In the Great Green Room

by Amy Gary

  Once Margaret realized she needed to be writing about the world from the perspective of a child, ideas for stories and poems seemed to simply flow out of her. She often woke with a headful of them and had to scribble them down before they left her head again. When she completed her manuscripts, she immediately brought them to the classroom to be tested. Children were ready and honest critics if they weren’t concerned with pleasing the adult who was reading to them, so she never told them she was the author. She knew they would pretend to like it to spare her feelings. If given the chance, children were quite capable of detecting minute flaws in a manuscript and pinpointing where a story went astray. Margaret soon learned that if she watched their eyes and looked for their jaws to go slack, it meant she had succeeded. In their imagination, they were no longer in the classroom, but had stepped into the world of the story.

  It wasn’t serious literature, but Margaret’s talent impressed Lucy, who offered her coauthorship on the Dutton reader. Lucy found that all she needed to do was steer Margaret toward a subject and she could write about it. Lucy may have created the Here-and-Now style of writing, but this young girl gave it wings.

  Seven

  1936–1937

  Ahead of a boat

  Across the sea

  There is always another land.

  There is land for a boat to come from.

  There is land where a boat will go.

  The ocean is empty

  And the ocean is wide,

  But still the sailors know

  On the other side

  Is the land where the boat will go.

  There is always a land to come from

  And a land where the boat will go.

  “BOATS”

  Story Parade

  The job at Bank Street allowed Margaret to move back to the city. She shared an apartment with a friend in a town house on West Tenth Street in Greenwich Village—across the street from where Mark Twain once lived. On weekends, she hunted with the Buckram Beagles if weather allowed. A friend that lived across the hall was a fellow beagler and a Spanish socialite. She helped smooth some of Margaret’s brusque social tendencies. Margaret’s mind raced, and she frequently forgot much of what someone had just said to her. Margaret dedicated herself to giving all her attention over to listening when someone else was talking.

  She was dating Charles Cocke, the grandson of the founder of Hollins, and brought him to dinners at her sister’s home. Even Basil approved of the gentle, kind man. He was an engaging conversationalist and, like Margaret, enjoyed everything the city had to offer. They went to plays, museums, and restaurants. She envisioned how her life would be if they were married and living in Virginia. She thought he might make her happy, but she worried about what living so far away from New York would mean for her writing career.

  * * *

  In her desk drawer, Margaret kept a collection of notes and ideas for picture books or stories and poems that wouldn’t fit in the reader that she and Lucy were writing. Before the end of the year, Margaret had drafted manuscripts for almost a dozen books in various stages of polish. Before leaving on a beagling trip to Virginia, she impulsively stuffed a couple into an envelope and sent them off to an editor she had recently met who worked at Harper & Brothers.

  Since 1917, the national beagle field trials had been held in Aldie, Virginia. On the five-hundred-acre farm, the Buckram Beagles’ hounds competed to improve their club’s standing and the breeding value of their beagles. Footraces for the hunters also were held. The Buckram’s beagles didn’t bring home any titles, but Margaret won her race, earning her the title of the fastest female runner in the sport.

  After the field trials, Margaret went to Richmond and ran into a fellow Hollins alumna. The girls took an impromptu trip to their old school to attend Sunday chapel. Once on the Hollins campus, they also went wading in Carvin Creek, picked dandelions, and saw the first robins of the spring. Margaret was tickled to run into a former professor, who feigned alarm at seeing his ex-students, nicknaming them Bad and Worse. It delighted Margaret that she was labeled only the Bad.

  The visit to Hollins invigorated Margaret and renewed her soul. She was happy enough with her life. She had become close friends with the other teachers and writers at Bank Street, who had nicknamed her “Brownie.” She was especially close to Edith “Posey” Thacher, another teacher, and Rosie Bliven, a Bank Street volunteer. Rosie and her erudite son, Bruce, regularly invited Margaret to their literary gatherings in their apartment. Rosie was well connected in New York society, and Bruce was a remarkably talented writer. He and his friends were some of the most prestigious young writers in Manhattan. Margaret sometimes joined jazz revelries, playing with more passion than talent, but her band members didn’t care. It was all in fun. Margaret’s life in the city was full and interesting, but being in Virginia away from the city’s hectic pace reminded her that New York wasn’t the only place she could live.

  She wondered if settling down somewhere like Virginia would doom her chances of being a writer. Stepping back into a place you loved didn’t necessarily mean you weren’t moving forward. And she really did like Charles. Maybe she could be happy being married and living near Hollins. Margaret’s vacation came to an end with these questions swirling around in her head.

  Despite her doubts about her future, the young teacher returned to work at Bank Street feeling strong and invigorated. The vacation had renewed her, and she was quite proud of her national championship as a runner. Another triumph was soon hers, too. While she was away, the Harper editor had read her manuscripts and had loved her writing. Waiting on Margaret’s desk upon her return was a letter offering to publish one of her stories as a picture book. Best of all, the editor asked to see other stories Margaret had written.

  Before long, Margaret held her first advance check in her hand. She headed for the bank, glancing at this little piece of paper that made it official: she was an actual author. She had been writing poems and stories for the Dutton reader, Another Here and Now Storybook, but that was part of her job at Bank Street. It wasn’t a separate book that earned royalties and would be illustrated in full color. This book would have her name printed on the cover.

  Margaret stopped at the flower cart near her apartment for her weekly bouquet. The apartment’s living room walls were painted the same bright green as the library in her family’s home but lacked the luxuries of that house—it was old and cold. There was no hot water for a bath, but Margaret liked being on her own again.

  Seeing the profusion of color and scents on the flower cart thrilled her. It was spring in the city once again. She looked down at the check in her hand and then up at the flowers. She was now a real writer. She hoped there would be many more book advances in her future, but there would only be this one first advance, and she wanted to make it memorable. She wanted to celebrate! She decided she’d throw a party unlike any other and convinced the vendor to take the check in exchange for delivering the entire cart of flowers to her apartment.

  * * *

  By the end of the year, Margaret had a book advance from another publisher for a collection of stories and poems. It was enough to pay for a trip she’d long wanted to make to Ireland. She was eager to see the land of her ancestors, but her father had refused to let her go alone. She coaxed Roberta into coming along by arranging for her to receive an advance as the illustrator of the book. Most likely because Basil would join them, her father approved of the trip.

  Margaret planned to write and visit art museums in London for two weeks prior to meeting Roberta and Basil in Paris. Her plan went astray on the ocean liner as it crossed the Atlantic. On the boat, Margaret met a charming group of young men who asked her to join them on a bicycle trip along the coastline of Cornwall. It was the best way to really see the land, they promised the adventurous Margaret.

  She bought a bike when the boat docked and followed the boys. They stayed with farmers and fishermen along the way and found pubs in every hamlet. Their hapha
zard planning didn’t always assure comfort. One night, Margaret’s makeshift bed was a bathtub. She woke with a very sore neck and vowed to plan her travels more carefully. It was, though, a glorious trip—much better than traveling alone or with another girl.

  If her father had known his daughter was traipsing unchaperoned through the English countryside with a gaggle of boys, he would have been horrified. It certainly defied convention, but anyone of literary merit wouldn’t have turned down an adventure like this. Nor would he or she have stayed away from the pubs, where cider and conversation with the local villagers made for colorful evenings. This was the England she had pictured. Kind farm people, dark pubs, fields of heather and stone that disappeared into the sea and fog. This felt like a pilgrimage and she like a real author.

  On her last evening on the coast, she walked through a fine rain as it drifted over the granite-topped hills of Dartmoor in North Bovey. Dusk was setting in. She was alone on the rocks except for the occasional bunny or sheep that materialized out of the waves of mist blowing over the heathery land. The farmhouse where she was staying wasn’t far; she would be there before dark.

  Over the past few days, she had grown close to the couple who rented her a room at their small country house. They shared warm dinners and hours of conversation with their American guest. Margaret was delighted each time their orphaned pet calf mooed at the back door for milk. Kittens, dogs, and geese wandered the farm, too. It was a most relaxing place, and Margaret hoped to stay there for three more days, writing and painting. As she walked along the moors, she wondered about her future as a writer.

  Just thinking about her deadline sent a twinge of anxiety down Margaret’s spine. She really should have finished the book by now. Snippets of poems were coming to her, but they were far from sonnets; they were merely ideas without solid purpose or form. She still wanted to write something serious, something literary. Margaret thought that perhaps a course in playwriting could help her step out of the children’s literature world. Learning a new way to write might unlock her ability to write for adults. But as the English mist swept around her, she reconsidered. The problem wasn’t her style of writing, she realized; it was that she couldn’t think up anything of importance to write about. Maybe she should stop writing altogether and just grow up. She wasn’t sure how to do that, though. Growing up seemed to be something that happened rather than something that was done.

  Margaret headed back toward the farmhouse. The bicycle trip had been impulsive, but it had led her on a wonderful journey. She felt stronger than she had in years, and she wanted to ride her bike around Ireland. Maybe she would ride it to Paris to meet Roberta. She didn’t know where she would stay between here and there, but she had faith that the winds that blew her to this corner of England would see her safely south.

  * * *

  After meeting Roberta and Basil in Paris, they went to the International Exposition of Arts and Technology in Modern Life, which was being held near the Eiffel Tower. Countries from around the world displayed their latest inventions and art in pavilions built especially for this world’s fair. The swastika of Hitler’s political party marked Germany’s exposition, but its menacing shadow had only begun to cast darkness over Europe.

  Margaret was fascinated by the modern art she saw on display in the French pavilion. Long ago, she’d learned that art was a window into every era. As she visited medieval castles in these ancient lands, she scribbled notes on scraps of papers. Try as she might, she couldn’t separate her modern view to imagine life inside those walls centuries ago. She promised herself to visit art galleries more often on her return to America. Perhaps by seeing the changing world through artists’ eyes, she could better understand history and her own place in this world.

  * * *

  When Margaret came back to work at Bank Street, she found that Lucy Mitchell had been busy starting a writers’ collective called the Writers Laboratory. As a member of the publications staff, Margaret was automatically a part of the group. The other members had been handpicked by Lucy to write for Bank Street’s publication division. Its members met each Wednesday to review works in progress and to discuss the results of manuscripts that had been tested in front of children. Lucy was a good-humored and enthusiastic coach who helped the writers tailor their words to the interests and language levels of their desired readers. She critiqued their work through plumes of cigarette smoke while sitting on a worn green couch. All the members considered these productive sessions a rich reward for having survived Lucy’s courses on grammar.

  Lucy also found Margaret another new part-time job. Lucy had convinced Bill Scott, the parent of a Bank Street student, to start a publishing company to produce books based on the school’s literary principles. Lucy provided office space in the Bank Street building and suggested that Scott hire Margaret as his editor and principal writer.

  Scott’s aim was to produce unique children’s literature that did not copy what had been done before. Exploring new ways to make books appealed to Margaret’s sense of adventure, too. She saw so many opportunities in this field that, even though she desperately wanted to write something more serious, she considered it her duty to make certain juvenile literature was set on the right course. She settled in as editor at William R. Scott Inc. and was proud enough of the letterhead that bore her name and title that she pasted multiple versions of it into her scrapbook.

  Eight

  1938

  They fished and they fished

  Way down in the sea,

  Down in the sea a mile;

  They fished among all the fish in the sea

  For the fish with the deep sea smile.

  FROM THE FISH WITH THE DEEP SEA SMILE

  Bill Scott’s mostly family-run operation published five books in 1938. His wife, Ethel, wrote one of the books, and her brother John McCullough acted as the company’s editor in chief. The small publishing company pushed the boundaries of the standard book—adding textiles and textures, writing from unique perspectives, and inviting accomplished fine artists to try their hands at illustrating for children. Margaret had learned a great deal about editing and publishing during her time at Bank Street, and she brought everything she knew to Scott. Her mind was always searching for new ways to engage children through books, and fortunately for her, Bill was bold enough to try most anything she dreamed up.

  One of their first books was written by Margaret’s friend and Bank Street alum Posey Thacher. Margaret wrote another two of Scott’s first books, edited all of them, and found illustrators willing to work for low fees. It was standard for publishers to pay artists a flat fee for their work, and the fledgling company was on a tight budget. For Bumble Bugs and Elephants, one of Margaret’s books, she found an excellent artist through her friend Montgomery “Monty” Hare. Monty had attended college with an artist named Clement Hurd, whose work Margaret saw hanging in Monty’s bathroom. She loved Hurd’s style and wanted to call him right away, but Monty knew he had no phone. Instead, Monty and Margaret headed over to his apartment in a run-down Greenwich Village building. One wall was crumbling and made the place feel like a war zone. Margaret was fairly sure from his living conditions that she could afford to hire him, and she was right. The next day, she was training him to illustrate for children.

  * * *

  That summer, Bill and Ethel Scott invited their staff, illustrators, and writers to join them at their Vermont farm to brainstorm ideas for their next list. Dogs roamed around as their owners reclined in chairs, on hammocks, or on the soft green ground. Margaret had an idea but didn’t want to appear too eager. She had recently heard a broadcast of Gertrude Stein comparing the nursery rhyme “A Tisket a Tasket” to one of her own writings. It dawned on Margaret that Stein might be interested in writing for children. She proposed they contact Stein.

  Everyone agreed her idea had merit. Being able to list a literary giant as one of their authors would be a coup for any children’s publishing house, especially a small one like Scott
. Other authors whose styles might work for children were suggested. They also wanted to contact Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck, whose descriptive but simple writing styles would easily adapt to children’s literature.

  At Bank Street, Margaret led workshops for writers and teachers on how to write for children. She was certain she could coach established writers how to tailor their work successfully. Margaret was sure that if a Stein or Steinbeck stepped from adult books to children’s, the questionable designation of their Here-and-Now books as literature would disintegrate. Those hard-to-please critics and self-important librarians who showed such disdain for their work would not dare dismiss a children’s book by Stein or Hemingway as pabulum.

  Fortunately, most librarians, book buyers, and reviewers were impressed with Scott’s first list of books, and sales were brisk. Even so, Bill was worried about his company’s future. While the library market did not return books, it was customary for bookstores to return unsold copies to a publisher. The Scotts’ barn served as their book warehouse, and some of those returns were making their way back to Vermont. No one was sure how many more copies would end up back in the barn.

  Returns were not something the fledgling company had accounted for, so Bill needed to reset the estimated earnings and reduce expenses on further publications if they were to survive. As a favor, Bill asked Margaret to agree to a reduced royalty on the books she wrote. She loved working with Scott and believed they were changing the landscape of children’s literature. These were her friends, so she agreed. In a small operation like Scott’s, everyone had to pitch in any way they could. One of their first books, Cottontails, had been printed on cloth with cottontails sewn onto the illustrated bunnies. But the tails on the bunnies weren’t attached firmly enough, and they soon began falling out of the books. Margaret had not been able to sew straight stripes on a sorority sister’s pants, but she was handy enough with a needle and thread to tack the cotton onto the bunnies’ tails alongside the rest of the staff.