After Lady Overton had gone, the day really did feel as if it had turned into a celebration of sorts. As we all worked on finishing everything up, now no one felt worried, only pleased that they had come into the office, and perhaps sadder than ever that things really were at an end.
“Blimey,” said Mrs. Shaw, “that was a turn-up.”
“Fancy her joining in,” said Miss Peters. “Opening envelopes and everything. I’ll be dining out on this for years.”
“A Lady, opening the post,” marvelled Mr. Newton.
“Lady Overton is human,” I said. “She’s not from the moon.”
“Socialist,” said Mrs. Shaw. “Old Joe Stalin would love you.”
“I’m not sure about that,” I said. “I think he’d find me too argumentative.”
“Don’t we all,” said Guy, making everyone laugh.
Just then there was a noise outside.
“What now?” said Mrs. Shaw. “I don’t know about finding a new job—come Monday, I’m having a rest.”
“I’ll go,” said Mr. Newton, getting up.
“It’s like Piccadilly Circus,” said Mrs. Mahoney. “It was never this busy when we actually worked here.”
“I do feel I missed out,” said Monica. “I like being part of this team. Guy, why didn’t you ever offer me a job?”
“Couldn’t afford you, Monica,” said Guy. “Nobody can.”
“I’d have done it for biscuits,” said Monica. “Would anyone else like the last one?”
No one had the chance to say yes, as Mr. Newton came rushing back in. “It’s her,” he said. “Mrs. Porter is here.”
For the first time in weeks, Mr. Newton didn’t look worried at her arrival, and if nothing else, today had been worthwhile just to see him back to his old self, and possibly even better.
A beefy man in overalls looked in. “Removals,” he said.
“Editorial,” replied Guy.
The removal man tutted, went back out, and shouted, “There’s people,” down the corridor. “What do you want me to do?”
“If he so much as touches you,” said Monica to Hester, “hit him as hard as you can. We’ll all swear on the Bible you slipped.”
Hester giggled.
“I wish you had worked here,” I said.
Then the Honourable Mrs. Porter arrived. None of us moved. “What,” she said, “is this?”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Porter,” I said. “Ah, Mrs. Pye.”
“We’ve just had lunch,” said Mrs. Pye, who was standing behind her.
“Go on, I bet it was scallops,” said Mrs. Shaw.
“Merci, Madame,” said Mrs. Porter, ignoring her. “You were absolutely right.”
“C’est scandaleux,” said Mrs. Pye, whose French had clearly recovered itself. “Ils trespasse.”
“Do you mean ils transgressent?” asked Monica. “Trespasse is Portuguese.”
“Who are you?” said Mrs. Pye rudely.
“This is Mrs. Monica Edwards,” said Guy. “Mrs. Pye is a big fan of yours,” he added to Monica.
“Bless you,” said Monica.
“I’m not,” said Mrs. Pye.
“Oh, do shut up, Pamela,” said Mrs. Porter, tiring badly, as she wasn’t the centre of attention. “Go and get Mr. Elliot. We need the police.” Now she began to motor. “You—Mr. Collins, Miss Lake, Mrs. Edwards—all of you shall be arrested. You’re trespassing on my property, having no doubt lied your way in, and I am confident you have been stealing my things.”
When no one looked remotely concerned, she moved up another gear. “Do you not hear me?” she shrieked. “You will all get criminal records. Thank God this is nearly over and I can retire to where I am appreciated. You, on the other hand, will all be in court.”
“Mrs. Porter,” began Guy, in a reasonable voice, “we were just finishing our work. It’s not a crime.”
“YES IT IS,” shouted Mrs. Porter. “YOU’RE ALL NASTY COMMON PEOPLE WHO HAVE NEVER UNDERSTOOD ME. I CAN HARDLY STAND THE SIGHT OF YOU.”
“Cressida, that’s enough.” Lady Overton’s calm voice stopped Mrs. Porter in her tracks.
“Aunty,” she said, suddenly babyish, “what are you doing here? These awful people have broken into my office and are stealing… er… things. It’s quite dreadful. Mr. Elliot is calling the police. Thank God Small Winston isn’t here. He’d DIE. They’d have murdered my dog.”
“Well, he’s not here and they haven’t,” said Lady Overton, sounding just like anyone else’s long-suffering family when they’re related to a prize idiot. “Please calm down.”
“Aunty,” continued Mrs. Porter, ignoring her completely, “you don’t realise. They’ve been awful from the word go. My whole life has been Entirely Mis. It’s a wonder I haven’t had a nervous breakdown. In fact, I could be in a sanatorium now, only the best ones are in Switzerland, so I can’t even do that. It’s all just Utterly Mis.”
Mrs. Porter, knocking forty years old, stamped her foot.
“Cressida,” said Lady Overton quietly, “please will you come with me.”
“NO,” insisted Mrs. Porter. “Not until they’ve been thrown out.”
The Honourable Mrs. Porter was being given every opportunity to leave with a shred of dignity intact but was having none of it. She continued to hurl unfounded accusations about her dreadful experiences at Woman’s Friend. It was becoming embarrassing.
“I give up,” said Lady Overton, evenly. “You’ve been like this since you were four years old. Mr. Collins, would you and your team care to join me instead?”
That brought her niece to a halt. “What?” she said. “Aunty?”
“Have you signed the contract yet?” asked Lady Overton. “With West London Press?”
“Yes, I have,” said Cressida. “Well, nearly. We’re signing over lunch at The Savoy on Monday. It’s going to be lovely.”
“Then you must consider the new bid before that point,” said Lady Overton. “I understand you haven’t even looked at it.”
“No, and I’m not going to,” said Mrs. Porter. “They can’t afford it, anyway.”
“I’m sure they can,” said Lady Overton, “if they wish.” There was a moment’s silence. “Mr. Collins, might we speak?”
Mrs. Porter may have been spoilt and hysterical and ridiculous, but when it came to it, she was no fool. “What do you mean, Aunty?” she said. “You’re not thinking of trying to keep this wretched magazine? If you are, then speak to Johnny, because he doesn’t want it. I’m actually doing everyone a favour by selling it away.”
“No, I’m not suggesting Woman’s Friend stays as part of Launceston,” said Lady Overton. “I think it’s time for it to have a new home. Guy, I really would rather have discussed this with you privately, but as things appear to be coming to a head, might you be interested in a partner? Not a working one, as you clearly don’t need that, but on your executive board?”
“NO,” shrieked Cressida.
“Mon Dieu,” gasped Mrs. Pye.
“Goodness,” said Guy, very much taken aback. “Emmy? Monica? Mrs. Mahoney? Everyone?”
“I am very ancient,” continued Lady Overton, not exactly telling the truth, “and I haven’t been involved in the business for a long time. But I did so enjoy it once, before I had children, and when it was temporarily acceptable for me to consider having a job. I remember my husband telling me about you, Mrs. Edwards, when you worked with us some time later. I was so envious that you could have a career. I rather wished I was thirty years younger.”
Monica looked touched. “His Lordship gave me my first big break in journalism,” she said, “even though I was completely green. I’ve never forgotten it.”
“Nor have I,” said Lady Overton. “My husband always knew a good journalist when he saw one.” She smiled at the memory. “Anyway, everyone, do have a think. We have to move swiftly of course—by Monday, clearly. But should it be required, I will finance any shortfall in your bid, and whatever more is required. That is, if you and your backers are interested, of course.”
“It’s too late,” said Cressida, pouting. “There’s a verbal agreement.”
“Ah,” said Lady Overton. “Miss Wilson, could you possibly place a telephone call for me, please? I should like to speak with Sir James Robinson-Gilbert. Might I use someone’s office, rather than go all the way back to my son’s?”
“Of course, Your Ladyship,” said Hester.
“Mine’s quite tidy,” I said, aware that Guy’s was bound to be a disaster, and by the expressions on everyone’s faces, no one wanted to put Lady Overton off at this point.
“Lady Overton,” said Guy, “just one thing. May I apologise that I didn’t come to you about this sooner. I had no idea you might be interested. I’m so sorry.”
He still didn’t mention her son.
Lady Overton smiled warmly. “I’m glad you didn’t, Guy. I fear I would not have replied. Miss Wilson’s letter was insightful. It doesn’t matter if one is old. Losing someone dear is not easy.” She looked at Hester. “It was very pleasant to feel understood,” she said. “It rather reminded me of why people write to magazines like ours. And seeing you all at work today has been good for me. I should like to do more. But that is entirely up to you. Now, if Miss Wilson wouldn’t mind, I think Sir James should be at home.”
Lady Overton was escorted out of the room by Hester, and for the first time since we had met her, Mrs. Porter was lost for words.
“Well, I’ve never heard of this James chap,” she said eventually.
“Sir James Robinson-Gilbert is a High Court judge,” said Guy, when no one else spoke up. “The general consensus is that he’ll probably be the next Lord Chief Justice.”
“Crikey,” I said. “Mrs. Porter, I don’t think your aunt is messing around.”
“He sounds Utterly Mis,” said Mrs. Porter. “This is all horrid. Madame, find me a taxi. I think I’ll take afternoon tea at the Ritz.”