The news that Woman’s Friend would be owned by someone different for the first time in its forty-eight-year history had definitely come as a surprise. I for one had assumed the magazine would just be handed down to the late Lord Overton’s son along with The Evening Chronicle and the rest of the Launceston Press empire. I was not alone in this.
After Guy’s announcement, it had been the only thing anyone talked about for the rest of the day. Some of the team were nervous, particularly Mr. Newton, but that was all right, as he quite enjoyed a good worry, and others, particularly Mrs. Shaw, became fixated on details such as whether the office biscuits would change even though there hadn’t been any since the start of 1942. Mrs. Mahoney and I liked the idea of having a woman owner, as it would make other magazines buck up their ideas, and even Guy got involved only to spoil everyone’s fun by saying he was sure nothing interesting would happen as long as we kept making enough money. In fact, very little work got done until Hester was found practicing saying, “Good morning, Your Honour,” to herself in front of the mirror in the ladies’ lavatories, at which point we all realised we had to pull ourselves together and try to calm down.
When I got home that evening and told Bunty, she and I decided that all in all, the news was A Very Good Thing. As Guy was probably right about nothing much really changing, however, it wasn’t half as exciting as the fact that Thelma and the children phoned from the telephone box outside their flat to say that Thel had handed in their notice and would it be all right if they moved in with us over the Easter weekend? From the noise at both ends of the phone, it was hard to tell who was more thrilled about this development—Bunty and me or Thel and the kids. As Easter was less than a week away (George’s poorly chest having become spontaneously worse since the suggestion that it might mean moving out), it was all hands on deck to ensure the upstairs flat was ready and waiting for their arrival.
I had to admit I was chuffed to bits at how it had worked out. I had first met Thelma when I joined the Fire Service as a volunteer telephonist at the start of the war, and we had become firm friends, working side by side with our friends Joan and young Mary throughout the Blitz. Thel was a few years older than me, and I very much looked up to her. Her husband Arthur had been away at sea for most of the war, and Thel had kept everything going, working long shifts and being both mum and dad for the children. She wasn’t slow on enjoying a lark, either. Sharing a house was going to be good fun. We all needed some of that.
The next day at the office, because none of us had done any work since hearing about the Honourable Mrs. Porter, after brief hellos we all got our heads down to make up for lost time until Clarence arrived from the post room with the first delivery of the day.
“Morning, all,” he called as he lugged in a large and very full sack of letters. “There are two more to come. The post boy will be up with them presently.”
His face wore a look of hard-earned disgust at even having to mention his junior colleague. Clarence had recently been promoted to Post Room Junior Administrator, and while it was entirely well deserved, it was fair to say that the position had gone straight to his head.
“Blinking heck, Clarence,” said Mrs. Shaw. “This will keep us going.”
“The post waits for no man,” he answered insightfully.
“Get you, Clarence Boone,” said Hester, arriving out of nowhere. “Quoting people and everything.”
Clarence did his best handsome film star face at her, which as he was only seventeen tended to be hit-and-miss. On this occasion it must have worked as Hester turned her back on him and walked off, always a sure sign that she was impressed.
The relationship between Hester and Clarence was a complex one, based on Clarence being an unfailingly decent young man who occasionally made misguided attempts to impress, and Hester talking incessantly about him when he wasn’t there while being quite vile to him whenever he was. I went along with it based on the optimistic belief that sooner or later one of them had to crack and tell the other one how they felt. In the meantime, any suggestion to Hester that she and Clarence might want to see each other outside of the office was always met with wild amounts of blushing, fits of hysterical laughter, or the declaration that she would rather be dead.
Sometimes the problems that were sent into the office were easier to solve than the ones going on inside it.
Today, though, I needed to finish up writing a war-work feature. It was a behind-the-scenes look at women shipbuilders, and having interviewed an absolute top-drawer group of girls the previous week, I was keen to do a good job. Once I had tackled a decent number of readers’ letters, I happily bashed away at my ancient typewriter for the rest of the morning until Guy poked his head around the open door.
“Hold the front page,” he said cheerfully. “We’re having a visitor.”
“Really?” I said, looking up.
“Our new owner,” said Guy. “I’ve just been informed she will be here at around three o’clock. I am to receive her in the Launceston boardroom.”
“How grand,” I said, glancing at my desk, which looked as if someone had turned a fan on in a paper factory. “Will you bring her here? We’re going to need to tidy up if so.”
“Oh grief,” said Guy, who was no friend of tidying, “I hadn’t thought of that. Still, good to know Mrs. Porter is keen. I haven’t had any luck in terms of information about her. Not even from Monica.”
Monica Edwards was one of Guy’s closest friends. Unflappable, elegant, and famously intelligent, she was the publisher of a monthly magazine called Woman Today, which under her captaincy had been hugely successful for years. I had been lucky to get to know her through him and was quite sure that if anyone had the inside track on Mrs. Porter, it would be her.
Guy looked at his wristwatch. “We’ll know soon enough,” he said. “Twenty to one. I’ll go and tell everyone to look sharp in case Mrs. Porter would like to have a look round. It wouldn’t do any harm to make a good impression.”
“I’ll come and help,” I said, straightening a tray on my desk. I hoped I would look busy rather than out of control.
Just over two hours later, the entire Woman’s Friend floor was immaculate. The postbags had been emptied or stacked neatly by desks, Mrs. Mahoney had casually placed some of Mr. Brand’s best cover illustrations just where Mrs. Porter might see them, and Mr. Newton had had a surge of self-confidence and made new paper labels for his out trays, which now ostentatiously read: ADVERTISERS and REVENUE. Then he filled both up to suggest thumping great amounts of money about to pour into the magazine’s coffers. Even Mrs. Pye mucked in by spending an hour on an artistic arrangement of back issues on the meeting room table.
At ten to three we were all at our desks looking the very model of a modern magazine.
At five past three, everyone had become fidgety, and then Clarence brought the second post, which meant an All Hands on Deck situation when someone said it now looked as if we were lagging behind due to the unopened sacks.
At a quarter past three, Hester reported that the restaurant at The Dorchester had just called to inform Guy that Mrs. Porter had now finished luncheon and was on her way.
“Most kind,” said Guy.
“That’s a blinking long lunch,” said Mrs. Shaw.
“Hors d’oeuvres,” said Mrs. Pye, seizing the opportunity.
I stopped and stared into mid-air. I’d had a meat paste sandwich for mine.
“Rhubarb cream,” said Mrs. Shaw. “I bet it’s all that sort of thing for pudding.”
“Crème de rhubarbe,” said Mrs. Pye, now doing it on purpose.
Before Mrs. Shaw could respond, the conversation was brought to a halt by Hester, hurtling into the room like a missile. “SHE’S COMING,” she shrieked. “MRS. PORTER IS NEARLY HERE.”
“Hester, please try to remain calm,” said Guy. “You’re not trying to get people into the Big Top.” As Hester stopped shouting, he dropped his voice and spoke slowly. “Are you saying that Mrs. Porter is coming directly here and not to the boardroom?”
Hest nodded. “Miss Poole is bringing her up as we speak,” she whispered almost inaudibly.
“That’s fine,” said Guy. “I’ll take Mrs. Porter into the meeting room. Can someone see about making us some tea? Now, if you all can just pretend no one of any interest is coming and return to your desks, that would be much appreciated. Hester, do you feel up to waiting by the stairs to show Mrs. Porter in?”
Hester looked terrified.
“Shall I go?” I said, and she nodded gratefully.
I headed off to the stairs, wondering if anyone had told Mrs. Porter that she would have to climb a couple of flights to reach us. Then I stood outside the double doors to Woman’s Friend, smoothed down my skirt, tucked my hair behind my ears, and waited.
From the stairs below came a high-pitched, rather breathy, almost musical voice. “Really, Miss Poole,” it was saying, “I don’t mind the climb one little bit. We can pretend we are in a castle. Lovely.”
“It’s just up here, Mrs. Porter,” I heard Miss Poole say, and then two women appeared around the corner.
Miss Poole was of course entirely familiar. The woman with her was undoubtedly the Honourable Mrs. Cressida Porter. Immaculately and clearly expensively dressed, Mrs. Porter was smiling as if she was in the shadow of the Taj Mahal, rather than having clambered up a battered stairwell in need of a paint.
Aged somewhere in her late thirties, Cressida Porter was picture-perfect. Slim but not skinny, with dark brown hair and the sort of complexion that makes people talk about peaches and you instantly understand what they mean, she had a look of wonderment, as if someone had just given her the best Christmas present in the world. Which if you thought about it, Lord Overton had.
Without thinking, I broke into a wide smile.
“Oh good,” said Miss Poole as she spotted me. “Miss Lake.”
But before she could begin any form of an introduction, Mrs. Porter almost danced towards me, offering her hand and beaming. “Hello!” she cried. “How wonderful. I do love your blouse.”
“Oh,” I managed, “thank you. How do you do, Mrs. Porter?” I said, which already seemed overly formal, as Mrs. Porter was holding my hand and smiling at me as if we were best friends. It was slightly disarming, but not at all unpleasant, and I found myself smiling even more and wanting to say something nice back.
My blouse was absolutely nothing to write home about and in fact had a small hole which I had hidden with a brooch, but I found myself chuffed that she had noticed it, albeit feeling a little underdressed. In stark contrast to my outfit, which had seen better days, Mrs. Porter was wearing a beautifully tailored navy suit with four large buttons in the shape of flowers, and a clutch of what looked like fabric hydrangeas by the lapel. A matching navy hat was simple but exquisite, the front tilted forward just enough to allow her to tip her head down and widen her eyes to gaze out prettily from underneath.
“What a beautiful hat,” I said, which would not have been my first choice of opening remark in terms of making a professional impression. But it was too late, and anyway, it appeared to go down rather well.
“How awfully kind,” she replied. Then she leaned slightly forward. “Isn’t it just the hugest relief that hats aren’t on the ration?” She seemed even more delighted at her own comment, as if she and I had found the very core of something in common.
“Absolutely,” I said, although I was slightly drowned out by Mrs. Porter laughing in a charming way.
I was beginning to feel as if I was being run over by a steamroller made from petals and kittens. It was delightful, but also somewhat immobilizing.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I said. “Miss Poole, thank you for bringing Mrs. Porter up to Woman’s Friend. Mrs. Porter, would you like to come in? Our Editor, Mr. Collins, is so keen to meet you.”
Mrs. Porter said that she very much would, and then thanked Miss Poole so effusively I wondered if the younger woman had actually carried her up the stairs.
“I shall take you directly to Mr. Collins,” I said, as it began to look as if Mrs. Porter was contemplating a hug. I wondered what Guy was going to make of it.
“Yes, please,” she exclaimed, her attention now with me. “I’ve never met an editor before.” She grasped my arm as I opened the door for her. “Before we go in, you must tell me. Is he very stern? Shall he and I get on? Oh, do say we shall!”
“I’m sure you will,” I said, adding quickly, “Mr. Collins isn’t the least bit stern. He’s very nice indeed.”
I wondered whether this was a suitable moment to mention that he was also my brother-in-law, but it felt more appropriate that this information should come from him, and anyway, Mrs. Porter had now taken on an admirable turn of speed and was already halfway through the door.
I scurried after her, just managing to squeeze in by her side. As the doors to the different offices and rooms were always left open, I quickly directed her towards the meeting room before something untidy caught her eye. As it was, Mrs. Porter was staring at the covers of past issues on the walls as if she had just spotted a Matisse.
“I’ve always loved magazines,” she said to me mistily. “My uncle knew that, of course.”
“Of course,” I said respectfully, then tapping softly on the meeting room door. “Here we are. After you, Mrs. Porter.”
Mrs. Porter dipped her head under her hat once again and I followed her into the room.
“Mr. Collins,” I said, quite sensibly, and then, as if I had suddenly become head butler to the Duchess of Devonshire, I heard myself say in the most ludicrously important voice, “May I introduce the Honourable Mrs. Cressida Porter?”