Chapter 31 THE GRIM REAPER HIMSELF

Two very different things happened.

The readers who had not given up on Woman’s Friend began to write in, in droves.

Mrs. Porter picked up a copy of the magazine.

The two events did not exactly mix well.

We had definitely overstretched ourselves in terms of our workloads, but if nothing else, it meant I didn’t think about what I would do after Mrs. Porter shut us down. I needed to find another job, but it would have to be something I would be able to fit around the children until their dad returned from sea. In the airgrams he had sent since being given the news about Thel, it was painfully obvious that he was more desperate than ever to get home.

We had no idea when that would be, so launching myself as a freelance journalist could be ideal. It was something, at least about work, to feel hopeful about. If I tried really hard. I would find another job, even if not with a magazine that meant as much to me as did Woman’s Friend.

I still brought my work home with me, and now that time was running out on Woman’s Friend, Bunty helped too, typing up my shorthand notes while I handwrote other letters. Stan liked licking envelopes, so he got to do that, under pain of death not to look at the correspondence inside. Marg and George were both learning to type. They were enormously disappointed that we wouldn’t be running a publishing company from the house. Even Huey, Dewey, and Louie, who now ruled the garden in a tyrannical pact with Gert and Daisy, couldn’t raise morale.

It was now two months since Thel had been killed and I still expected to hear the front door open and see her walk down the hallway and the kids hurl themselves at her. Sometimes I’d find myself thinking, All right, Thel, enough’s enough. You’ve made your point, we all miss you. You can come back now.

Other times—and this made me feel dreadful—I’d get angry. One night, after George had woken up screaming from a nightmare in which his mum had been trying to get through the window but no one would let her in, we all went down to the kitchen and had hot milk and Horlicks to try to calm down. Early autumn had begun to make itself known so it was chilly enough to warrant dressing gowns and blankets all round. As we sat together in various states of tiredness and upset, I just wanted to tell someone, anyone with more power or authority than me, that this wasn’t fun anymore. As if it had ever been.

There were odd moments, of course. When the children played or laughed at something on the radio, or one of the pets did something silly. Actually the children were good at having bouts of normality. But Thel’s absence never left any of us.

In a way, it was now worse, as the initial shock had worn off, but the pain and sadness hadn’t, and really it never would. Bunty said you didn’t miss someone any less, you just made room for other things to surround the gap they had left.

All I knew was that it felt as if everything was slipping out of my grasp. Above all else, Thelma, of course, but I missed Charles dreadfully and worried about him more and more each day. And now Woman’s Friend and the team that meant so much to me would soon be gone. It was like tent pegs coming loose, one by one. At some point—not yet, but perhaps if the wind got up, the whole structure was going to collapse. There was nothing I could do, but just like every other person in the country, stick my chin up and keep going. After all, hadn’t I written to thousands of readers telling them that there really wasn’t a choice?

So I followed my own advice and just pushed on.

The closure of Woman’s Friend as we knew it came round quickly.

A few days after the issue was published with our special questions and answers features, I made my way in to work. We had to put the final magazine to bed, try to answer all the post that had come in, and then that would be it. Even though we had tried to give readers a deadline for their letters, they kept coming. There was tons still to do.

I reached the top of the stairs and rounded the corner, to see Mrs. Mahoney and Mr. Newton reading a typewritten notice that had been taped up on the doors to the Woman’s Friend offices.

I said, “Good morning,” and joined them.

THESE PREMISES AND THEIR CONTENTS

ARE THE PROPERTY OF LAUNCESTON PRESS LTD

AND THE HON. MRS. CRESSIDA PORTER.

DO NOT ENTER.

SIGNED: W. ELLIOT

“This is ridiculous,” I said.

“What is?” It was Guy. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Just ignore it. Excuse me, please.”

We moved out of his way and Guy flung open the double doors, only to jump back in surprise.

There, sitting bolt upright on an office chair in the gloom of the corridor, was Mr. Elliot, looking not unlike the Grim Reaper himself.

“Good God, man,” said Guy, “you frightened the life out of me. What are you doing sitting there in the dark?”

Mr. Elliot stood up, with, I noticed, the help of a walking stick. “I thought this would happen,” he said. “I trust you saw Mrs. Porter’s notice.”

“I did, thank you,” said Guy briskly. “It’s nonsense. We’ve got a magazine to get to press. How’s your foot, by the way? It sounded painful.”

“My ankle,” said Mr. Elliot. “I have been quite ill. Which explains the present state of anarchy here.”

Guy snorted. “Anarchy? This is a publishing company, not the Spanish Civil War. Now come on, let’s get this thing done, and then it’s over to you.”

Mrs. Shaw and Miss Peters had now arrived with Hester and Mr. Brand.

“Oh, look, it’s old Gloom Bag,” said Mrs. Shaw, not entirely helping the diplomatic stand-off. “What’s he doing?”

“There’s a notice,” I said.

“I haven’t seen it,” said Mrs. Shaw correctly, as now the doors were open it wasn’t obvious.

“This office is closed,” said Mr. Elliot pompously. “By order of Mrs. Porter.”

“Well, I need to go in, for a starter,” said Mrs. Shaw. “I’ve got a full jar of plum jam in my desk and you’re not having that.”

“There you are,” said Guy, as if Mrs. Shaw had just given a compelling closing argument at the Court of Appeal. “I must tell you Mr. Elliot, that as no notice has been given, the staff have every right to retrieve their personal belongings. You can check the legalities of the Launceston employment policy if you wish, but I must insist we go in.”

I was sure Guy was bluffing, but he was ever so good at it and Mr. Elliot hesitated.

“Good-oh,” said Guy, and walked in past him. “Can someone put the lights on, please?” Then, and I was sure just to be annoying, he added, “Happy for you to remain on guard, Mr. Elliot.”

Guy walked down to the journalists’ room, and rather than going to our specific offices, we all followed. Now his breezy demeanour had gone. “Pathetic,” he muttered. “I’ll lay ten bob it’s because of the latest issue.” He took a deep breath. “Right, everyone, you really must ensure you have collected anything that is yours. I am going to make a couple of phone calls, as I’m pretty sure Mrs. Porter doesn’t have the authority to do this. Contractual obligations and all that.”

Mr. Newton nodded. “The clients have all paid for their advertising space.”

“Can he actually turf us out?” asked Mrs. Mahoney. “Legally?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Guy, “but I can’t guarantee it. You’ve all gone way beyond what you could have over the past weeks. If any of you would like to go straight home, then please do.”

No one moved.

“It just gets my goat,” said Mrs. Mahoney, “to have to end like this. After all these years.” Her voice trembled and it took me aback. Mrs. Mahoney was never overdramatic, and to hear her upset for the first time I could ever remember was awful. “It’s always been more than just a job, here. I would have liked to have been able to finish things properly,” she said.

For a moment there was silence. Mrs. Mahoney had spoken for us all. Woman’s Friend had always been more than just a job. If this was going to be the last time we were here, it was a pretty rum way of ending things. No proper celebration of all we had all done. No cups of tea or plans to go to the pub.

“We’ve still got masses of letters,” I said. “I wonder if I can get them out past Elliot and finish them at home? I’ve nothing else to do.”

“I can come round and help,” said Hester immediately. “And I can help Marg and George with their typing.”

“Thanks, Hest,” I said. “That would be nice.”

“Hold your horses, for a moment,” said Guy. “There’s a decent chance we can come back in on Monday. I need to speak with Legal upstairs. I’ll call them now.”

But Mr. Elliot appeared in the doorway. “I must ask you to all leave,” he announced, “and do ensure you take only what is yours. Nothing else.” He shot me a look and then turned to Guy. “I have asked Security to come up.”

“Mr. Elliot, we need half an hour,” said Guy sternly. “I have been here ten years. I will not be rushed into leaving anything of personal value behind.”

He walked over to the corner of the room, where several empty postbags were neatly folded, waiting for Clarence to collect them. It was unbearable to see him pick one up and take it with him to collect up his things. I left the others checking through their desk drawers and went back to my office.

I shut the door behind me and sat down. Although we had all known it was coming, the notice and Mr. Elliot trying to bar us had come as a shock. It was jolly hard not to feel wobbly. I ran my hand over my desk, as if it was a trusty old carthorse that was being moved on.

“Daft,” I murmured to myself, but it wasn’t, really. Ever since I had blundered quite by accident into a job at the magazine, Woman’s Friend, and more than anything, the people who worked here, had become a most enormously important part of my life. They were my friends. My family. This was a vile situation all round.

I opened the drawer to my desk and took out the spare fountain pen that I always kept there, and two clean hankies. Then I decided to steal two pencils. As anarchy went, it wasn’t of historic proportions, but it made me smile. I stood up and walked over to the noticeboard, which was still covered in the readers’ letters and photos that I had been sent and that I held dear. One of a family at the seaside—the Burtons—and another of a middle-aged woman and her mother—Mrs. Skinner and Mrs. Wade. They had both been through difficult times, and I had been very happy to try to help out. I wasn’t leaving without them. I quickly began to take everything down, finding it hard to believe what was happening.

And then that was that. I looked at the clock on the wall, as I must have done a thousand times in the past. I still had twenty minutes.

I could hear the rest of the team talking in quiet voices, including to Mrs. Pye, who had come in late. While everyone else sounded muted, I heard her clipped tones say, “Well, I do hope one will still receive one’s outstanding pay,” which was not quite in the spirit of the moment, but understandable nevertheless. Then Mrs. Shaw told her to shut up. I had a little smile.

My word, I was going to miss them.

I began pulling out a buff folder and decided to extend my kleptomania and take it to keep the photos and letters in. Then I paused to read a memorandum that Guy had given me the previous year. It was from the late Lord Overton and was just two lines.

Collins

V. well done re The Ministry. Have heard Miss Lake’s work v. well received, esp in your absence. Pls pass on my appreciation. Good work.

O.

It had been one of the absolute highlights of my career to date. I had wanted to put it in a frame but thought that too showy. I would take it home and perhaps do it now. The publisher of the entire Launceston Press, a man I admired immensely.

What would he make of all this? It was too depressing to think about.

I closed the folder and put it safely in my bag. There was still a pile of letters on my desk waiting for replies. Out of habit as much as anything, I took the lid off my fountain pen and reached for the Woman’s Friend notepaper for what was likely to be the very last time.