Authors: Anna Davis
Grace swallowed hard. “Did you wonder
why
I left? Did it remotely bother you to wake up and find me gone?”
A sound that might have been a laugh but which turned into a yelp of pain. “Say, want to know what’s always fascinated me? On one day you can feel something really strong for a person—I mean, those big intense emotions that dominate your whole world and simply dwarf everything else—and then the next day you wake up and that incredible love you felt for a day or a year or whatever—it’s vanished. Pff, like smoke. There’s nothing you can do to bring it back.” He set down the towel and began washing his hands.
“I know you said that to hurt me,” said Grace. “But it actually makes me feel sorry for you. It must be awful to be so alone and empty as you are. Playing your stupid pointless games with people’s heads and hearts.”
O’Connell was still rubbing his hands together under a stream of water from which steam was now rising. “Are you in love with John Cramer, Grace?”
She sighed. “I hope you have a good journey back to New York. Be nice to Margaret. She’ll do a good job for you and she deserves the best.”
“Of course I’ll be nice to her. Why would I be anything other than nice to my new secretary? You’re getting carried away with your little theories about me.” He was still washing his hands, though the steam was rising thickly and his skin was turning red. As the water reached what must have been a scaldingly hot temperature, he finally turned off the tap. “Say, it was so delightful to finally glimpse your sister this evening. I
hadn’t expected her to be so utterly beguiling. I should have guessed after everything you’d told me about the two of you with George and Steven. And now poor old Cramer. You’re like a couple of gems in a jewel box, you two.” He shook the water off his hands. Examined his swollen face in the mirror. “Nancy has a rare and beautiful dignity. You might even call it nobility. She’s…fascinating.”
“Shame on you, O’Connell.” The room was too small or else he was too big. She had to get out.
“Running away again, are we?”
“Walking away. There’s a difference. And you’d do well to learn that for yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look at you and Cramer. By refusing to talk to him about Eva’s death, you’ve made damn sure that he’ll never leave you alone. Cut him loose, for goodness’ sakes.” She made herself look at him one last time. “Good-bye, Devil. Good luck with the new novel.”
Grace
was woken by building noise. Hammering, drilling and great metallic clangs that reverberated through her head and in the roots of her teeth. The air smelled faintly of dust and cat. When she opened her eyes, she couldn’t work out where she was. She was lying on her own in a narrow brass bed, wearing only her underwear. Nothing was familiar: the cluttered dressing table draped all about with silk scarves, the oversized and vaguely ominous wardrobe, the walls papered in what might once have been cream but was now beige. It took her a moment to remember. Having done so, she got up and wrapped herself in the unbecoming yellow dressing gown that lay on the bed.
Beyond the bedroom was a tiny lounge-kitchenette, where Margaret, smartly dressed and wearing her glasses, was filling a battered kettle and setting it on one of the two
gas rings. Spooning tea leaves into a pot. “Morning, Grace. Headache?”
“I should say.” Grace sank into the single tatty brown armchair, and then sank a little farther with the broken springs. “Thank you for letting me stay. It was very kind of you. I couldn’t have faced my sister—not last night, not after all that drink. Not sure I want to face her today either, come to that.”
“Well, I’m afraid you can’t stay a second night. I’m not sleeping in that armchair again.”
“Oh God. I’m so sorry.” Grace covered her face with her hands. “I never intended to put you out of your bed.”
“And yet last night you went striding straight into the only bedroom and lay down on the only bed without so much as a by-your-leave.”
Grace winced. But actually Margaret sounded cheerful enough. She was humming brightly as she fetched two cups and saucers from a little cupboard.
“It’s quite all right,” she said eventually. “Gave me the chance to even things up a little.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well.” Margaret shrugged. “On one side of the equation I took advantage of your relationship with Dexter O’Connell to get myself out of a rut. And then, on the other side, you took advantage of my hospitality. So now we’re equal.”
Grace wasn’t so sure about this particular piece of algebra but decided not to say so. “You’re really going away with him, then?”
“Of course! You surely don’t think I’m going to turn down the job of my dreams just because my future employer behaves badly to his lovers? He’s a famous cad. I’ve always known that.” She smiled. “I’m not trying to get him to fall in love with me. That’s not what this is about.”
“I suppose, when you put it like that…” The unspoken truth sat plainly between them. It was she who’d been naïve; she who’d chosen to ignore what everybody knew about O’Connell. You had only to have read the newspapers now and then to know he was a cad. Perhaps that was the crux of the matter, the reason she’d overlooked the obvious. She knew too much about newspapers to think you could believe what they said about anyone.
“I’m meant for bigger things,” Margaret said. “It’s not just about loving his books. I’m going to travel the world, meet extraordinary people. At the moment my world extends no farther than the bus ride from Battersea to work and back.”
“Is that where we are, then? Battersea?”
In answer, Margaret crossed to the grimy window and yanked open the curtains that were still half closed. “It’s not a bad bit of London. Except for all the building noise. So much noise! And that’s only going to get worse. They’re planning to build an enormous power station here—big enough to generate as much electricity as all the others in London put together. Can you imagine the fumes and the filth? It’s a shame, really.”
Grace peered out at squat terraced housing in yellow brick—and at the end of the road, a building site. Men in overalls, steel girders, ropes and pulleys and rubble.
“There are people in Battersea from all corners of the Empire. So many fascinating lives and experiences and religions. Lots of Communists, too. Our MP’s a Communist, though he’s sort of masquerading as a member of the Independent Labour Party. You might have heard of him—Shapurji Saklatvala? He’s from India. Well, I say he’s ‘our’ MP, but of course
I
haven’t actually had the opportunity to vote for him or anyone else, being twenty-seven.” The kettle began to whistle. “I’m a
Communist, too, actually.” This was said sheepishly—something she was proud of but didn’t want to brag about.
“
Are
you?”
“Have been for years.” She poured hot water into the teapot and gave it a stir. “This country’s held back by its class system—by the fact that upper-class twits like Oscar Cato-Ferguson go sailing their way into the best jobs while people like me are left to type their inarticulate letters. As for the monarchy—well it’s simply absurd. How can we allow it to continue if we’re to be a truly modern society?”
This was a whole new Margaret. Put Grace in mind of her mother. “Well, you’re certainly fully of surprises.”
A smile. “So. Bathroom’s out on the landing. Should be free by now. There’s a towel over there by the door, and my soap and my loo roll. Have you a spare outfit at the office? I can lend you a long coat to cover your party dress till you get changed.”
“What? I wasn’t planning on going in to the office today.”
“Oh?” Margaret raised an eyebrow. “So when, precisely, were you thinking of going back? I’ve already told a pack of lies about visiting you with flasks of soup, how hideous your flu is and how deathly gray you’re looking. I’m running out of things to say.”
“But I didn’t…” She was about to protest that she hadn’t asked Margaret to lie for her, but swallowed the words. “Thank you. You’re a true friend, and I haven’t appreciated you properly. Did you say we catch a bus?”
A nod, as the tea was poured and passed across. “Are you all right, Grace? I mean, about what happened with you and O’Connell?”
“Yes. It ran its course. I knew, from early on, that it would burn brightly and burn out. It was exciting while it lasted, but
it was all surface, all sensation. No real substance.” She sipped her tea and tried to order her thoughts. “For a while I wanted it to be otherwise. He told me he loved me, and it made my head spin so that I couldn’t see what was what.”
“Do you think he did love you?”
“I think he lives and loves only in the moment. He’s the most handsome, charming, clever cad that I’ve ever met. But he
is
a cad, and he always will be. I’d rather not see him again. I’ll be glad when he’s left London.”
“Well, you don’t have long to wait.” Margaret took off her glasses and polished them up on her tweed skirt. When she replaced them, her face was all ill-concealed excitement. “We set off for New York in a couple of weeks.”
On
arriving at work with Margaret, Grace succeeded in changing out of the party dress and into her spare clothes without anyone noticing what she was up to. She settled down quickly and by late morning was making good progress with some copy for Baker’s. And nobody had spoken a word about her weeklong absence from the office. All of this lulled her into a false sense of security. It was then, of course, that the Pearsons sent for her.
It was Mr. Henry who issued the summons, but when Grace saw that Mr. Aubrey was with him in his office, she knew she was in trouble. It was Mr. Henry who did the talking. Soft-voiced, bushy-sideburned Mr. Henry, his habitually twinkly eyes devoid, today, of the slightest twink.
“I’ve been your champion, Miss Rutherford,” he was saying. “Because you have potential—sparkle—whatever you
choose to call it. You’re a clever young lady and you could have gone far at Pearson’s…”
Could have
…He was already using the past tense about her, even as she sat there in front of him. All the while Mr. Henry spoke, his brother stood by the window, gazing out at the street, perhaps too angry even to look at her.
“You did an excellent job with Baker’s Lights,” said Mr. Henry. “Your ideas for Potter’s Wonderlunch were positively visionary.”
It was as though she were listening to her own obituary. There had to be
something
she could do…
“It doesn’t have to end there, sir. I can come up with
more
visionary ideas; I
know
I can.”
“Not here, you can’t. Not after what you’ve done.” Mr. Aubrey’s back was firmly turned and the sun through the window reflected off his bald patch. As he stood, hands behind his back, he rocked a little, heel to toe, heel to toe. Probably didn’t know he was doing it.
Mr. Henry’s neck was red. “What would happen if everyone behaved as you do, Miss Rutherford? You seem barely to understand that rules exist, let alone observe the need to follow them. You appear to have no sense of common decency.”
“But
what
have I done?” She was cringing even as she asked the question. The fact was, she’d committed so many misdemeanors of late that she wasn’t even sure which one had tipped her over the edge.
“You were seen, miss!” Mr. Aubrey spun around to face Grace and banged his fist down on the table. “You and your gentleman friend. Though clearly the man is no gentleman.”
“There was a cleaner working in the building that night, Miss Rutherford.” Mr. Henry fiddled with the papers in front of him, avoiding meeting her gaze. “The poor girl was quite
distraught when she told Mr. Cato-Ferguson. I’d be grateful if you’d clear your office and be out of here by lunchtime. We’ll make your wages up to the end of the week. In the circumstances, I consider this to be more than generous.”
“If you were a man—” Mr. Aubrey was biting his knuckles in anger.
“You were our first lady copywriter,” said Mr. Henry. “I can’t see that we shall be hiring another in a hurry.”
In the silence that followed, Grace realized they were waiting for her to say something. Eventually, she managed, “Thank you, sir.” She got to her feet and was about to go, but couldn’t quite stop herself from having the last word. “All women aren’t the same. Don’t use me as an excuse not to give some of the others a chance. If you fail to see what women copywriters can contribute to this firm, you’ll be forever stuck in the nineteenth century while your competitors go racing ahead into the modern world.”
“Enough!” Mr. Henry held up his hands as though to blot her out.
On her way out of the building for the last time, carrying her box of odds and ends, Grace saw that Cato’s office door was wide open—perhaps so that he’d have a good view of her departure. Glancing up, she caught his eye and he waved cheerily.
Setting down her box on the carpet, Grace wandered over. Cato was lounging in his chair, feet on desk, talking on the telephone, and he didn’t break his conversation as she stepped into his room. His smile wavered though, just a little. It wavered again as she picked up the vase of fresh flowers that sat on his desk. White, impersonal flowers with a vaguely geometrical appearance. Raising them to her face, she took
a good whiff. Scentless. Lifting them out of the vase, she reached over and poured the water over his head.
The receiver dropped from his hand.
“You…You…” But that was as far as he got.
“You never could find the right words, could you?” And Grace turned and left the room.
Outside, a cheer went up from the typists. Grace casually distributed the flowers among them, before retrieving her box and strolling out of the building.
Out on the street, she didn’t feel so casual. The big doors swung closed behind her in a very final way, and there she was, in the dazzle of the morning sunshine, clutching her box, a waif and stray. What should she do now?
She ought to go home, of course. But the thought of tea and sympathy with Nancy was not an appealing prospect in her current mood. And anyway, Nancy would be busy looking after Cramer, fretting and fussing over him, helping him to get back on the proverbial wagon. As for Mummy—well, Grace didn’t feel strong enough to face all that maternal disappointment and disapproval, not this morning.