded streets, her beloved Marriage Bureau, whereas in Scotland, she recalled, ‘The only social event of the week was when I packed parcels for the Red Cross in Perth. Apart from all my office work, I did cooking and housekeeping which, before I went to live in Scotland, I had never attempted, and I found it all quite revolutionary. I wasn’t too bad at some dishes, but never mastered pastry and was pretty heavy-handed at puddings. Things like making jams left me cold in spirit but not in everything else, and my language in the bottling season, when I could not get the jars to seal, left nothing to the imagination. I felt that in wartime it was part of a married woman’s job to work in the house, but I had not been brought up to be a cook, char or nursery maid, and I hated every minute when I had to be any of these things.’
Heather spent a week a month in the Bureau. In between visits, she relished her telephone conversations and letters exchanged with Picot. Telephoning was difficult, as a trunk call had to be put through by the operator, who either took a long time to make a connection, or failed to make it at all. So Picot wrote daily, with news and queries:
Darling Heather
A girl who looks exactly like Greta Garbo has just come in. We have had a spate of pretty ones lately, one was more a Vivien Leigh type, too beautiful for words. I was staggered that she didn’t have queues of young men after her, she’ll surely be snapped up fast.
You asked me about Mr James, who said he was completely bald because of an explosion. I tried to find out more, but he was very tight-lipped and would not enlarge, so I’m afraid I can’t enlighten you.
I can’t find your copy of registration cards for numbers 4079 and 4493. I’ve got our copy, so I’ll make duplicates for you.
A shy young man, Peter Coles, came in yesterday, twenty-seven, working class, very pleasant, neat, polite, must be brave as he’s a fireman. I’ll send you a copy of his registration card. He says that as he’s illegitimate he would like to meet a similar young woman. Can you think of anyone?
All love, Picot
Heather shut her eyes to the splendid Scottish view of open land and sky, to focus on searching her registration cards for a young woman to match with Peter Coles. She breathed a sigh of contentment as she picked out a card, took up her pen and replied:
Dearest Picot
For your Peter Coles, I suggest Miss Daisy Sharp, a naïve little thing who has a six-month-old baby. She was conned by a smooth-talking cad into believing she wouldn’t get pregnant if they did it standing up. Can you credit it? (No answer required!) She herself is not illegitimate, though she might as well be because her parents threw her out. She was taken in by a married friend who’d lost her own baby and whose husband was away fighting. But I seem to remember the husband was wounded so is due to come back home, and wouldn’t take kindly to a stray girl-friend and her howling infant in the house.
Daisy wants a man who loves children and would be a good father to her baby. She calls herself ‘Mrs’ and took the father’s name by deed poll. He gives her about £2 per week (he’s much more educated and richer than Daisy, but married, of course). She’s only twenty and she’d like to have more children. I warned her that many young men will not meet an unmarried mother – or if they are willing they are unable because their parents raise a stink. I don’t think you need to restrict yourself to illegitimate girls: your Peter probably means a girl who is in some way or another an outcast, maybe an orphan, or adopted.
There’s also a girl who said she wanted to meet someone who has known loneliness. I can’t at the moment remember her name or other details, but you’ll probably think of some others.
Thanks for duplicate cards, they are a great help. Mr James’ explosion must remain a mystery!
I hope you are getting into the swim of the Bureau! Do tell me more about the very pr
etty girl. Have you got some good introductions in mind?
Love, Heather
Picot’s reply came winging back, enclosing registration cards and more information:
Darling Heather
I asked the pretty girl, Dulcie Hope, why she was not hotly pursued, and she said that she doesn’t get a great deal of time to meet people. She’s a secretary in the office of a munitions factory, working from nine in the morning until six in the evening on weekdays, and till one o’clock on Saturdays. One evening a week she does First Aid, and another she sells Savings Certificates. Every other Saturday afternoon she helps in a Forces canteen. Every night she’s an unofficial fire-watcher in the big house where she has a room. Last year she met a nice young man on the roof one night when they were both dousing incendiaries, he helped her when her stirrup pump got stuck, but then he rushed off. She almost wished there’d be more incendiaries so that she’d see him again! But I’ve introduced her to a very nice scientist, Clement Hill, who’s doing some top secret research. He’s stuck in a laboratory all day, and he too lives in digs and does lots of patriotic extras like fire-watching and emergency ambulance driving. He’s a serious young man but with a lot of humour. He wrote on his form, ‘I’d like a young woman willing to place happiness and lots of fun before loads of wealth. Honesty and beauty combined.’ I’m really optimistic about these two, and I’ll let you know how it goes.
Thanks for your suggestion of Daisy Sharp. I’ve put her in touch with Peter Coles, and I’ll let you know.
You’ll be glad to hear that that awful MP whom you married off to Lady M has got his heir: I saw the announcement of their son’s birth in The Times. That was an excellent bit of mating! And Mr and Mrs Baldwin sent you a big bouquet of roses on their third wedding anniversary, with a sweet card saying ‘Thank you always. We continue very happy. We trust you now have a perfect secretary!’ Shall I post it to you?
Marriages are Made in Bond Street Page 16
