Monica Edwards was laughing so much that a waiter came over and asked if she was in some sort of distress. She, Guy, and I were in a private club in Soho, where Monica was a member and I very probably never would be. It was chock-a-block with American servicemen, who all had the most beautiful smiles. It was my second night out in a week, even if it was for work and only a quarter past six.
The three of us were safely settled in a small velvet booth in the corner of the club where despite the number of people, we had a decent amount of privacy. Guy and Monica were sipping single malt whiskies, and I was trying a vodka. As I hadn’t had any lunch or very much sleep since the night before last, there was a distinct possibility I might become insouciant, or possibly, as the Americans would say, drunk as a skunk.
Guy was telling Monica about his efforts to be delightful with Mrs. Porter, which earlier in the day had involved a visit to the second floor at Selfridges. There he had been obliged to endure an entire hour of Cressida swooning over silk suzette all in the name of plans for a feature on summer maternity wear.
It was fair to say, he was not getting the sympathy he felt he deserved.
“Oh, Guy,” said Monica, dabbing at a tear with a napkin, “what have you done with the real you?”
“Bloody nothing, Monica,” replied Guy gloomily. “I’m being adorable. It’s the most horrible strain.”
Monica said it must be. “I’m sure you’re doing it wonderfully,” she said. “Charm like a snake and then bore the poor woman to death.”
“There’s nothing poor about Cressida,” said Guy. “She’s invincible. It’s like working with a Lancaster bomber in a hat.”
Monica smiled and said she had heard “things” to that effect.
Whenever Guy invited me to a get-together with his old friend, I always jumped at the chance to tag along. Now as we regaled her with stories of the Not So Honourable Egg, although we were making her laugh, Guy and I had the serious intention of asking for Monica’s help.
“We’re just hoping this whole thing is a short-lived indulgence on her part, and when something equally Darling Fun comes up, she’ll leave us alone,” said Guy. “We’re chipping away. I took her to lunch with Mrs. Mahoney, our Production Manager, and Herbie Garson last week.”
“Gosh, you do mean business,” said Monica. She raised her glass to him. “Was Herbie on form?”
Guy nodded. “We were there three hours,” he said. “Herbie’s the only man I know who can eat, breathe, and talk paper thickness all at the same time. He was a real sport, actually. Mrs. Mahoney had had a word with him about our situation, so he explained five hundred years of letterpress printing to Mrs. Porter over the soup. Once he’d moved onto magazine costing models, Cressida pretended to feel faint and we had to take her out to her car.”
“She said that if we ever made her have lunch with him again, she would set fire to the restaurant,” I chipped in as Guy took a sip of his drink.
“Slightly dramatic,” said Monica as a small jazz band in the far corner of the room began to play. “I love Herbie, as long as you can keep him off paper.”
“Mrs. Porter is rather sure of her opinions,” said Guy. “If you’re fun, you’re in, if you’re not…” He didn’t finish his sentence.
“She was furious,” I said, “especially when Guy told her he thought she’d done terrifically well and would only have to do it once a month to encourage Herbie to keep his prices down. Which otherwise was highly unlikely.”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” said Monica.
“It isn’t,” admitted Guy, “and anyway we’ve got a fixed price deal. But Cressida hasn’t bothered to know that. Herbie played his part to a tee. He took me to one side and said he’d had a lovely time.”
“Well done,” said Monica. “What next?”
“In a nutshell,” said Guy, “the Ministry. Mrs. Porter is terrifically keen to get involved. I have an idea that she thinks it’s all flirting with spies and getting to know the Churchills. Anyway, I asked Simons if he could come up with something helpfully dull, but he made the very good point that there’s a war on and the Ministry of Information doesn’t exist to sort out my personnel issues. He was impressively stern. So that’s why we’ve turned to you.”
“Quite right,” said Monica, unperturbed to be second string.
A group of officers in the next booth were having an animated conversation and I leaned forward so that I wouldn’t need to shout over the din. “Mrs. Porter would love to meet you,” I said. “We’ve told her that you have a lot of connections in the MOI. She’s also familiar with your name from what she calls fashionable circles.”
“Pish,” said Monica modestly. “So you need her to be rather put off by it all? Well, if Simons can’t help, we need to find someone else we can definitely trust. Hmm.” A smile spread across her face as she was thinking. “What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?”
“I can be entirely free,” I replied. Guy said much the same.
“Wonderful,” said Monica. “If Mrs. Porter is available, I can set something up. I’m sure it will be enjoyably bewildering.” She paused. “This is all such a shame. You were the talk of the town in terms of changing the fortunes of the Friend. I know for a fact that some of the other editors read your letters page to test the water for their own editorial. You’re the best of the lot of us for rooting out what readers really care about.” She smiled at me warmly and then turned to Guy. “I keep telling you, you’ve got a good one here, Guy. Make sure you keep her.”
“Pish,” I said, making them both laugh. It was the highest praise from someone I admired enormously, and I was chuffed to bits.
“The thing is,” continued Monica, becoming serious, “now you’re being talked about for the wrong reasons. Word is definitely out about Mrs. Porter. We’ve all seen what she’s doing.” She grimaced. “It makes no sense at all. She might as well set fire to pound notes.”
“I know,” said Guy. “We’re getting more complaints every day. Newsagents have started reporting cancelled subscriptions. That’s the first time in nearly two years.”
“Madness,” said Monica. “Well, let’s try to keep up Herbie’s good work.” She glanced over to the bar and quickly looked away again. “Oh, goodness, I’m going to have to run. There’s a chap I wish to avoid, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She kissed us both goodbye. “And, Guy, do try not to be too adorable until then.”
Then, carefully avoiding a heavily decorated colonel who was gazing at her like a schoolboy from just beyond the bar, Mrs. Edwards glided effortlessly out of the club.
The next morning, when I extended the invitation from Monica to Mrs. Porter, unsurprisingly her diary became clear. Mrs. Pye said that she had thought they were going to Harrods “for research,” but was told unceremoniously to stay in the office and “answer some of those ghastly people with bad feet.”
It occurred to me that Mrs. Porter was no less brutal to members of her own circle than to anyone else.
“Have you any thoughts about a fashion assistant, Mrs. Porter?” I said to make conversation as Guy and I met her outside the Ministry of Information’s headquarters on Malet Street. “We’ve been looking for ages.”
Mrs. Porter, who had cut short her luncheon in order to join us on the dot of ten to three in the afternoon, smiled prettily. Despite Cressida’s obvious shock when Guy told her that I was friends with the fashionable Mrs. Edwards, since then she had been unusually pleasant to us both.
“We need to find the right type,” Mrs. Porter said. “I must say that poor Esther doesn’t get any brighter, does she?”
Pleasant was perhaps too much of a stretch.
“HESTER,” I said, “is one of the best assistants I’ve ever known. She’s as bright as a button.”
“I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Porter, wrinkling her nose. “Which reminds me, I have some more teeny ideas to tell you about after this meeting.”
She looked up at Senate House, which was blindingly white in the sun, and then beamed at Guy. “Now, this is what I call a proper office,” she said. “I can’t believe you’ve kept it from me for so long.”
Guy did his best smile back. Bunty had once christened it his Cary Grant, which had made the three of us laugh, although slightly more than Guy had said he felt fair.
“I am sure Mrs. Edwards and I shall become firm friends,” said Mrs. Porter. “Just being here makes one feel patriotic. I’ve told everyone I know. It’s all about duty, isn’t it? Shall we go in?”
I wondered just how many people Mrs. Porter had told about a confidential meeting with the Ministry of Information, but obediently followed her and Guy to the front of the building to have our identification papers checked. We were then allowed up the steps and through to the personnel on reception, where Mrs. Porter ignored them all and wandered off, saying in a loud voice, “Oh yes, this is most agreeable,” as if we had just arrived at a hotel.
“Mrs. Porter, if you could just…” called Guy, manfully going after her before she accidentally got herself shot.
Meanwhile, I gave our names and felt compelled to be as polite as possible.
“Good afternoon. I’m sorry about that, it’s my colleague’s first visit. Um, the Honourable Mrs. Porter, Mr. Collins, and Miss Lake from Woman’s Friend magazine, here to see…”—I checked the note I had made earlier—“Mr. Batley-Norris, please. Thank you.”
The receptionist, who I had seen on previous visits, kindly ignored Mrs. Porter’s marching off and the fact that Guy was carefully leading her back, rather like a relative you couldn’t quite trust to be out on their own.
“First floor off to your left,” said the receptionist. “Room 103. Mr. Hastings here will take you along.”
“Is there not a lift?” said Cressida.
“Come along, Mrs. Porter,” said Guy firmly. “We can’t keep Mr. Batley-Norris waiting.”
Guy and I hovered and herded and managed to get our publisher out of earshot and up the stairs following the man from the Ministry before further reputational damage could be done.
Mrs. Porter was dressed for a luncheon party in a nice yellow frock and another of her tiny versions of normal hats held on with an even tinier pin, and it was hard not to feel out of place among all the dark suits and even darker expressions around us.
“It’s quite a walk,” she breathed, as if there should have been some sort of chauffeur service. “Not that I mind,” she said, adding loudly, “It’s all for the war effort,” in case anyone wasn’t sure.
Mrs. Porter was now walking beside Mr. Hastings, whom she asked if he might slow down.
“Remain calm,” I whispered to Guy.
“I give up,” he said.
Mercifully we arrived at the meeting room, and Mr. Hastings knocked on the door. When a voice called, “Enter,” we were ushered inside and out of almost all public view.
In terms of disappointment, Monica Edwards had done us all proud.
It was the pokiest room imaginable. Tiny and drab, with a desk at one end and a small table squeezed into the other. A sad-looking pinboard with nothing pinned on it was the only thing on the walls. There was no window.
Monica was sitting with a fair-haired middle-aged man in spectacles, and both rose as we went in. Mrs. Edwards was wearing a plain jade frock, her only jewellery a quite extraordinary brooch in the shape of a crescent moon, filled to the brim with green Bakelite fruit and vegetables. It was easily as big as the palm of my hand and managed to be both remarkable and quite dreadful at the same time.
It really wasn’t like her one bit.
“Guy,” cried Monica. “Emmy!”
“Mrs. Porter, may I introduce Mrs. Monica Edwards,” said Guy formally. “Mrs. Edwards, this is the Honourable Mrs. Porter, owner and publisher of Woman’s Friend.”
Mrs. Porter exchanged some enthusiastic how-do-you-dos, although I couldn’t help but notice an air of bafflement in terms of the way she surveyed Monica’s turnout.
Then Monica introduced the gentleman in the suit. “This is Mr. Batley-Norris, Senior Executive Officer. Mr. Batley-Norris is in charge of the women’s information and garden morale, with a particular interest in Digging for Victory,” said Monica solemnly, “and he has graciously agreed to meet with us today. I must tell you that as far as cabbages are concerned, we are with the right man.”
“Many people find them boring,” said Mr. Batley-Norris. “But vegetables could win us the war. Please do all sit down. Mr. Collins, Miss Lake, Mrs. Porker.”
“Porter,” said Mrs. Porter coldly.
“What? So sorry, my mistake,” said Mr. Batley-Norris. He looked at a memorandum. “It says Porker here.”
Monica looked over his shoulder. Mrs. Porter looked at me as if it was my fault.
“So it does,” Monica mused. “Never mind, it’s very close. I do love your hat, Mrs. Porter. May I ask, do you garden?”
“Of course,” said Cressida, which struck me as unlikely.
“Wonderful,” said Monica. “How are you finding your kale?”
“Kale could win us the war,” said Mr. Batley-Norris. “Secret weapon. Full of iron. Would anyone like tea?”
“Thank you,” we all said, except Mrs. Porter, who was looking nonplussed.
“Mr. Collins said you were very keen to see me,” she said. “I’ve come especially.”
“And we’re so grateful,” said Monica smoothly. “Mr. Batley-Norris, shall I say or will you?”
“It’s all about the vegetables,” said Mr. Batley-Norris.
“It is!” cried Monica. “That’s exactly how I was going to put it. We’re like peas in a pod. That was a vegetable joke. Do you see?”
I listened, transfixed. Either Monica Edwards had gone completely mad or she was an exceedingly good actress. Guy was watching as if everything was perfectly normal. I’d bet a week’s wages this was not the first time he had seen her do something like this. Somehow Monica was managing to be a mixture of her usual polished and urbane self and a total fruitcake.
“Not peas,” said Mr. Batley-Norris seriously. “Cabbage. I’ll cut to the chase, Mrs. Porter. We need your magazine to do more about veg. That’s the crux of it. You used to be first class on the subject but do seem to have gone off.”
“Like a marrow,” said Monica. “Once they start going off, that’s it.”
Mr. Batley-Norris pressed on. “Would you mind if I ask you, Mrs. Porter, can Woman’s Friend do more?”
Mrs. Porter was still coming to terms with the fact that this meeting was not turning out to be quite what she had hoped for.
Guy stepped in to help. “I assume the Ministry would be very grateful if we could?” he said.
“Indeed we would,” said Mr. Batley-Norris earnestly. He was a sincere man and I felt myself warm to him. “The Ministry would be very pleased indeed. Your readers are vital to winning the war. Now, shall we start with preparations for August? Planting and harvesting. Here’s the list.”
He opened an enormous box folder full of typed pages and photographs of vegetables.
“It’s all about doing our bit, isn’t it?” Monica said chummily to Mrs. Porter. “We’re doing ‘Ten Ways to Keep Lettuce Fresh Without a Fridge’ next month. It’s going to be divine.”
She said this as if she were referring to a spread on evening wear.
“Lettuce is almost entirely water,” said Mr. Batley-Norris severely. “Same with celery.”
“You will help us, won’t you, Mrs. Porter?” said Monica, sounding like her normal self and entirely sane. “For the war effort.”
“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Porter. “For the war effort. Of course.”
“Thank you so much,” said Monica. She put her hand to her throat. “Now, what are your thoughts about fruit?”
This went on for an hour.
By four o’clock, Mr. Batley-Norris had only got as far as September planting schedules, and this was despite starting in July. Monica had discussed every fruit and vegetable he mentioned with a level of devotion commensurate to referring to the King and Queen themselves. Taking in the abject misery etched across Mrs. Porter’s face, I felt that our publisher was jolly nearly a broken woman.
I coughed very slightly and Guy picked up on the hint. “Mr. Batley-Norris, Mrs. Edwards,” he said. “This has been remarkably informative, but with regret, I believe Mrs. Porter has another engagement she must attend.”
“Thank goodness,” cried Mrs. Porter, departing her seat as if she’d been shot out of a cannon.
Monica leapt to her feet too. “Thank you so very much,” she said, sounding quite normal. “Mrs. Porter, it has been such a pleasure to meet you, especially as a keen fellow gardener.” She held out her hand, which Mrs. Porter wearily shook. “Can I count on you to join me in the Women Publishers’ Vegetable League? Mr. Batley-Norris is kind enough to meet with us at the same time every Thursday. You’ll know, of course, that there’s far more to fruit pulping than people might think.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Edwards,” said Guy, giving her one of his looks. “I think that might be enough.”
“I’m always very thorough,” said Monica. “Mrs. Porter, I can see that Mr. Collins is trying to protect you from my enthusiastic ways. Quite adorable,” she added, with the smallest hint of a quite wicked smile.
“We must go,” said Guy. “Mr. Batley-Norris, it has been the greatest pleasure. Thank you very much for inviting us. I know I, for one, have been hugely inspired on the vegetable front. I hope you will be happy to know we will reap what you have sown in the strongest of ways in Woman’s Friend.”
And with that final statement, all hands were shaken and Mrs. Porter allowed herself to be escorted from the room.
“I shall see you out,” said Mr. Batley-Norris. “Security, of course.”
As he and Mr. Collins led Cressida to the stairs, I lagged behind with Monica.
“How did I do?” she whispered when we were out of earshot. “I could see Guy thought I laid it on a bit thick.”
“It was extraordinary,” I said. “How do you know that much about vegetables?”
Monica chuckled. “Actually I enjoy gardening,” she said. “And I’m very fond of Mr. Batley-Norris.”
“I’ve never met anyone like him,” I said truthfully. “He knows so much. I hope he didn’t mind doing this.”
“Mind? He enjoyed it immensely,” whispered Monica. “He doesn’t usually get to do meetings. It’s most unfair. Don’t worry, I’m not being mean. He’s a horticultural genius. An extraordinarily gifted man.” Now she turned to me. “He’s also my cousin. He gave me this brooch.” She looked down at the Bakelite basket. “It’s one of my most precious possessions.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I said. “But is this really all true?”
Monica nodded, her eyes kind. “It is. There are all sorts of very clever, interesting people working in places like this,” she said. “Horace is just one of them and I couldn’t be prouder. I telephoned him after our lunch and he was delighted to help. Now, we’d better catch them up or we’ll get marched off to the Ministry allotments.”
“Really?” I said. At this point I was ready to believe anything she told me.
Monica laughed. “We’re safe,” she said. “Although I don’t think fruit and vegetables are quite up Mrs. Porter’s street, do you? Let’s just hope they’ve played their part.”
“Well,” I said, “if nothing else, I shall go home feeling quite an expert on tomatoes.”
“I have a very good recipe for chutney,” said Monica. “I’ll send it to you.”
I looked at her for a moment. She really was quite remarkable. “Thank you,” I said, “for today. You really have been a brick.”
“Not at all,” she replied. “You know how fond of Woman’s Friend I am, and of you and Guy. And now I understand what you’re up against. If there’s anything else I can do, anything, just let me know.”