While many people might have said we should have just walked away, none of us wanted to give up. There was no loyalty to Mrs. Porter, of course, but we all felt strongly that we should do what we could for the remainder of our watch, as it were. Until the West London Press took over, Woman’s Friend still felt as if it was ours.
The Exhausted Egg was, for once, true to her word and went on holiday. As far as she was concerned, Woman’s Friend could ebb away until WLP did with it whatever they wanted. From a business point of view, this didn’t make the least bit of sense, but there we were. For a month, we would almost get our magazine back.
This was helped in no small part by the fact that Mr. Elliot had become rather unwell. While it would have been poor form to wish illness on anyone, the fact that Small Winston had made quite an impression on him in the shape of a not-insignificant bite cheered everyone up. More to the point, as Mr. Elliot had been extremely rude and told Mrs. Mahoney she could stick her bottle of iodine in her ear, no one felt that he had anyone to blame but himself when his ankle turned nasty and he was laid up in bed.
“I shall miss that dog,” said Mrs. Mahoney, and we all agreed that Small Winston had done himself proud.
The other obvious victim was, of course, Mrs. Pye. Even though she was still almost entirely unlovable, no one had taken any joy from the humiliation handed out by her former mentor. It had been cruel and unnecessary, and we all felt a good deal of sympathy, even if Mrs. Pye didn’t appreciate it. It probably didn’t help that Mrs. Shaw started referring to her as Marie Antoinette.
“Poor old duck,” she said the day after the news. “One minute you’re the Queen of France, and the next, your head’s in a bucket and nobody cares.”
Mrs. Pye continued to come to work, almost in a state of shock, but kept mainly to her office and seemed to dislike everyone even more now that they were trying to be nice.
At home, I had to break the news to George, Margaret, and Stan. It had been something to look forward to, to plan and join in with, and now it was gone. They listened quietly.
“Will Guy still come round and will I still get to see Hester?” asked Marg.
“Does it mean Harold will move away?” asked George.
“This summer’s rubbish,” said Stan. “I hate it.”
I said yes and no, and that I agreed completely with Stan. I suggested we start our own magazine and call it The Pimlico Gazette. It could be especially for children, and we could fill it full of pets and hobbies and where the best bombsites were. Three pairs of eyes looked at me.
“It wouldn’t be the same,” said Marg. “Nothing is ever the same.”
Now that things were coming to an end at Launceston and there was no Mr. Elliot to keep check, I began to spend more time at home, bringing letters back with me and answering them by hand. Mrs. Harewood sometimes helped out, and Miss Peters, who lived nearby, occasionally came round and typed for me too. It meant I was there for the children whenever they needed me. It also meant that we could sort of run an office from home, in a poorer version of what we had hoped for and planned. I would go into Woman’s Friend, pick up my sorted-out correspondence, and then hail a cab and take a sack of letters home. As Guy said, “Damn the expense—take it all out of the petty cash.”
Two days after the new issue of Woman’s Friend hit the newsstands—the one where we had included the letter telling everyone what was going on—Clarence had delivered a slightly fuller postbag than in recent weeks. It was no surprise, seeing as we had invited readers to write in before things came to an end, and we all set to sorting them out. There were more for Yours Cheerfully as expected, more for Mrs. Pye’s On Duty for Beauty, which we had expected, but more surprising was the volume of letters addressed to Mr. Collins, or the Editor, or Woman’s Friend to Friend.
“This is very nice,” said Miss Peters. She began to read it out. “ ‘Dear Mr. Collins: I just wanted to say I’m sorry that Woman’s Friend is changing hands. Please can you ask them to keep Mrs. Fieldwick and Mrs. Croft? Good luck in the future, Mrs. J. W. Mason.’ ”
“I’ve got an interesting one here,” said Mrs. Shaw. “ ‘Dear Woman’s Friend: Thank you for telling us what is happening. I have to admit I did think you’d gone a bit off the boil recently,’ ” she began. “ ‘I’m really sorry you didn’t manage to keep Woman’s Friend going. I imagine someone rich is trying to buy it. Please find enclosed a postal order…’ ”
Mrs. Shaw looked in the envelope and took out a postal order. She went back to the letter. “ ‘… enclosed a postal order for half a crown, which I hope you can put it towards still trying to buy out the other people. Don’t give in! Me and my friend Mavis have read your magazine for years and we don’t want it to change. Yours sincerely, Mrs. Iris Baird.’ ”
“Fancy that,” said Mrs. Shaw. “Bless her.”
“Hold on,” said Miss Peters. “This one felt like it had something in it as well.” She rummaged through a pile of letters and picked one out, ripping it open and revealing a letter and two pieces of card, which had a shilling hidden in the middle. “ ‘Dear Mr. Collins,’ ” she read, “ ‘I saw your letter to the readers and felt very sorry. I know this isn’t much, but I hope you can put it towards trying to buy the magazine. Your problem page lady helped my sister when she was in a right state last year, and we’ll always be grateful. Wishing you all the very best, Mrs. E. Bell.’ ”
As the three of us continued opening the letters, we found more and more of the same. Readers writing to say how sorry they were, and several of them enclosing postal orders or coins. It was the kindest thing I could imagine.
“Make sure we put all the ones with money back in their envelopes,” I said to the women. “We can’t possibly accept it, even if we were still in with a chance of buying Woman’s Friend.”
By the time we got through to the bottom of the postbag, the pile of sympathetic letters was the largest one of the lot, and as we had started to note them down, we calculated that the donations had added up to twelve shillings and sixpence, which was a quite enormous amount, easily as much as if we had sold fifty copies of Woman’s Friend.
I told Guy, of course, not least to make sure we were being entirely above board with the readers’ money, but also so he could see how much his letter meant to them.
“We have to send it all back, or find a charity if people haven’t included an address,” he said, leaning on a desk and reading one of the letters. “Goodness me,” he said, “this is really very nice indeed.”
“That great big pile over there is all for you, Mr. Collins,” said Mrs. Shaw. “Not all with money, or you could go and live in the Bahamas like the last king, but lots of very nice messages, which might cheer you up.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Shaw,” said Guy, “they very much will.”
At that moment, Mrs. Pye walked in. Madame’s usual joie de vivre and random outbursts in French had all but disappeared, but it was unusual for her to converse, even in English.
“Ah,” she said, “Mr. Collins, there you are. A reader has sent in tuppence.” Mrs. Pye said it as if she had opened an envelope filled up with mud. “I thought you should know.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pye,” replied Guy. “People are very generously trying to help.”
“How odd,” said Mrs. Pye—like everyone else, not used to public displays of support, but unlike everyone else, apparently unmoved. “I’ve also had many letters saying pleasant things and even more asking for beauty advice, before—and I quote—‘Woman’s Friend goes to the dogs, probably that one in the hats.’ ”
That made the rest of us laugh, and Mrs. Pye looked up from the letter, entirely bemused.
“They’re most kind,” said Guy. “But we can’t have people sending in money. I’ll write another message. I must say,” he said looking around the office, “it is nice to be busy. It rather makes one forget for a moment that we’re on borrowed time.”
Mrs. Pye gave him a look as if to say she was never going to forget any of this for as long as she lived.
“Actually, Mrs. Pye,” said Mrs. Shaw, “there’s one here you might enjoy.” She handed it to Guy, who scanned it and grinned.
“ ‘Dear Whoever is selling Woman’s Friend,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘I am writing to say that we were very happy with your magazine the way it was. Is it too late to stop the sale? Also, I don’t know what you’ve done to Pamela Pye On Duty for Beauty, but she has always been a great help and very informative, and actually me and my sister’s favourite part of the magazine. Recently she seems to have inherited a fortune or married a millionaire. But anyway, good luck to you all. Yours, An Old Reader.’ ”
Mrs. Pye pursed her lips. “I’ve done my best,” she said tartly, and left the room.
“She’s not herself,” said Mrs. Shaw.
“Non,” said Miss Peters, which was the wittiest thing I’d ever heard her say.
“I tell you what,” I said, “let’s run a double-page spread answering all the questions we get asked the most. In the next issue. In fact, two double-page spreads. Beauty, fashion, love lives, careers—you name it. Try to go out with a bang.”
“There isn’t room,” said Mrs. Shaw. “Mrs. Porter’s written a very long poem and sent it in with some photographs of her looking about eighteen.”
I rolled my eyes.
“What a shame,” said Guy. “I do hate it when things get lost in the post.” He got up from where he’d been slouching on the desk. “Run the piece, Emmy. Turn it around, double quick.”
WOMAN’S FRIEND TO FRIEND A THANK-YOU
Following our message in last week’s issue, we would all like to thank you very much indeed for your kind letters and messages about Woman’s Friend. We read every single one of them.
We are also glad you enjoyed the pictures of Small Winston the dog. We have sent on your letters to our current publisher, who is his proud owner, and she will tell the young man himself.
On a serious note, while we have been very moved by those of you who have wanted to help us try to buy the magazine, we must ask you not to send contributions. We are extremely grateful for your concerns but are not seeking to raise funds and will only be able to pass any donations on to The Children’s Society if you have not enclosed your return address.
Do join us next week for what promises to be another issue full of features we hope you enjoy, and don’t forget to send in any last problems or concerns by the third of September, as after that we will not be able to reply.
With fond wishes,
Your Editor, Guy Collins,
and all your friends at Woman’s Friend
When the issue was published, something strange began to happen.
Mr. Newton noticed it first. “I don’t know how we’re going to fit everything all in,” he said. “I’ve had three clients telephone me since yesterday, all wanting to place adverts in our final issue.”
“We’ve had almost no returns this week from newsagents,” said Mrs. Mahoney.
“I think we may have overstretched ourselves on the ‘We’ll answer all your letters’ promise,” I said.
And then things really took off.