“I’d been in journalism since college, but I was thinking I wanted to go on to greener pastures,” she said, spooning half a carton of stuffed mushrooms onto her plate. “Once you’ve been in the muck reporting on the brilliance of the New Deal, and then the war, everything else pales. I went into political speechwriting, and then once the Red-hunting started, I knew my New Deal–loving, socialist self would get a target on her back before long. So we left. Paul liked the idea of the adventure.” Her eyes twinkled. “There aren’t many chances in life, I think, to get in on something wholly new,” Hannah continued, suffused with the rosiness of nostalgia for herself of barely six years ago. “Television seemed like a great chance to tell a lot of stories. A friend of a friend gave me a leg up—not that anyone wanted me, of course, but I was a quick study and willing to work for peanuts, so they embraced me soon enough. I made them laugh, that helped.”
“Were you working on a comedy?” Phoebe asked.
“No, no, I’m far too serious,” Hannah said. “But I was a junior producer, and the one ladies’ toilet in the building was for the secretaries and cleaner, in the basement. My respect for secretaries and cleaners aside, I knew this was a battle I had to fight and win. So I went to the junior executive washroom on my floor and hung my handbag outside, on the door handle. The fellows thought it funny, thank goodness, and converted another gents’ loo into a ladies’ soon enough.”
This was how it went, Phoebe thought, as Hannah continued to tell stories of her quick rise to head her own company—a rise helped by her husband’s money, but plenty of men rose in life via family money. If Hannah hadn’t had Paul, she’d have found another way. Phoebe wondered how many handbags would have to be hung on how many doors before a ladies’ toilet was a given.
“So I see you have something for me,” Hannah said, pointing to the blue-bound script peeking out of Phoebe’s bag. Phoebe took it out and stroked it.
“Took longer than we discussed, but it’s worth it,” she said.
“Not very modest.” Hannah grinned. “Excellent. Well, hand it over.”
Phoebe did, and Hannah opened it.
“You’re not going to read it now?” Phoebe was eager, but didn’t want to sit and watch Hannah read what she hoped was, at last, her ticket back to her career.
“We don’t take days off, you know that,” Hannah said. “A few hours here and there, but never a whole day.”
It was true. The weeks Phoebe had spent escaping America and resettling herself in London were the longest time she’d gone without properly writing since she started, back at the airfield, snatching a few hours here and there when she was supposed to be asleep. She could still hear Dolores Goldstein shouting at her to get off that damn typewriter before she pitched the thing out the window.
Good old Dolores. She should have gotten her chance to do everything she wanted. Of course, maybe something had stopped her. It wasn’t easy. Phoebe, Hannah, Anne, they were the lucky ones. And luck was sometimes known to run out.
Shirley came in as Phoebe was thinking this—another mostly lucky woman, with another husband who cheered on her work. She and Will were on the forefront together, fighting for civil rights, which had ended up getting them a one-way ticket out of the country. Better than prison, though. Plenty of the accused sat in prison, and no one yet seemed to think that maybe the government was being a touch unreasonable in its pursuit of possible Communists.
Shirley was impeccable in a cream-colored suit with navy trim, a cream-and-navy petal hat hugging a lightly pressed hairdo. The sort of easy elegance that only real style could buy. She was everything Phoebe had always striven to be, and Phoebe couldn’t help feeling shy of her as she held out her hand.
Shirley raised a knowing brow and leaned in to peck Phoebe on the cheek. Phoebe recognized Joy perfume.
“You’re clever,” Shirley pronounced. “I thought you might be.”
Hannah served Shirley a martini. “You two talk, I’ll just be reading.”
If Shirley noticed that Phoebe was jumpy, with one eye wandering toward Hannah and her progress through the script, she made no comment, instead engaging Phoebe in gossip about the ongoing efforts of the FBI to undermine the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.
“They underestimate Negroes, that’s their problem. They think because we seem to behave it means we’re compliant. But by segregating us, they’ve put us all together where we can organize. It’s going to surprise them, sooner or later.”
If the NAACP was full of people like Shirley, Phoebe suspected that surprise would come sooner.
“I suppose it’s not been so easy for you either,” Shirley said generously. “No one expects a writer to be a femme. Has being Jewish helped or hurt?”
“Funny thing,” Phoebe said. “It’s good for the men. For me, who knows? Honestly, I’m not even sure I am Jewish—my father screamed the place down if anyone mentioned religion. If I am, I’m only half, Mama being a Quaker. We always thought we were so ironic for hating oatmeal.”
“‘We’?”
“Me and my sister, Mona.” She bit back her emotion. What was Mona doing right this minute? Phoebe saw Hannah glance up at her and then return to the script. “She and I were quite the ones for making up stories,” she said, forcing a laugh.
“Here’s to making up stories,” Shirley said, and they clinked glasses.
“Funny, isn’t it, the way it’s always ‘half-Jewish’?” Phoebe mused. “No one ever says ‘half-Gentile’ or ‘half-Protestant,’ do they?”
“It’s often ‘half-black’ too,” Shirley said. “Though that can depend. Funny, indeed, how certain folk enjoy pointing out how someone deviates from the ‘norm.’”
“‘Certain folk’ meaning WASPs? Are we saying they’re the norm?”
“They’ve certainly arranged things to appear that way.”
“I’ve seen them in action,” Phoebe said. “They may be all sorts of things, but normal isn’t one of them.”
“Will you tell them or shall I?”
Hannah closed the script and joined Phoebe in laughter. She opened a little box that contained a Victoria sponge.
“Quick, let’s finish the cake before Rhoda sees it. I’ve got chocolate fingers for her and Julie.”
Phoebe twisted her own fingers together, watching Hannah’s face. She was rewarded with a grin as Hannah tapped the script.
“This is what I hoped you could do.”
“Really?” Phoebe was louder than she intended. “You mean it?”
Hannah gave Phoebe a gargantuan slice of cake.
“Not entirely,” she said. “Because in fact it’s better than I expected.” She grinned at Phoebe’s surprised blush. “It’s good enough for the show. I had no intention of bringing you on Robin Hood, I was going to use your sample to recommend you for Woman’s Hour. Which I still will, because you’ll need more work. But this is Robin Hood, Phoebe. It really is.”
“You sound surprised,” Shirley said, her tone sly.
Phoebe swore she could detect a faint blush on Hannah’s cheek.
“I suppose I didn’t think Phoebe was the sort who could write this kind of script. Not that it’s perfect,” she insisted. “Some of the language is too modern, too American, but Beryl will fix that. Anyway, it’s obvious you’ve paid attention.” She reached into a drawer in the sideboard, produced a pen, and crossed out Phoebe’s name on the script. “Who will you be?”
Phoebe sighed. “I’d hoped coming here meant I could keep my name.”
“Write a play then,” Hannah told her briskly. “Meantime, be grateful you’re not sharing your fee with a front.”
“I suppose you’d rather I not be a woman in the credits,” Phoebe said, looking Hannah right in the eye.
Hannah smiled, and Phoebe knew she’d stepped up just a bit further.
“I wa
s wrong. Be a woman. It suits you. If anyone even notices the name of a writer, it’s good they know women can do this sort of thing.”
Phoebe nodded. “Ivy,” she decided. “Like poison ivy. Ivy Marrow.”
“Not bad. You might consider ‘Morrow.’”
“Why?”
“Because some morrow or other, you’ll be Phoebe Adler again.”
All three women laughed, though none of them thought it was very funny.
“It pays seventy pounds,” Hannah said. “Do you still need the script girl job?”
Phoebe considered. It would be nice, having more time to write. But seventy pounds, though a lot at once, would disappear quickly, especially after she’d sent thirty-five of it to Mona.
“I do. If that’s all right.”
“Is your sister the only one to call on, should you need help?” Shirley asked.
Phoebe looked at each interested, sympathetic face and felt a rush of real friendship. Out came the story of a family so insular, it comprised solely of the four of them. And a beloved sister born without any immune system and yet somehow surviving, a curiosity to doctors, a devastation to the foursome, which fractured further with each near-death illness, until Mama and Horatio folded into ashes. It was only the last of the funds they’d accumulated, the agreement with Brookside that Mona be a subject of study, and Phoebe’s contributions that kept her out of the poor ward.
“I should be there,” Phoebe said at last. “Whatever she said, I should be there.” Tears rose, hot and angry. Shirley passed her a handkerchief.
“She was right,” Hannah said softly. “You got a subpoena. You were marked.”
“I know, I know that,” Phoebe choked out. “But any day could be it, and I won’t be there. She deserves to have me there.”
“Even if you were in New York, and not in prison, you might not get there in time when the end comes.” Shirley said.
“I’d stand a better chance than from here.”
“You should phone her, have regular chats,” Hannah announced.
“It’s three pounds for three minutes,” Phoebe said savagely. “I know that staff, it takes them three minutes just to get Mona to the phone.”
Hannah smiled and lit a cigarette.
“I’ll contact them and arrange for you to speak to your sister every Sunday.”
“But . . .”
Hannah held up her hand. “Phone calls are cheaper on Sundays. Today’s a celebration so we’ll push the boat out.”
She led Phoebe into the living room, to the black telephone on a marble table. Phoebe could hardly believe it as Hannah first demanded the operator connect her to the Brookside Sanitarium in Manhattan, and then that Miss Adler be brought to the phone at once. She still didn’t believe it, even when Mona’s voice—that dear, dear voice—came down the line.
“Phoebe, you idiot, can’t you telegram first? I was in the middle of my tap class.”
Phoebe was so happy she could do nothing but squeak.
“Oh God, Mona, I miss you.”
“Don’t sound so drippy, you’ll spoil my sangfroid. Tell me everything.”
Despite Mona’s talking like Mona, Phoebe could hear the delight in her voice, the happy surprise, the longing. She told her a swift version of the Hedda Hopper story and was rewarded with her sister’s huge, ringing laugh. She told her Hannah had just accepted a script. And to make her extra happy, she told her about Reg.
“Oh, Phoebe! Are you at last deflowered?”
“Mona! Geez, I’m not even sure I want to see him again. He might be a creep.”
“Not if he likes you, he’s not. See him again and find out, that’s an order. Now tell me the truth, kiddo. Are you happy?”
Phoebe glanced around the room. It was just the sort of room she had always envisioned for her home. High ceiling, two huge bay windows. Squashy sofa and chairs, perfect for curling up to read or knit and think of new ideas. Bookcases stuffed to the brim. The hi-fi and the television. Alone in this room, as a favor bestowed, Phoebe felt a stab of longing. A life like this was so very far out of her reach. She ran her fingers over an ornate cut glass ashtray on the telephone table, the exact color of the Victorian tumblers she had bought with such pride. All she had given up, left further and further behind, because she, who’d always been brave, was afraid.
And yet, she was doing it. She was making a life here. Hannah might have granted favors, but Phoebe had kept that job on her own merit, and sold this script because it was good. Joan, and now Hannah and Shirley, were her friends. And Reg, well, maybe he wasn’t anyone to be cautious of. Look at Hannah and Shirley, after all, whose careers were done no harm with husbands and even, in Hannah’s case, children. So what was one coffee date? She’d enjoyed their impromptu one, after all, and might well enjoy another.
“I am,” she told Mona. “I’m happy.” And she meant it.
“I’m proud of you,” Mona said. “I knew you could do it, of course, but I’m proud of you. Don’t let them scare you, all right?”
Phoebe’s eyes fell on a copy of the New York Times, open to a story about another HUAC hearing, another round of questioning, another opening salvo: “Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?” More names demanded, more given. More refusals, more imprisonments. More dog, more pony.
“No,” she said to Mona. “I won’t let them scare me.”
She knew she should hang up, but couldn’t bring herself to say so. Mona, as usual, guessed as much.
“Listen, I’m off to the races today, so I need to go get my hat on,” Mona said briskly. “Love you, four-eyes.”
Phoebe willed her voice to be steady. “Love you, two-wheels.”
She was rewarded with one more laugh before the click. She set down the phone and kept her hand on it until Hannah came back in, followed by Rhoda.
“Come to the garden!” Rhoda ordered. “I’ll teach you archery.”
Hannah laughed. “Paul says her hope chest will be filled with a bail fund.”
“I’ve always had a ‘hope-not chest’ myself,” Phoebe said.
Hannah laughed again and hooked arms with her to take her outside.
“Listen, I’ve got so much to thank you for—” Phoebe began.
Hannah waved this aside.
“I am buying the script because it’s excellent, period. And I’m glad to help keep you in touch with your family. Too many others have lost theirs.”
The day was cold but bright. The women smoked and drank and watched Rhoda shoot arrows. Phoebe decided it didn’t matter what had brought them all here. They’d made a new life, and all things considered, it wasn’t a bad one.
* * *
• • •
Hannah sent Phoebe home with a small basket of cheese and fruit. She swung it as she strolled, looking forward to sharing it with Joan. Saturday evening in Soho was full of Teddy Boys—and girls too—lounging in the coffeehouses that seemed to multiply by the week. They drank, talked, read aloud from newspapers and magazines, and fiercely assured each other they were going to change the world. Phoebe smiled on them lovingly, in their oversized Edwardian-style velvet jackets with flouncy handkerchiefs, and thought they might just do it. They’d grown up amid bombings and terror and death. They were afraid of nothing now. What couldn’t they do?
Besides, they had music. Soho felt more like the Village every day, or maybe she was only just starting to notice it, with music pouring out of so many windows. The weather was chilly, but the music found its way through the glass anyway, wanting to be heard. It wasn’t just the musicians, practicing for clubs that must exist behind some of these quiet doors. The music also streamed from record shops, all packed with young people eager for what was new. From America, from around Britain, from Europe. Music, coffee, change in the air. They worried about the H-bomb, but there was plenty of fun to ke
ep worry at bay.
Phoebe swelled with nostalgia, remembering dancing at break times with Anne and Dolores Goldstein and the other girls, dreaming of a better time to come. And here it was, for some, anyway.
No, for me too, she thought, pushing her shoulders back. She was a hero. She had sold a script. She had friends. She lived on a street full of artists and musicians, just like she always had. Mona was only as far away as Hannah’s telephone. And she was going to have coffee with Reg, if only to have a story for Mona next Sunday.
Inspired, she hurried upstairs, eager to write to Anne and Mona and turn that storytelling into something else, maybe a short play for Woman’s Hour. She could wait to speak to Joan—a decision more easily made when she heard wafts of a family argument rising above the big band music. She shut her door quietly.
Joan—or Freddie, but most likely Joan—had once again slipped mail under her door. A drawing of the Chrysler Building from Anne, which gave Phoebe a pang. London was full of majestic buildings, even after the Blitz, but oh, the Chrysler Building. That was New York. Phoebe sighed, and tacked up the drawing next to the others. Two other envelopes. She recognized Reg’s refined handwriting and smiled. The note was short, saying only how much he’d enjoyed their chat and looked forward to buying a heroine coffee. The address on the other envelope was typed. Intrigued, she tore it open. Her grip went slack, and the stiff yellow page fell to the floor, where the words blazed up at her:
Your subpoena is still outstanding. You might run, but you cannot hide.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
* * *
“Pure dead brilliant,” Beryl pronounced, tapping Phoebe’s script with the new title page. “Who’s this Ivy Morrow lass?”
“She’s pretty good, isn’t she?” Hannah said agreeably.
“Too much to hope she’s Scottish,” Beryl muttered, wielding her red pencil. Hannah wasn’t deliberately keeping Beryl in the dark about Phoebe, not exactly, because of course Beryl knew the script was from a blacklistee. But Beryl knew very few of the actual names behind the scripts. She liked Phoebe well enough, Hannah supposed, but it seemed more prudent than ever to keep Phoebe’s name a secret. One piece of news was out: Hedda Hopper had uncovered a blacklisted director working on a French film. Its American distribution deal had been canceled.
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