We spent the Easter weekend helping Thelma and the children settle in, and as planned, on Saturday afternoon Bunty, Thel, and I sat down with our ration books and weekly diaries. Now that there were three of us, or rather, six, as George had pointed out, sharing the cooking and shopping would make life a lot easier. Food shopping these days really just meant queuing for ages and hoping there was something worth the wait at the end of it. There wasn’t a woman in Britain who didn’t have an almighty struggle. It wasn’t like the old days where you could dash out to the market during your lunch break or leave it until convenient during your day. “Leaving it” meant there wouldn’t be anything left to eat.
Now we planned carefully around the three grown-ups’ work schedules, enthusiastically looking through cookery books to find easy recipes that fed six and made small amounts of anything go far. (“You do like leeks, Stanley, you just haven’t realised it yet.”) It took no time at all to realise that there was a good chance things really could become easier for us all.
On Easter Sunday, Thelma and I worked a shift at the fire station and came home to parsnip pie, followed by fruit-flavoured junket. Thelma hadn’t had to worry because Bunty was at home with the children, and we were all delighted that in turn, Bunts had roped in the children to help with the vegetables as well as some of the washing up.
Afterwards we all went out into the garden, where after the triumph of Sunday lunch, morale took a temporary knock. The children were keen to see if the old shed could be put to duty, but when Bunty opened the door, one of the very rusty hinges gave way and she was lucky not to get squashed.
“The whole thing’s on its last legs,” she said, trying to jam it back shut. “Sorry, kids, we’ll have to try to fix it before we can think about anything else.”
If ever there was a call to arms, as far as the Jenkins children were concerned, this was it.
“Don’t worry, Bunty,” said Margaret, “we’ll fix it. Were you in the Girl Guides? Do you know the motto?”
“Um, not exactly,” said Bunty, who had been thrown out of the First Little Whitfield company in 1929 for talking.
“I was,” I said, because I hadn’t been thrown out and in fact had made it all the way to becoming a highly despotic Patrol Leader. “Do you mean, ‘To do my duty to God and the King’?”
“ ‘Be prepared,’ ” said Marg patiently.
“I’m getting my woodwork books,” called George, already on his way to the house.
“I’ll do a sign,” offered Stanley.
“Do you remember the days when we would have just propped it up and sat down with a sherry instead?” asked Bunty, rubbing her head.
“I did warn you,” said Thelma. “They’re very keen.”
They were an utter delight.
On Tuesday morning, I returned to the office feeling full of beans and with Stan’s well-worn copy of The Wonder Book of Pets to read on the bus. With things at home sorted in the best possible way, I could focus on work. Guy had said it would be nice to have some idea of how our new owner wished him to report to her with the day-to-day workings of the business, but for my part, I was happy to settle down and focus on writing to and for the readers.
To that end, Guy, Mrs. Pye, and I sat down together in the meeting room to go through our current plans for the magazine over the next three months.
“If we have space, I’d like to propose running a series of features on the most common problems,” I said. “We’re struggling to keep up with them, even though Miss Peters’ glands have settled, so we’re at full strength.”
“Good idea,” said Guy.
Mrs. Pye sniffed. “I am doing my best with the contributors,” she said, “even though some of them are awfully slow. Mr. Collins, are you quite sure I can’t look for someone younger to replace Mrs. Croft?”
“Absolutely not,” said Guy sternly. “You know my view. How are the others getting on?”
Mrs. Pye pursed her lips and looked at her notebook. “Mrs. Stevens on knitting is hardly haute couture, but she is good on deadlines. Mrs. Fieldwick always sends her copy in on time, Nurse McClay is difficult, and Mr. Trevin is a struggle if the moon is in the wrong place. But that’s artistic people for you.” She looked at me over her half-glasses. “Les artistes, you know.”
“Mrs. Pye.” Guy sighed. “Mr. Trevin is just making up horoscopes, not writing War and Peace, so I would be much obliged if he could brace up. Now, how about your assistant? Have you managed to find anyone who might fit the bill?”
Mrs. Pye readjusted her spectacles and put her hand to her hair, checking that everything was in place before she spoke. “It is very hard to find the right sort,” she replied. “Miss Lake is lucky—anyone can open envelopes for her. But I need someone with talent and flair and a sense of what is à la mode. That means fashionable, Miss Lake,” she added for my benefit.
“Thank you,” I said, wondering whether to mention that I’d got a credit in French in my School Cert.
“Well, very good and keep going,” said Guy, as if Mrs. Pye was trying to do a four-minute mile. “We aren’t looking for anyone swank, and bear in mind we may have to run it past Mrs. Porter, as she’ll be in charge of the purse strings.” He broke off as the sound of laughter came from outside the room. “Nice to know everyone’s happy,” he added, unperturbed.
A mild shriek followed and what sounded like clapping. Guy looked towards the door. “Have we missed someone’s birthday?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “If we’re finished here, I’ll go and see what’s going on. I hate to miss out on a hoot.”
“Excellent,” said Guy. “Mrs. Pye and I can nail down the details of an assistant.”
I picked up my notebook and headed out, closing the door behind me and heading across the corridor into the journalists’ room. There I was greeted by the sight of Mrs. Shaw, Miss Peters, and Hester, together with Mr. Newton, congregated in a semicircle, their faces a picture of delight as they listened to a woman who was regaling them with what must have been the most entertaining yarn.
“And that is when I said I must pop in to see you all—my team!” she cried, with a flourish of her arms.
“Good morning, Mrs. Porter,” I said. “What a lovely surprise.”
Mrs. Porter swung round, her face radiant. “Miss Lake! Look at you!”
She held out her hand and I shook it as she clutched mine warmly with both gloved hands.
“And where is your lovely Mr. Collins?” she asked.
“He’s just finishing a meeting,” I said. “Might I get him for you?”
“I mustn’t intrude,” she said, opening her eyes very wide at me.
Today the Honourable Mrs. Porter was in an immaculately cut brown suit, offset with a chic straw boater perched on top of her perfect brunette curls.
“He will be delighted to see you,” I said brightly.
“How kind,” trilled Mrs. Porter. She turned back to the others and added conspiratorially, “I mustn’t keep you a moment more from your wonderful work. Do enjoy the sweeties.”
Then she waved gaily, and as I held the door open for her, I was struck by the strange sight of three grown adults and a teenager all holding small paper bags and waving as if Mrs. Porter was the local Carnival Queen being driven past on a float.
“Just some treats,” she smiled, “home-made so they don’t count.”
I tried to picture Mrs. Porter anywhere near a kitchen, but came up short, so I just said, “How very thoughtful,” and knocked on the meeting room door before poking my head in.
“Mrs. Porter for you, Mr. Collins,” I said as if she had been entirely expected.
Guy and Mrs. Pye rose to their feet and Mrs. Porter tapped me on the shoulder as a signal to get out of her way.
“Mr. Collins,” she sang, floating elegantly over to Guy, where she took his hand and greeted him like the old friend he now was. Meanwhile, I hovered by the door, not knowing whether to stay or go, and Mrs. Pye watched our publisher as if this was a visitation from her favourite saint. She did not have to wait long for a heavenly sign.
Letting go of Guy, Mrs. Porter put her bag down and then clasped her hands to her chest. As there was a wide table between them that would have meant an unseemly trot around the perimeter to shake hands, she held out her arms towards Mrs. Pye rather as if she was about to accept a bouquet.
“Madame!”
If God himself had pointed a finger through the clouds and into Launceston House, it could not have had greater effect. Pamela Pye’s face took on the sublime glow of a truly religious experience.
“Mrs. Porter,” she breathed, “quel honneur.”
Had Pamela actually bowed? Guy closed his eyes. I stared at an ink stain on the wall where Hester’s fountain pen had exploded during Any Other Business the week before last.
“Mrs. Porter,” said Guy with commendable control, “what a delightful surprise. We had no idea you were planning to drop by. I would have ordered us tea.”
“You MUST call me Egg,” cried Mrs. Porter. “And you mustn’t dream of treating me any differently to anyone else. I am simply a member of staff. You won’t know I am here.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but Guy didn’t react, and continued to be charming, even if he couldn’t quite manage to squeeze out an Egg.
“Mrs. Pye and I were just discussing some editorial plans. Would you like to sit down?”
“I won’t interrupt,” said Mrs. Porter, looking at the chair, which was refusing to move on its own.
I stepped forward and pulled it away from the table so that she could sit down.
“Really, Miss Lake, no need,” she said after it was too late. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Should Mrs. Pye and I leave?” I asked, which I realised was a mistake, as Mrs. Pye looked at me as if casting a plague upon my family. “Or perhaps stay?” I added.
“How lovely,” said Mrs. Porter.
Guy looked as if he didn’t care if a herd of elephants was about to join in.
“Did you enjoy your break, Mrs. Porter?” he asked politely.
“So deliciously formal,” sighed Mrs. Porter. “Adorable man. I realise it’s a sign of respect.”
“Ah,” said Guy.
“And yes, I did enjoy the break, although it was far from a rest. But that’s just me.” She beamed at us. “Oh, I am glad you are all here.” She opened her bag, a beautiful leather briefcase. “It was so kind of you to send copies of the magazine. You are all so very clever.”
Mrs. Porter took out a number of cuttings, together with a large, exquisitely bound notebook. Then she looked at each of us in turn with a very pretty smile.
“Shall I begin? You don’t mind do you, Mr. Collins? I am the new girl here.”
Guy’s smile looked a little more strained than before, but if he was anything like me and wondering what was coming next, he didn’t give it away. “Of course,” he said.
“Wonderful. It’s nothing very much,” said Mrs. Porter. “I have a brain the size of a pea so these are just one or two tiny ideas, and of course, you don’t have to listen to any of them. Woman’s Friend is quite splendid in its own way. But let’s be honest,” she said, suddenly looking sad, “and I think I can say this, as we’re all friends. It could do with a bit of a boost.”
There was a pause.
“A boost,” repeated Guy.
Mrs. Porter nodded, and then leaned towards me and dropped her voice. “I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but I’m afraid that in parts it does comes across as A Bit Mis.”
She turned the corners of her mouth down as if she had come to the part of a children’s storybook where a princess goes missing and all the villagers feel rather low.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Porter,” I managed to say, “but what exactly do you mean by A Bit Mis?” I glanced quickly at Guy.
Mrs. Porter became sympathetic. “Dear Miss Lake,” she said, “you mustn’t be upset. All I mean is that sometimes, things do come across as somewhat glum, don’t they?” She whipped out a cutting. “Look at this. Woman’s Friend to Friend—such a lovely idea for readers to share their thoughts, and there’s a darling tip about stockings. But then the rest of it is taken up with letters about what kind of horrid new houses people will live in after the war, and how some sort of social service could prop up people who can’t be bothered to work.” Mrs. Porter shook her head, at a loss. “And that’s before we even get to the readers’ problems.” She pulled out another piece from the magazine. “People complaining about their dreary husbands or dreadful mothers, or in a fluster about unwanted babies. It’s all just A Bit Mis.” She sighed heavily. “Do you see?”
None of us said a word.
It was like being walloped in the face with a powder puff the size of a dustbin lid. It looked soft and fluffy, but before you realised it, you’d been sent flying.
Mrs. Porter was looking at us as if we had all just pitched up from a Dickensian orphanage, covered in dirt and leaving marks on the furniture.
As I was the nearest, she gave me one of her reassuring pats. “Now, now,” she said. “You should all be terrifically proud of how well you have done. These tiny offices, awful decor, virtually no staff. It’s a wonder you’re still going. But You Must Not Despair. Help Is Here.”
“Mrs. Porter,” said Guy, who I knew for a fact had, until the last ten minutes anyway, not been despairing in the least.
“No, no.” Mrs. Porter raised her hand in its pretty glove. “It’s not your fault. No one could have done more. As much as I loved my dear uncle and would never speak ill of the dead, I can hardly imagine what he was thinking. I mean, look at the beastly paper you print on. I can almost see through it. And your models! The poor loves. Where do you find them?”
At this point, Mrs. Pye sat up bolt straight.
“Dear Madame,” said Mrs. Porter, adjusting a curl that had dared to move from its assigned position, “it must cut you to the quick. How well you have coped. These awful photographs and ugly mannequins. And On Duty for Beauty—full of letters about chilblains. This is not fashion.”
“Mrs. Porter.” Now Guy spoke just slightly more strongly. “If I might interrupt.”
Cressida Porter put her hand to her throat and looked injured. “But of course.”
“Thank you.” He took a breath. “Mrs. Porter, I very much appreciate your interest in the editorial side of the magazine, but perhaps I can suggest we take a step back. It would be my pleasure to talk you through the way in which Woman’s Friend is run, the audience we write for, and how we design the magazine’s content specifically for them. And I can go through the publishing side of what we do, the finances—advertising and circulation revenues, the production needs and restrictions, particularly while we are at war—and naturally the staffing. Now that’s a very simplified summary, but it is at the heart of what you, as our publisher and owner, will want to know. That is, of course, if your plan is to be involved in the day-to-day running of Woman’s Friend. I do appreciate that you must be very busy already.”
Mrs. Porter looked at Guy, her face entirely expressionless. “That sounds awfully stuffy,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” replied Guy. “I’m afraid that’s rather what being a magazine publisher entails. It’s not frightfully glamorous. But we all love it here and very much hope you will too.” He smiled warmly. I had to admire our Editor. He was trying hard to bring Mrs. Porter on board.
But Guy had met his match.
“The thing is,” explained Mrs. Porter, gazing at him with enormous eyes, “stuffy things are not really my bag.” She blinked her eyelashes several times.
“How about giving them a go?” said Guy.
It was like watching two grand masters at something complicated and dangerous engage in a ceremonial dance before they tried to chop each other up into small bits.
“Mmm, no thank you,” said Mrs. Porter, bringing the ceremonial dance to an abrupt end. “I’d rather tell you all my lovely ideas. I have done research,” she added.
“Really?” said Guy. He ran his hand through his hair. “Goodness.”
Mrs. Porter smiled happily and wrinkled her nose at him. “Thank you!” she cried as if he’d just bought her an ice cream as a surprise. “I shall refer to my notes.”
I glanced at Mrs. Pye, who was entirely agog, but I was still trying to make sense of Mrs. Porter’s comments. Had she really just eviscerated almost everything I worked on for Woman’s Friend? More importantly, was she dismissing the parts of the magazine that were most obviously for and about the readers? I sat forward in my seat, concerned about what might come next.
“It’s just one or two little ideas,” she said. “Just the sort of thing that will really cheer the readers up. Here we are. Better fashion—pretty models for a start. More on makeup and less on spots—ghastly. Less dreariness—if we must have careers, then might we jazz them up? And far cheerier problems—the ones about affairs give a racier feel, which is fun. Now, this is important—less ugly babies in the knitting section, which I can help with, as all the ones I know are delightful. Also, please stop mentioning the Government, as nobody wants to know, and can we have more advertisements about lovely places like Harrods rather than dismal pictures of gravy. There,” she finished. “That was all. But of course, they are only ideas. My friends said I mustn’t overwhelm you, even though it’s not my fault I am creative.”
“Your friends?” said Guy.
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Porter. “They helped with my research. I asked them what they thought and they all agreed with everything I said.”
“Are they readers of Woman’s Friend?” I asked.
Mrs. Porter burst into laughter. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied.
“In that case—” I began.
“But they will be,” interrupted Mrs. Porter, her brightest smile switching on like an anti-aircraft searchlight, “if we could just make these tiny, infinitesimal changes. What do you all think?”
I looked at Guy. Mrs. Pye looked at Guy. Guy looked at Mrs. Porter.
“Well,” he said.
“Hurrah!” Mrs. Porter took “Well” as “Absolutely.” She clapped her hands together. “Oh, Mr. Collins. Miss Lake. Madame,” she whooped. “It’s all going to be so lovely. Thank you so much. How soon can you start?”