Everybody in Kettering knew Eileen Engle. First, she was the young and attractive daughter of a boot and shoe tycoon - which, alone, would make her a notability in a boot and shoe town second in eminence only to Northampton. The second reason was that she was the town's only woman journalist, a reporter on the Northamptonshire Evening Telegraph, the local Bible.
She’d been recruited by My Friend Harry, then the Telegraph’s News Editor, if ‘recruited’ is the correct word. What happened was that her Dad took Harry aside at a Rotary lunch, said that his headstrong daughter (‘pig-headed’ was the actual term used) wanted to get a start in journalism. He’d be prepared to subsidise her wages over a trial period. The prospect of hiring a trainee at no cost lifted Harry’s spirits instantly and the deal was done over a handshake and a gin and tonic. And further to seal the bargain, Mr Engle invited Harry to drop into his factory at some convenient time to be measured for a pair of hand-made brogues. The matter of cost was brushed aside.
Eileen turned out to be a gem. She could do shorthand; she was punctual, eager and uncomplaining. She got on well with everyone; she was on first-name terms with the town’s highest and mightiest because of her Dad’s connections. Best of all, it turned out that she had a gift for feature writing. And, of course, she was pretty, had long, blonde hair, a dizzying figure and long, long legs. Success was assured.
A year or two later, seeking fresh fields to conquer, she bullied her Dad into renting a flat for her at the fearsomely expensive Kensington Close, London. Once installed, she got herself a job with George Newnes, publishers of countless magazines. After a month or two as a sub-editor, she suddenly blossomed out as an Agony Aunt for three separate magazines under three separate names. She’d found a rich niche. Then, firmly established and held in high regard in publishing circles, she chucked it all up to get married.
It was while she was still at Kettering that the town was stunned by the announcement that it was to be honoured by an official visit by King George VI and Queen Elizabeth as part of a tour of the Midlands. Four factories, the Grammar School and the huge Wicksteed Park recreation area were on the itinerary and there was instantly a frenzy of cleaning and sweeping and mending and painting to make sure that Their Majesties were not dismayed by anything that did not sparkle, gleam or shine.
Factories at Kettering, and, indeed, throughout the East Midlands in those post-war days were functional in the extreme. No wide flights of steps leading to revolving doors; no majestic commissionaires; no surrounding areas of lawns, fountains and flowers. In all cases they sprang from the very back streets of their origins. A few steps from the pavement led to an entrance little larger than that of a family home. Inside was a foyer about the size of an average kitchen with, on the right, a sort of ticket office with a girl peering through a pigeon hole. In front of an arrival were the double iron doors of the lift-operated from the outside by the girl in the ticket office. At the factory floor, the doors would be opened by a pensioner who, when not thus employed, would be seated on a nearby chair, smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper.
One of the premises on the Royal tour was the Co-operative Kaycee Clothing Factory which employed about 1,000 women. It was managed with great efficiency and aplomb by a stout little man named Herbert Taylor who, as soon as the Royal visitation was announced - and at the command of his dear wife - rushed off to get himself measured for a new suit. Not, as you might suppose, by someone in his factory, but by someone 40 miles away. In Savile Row, no less.
Naturally, the Evening Telegraph planned to bring out a souvenir edition for the visit - with two copies printed on silk for Their Majesties to carry away with them that very day. Also, My Friend Harry was deeply committed to allocating reporters and photographers to every port of call and to ensuring that nearby telephones were booked for the Telegraph’s exclusive use all day.
He decided to send Eileen Engle to the Kaycee factory principally because it employed more women than any other, so he took her with him to see Herbert Taylor to tie everything up in advance. He noted that, although the Royal tour was a month or so away, Harold was already showing signs of panic. The lobby was too small, the lift was too slow, the doors weren’t wide enough...
Eventually, a practical plan was evolved. Eileen would tuck herself away in a comer of the lobby so she could see the King and Queen as Herbert ushered them through the door. Herbert would ask Their Majesties to enter the lift, he would close the doors and press the button. Then he would race up the stairs to the factory floor in time to open the lift doors to enable Their Majesties to make their entrance. Eileen, after allowing time for all this to happen, would nip up the stairs to be on hand to record the subsequent events.
Came the day. The pavements were six deep with flag-waving, cheering locals as the Royal Daimler pulled up at the kerb. Herbert, sweating gently in his splendid Savile Row suit, was waiting at the top of the steps to be presented to Their Majesties. He deferentially asked the Royal couple to follow him through the lobby past the pigeon-hole. So far, so good. Then he asked them to take their places in the lift. They did so. Terrific.
Then, for a reason he could never explain-especially to his horrified wife--he pushed Eileen into the lift, too, slammed the doors shut and pressed the button.
Eileen was petrified. There she was in a tiny lift squashed up to the King and Queen of England. They were already facing the door when she was shoved in, so there was no room for her to turn round. She was looking at the King’s chest and the Queen’s chin and her tongue was clamped to the roof of her mouth and she had a notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other.
When Herbert raced up the stairs to the factory floor to the doors of the lift, all the factory girls stood up and got ready the cheer when the doors of the lift were drawn back. In the lift, Eileen was paralysed with embarrassment. She couldn’t stand aside to let Their Majesties get out because there wasn’t room. What could she do?
The King solved the problem. Giving Eileen a comforting smile, he said: “Ladies first" and gave her a friendly shove.
The roar of laughter from the factory girls when they saw emerge, not the King and Queen, but little, scarlet-faced Eileen Engle from the Telegraph, had the windows rattling. Herbert, nigh unto death, sensed disaster, but King George and Queen Elizabeth, not one whit disturbed, advanced upon the girls happily smiling.
The visit was a triumphant success; the King had a jocular word with Herbert; the Queen gave Eileen a smile of understanding; and away they went. Herbert took Eileen to his office, where they sank very large whiskies after which Eileen picked up his phone and dictated her story.
Her very special and most exclusive story about the King’s chest and the Queen’s chin ...
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