FRIDAY, 12 APRIL 1921, OFF ELLIS ISLAND
Mimi and Estie huddled in the prow of the rowing boat – Estie because she had been told it was a game of hide and seek and Mimi because the ferryman had warned her that the police would put her in prison if she didn’t. Although her English was not very good, she knew enough to understand that what they were doing was illegal and there would be severe consequences if they were caught.
When they reached land they were ushered into a wagon and hidden under sackcloth while the ferryman strapped in his old nag. She was kept in the backyard of a coopery – for a small monthly fee – while her master was at work. The cooper chose not to mention the ferryman’s unusual cargo he occasionally brought back from Ellis Island, just as the ferryman chose not to mention the smell of cheap liquor coming from some of the cooper’s barrels.
Unlike Poppy and her friends, the sisters did not travel in a bright yellow taxi up Broadway, oohing and ahhing at skyscrapers in the mid-morning sun. Instead, they traversed the cobbled back roads beside the great Hudson River, winding through the poorly lit docklands of the lower west side.
Through the meat district and up past the Hudson Docks, Mimi could hear women’s voices calling out to the ferryman: “A dime a time.” She’d been through enough docks on her journey west from Yalta to visualize the scene: poorly dressed women, their faces painted, offering all they had for all they could get.
There had been times when she thought she would end up doing the same, but somehow she had managed to avoid it. She had judiciously rationed out the valuables stolen from the villa and, when they ran out, washed dishes and cleaned tavern latrines. Estie helped her without complaint, happy to be thought important enough to be given a job to do.
Although Mimi worried for a minute that she and Estie might be headed towards a similar fate, she reminded herself that the lady at Ellis Island had told her there would be decent work to do. She hadn’t said exactly what it was – or if she had, Mimi hadn’t understood the English words – but she had understood enough to know that she and Estie must work for some time – months, years? – in payment for their entry into the so-called “Land of the Free”. So she would work – but only until she found Anatoly. And then he would pay the people so she could leave… and they could get married… and they could live happily ever after…
“A dime a time!” croaked a whore.
“You dumb Dora,” answered the ferryman.
MONDAY, 15 APRIL 1921, MANHATTAN
Poppy, Rollo, and Delilah were on the subway heading to Times Square. It was just past eight o’clock on Monday morning and the train was full of office workers and schoolchildren. The snappier dressers in their pinstripes and derbies were uniformly hidden behind the financial pages of the Times; the flat caps and baggies shared the sports pages between them. Poppy could see that someone called “The Babe” was declaring that the Yankees were on track to win the World Series. Rollo explained that the headline was referring to baseball – similar to English rounders, but people actually paid to watch it – and no other countries were playing: the “World” was just America.
Teenage girls in pinafores and straw boaters giggled at a young lad sporting an enormous pimple on the end of his nose while he looked out of the window in embarrassment. Poppy glared at the girls; they lowered their eyes in shame.
Rollo was reading the inside pages of the Times. He chuckled and pointed a stubby finger at an article halfway down column three: “Wets escape raid on Village speakeasy – Drys cry police pay off”.
“We made it into the papers, ladies. Fame at last, eh?”
Delilah giggled. Poppy smiled wryly: not quite the way she wanted to get into the news. But, she had to admit, the night had been fun – at least until her shock encounter with the fake count.
After getting home safely on Saturday, the three of them had chewed over their options regarding Alfie Dorchester and decided that Rollo was right: nothing could, or should, be done until Monday. They also decided to keep it a secret from Aunt Dot and Miss King, as Poppy’s aunt was already emotionally fragile, and news that the man who attempted to kill her loved ones was loose on the streets of New York might be too much for her. So Poppy spent the rest of the weekend pretending everything was all right.
On Sunday, she accompanied her aunt to the nearby Park Avenue Methodist Church – pointed out to them by Rollo. Between singing Wesley hymns, she wondered what the folk would think if they knew she had spent the previous evening running from the police and drinking, illegally, at a scandalous speakeasy. She knew what her parents would think.
Why was she there? She had got out of the habit of going to church in London. She told herself it was because she was often working, but the truth was, she didn’t really know how her new life would be judged by the congregation. What did it mean to be a good Christian? Did her new love for clothes and music and going to the theatre and dancing in jazz clubs now disqualify her? She didn’t know. She just didn’t know.
The train pulled into Times Square Station. Poppy stood up, gathered her satchel, and prayed for help on her first day on the job. Yes, she still prayed. Despite her unease in church, faith was still part of her life. And boy, did she need that now. Apart from the pressure of trying to find evidence that a Liechtensteinian count was actually the British aristocrat and fugitive Alfie Dorchester, there was the small matter of fitting into an entirely new newspaper in an entirely new city on the other side of the world.
Thank heavens she had Rollo with her. He would know what to do. He would be able to direct her, help her, advise her. She would have reached out and held his hand – like a child needing affirmation from an adult – but it wasn’t the appropriate thing to do.
Up the subway steps and onto Broadway, she and Rollo bid goodbye to Delilah. Delilah’s session started at ten o’clock, so she had plenty of time. She said she would take in the Square and jump back on the subway to 34th Street Station, then walk down to the Astoria via Macy’s, where she would buy a new hat to match her lilac and white frock. Her “old” hat had not been in a proper hat box and had got squashed in the trunk on the way over. “That’s what I get for last-minute packing!” she confessed.
Poppy gave her friend a cuddle, wished her happy hat hunting, and told her to break a leg. “Does one still break a leg on the wireless?” she wondered.
Delilah giggled. “I don’t know! But I’ll soon find out.” Then she skipped off to window-shop around the square.
“Righto,” said Rollo, as Delilah turned a corner. “To work we go.” He led Poppy south and then west along 43rd Street, explaining as they walked that One Times Square no longer housed the editorial offices, although it was still owned by the paper.
“Don’t be overwhelmed when you see the building,” he warned. “It’s eighteen storeys high and the editorial department alone is spread over six floors.”
Golly, thought Poppy. The Globe is only four floors – the entire building. If she was already nervous, then this made it ten times worse.
As if reading her mind, Rollo stopped at a pedestrian crossing and turned to her: “Don’t worry, a newspaper’s still a newspaper. You’ll fit right in.” Then, as a gap cleared in the traffic, they crossed the road.
Five minutes later they arrived at the imposing edifice of 229 West 43rd Street. En route Rollo told her that the entire company employed eighteen hundred people, had a daily readership of just under half a million, and an editorial staff of around two hundred. The Globe had only ten. Back home in London Poppy was called the “arts and entertainment editor” – implying that she had an entire department under her, but in reality she was a staff of one. At The New York Times they had separate editors for book reviews, music, drama, society, and art, with a staff of twenty working under them. Poppy would be one of the staff. Rollo would be working as a sub-editor, housed on another floor, but he said he would get her settled in before he started work.
They entered the building and signed in at a formal reception desk. Poppy was disappointed to see it was not manned by a motherly Mavis Bradshaw clone, but a dour-looking gent in a grey suit. The foyer was buzzing with staff arriving for the day shift and bleary-eyed workers knocking off from the night. “All the news that’s fit to print” – the company’s motto – required round-the-clock attention.
Rollo and Poppy caught the lift – or “elevator”, as the Americans called it – to the sixteenth floor. Poppy had never been so high in the sky. She wondered if she would feel dizzy if she looked out of a window. But before she could check herself for vertigo, Rollo ushered her through an enormous newsroom, abuzz with typewriters and the sound of telegraph tickers. In London, if Poppy or any of the Globe staff needed to send or receive a telegram they had to walk to the nearest post office on Fleet Street. Here they had their own system installed. “They were one of Marconi’s first customers,” Rollo informed her. “Delilah’s Uncle Elmo,” he added, as if she didn’t know.
Some newspapermen looked up from their desks as the young blonde woman and the dwarf passed. A few of them raised their eyebrows appreciatively; one or two greeted Rollo by name. They asked to be introduced to the “dame”, but Rollo brushed them off with a laugh and a promise of a catch-up later. “This is Miz Denby, one of London’s finest young journalists. But I want to introduce her to Judson first.”
Judson Quinn, Rollo had told her, was one of the two associate editors who ran the paper under the editor-in-chief, Charles R. Miller. Miller was currently visiting the Washington office while the other associate, Archie Weinstein, was in London trying to buy the Globe.
Rollo knocked on a door at the end of the newsroom.
“Enter!” came the reply.
He opened the door and stepped aside to usher Poppy in. She walked into an office that was far tidier than Rollo’s back in London. The walls were graced with framed front pages of the Times, showcasing the greatest journalistic scoops of the last thirty-five years. Along one wall was a bank of filing cabinets, and another two were decked with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the spines smartly aligned like soldiers on a parade ground. In the alcove of a bay window – sporting a dizzying view of mid-town Manhattan – was a large desk, covered with ordered stacks of files, photographs, and galley proofs.
A sparsely built man with thinning grey hair got up from his chair. Poppy noticed a slight weakness in his left side and arm, while his face drooped slightly on one side. A stroke? Poppy wondered. But behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, Judson Quinn’s brown eyes were as sharp as tacks. “Well, if it ain’t Rollo the Rogue Rolandson!” He reached out his right hand. “And this must be Miz Daredevil Denby.”
Rollo laughed and Poppy flushed as she took Quinn’s hand. “I don’t know what Mr Rolandson has been telling you, Mr Quinn, but I’m sure it’s all a gross exaggeration.”
“That you single-handedly put a corrupt lord behind bars, embarrassed Marie Curie, saved the life of Constantin Stanislavski, and fought off the entire security detail of the Russian Embassy?” His eyes twinkled. “Surely none of that is an exaggeration, Miz Denby.”
“Let’s just say a bit of journalistic licence has been applied,” observed Poppy.
Judson Quinn gave a lopsided grin and turned his attention to Rollo. “You’ve grown!” he said. Poppy winced at his insensitivity. But Rollo just laughed and patted his belly.
“London food ain’t as bad as they said it would be,” he quipped in a fake cockney accent.
“Jellied eels, quick as yer please, guv!” countered Quinn in an even worse rendition of an East End lilt. And the two men doubled up in mirth. Poppy couldn’t help smiling at the two old chums. She had always been under the impression Rollo had left The New York Times with bad blood. If he had, it certainly wasn’t with Judson Quinn.
Eventually the two men straightened up and turned to Poppy. “I’m sorry, Miz Denby, it’s just been a while since I’ve seen your editor. We were cubs together – did he tell you?”
“He didn’t,” she said. Rollo shrugged.
“But,” said Quinn, taking a step back, “unfortunately our friendship has to stop at the office door; as I’m sure Rollo understands.”
Quinn looked over his spectacles at his old chum. Rollo shifted slightly from one foot to the other and nodded. Ah, thought Poppy, there is something hanging over them.
“Rollo can tell you about it himself, but just to say my senior, Mr Miller, and my colleague, Mr Weinstein, are not quite as fond of old Rolandson as I am. And, although I’m in charge when they’re not here, they have made it clear that I am not to give either of you cushy jobs for the next three months.”
“Cushy jobs? What the hell do they think we want? Walnut-lined offices?” asked Rollo. His voice was jocular but there was an edge to it.
It was Quinn’s turn to shift from foot to foot. But with his weak left side it ended up as more of a lurch. Poppy almost reached out a hand to steady him, but he regained his balance without her help.
“You know what I mean, Rollo. Nothing ‘career furthering’. You’ve just got to be kept busy, that’s all, until it’s time for you to go back to London. So you’re going downstairs to copy tasting and Miz Denby here will go on the Death Beat.”
Rollo rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms. “Suppose it could be worse.”
There was a knock on the door and a bald man with a flush-red face popped his head around.
“Ah, Saunders, just in time,” said Quinn.
“Saunders?” Rollo said in disbelief, then he turned towards his old friend. “Oh, Judson. Why didn’t you tell me?” Rollo’s voice was cut with disappointment.
Quinn avoided his eyes and went back to his desk. He sat down and absently started straightening a pile of papers.
“I’m sorry, Rollo. A personal request from Weinstein.”
Rollo strode over to the desk and placed both hands on it, leaning in towards the associate editor. “And you didn’t have the tackle to stand up to him?”
Quinn slumped to one side and with an obvious effort straightened himself again. Poppy reached out a restraining hand and placed it on Rollo’s arm. She didn’t understand why he was so upset, but clearly Quinn’s health was not able to withstand much more.
“Rollo…”
Rollo’s muscles relaxed under her touch. “Sorry, Poppy. Quinn. Don’t worry; I’d be delighted to work with Saunders.”
He turned around to face the bald man still standing in the doorway, sporting a self-satisfied smirk. His voice was flat as he said: “Miz Denby, may I introduce Paul Saunders.”
Saunders reached out his hand. Poppy took it, nervously. It was limp and clammy. The obligatory shake over, she started to withdraw; then, suddenly, his grip tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Good day, Miz Denby. I believe you know my cousin, Lionel. Lionel Saunders. Oh, he’s told me sooooo much about you.”