by AJ Pearce
He stopped reading, and running his free hand through his hair, turned to Mrs Bird. ‘I do apologise, Mrs Bird, but I don’t quite understand.’
Mrs Bird at last dragged her steely glare away from me.
‘I think you will find, Mr Collins,’ she said, ‘that Miss Lake has been playing a little game.’
I started thinking like mad. How on earth had Mrs Bird decided it was from me, and more to the point, what could I possibly say in my defence?
‘I . . .’
‘Forged my signature. Badly,’ spat Mrs Bird, who was holding on to her temper by a thread. ‘Mrs Tredmore was good enough to include the letter her daughter had received, on Woman’s Friend headed paper signed in blue-black ink by a Mrs Henrietta Bird. An appalling communication I most certainly did not write, with a signature in a colour I never use. Although, I believe, one which is favoured by Miss Lake. Not to mention the fact that you, Miss Lake, are the only person who has access to my readers’ correspondence.’
She loomed towards me.
‘Really, Miss Lake,’ said Mrs Bird. ‘It is hardly a case worthy of Agatha Christie, do you not think? Unless you are going to suggest that someone else is involved?’
There was no alternative but to come clean.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said in the smallest voice ever. ‘It was me. I wanted to help.’
If I had believed confessing was a good idea, I was entirely wrong. Mr Collins and Kathleen whirled round to look at me, mouths open in surprise. Kathleen’s horror was bad enough, but far worse was Mr Collins, who looked absolutely appalled.
‘I really am very sorry, Mrs Bird,’ I said again. ‘I didn’t mean to pretend I was you.’
As the words came out, they sounded more and more feeble. How does one write an entire letter, sign it in another name, address it, send it, and still not mean to pretend to be someone else?
I had become too used to doing it. While I had written in Mrs Bird’s name, the concern and words of advice were my own. It had made perfect sense to me. Mrs Bird wouldn’t even look at these letters and I was just stepping in to help out.
Now it sounded ridiculous.
I was still clutching the stapler that five minutes ago I had been waving around, showing off to make people laugh. My hands were now sweating so much I could hardly keep hold of it. I had often wondered what would happen if I was found out, but I had never properly imagined the effect it would have on my friends.
To her enduring credit and going far beyond the call of duty, Kathleen spoke up.
‘Perhaps, Mrs Bird,’ she whispered, ‘it was a silly mistake? I’m sure Emmeline didn’t mean any . . .’
I couldn’t let Kathleen go down in flames for me. It was already a dead cert I was going to get the sack. It would be even worse if I dragged my friend down into the bargain.
‘It’s all right, Kathleen,’ I butted in across her. ‘Thank you, but it’s all right. This is entirely my fault. I really am terribly sorry, Mrs Bird. I’ll go and get my things now.’
I moved towards the office to pick up my coat and hat. I really wasn’t sure if she was about to call the security guards or throw me out into the street by herself.
But Mrs Bird was having none of it.
‘Exactly WHAT do you think you’re doing?’ she cried, finally losing her rag. ‘You don’t honestly think you can walk out of here just like that? Miss Lake, are you deranged?’
Her face was now a furious purple.
‘How many?’ she hissed. ‘How many of these have you done?’
Kathleen looked at me in desperation, clearly willing me to say Just The One.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said, which was the truth. I did some sums in my head. It was actually quite a lot when you added them all up. ‘Um. About. Possibly . . . Thirty? Or a few more?’
I felt myself blush. If the others thought it was because I was feeling guilty, they were wrong. It was because I had lost count.
I didn’t dare even think about the letters that I had sneaked into the magazine. If Mrs Bird found out about those, I dreaded to think what she would do.
‘Thirty?’ Kathleen gasped, eyes like soup plates. Even Mrs Bird was taken aback.
‘Jesus Christ, Emmy,’ said Mr Collins under his breath and Mrs Bird shot him a withering look.
I could hardly look at him. He had bowed his head and wouldn’t look at me. He just kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
I had to admit, thirty sounded an enormous amount. You couldn’t explain this away as a well-meaning mistake. I had gone behind everyone’s back on a huge scale.
Mrs Bird was just managing to keep hold of herself. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘All of them, all written in my name?’
I nodded miserably. I wanted to say they were all to people who I hoped I, we, Woman’s Friend, had helped. That quite a few had written back to say thank you, including readers who had read the two problems I had put into the magazine and felt bolstered by the reply. And that actually, whatever her mother might think, Dolly Wardynski had married the man she loved and was now wonderfully happy. But I didn’t say any of this. Because in the very cold light of the Woman’s Friend corridor, writing letters as somebody else, whatever the reason, was just plain wrong.
‘Miss Lake,’ said Mrs Bird. ‘Do you realise how serious this is? I barely know where to begin. Fraud, libel, defamation of character . . . The police will take this very seriously indeed.’
‘The police?’ It came out of my mouth in a squeak.
‘Of course.’
Mrs Bird paused and before she could speak further, Mr Collins leapt in.
‘Now let’s hold hard, everyone. Let’s just all remain very, very calm,’ he said as Mrs Bird turned an enraged face to him. ‘Henriet . . . Mrs Bird, please.’ He fought for the right thing to say. ‘Miss Lake has been a very stupid young woman.’ He gave me a look almost as angry as hers. ‘But I am sure we can handle this difficult matter without the need for the police.’
I could tell he was thinking fast on his feet. ‘After all, there might be, er, Publicity. Yes. Which could be even more damaging for Launceston Press.’
It was an inspired argument and I wanted to hurl myself at him and thank him a hundred thousand times.
‘I am sure,’ he finished, ‘that this can be handled in the appropriate way within Launceston’s own walls.’
‘I have already informed Lord Overton,’ said Mrs Bird.
Lord Overton. Now I did feel sick. The man who was in charge of everything. The man I would have given anything to impress.
The chips were well and truly down. But Mr Collins did not give up.
‘And rightly so,’ he said, heroically managing to combine respect, charm, and concern all at the same time. ‘Lord Overton will know entirely the best thing to do. In full consultation with yourself, of course.’
Mrs Bird pursed her lips, and thought for a very long moment indeed. She may have been beside herself with anger and two steps away from calling the police, but she was also enormously loyal to Launceston and the Overton name.
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘I will see.’ And then she straightened herself up to her full formidable height, and as if having to address me was the most distasteful task of her life, said simply, ‘Miss Lake, you have misrepresented me, my magazine, your employers, and your colleagues, who perhaps thought of you as a friend. If you are lucky enough for me not to press charges – and there is no guarantee of that – be aware that the termination of your job and the reference I shall write will mean any career you might have followed is over. You are suspended without pay, with immediate effect. Mr Collins, the boardroom.’
And with that, she turned on her heels and swept out of the door.
There was the most awful silence. Kathleen looked as if she would rather be anywhere else on earth and Mr Collins looked as if he was having a battle with himself as he struggled for something to say.
Mrs Bird was right. I had let my friends down terribly.
The look on the
ir faces was awful.
‘Kathleen, Mr Collins,’ I started. ‘I am so, so very sorry. I was trying to help. I didn’t think it would . . .’
Mr Collins held up his hand to stop me.
‘Emmy,’ he said looking at me at last. ‘What the hell have you done?’
Kathleen looked even more distraught than before. If Mr Collins was at a loss, what hope was there?
I opened my mouth to try to apologise again, but Mr Collins cut me off.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I really don’t want to know. Just wait here until I get back. And for God’s sake try not to wreck anything else in the meantime.’
And then he left.
For a moment Kathleen and I stood still. I had no idea what she was thinking, but I was frantically trying to find something to say that would convince her I had only meant well. It mattered enormously to me what she thought.
Finally, she spoke. She still looked terribly upset and you could tell she was thinking about every word.
‘It’s all right,’ she said slowly. ‘Mr Collins will sort it out. It will all be all right.’
Dear Kathleen. Dear, good-hearted Kathleen who always looked for the bright side of things.
‘I don’t think so, Kath,’ I said. ‘I’ve really done it this time.’
At that moment, the Woman’s Friend doors opened once again and I jumped three feet into the air, expecting to see Mrs Bird flanked by the police. But to my unbounded relief it was Clarence, holding a bundle of this week’s new issue.
‘Good morning,’ he said with some uncertainty. It was clear something was going on. ‘I have your house copies.’
‘Thank you, Clarence,’ said Kathleen and for once Clarence didn’t go red or panic at her voice. He handed the bundle to me as if it was an unexploded bomb, and rushed out of the doors as fast as he could.
‘Well,’ said Kath, mustering a brave smile. ‘At least we have something to read while we wait.’
I didn’t have it in me to smile back, as I followed her into the tiny office.
‘You will let me explain, won’t you, Kath?’ I said.
‘Of course,’ she replied, her voice hoarse. ‘I’m not supposed to be speaking anyway.’
She began to take her hat and coat off, leaning over to hang them on the stand in the corner of the room.
I put the package down on her desk. As usual the printers had wrapped the copies in a bigger, uncut section of the magazine. The familiar heading of the ‘Henrietta Helps’ page stared out at me.
There it was. As clear as day. The letter from Anxious I had put into the magazine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Absolutely Nothing To Lose
As soon as Mr Collins came back from the boardroom, I told him about putting the letter into the magazine. In print, the letter and my answer had taken up most of the page. As reality finally struck, even I wondered what must I have been thinking?
I’d assumed Mr Collins would go into a fury. Instead, after a moment’s disbelief, he looked utterly defeated, which was actually far worse. After saying Jesus Christ (twice), he went very quiet before finally giving his response.
‘I’m very sorry, Emmy,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know how I’m going to be able to fix this.’
And then I was sent home.
I didn’t know what to do.
I walked back to the flat in a daze, barely noticing my surroundings and taking far longer than the hour it normally should. Usually if I walked, I played my favourite guessing game as I left Woman’s Friend and headed along Fleet Street. Who was a journalist? Who was hurrying back to their office with a scoop of the highest order? Just a few months ago I had thought I might count myself among them. Today, I kept my head down. I had nothing to do with journalism now.
I half-heartedly looked for a bus, but I didn’t want to sit or be still. If I sat down on the bus I might just put my head in my hands and howl. Instead, I desperately tried to pull round. What a dismal article I was.
It was a normal working morning to everyone else and as I walked along Victoria Embankment I wondered if anyone could tell that I was well and truly done for. Everyone else seemed to have somewhere to go, something important to do. Post boys running past with packages, important looking civil-servant types on their way to the Ministry of Supply, women from the suburbs blinking in the May sunshine as they made their way around the sandbags and out of the Underground.
I wanted to run away, or hide, or just not exist for a while. How could I possibly set things right?
I had no idea how long it would be until I heard from Mr Collins or Mrs Bird. The thought of waiting at the flat in the quiet, surrounded by memories of Bunty and Bill, was too much. I supposed I could go home to my parents but the thought of telling them covered me with shame.
I walked the long way home, lingering along Millbank and staring into the Thames. Tonight I would have to turn up for my shift at the fire station with a bright smile and look them all in the eye. What would Thelma think of me? Of our secret, thoughtful chats about the readers? Would she now think I had just been using her for advice?
And as for telling Charles. I let out a groan and a lady pushing a pram looked at me in alarm.
Would Mr Collins tell him? I wouldn’t blame him if he wrote immediately to inform his brother what kind of a girl he had nearly got himself involved with. I couldn’t bear to think of it. Charles had been so lovely in his letters, so concerned after the Café de Paris. He was always optimistic and tried to make things at his end sound all right, and he had been quite extraordinarily decent when I wrote to him about William. But I was sure this would be a step too far. Whether he found out from his brother, or me, I shouldn’t think he would ever want to hear from me again once he was aware of the truth.
With every step things felt worse. I had let so many people down. Most of all, though, I would have to explain myself to my best friend.
Dear, lovely Bunty. Now, more than ever, I wished we were still friends. Bunty would know what to do. Of course, I wouldn’t blame her if she flew into a rage at me for messing everything up so dreadfully at work. But I knew she would have stuck by me.
As I finally arrived back at the flat, I had made up my mind. I had absolutely nothing to lose.
Before it became official and all my family and friends discovered the truth, I would have one more go at speaking to Bunty. One last try to tell her in person how sorry I was.
The phone was in the hallway on the ground floor. It was jade green, which was both unusual and enormously showy, and Bunty had persuaded Mrs Tavistock to buy it the year before last. Mrs Tavistock loathed it and said it was the sort of thing actors and mistresses would have, but she’d got it all the same.
It brought a sad smile to my face as I sat down by the rosewood console table and before I could change my mind, dialled the operator to make the trunk call.
‘Hello, Mrs Vincent,’ I said to Mrs Tavistock’s housekeeper when I was put through. ‘This is Emmeline Lake speaking. May I speak with Mrs Tavistock, please?’
Mrs Vincent hesitated and then said she would see if Bunty’s granny was at home. I waited, getting to my feet with fidgety nerves and twisting the green cord of the telephone around my fingers. After several minutes I heard the receiver being picked up.
‘Emmeline. How nice,’ said Bunty’s granny. ‘Are you well?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Tavistock,’ I lied. ‘I hope you are very well too?’
Mrs Tavistock confirmed that she was, and asked about the weather in London. I confirmed that it was fine and asked after the weather in Little Whitfield which, it turned out, was fine as well.
Everything, it appeared, was equally first rate.
Finally, after enduring a torturously pleasant conversation about the late spring flowers in Mrs Tavistock’s gardens, I plucked up the courage.
‘Mrs Tavistock,’ I launched in. ‘Would it be possible to speak with Bunty, please? That is, if she is feeling strong enough for me to say a hello
?’
It was the first time I had dared to ask since the hospital. I was still twisting the phone cord, which was now in danger of being pulled so tight it might break.
I held my breath. Even with everything else so utterly awful and hopeless, if I could just say hello, if Bunty would just let me ask how she was, then none of the rest of it would matter.
Mrs Tavistock didn’t reply straight away. Then she cleared her throat and spoke very gently.
‘I’m sorry, Emmeline,’ she said. ‘Bunty isn’t feeling well enough to speak on the telephone.’
There was a short silence as I searched for a reply. I had a Plan B up my sleeve which perhaps would catch Mrs Tavistock off guard.
‘Righto,’ I said, trying to sound upbeat. ‘Then perhaps I could pop in and see her instead? Only for a minute. She wouldn’t have to get up to come to the phone or do anything tiring really. Just sit there. Just for a minute.’
But Mrs Tavistock was not easily swayed.
‘I’m so sorry, Emmeline,’ she said. ‘But Bunty isn’t seeing anyone. You see she has gone away. I’m sorry, Emmy,’ she said again. ‘Bunty does not want to speak.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lord Overton Himself
Mrs Tavistock couldn’t give me details of where Bunty was but said she would pass on my very best regards. After that I lost hope. I spent the next days going for long walks by the river and trying not to think of the future. Or of anything much at all.
A week later, it was almost a relief to get called to Launceston House, even if it was to face Lord Overton himself. As far as Mrs Bird was concerned, sacking me on the spot was an easy way out. With Anxious’s letter now printed in the magazine, it seemed almost inevitable that she would carry out her threat to press charges. I had no idea what I would do then.
At half past twelve, on the day I was to face one of the most influential men in the whole of publishing at a disciplinary hearing, Mr Collins was nowhere to be seen. I had thought he would be there, but I was alone. I couldn’t blame him for bailing out. I wondered if I would ever see him, or his brother, again.