The next morning I set off to work, eager as ever to get to my desk. There was no doubt that Guy’s news about Mrs. Porter had created an exciting start to the week. He said he planned to announce the news to the staff straight after his meeting with the Launceston Press Board of Directors. Rumours had a habit of racing around the Launceston offices faster than a Spitfire in a dogfight, and he didn’t want everyone to hear the news from someone other than him.
I found my favourite spot on the bus and stared out of the window as I wondered what Mrs. Porter might be like. It was tremendously exciting that a woman had made it as far as publisher. The only other one I knew of was Monica Edwards, who was absolutely top notch. Bunty had suggested Mrs. Porter might be an American, which caused a stir as I envisioned a hard-hitting business mogul, and then Thel said in that case she might well have worked her way up from the wrong side of the tracks and probably enjoyed chewing gum. At this point Guy pointed out that Mrs. Porter would be running a woman’s magazine, not working for the Mob, and perhaps it was better to reserve judgement until the new publisher actually arrived. It was a good point.
Someone pulled the bell to get off the bus, and we stopped directly outside a newsagent. The newspaper advertisements on boards outside were increasingly bullish these days, full of celebration about the Eighth Army’s triumphs in Tunisia, or how Russia’s Red Army was walloping Germany at every turn. The United States was now well and truly involved in the struggle, and even if those of us at home felt that both we and many of our towns and cities were looking far less than our best, there was no doubt that the war was turning in our favour. The belief that Britain and her allies would win was no longer based on patriotism and fear of the alternative. There was a long way to go, but everyone knew Hitler was on his way to running out of steam.
I just hoped he would do so at the double. The Luftwaffe might not be bombing the place to bits every night currently, but people were having a very stiff time of it all the same. The men had been away a long time now, and the women at home were having to fill the gaps in their jobs, step up to war work, and keep their families going at the same time. No wonder cracks were beginning to show, in people’s relationships, home lives, and happiness.
At just before half past eight I sprang up the marble steps into Launceston House and through the entrance hall, calling out a good morning to Miss Poole at the reception desk and taking the lift to the third floor before heading to the stairs that led to the Woman’s Friend offices in a rather poky little corner of the building on the fifth floor.
Opening the anonymous-looking double doors that served as the entrance, I smiled at the handwritten sign on a door a short way down the corridor.
MISS E. LAKE
READERS AND ADVICE EDITOR
Although officially I was now Mrs. Charles Mayhew, I had kept my maiden name for work. I loved my husband more than anything, but I’d noticed American women journalists tended not to change their names, and I decided to follow suit. Charles didn’t mind a bit and quite happily said that he’d never been thought of as Modern before, and anyway, he should have seen it was coming when I’d taken to wearing a beret.
The title Readers and Advice Editor always gave me a thrill. Three years ago, I’d dreamt of becoming a journalist. Now here I was in charge of both our problem page, Yours Cheerfully, as well as the readers’ own section of the magazine, where we printed their views about what was wrong with the world and how if women were given even the smallest chance, we could sort it all out. Some letters were simply useful everyday tips, while others might be a discussion over whether women should be given the same pay as men. I often thought Mr. Churchill and his MPs would be surprised at how much they would learn if they read what our readers thought about things.
Now I went into the tiny office and hung my hat on the back of the door. My desk was covered in piles of letters that had been opened and put into trays. Without sitting down, I picked up the top one.
Dear Yours Cheerfully
Please can you help? I am recently engaged, but my mother has taken badly against my fiancé. She says if we marry, I shall regret it for the rest of my life. My fiancé, who I love very much, says Mother just doesn’t want me to be happy, but I’m sure she means well. What should I do?
Yours,
Doreen Anderson, Plumstead
Poor Doreen. If I had sixpence for every letter we had about mothers, I’d have enough money to buy Buckingham Palace.
I put it to one side and ran my eyes over the next.
Dear Yours Cheerfully.
My mother has just got engaged to a man I am in love with. Would it be terribly wrong if I tried to take him away from her?
Could you please answer this asap, as they’re getting married next month and I need to get a move on.
Yours sincerely,
In Love With Derek
It wasn’t always the mothers who were the problem. I wondered if I should write to In Love With Derek’s mum and advise her to run away with him as fast as she possibly could?
Before I could think on it further, I was interrupted by raised voices in the office next door. There seemed to be quite a debate going on. Leaving the letters for now, I went off to see what was going on.
“All I am saying is that people can’t help their glands,” insisted a forthright voice I recognised as Mrs. Shaw. “If they’re up, they’re up.”
“Miss Peters’ glands are always up,” came the sharp reply. “She’s like a human barrage balloon.”
An immediate chorus of outrage made me quicken my step.
“Good morning,” I said over the din. Everyone went silent. “Is everything all right?”
“Good morning, Emmy. Belated happy birthday to you. Miss Peters is very sadly off sick,” said Mrs. Shaw. “Not that it’s her fault and she should be back tomorrow.” She glared at Mrs. Pye, our Fashion and Beauty Editor.
Mrs. Pye was looking unmoved. She gave a shrug and said something under her breath in French.
“Poor Miss Peters,” I said mildly. “We shall all just have to muck in.”
“I certainly will,” said Mrs. Shaw pointedly.
“Me too, if I’m allowed,” said Hester, who was only sixteen and enjoying being part of a controversy.
“Mais bien sûr, I am very willing to help,” said Mrs. Pye smoothly. “Although I am enormously busy.”
“That’s handy,” said Mrs. Shaw hotly.
I liked Mrs. Shaw. She and Miss Peters were fondly known as the Letters Ladies, as they helped me with all the readers’ correspondence. They were both excellent sorts, and Mrs. Shaw, who enjoyed a robust constitution, was very protective of her friend Miss Peters, whose lymphatics had a tendency to go on the blink.
Mrs. Pye, however, was unsympathetic. “I am an editor,” she added. “I can’t just drop everything. Mon Dieu!”
Hester stifled a laugh.
Pamela Pye, who as far as any of us knew had never been further south than the Isle of Wight, had a partiality for speaking in French. I assumed it had something to do with looking au fait about Paris, but as no one had had the gumption to ask her when she first arrived, we were all still in the dark and it was now too late to ask. As a result, everyone acted as if it was perfectly normal behaviour.
I didn’t dare look at Hester, who was easily encouraged, so I tried to find a pacifying comment instead. Neither Mrs. Pye nor Mrs. Shaw were women to be trifled with.
Mrs. Pye’s weekly column, On Duty for Beauty (Pamela Pye Reporting to Help), was a hugely popular part of the magazine. If anyone could find something stylish to make out of half a yard of lace and a bit of old felt, it was her. Mrs. Pye definitely knew her stuff. The only problem was she was also in charge of looking after our freelance contributors, and it was fair to say that her managerial approach had all the finesse of a Sherman tank.
“Mrs. Shaw, shall we sit down and work out how to cope until Miss Peters returns?” I said.
Predictably, Mrs. Pye walked out of the room.
“We’ll be all right,” I said confidently. Then I dropped my voice. “Fantastique,” I added.
Mrs. Shaw made a snorting noise. “The Queen of flipping Sheba,” she said, now sounding more cheerful. “We’ll manage. How was your birthday? Did you hear from your young man?”
I began to tell Mrs. Shaw about Charles’ makeshift card. Work could wait for a moment. Word from overseas was always cause for a chat because everyone knew how much we all ached for good news. It was an unwritten rule that whatever had been said in a letter would be interpreted by everyone else as indisputable proof that the person who had written it was safe and well and there was absolutely nothing to worry about.
“Your boy’s on smashing form,” confirmed Mrs. Shaw. I felt my face light up.
But before I could answer, one of the phones rang.
“Good morning, Woman’s Friend magazine,” said Hester in her best voice. “Yes, of course.” She put her hand over the receiver. “Emmy,” she said, “it’s Mrs. Croft. Can I put her through to you, please? She says it’s urgent.”
“Of course, thank you,” I said, frowning. Mrs. Croft was our cookery expert and writer of the much-loved What’s in the Hot Pot? column. Everyone adored her, and what she didn’t know about food wasn’t worth knowing. I excused myself from Mrs. Shaw and ran back to my office as Hester put Mrs. Croft through.
“Hello, Mrs. Croft,” I said, “how lovely to hear you. I hope you’re quite well?”
“Hello, Miss Lake,” she answered, her usually gentle voice with its West Country accent sounding upset. “I am well, thank you for asking. And I’m very sorry to bother you, but Mr. Collins is unavailable and I’m afraid this can’t wait.”
Mrs. Croft was never a bother. I asked her how I could help.
“I’ve had a letter,” said Mrs. Croft. “It’s from that Mrs. Pye.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Croft. “May I read you what she said?”
“Please do,” I said, bracing myself.
Mrs. Croft took a deep breath. “ ‘If someone was to ask me, What’s in the Hot Pot?’ ” she read, “ ‘I am afraid I would answer, Nothing very much.’ ”
“Oh, Mrs. Croft,” I said.
“There’s more. ‘You must also improve your efforts in terms of less fattening foods. All this starch won’t help our larger ladies at all,’ ” Mrs. Croft continued with a catch in her voice. “Does she have any idea how hard it is trying to come up with ways to make rations last? I’m doing my best, Emmy, but there are only so many things you can do with a potato. It’s not her job, either.”
Mrs. Croft was entirely right. Looking after the magazine’s contributors only meant ensuring they delivered their copy on time and sub-editing it if required. Editorial direction was Guy’s affair.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Croft,” I said, speaking carefully. Mrs. Pye reported to Guy, not me, and I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. “That does sound like a poor choice of words.”
“It gets worse,” said Mrs. Croft. “She’s only gone and sent me a cookbook.”
Mrs. Croft sounded as if she had been posted a dead cat. She had been writing The Hot Pot for nearly thirty years.
“ ‘I am happy to lend you my own copy of Vogue’s Cookery Book for inspiration,’ ” she continued. “Inspiration? What does Mrs. Pye think I can do about banana ice cream? Six egg yolks? There’s six weeks’ rations straight off. I’m not being funny, but we’re in the middle of a war, not lolling about like a load of flappers on the Riviera. And as for bananas, my granddaughter is seven and thinks they’re something I’ve made up. I’m doing my best,” she finished sadly.
“Oh, Mrs. Croft.” I sighed. “You more than do your best. You keep the readers and all of us in the office going. Your apple bread pudding is my absolute favourite. I’m so sorry you’re upset. Shall I speak with Mr. Collins and ask him to have a word?”
“Would you, luvvie?” said Mrs. Croft. “I’m not asking for favours, but she’s making me feel as if I’m letting you all down.”
This just wouldn’t do. While Mrs. Croft made it look easy, coming up with new ideas on extremely limited resources was relentless. The last thing we wanted was for her to feel unappreciated.
I did my best to make up for Mrs. Pye’s size 12 feet and promised that Guy would be able to sort everything out.
Mrs. Croft began to sound a little happier. “It’s not Vogue’s fault,” she said, softening. “They don’t realise normal people don’t shop in Harrods. And it was written before rationing, so they weren’t to know. There is quite a nice recipe for pheasants in cream if you could get hold of either of them, which you can’t.”
“One day, Mrs. Croft,” I said. “When we’ve won the war. It’s something to look forward to.”
“Once your boy gets home,” she replied, “you bring him over to Bristol and I’ll do you a nice roast.”
“We’ll never leave,” I said, and as I made a mental note to make sure that the magazine paid for Mrs. Croft’s phone bill, the two of us fell into a long chat about all the most glorious food we would eat. My stomach rumbled at the thought of buttercream-filled birthday cakes, great big breakfasts with bacon and eggs, and enough custard to fill up a bath.
“It won’t be long now,” she said. “We’ll stop old Adolf, and then they’ll all come home and we’ll have a feast.”
Mrs. Croft had two sons who were away, one of them in Africa and one in the Far East.
“To our boys, Mrs. Croft,” I said, having promised again to speak with Mr. Collins, “to all of our boys.”
I put the phone down just as Guy appeared at the door. He looked a little flushed, and his hair was even more dishevelled than usual. It meant he had been running his hand through it, something I had come to know as a gesture of frustration on his part.
“How was it?” I asked. “What’s the news?”
“The news,” said Guy slowly, “is that we haven’t just got a new publisher.” He messed his hair up a little more. “I have just been informed that the Honourable Mrs. Porter is also our new owner.”
“The Honourable who is what?” I said, like a dimwit.
“Mrs. Cressida Porter now owns Woman’s Friend,” replied Guy, who sounded as shocked as I was. “Lord Overton has left our magazine and everything to do with it to his niece.”
Guy was as good as his word. While I was looking like a goldfish with my mouth open, he called all the staff together in our meeting room to give them the news.
“But I believe there are no plans for change. It’s just business as usual for the foreseeable future,” he finished, having repeated what he had just told me. “Does anyone have any questions?”
Multiple arms shot into the air.
“Mrs. Mahoney?” Guy turned to our highly esteemed Production Manager first.
Mrs. Mahoney got straight to the point. “It’s a bit of a turn-up,” she said, “but Lord Overton was a very clever and wise man. May I assume that Mrs. Porter is from a publishing background?”
“I have no idea, I’m afraid,” said Guy.
“Mr. Collins, what exactly is an Honourable?” asked Hester.
“Good question,” said Mrs. Mahoney, who other than being a staunch supporter of the royal family didn’t tend to hold much truck with this sort of thing.
“It means her father was a baron or a viscount,” said Mr. Brand, our Art Director, in his usual quiet voice.
“L’élégance,” breathed Mrs. Pye, unnecessarily.
“Is that everything?” asked Guy, deftly heading off one of our Fashion Editor’s reveries. “It’s going to be an exciting time for us all, but if you have any other questions or concerns, please come and see me.” He paused. “Mrs. Mahoney is right. Lord Overton was a very wise man, as well as someone to whom many of us, me included, owe a great deal. Above all, I’m sure you will join me in doing everything we can to welcome Mrs. Porter to Woman’s Friend.”
The team needed little encouragement. Mr. Newton gave a heartfelt “Hear! Hear!” and then Mrs. Pye overdid it by clasping her hands together and exclaiming, “Bravo!” as if we had all suddenly found ourselves at the ballet. Mr. Brand nodded sagely and Mrs. Mahoney gave nothing away with her most beatific face, which only Guy and I knew meant: We Shall See.
We certainly would. Guy had once told me that Lord Overton had always had a soft spot for our much-loved Woman’s Friend. Now we just had to meet the Honourable Niece he had chosen to carry that on.