Mrs. Porter talked nonstop for the next half an hour about all her ideas, most of which were Gorgeous and Fun and Not In The Least Bit Mis.
“We’ll set up a photographic studio at a hotel and all my friends shall model for us!”
“Surely twelve guineas isn’t that much for a coat?”
“But if one doesn’t visit the couturiers in London, where on earth does one go?”
I could hardly bear to listen.
By the end of the meeting, even Mrs. Porter appeared to realise that she had caused something of a stir.
“They are just my little ideas,” she said, “but I have realised that this is my calling, and I believe that Lord Overton, God rest his darling soul, could see that. It is time to bring Women’s Friend into a new era.”
“It’s Wom-An’s Friend,” I said.
“Is it?” said Mrs. Porter. “Oh.” She paused and then in a forlorn voice, added, “Miss Lake, is something the matter? Was it my thoughts on the ugly babies? I’m so sorry. It’s just I only know ones that are pretty.”
I shook my head. “Mrs. Porter,” I said, “the features you’ve pointed out as depressing or dull are some of our readers’ favourite parts of the magazine. I’m not trying to blow my own trumpet, but we work awfully hard to write about the things that matter to them. The problem page and Woman’s Friend to Friend and the war work features—the response from the readers is always terrific.”
Mrs. Porter stared at me.
“Miss Lake is entirely right,” said Guy. “The new ideas are very exciting, and we must of course look into them all. But modesty aside, Woman’s Friend is currently enjoying its highest circulation for years, and we wouldn’t be doing our jobs if we didn’t ensure that you know how we’ve achieved that.”
He was a far better diplomat than me, but it was clear that Guy was completely in agreement.
Mrs. Porter gave us both the saddest little smile. “Oh, you two,” she said. “Such serious little faces.”
Then she gave me one of her reassuring pats on the arm, and before I could come up with something, or indeed anything to say in response, she turned to Guy.
“Mr. Collins, I am entirely in your hands. I know I am very new here, but I feel so confident with you by my side.” She paused for a moment, now looking demure. “Lady Overton, my darling aunt, said you would look after me. ‘Aunt Victoria,’ I said when we learned I would be in charge. ‘What if I can’t do it?’ and she replied, ‘My dearest Egg, Guy Collins has never let your uncle or me down, and I promise he won’t let you down, either.’ ”
Mrs. Porter paused and put the back of her hand to her mouth for a moment.
She was laying it on with a trowel.
“We were both tremendously moved,” she finished.
“That was very kind of Her Ladyship,” Guy began. “However…”
Mrs. Porter’s eyes had begun to fill with tears. Guy looked aghast.
“I’m fine,” she managed. “It’s very difficult. Now I really must go.”
“Of course. I’m so sorry,” said Guy, unable to say anything much else. “Can we find you a taxicab?”
“No, no,” said Mrs. Porter, “my driver is downstairs.” She looked at her wristwatch. “Oh my word, I must fly or the shops will be shut.” The thought of beating the clock against closing time appeared to give our publisher great solace, as she quickly perked up. “I can see myself out,” she chirruped, “although perhaps Madame Pye could accompany me, as I would so very much like to chat about millinery. Where, may I ask, do you stand on the visored beret?”
Well and truly outmanoeuvred, Guy and I mustered the necessary goodbyes.
Mrs. Pye then fulfilled her life’s destiny by finding an unnecessary reason to leave via the journalists’ room so that she could flounce off to talk about hats with an aristocrat while the rest of the team stood to attention.
“Mrs. Porter is like a Hollywood film star,” whispered Hester as our publisher waved her goodbyes and told everyone off for not yet eating their treats.
“Isn’t she?” agreed Mrs. Shaw.
It was all I could do to bite my tongue and not blurt out to the team what had just happened. The worst thing was that if you hadn’t just heard Mrs. Porter crush something you had put your entire heart and soul into, Hester was right.
On the surface, Mrs. Porter was exuberant—radiant, almost—and she dished out compliments faster than she did fudge, although as she did that too, it made her even easier to like. While the rest of us had jobs where every day we battled to bring cheer and hope and information to tens of thousands of women who were facing the most challenging of times, Mrs. Porter had arrived like a fairy materialising onstage in a puff of smoke, all sparkly and smashing and completely at odds with the real world.
But the tiny, infinitesimal changes she wanted to make to Woman’s Friend added up to a completely different magazine to the one she had inherited. And more to the point, the one that meant the entire world to me. It wasn’t that I was against change or that I thought everything we did was better than anyone else could do, but to just dump all of it?
Because when you got down to it, that’s what Mrs. Porter was proposing to do.
I was shaken out of my thoughts by Mrs. Shaw asking if I was free.
“There’s such a lot to go through,” she said, then she nodded towards a large pile of letters on a desk. “Honestly, the pickles that people are in. Still, this is a nice one.” She handed me a postcard.
Dear Woman’s Friend,
Thank you for printing my letter about finding friends and getting out of the house. I’ve joined a sewing group and the ladies are very friendly. I was worried you would think I was wasting your time writing in, but I am very glad I did. The other ladies say their babies drive them round the bend sometimes too, so now I don’t feel I’m putting it on. I feel ever so much better now they’ve said I’m not making a fuss.
Yours,
Mrs. R. Bagley, Evesham
Mrs. Bagley had said more about what was worth fighting for in Woman’s Friend than I ever could.
“Of course, Mrs. Shaw,” I said. “I’ll be with you in five minutes.”
Guy’s office door was open and he was sitting at his perennially cluttered desk sucking on a cigarette while opening a new packet at the same time.
I went in, closed the door behind me, and without being asked, sat down.
Guy said nothing but continued to smoke thoughtfully. I waited for a while, and as the silence began to feel heavy, I spoke up.
“Is Mrs. Porter serious? You know, about ripping up the entire magazine?”
Guy stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray that was balanced on top of a heap of papers. “I don’t know,” he said flatly. “I’m trying to work it out.”
“I was hoping you might tell me I’m overreacting,” I prompted. “You know, calm down, keep your hair on. That sort of thing.” I was trying hard to bring some levity, but Guy didn’t respond. “She’s charmed the team,” I added, “but then they haven’t heard about her Tiny Ideas.”
“Mrs. Porter is certainly beguiling,” said Guy, “and if you like rich, frivolous women who hide their intelligence as a tactical move, then she’s an all-round delight. But I fear the Egg is not half as daft as she makes out.”
“Do you trust her?” I said, wishing he would be rather less honest. I hadn’t seen him this subdued in a very long time.
He sat back in his chair and narrowed his eyes. “No. Do you?”
Now Guy lit up another cigarette and took a long drag on it as he tapped his fingers on his desk. The stack of papers threatened to topple over, and he stopped and wedged them up against an Anglepoise lamp.
“I trust that she wants to change Woman’s Friend,” I said. “But I didn’t quite understand the business about Lady Overton.”
“Mmm. Dramatic, wasn’t it?” he said, tapping ash into the ashtray. “Late last week I had a letter from Her Ladyship. I’d sent my condolences, of course, when Lord O died, but it was some time before she replied. I think losing him has hit her very hard.” He paused and then looked at me seriously. “The letter was brief, but she said she knew there might be some changes when Cressida arrived, and that she hoped I would look after, and here I quote her directly, ‘my dear old Woman’s Friend.’ ”
“By which she meant, babysit Mrs. Porter?” I said, unsure.
Now Guy shrugged. “I assume so,” he said. “And keep the magazine going. I can’t imagine Lady Overton speaking in quite the histrionic terms that her niece relayed, but nevertheless, her letter does rather support what Mrs. Porter said. I have been here a long time, Emmy, and I’ve known the family even longer. You know I was in the last war with their youngest son?”
I nodded. Charles had told me the story. Guy and Teddy Overton were good friends. When Teddy was very badly hurt in a gas attack, Guy got him to a field hospital and made sure that Ted was sent back from the Front. Two months later Teddy died at his parents’ home in England. Guy stayed in France in the army until the end of the war. Years later, when Guy was struggling to find work as a journalist, or from what I understood, struggling to find any type of work at all, Lord Overton gave him a job.
“I will find a way to make this work,” said Guy. “Today may have just been all talk. Half of it was ludicrous, so I damn well hope so. But Mrs. Porter is our owner. She could get rid of us all on a whim. If she likes us, though, and we try to work with her, perhaps she will listen.” He gave me a slight smile.
“And if she doesn’t?” I countered. “We can’t let her ruin everything. Look at this.”
I handed him the postcard from Mrs. Bagley. He read it and looked pensive.
“I understand, Emmy,” he said, “I really do. We’ll see if we can limit some of the wilder ideas and encourage Mrs. Porter to appreciate that we’re here to help people as well as entertain them. If nothing else, hopefully she’ll realise we can make her a lot of money by doing what we already do. But we have to tread carefully.”
“Are you telling me I’ve got to suck up to her?” I replied, managing a grin.
“I’m asking you to try to find some common ground. The others will see through the fudge and the froth soon enough, and we’re going to have to keep their spirits up.”
I took a deep breath. “Right you are,” I said. “I fully intend to start taking more of an interest in hats.” Now I laughed. “You’ll see. Me and Mrs. Pye, fighting over Mrs. Porter by talking about berets. It’ll be horrendous.”
“Admirable approach,” said Guy. “Just don’t ask me for some sort of expense account in order to keep up.” He smiled. “We will make this work. Now come on. Let’s go and get some of those sweets.”
At the end of the day I headed for home. Thel and I were on the late shift at the fire station, and I was looking forward to dinner with our new extended family before we needed to leave.
Tonight we were being treated to the result of pooling our coupons. Thelma was in charge of dinner, and the rare and much-loved smell of cheese floating up from the kitchen and into the hallway was a more-than-welcome delight. As ever, I checked the post on the hall table, in case there was something from Charles, which there wasn’t. I always told myself that it was quite extraordinary that letters could be sent to and from him when we were a thousand miles apart in the middle of a war, but it didn’t stop the stab of disappointment when nothing was there.
I headed downstairs, where Thelma was at the cooker and the children were sitting around the kitchen table in their school uniforms. George and Margaret were doing their homework and Stan was practicing his drawing by copying pictures of American airplanes from a pamphlet entitled Aircraft Identification: Friend or Foe? Bunty was in the far corner fiddling with the wireless, while a huge ball of navy blue wool together with her knitting needles sat in the occasional chair next to it. Someone would be enjoying a very comfy pair of thick socks before long.
“Evening, all,” I called as I came in. “That smells like heaven.”
Thelma looked round and grinned. “It’s what you get for using six people’s cheese ration for the week in one meal. Close your eyes and pretend it’s 1938.”
“You’re kidding,” said Bunty, coming over to look in the saucepan and breathing in the cheese sauce. “That’s twelve ounces. I thought it smelled good.”
“I’ve not used quite that much,” admitted Thel, wiping her hand across her forehead, “and I’ve made enough for at least two meals, so it’s not pre-war standard. But there’s a dose of mustard in there too, so it should be decent enough.”
I joined my friends at the cooker and leaned over it, inhaling deeply as Bunty had done. “Oh my word, you’re a magician. Why on earth didn’t you move in sooner?” I asked.
Thel laughed.
“Mum’s the best cook ever,” said Stanley, not looking up from where he was carefully colouring in a Curtiss Hawk. “Everyone says.”
George and Margaret nodded their heads earnestly.
“She certainly is,” I replied. Bunty and I were both pretty handy in the kitchen, but this was a joy.
“It smells so good, I think I might actually weep,” said Bunty dramatically. “Can I taste the sauce?”
Thelma handed her a clean teaspoon and told her she was worse than the kids.
I sat down at the table next to Stan and asked the children how school had been, to which George replied darkly that he had had double history, which suggested things had been a bit grim, and Margaret said she had been fastest up the climbing ropes in gym, which it was clear meant a very good day. Stan just said, “All right, thank you,” and carried on colouring.
“Gosh, Stan, they’re good,” I said, looking over his shoulder. “You must show them to my brother when he’s next here.”
Stan looked up. “Really?” he said in slightly hushed tones. A real live member of the RAF looking at his aeronautical pictures was a serious thought. “I’ve got better ones in our room.”
“He’ll want to see those too,” I said, and Stan grinned as if Christmas had been moved to the week after next.
“Did you open lots of letters today, Aunty Em?” Marg asked. In her eyes, being sent letters by people whom I didn’t even know was one of the best jobs ever.
“Tons,” I said. “And our new boss turned up again.”
“Is that the fluffy lady?” said Stan. “The one that kept touching your arm?”
“All right, Big Ears,” said Thelma. “Grown-ups talking.”
“It was the fluffy lady,” I confirmed, realising when I had been chatting to Thelma at the weekend, my words had been fully overheard. “Once again she was dressed up to the nines. She looked smarter than I did at my own wedding.”
“You looked lovely,” said Bunty, opening a drawer. “Didn’t you reckon she wouldn’t come in very often?”
“I was wrong,” I said. “Mrs. Porter has lots of Ideas. She wants to change everything. Oh, and she brought in bags of fudge and still wants Guy to call her Egg. It’s been an interesting day.”
“Fudge?” said all the children at once.
“What kind of a name is Egg?” said Thelma, shaking her head at the saucepan.
“Her name’s Cressida,” I said. “So…”
“Egg and cress—yes, I get why,” said Thel. “But still. A grown woman. At work.”
Bunty grinned. “I wonder if she’s ever actually been ‘at work’ before? It’s probably a bit new. What do you mean about her changing everything?”
“Ah,” I said, “apparently Mrs. Porter has decided that Woman’s Friend is not quite as wonderful as she had first thought. In fact a lot of it, especially the readers’ letters, is all A Bit Mis.”
“Don’t be daft,” said Bunts, looking up from where she was counting out cutlery.
Thel stopped what she was doing and turned round.
“What does A Bit Mis mean?” asked Stanley.
“Go and wash your hands, you lot,” said Thelma, “but clear that table first, please. Dinner’s nearly ready.”
As the three children dutifully got up to do as they were told, she frowned and mouthed, “Let’s talk later,” at Bunty and me.
“You all right?” said Bunty quietly.
I nodded. “It’ll be fine. Guy says we’re going to have to be careful.”
“Cripes,” said Bunty.
Thel said, “Hmm,” and turned back to the cooker. She fished out a piece of macaroni with a fork to test if it was ready. Biting into the pasta and happy with its texture, she hauled the pan over to the sink and poured the contents into a colander.
“Egg,” she said again, through a cloud of steam.
“Guy’s refusing to say it,” I said. “You’ll get his full review on Saturday. I’m on an early at the station, so he may call round in the afternoon.”
“Oh,” said Bunty and then paused. “Actually, I won’t be here. I’ll be out at tea with a friend. Well, one of Bill’s friends, really. Goodness, this fork’s dirty.”
Thel stopped lugging pasta around for a moment before she shook the colander briskly and with a total lack of subtlety said, “Who’s that, then?”
I could see where Stanley got his forthright approach.
“His name’s Harold,” said Bunty, going over to where she had left her knitting. “The chap I mentioned to you, Em. He was one of Bill’s friends, Thel. Look at this wool—it’s all tangled.”
“That’ll be nice,” I said, which was good going, when really I wanted to say, “I can’t believe you’ve let me go on about Mrs. Porter when you have vitally interesting information about meeting up with Harold.” Instead, I fixed my voice at a mild level and asked where they were meeting.
“Wimbledon,” said Bunty. “In the village. He’s in lodgings there.”
“Lovely,” I said. “Did he write to you again?”
“He did.”
“Smashing,” I said.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” There was a loud crash as Thelma dropped half the macaroni into the sink. “Blast.”
She whirled round and handed her eldest son a large serving spoon. “George, can you come and scoop this out and into that pan, please. No one will know.” She put her hands on her hips. “Right,” she said. “While George retrieves our dinner, can you two please stop being so bloody polite—close your ears, kids, you didn’t hear that. Bunty, tell me everything I need to know about this Harold chap, where exactly you are meeting him, what he said in his letter, and whether or not we are allowed to get very overinterested in a nice man who is taking you out. And yes, Emmy did mention him to me in absolute confidence, but I’m a hopeless liar and I can’t keep it up.”
Other than George, who was busy saving the day at the sink, all eyes turned to Bunty, who was now holding her knitting to her chest as if it were her firstborn child under an immediate threat.
“Well,” she said, “he’s called Harold and I’m just popping over for tea.”