My lack of enthusiasm didn’t matter, however. I was Ernie’s secretary, and I had to be pleasant to the clients. Therefore, I sat back down and smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Godfrey.”
“Good morning, Miss Allcutt.” He stood before my desk, shifting from one foot to the other, his chubby face pink, and his little eyes darting glances around the office. Snatching the hat from his head, he whipped his other hand out from behind his back. In it resided a pretty bouquet of mixed flowers tied with a pink bow. “I thought you might like some flowers.”
I loved flowers, as a matter of fact, but I wasn’t altogether certain I wanted to receive them from two such men as Ned and Mr. Godfrey. Now, if Francis Easthope were to honor me with some red roses or something, I’d be thrilled. Or even Ernie.
Mr. Godfrey’s gaze came to rest on the jelly jar. “You already have some flowers, I see.”
“Yes. People are most kind.” There I went: sounding like my mother again. Ah, well. There’s a lot to be said for the rules of society; they can ease one’s way through many swampy situations.
“You mean somebody else gave you those?” He looked so downcast and dejected that I almost felt sorry for him.
“Well, yes, but I do love flowers, and you were very kind to bring these to me. Perhaps I should try to find a bowl for them.”
Thrusting the bouquet at me, he said, “All right. Is Mr. Templeton in?”
“Yes, he is. Let me tell him you’re here.” So I took the flowers, set them carefully on my desk so as not to squish them, and finished my interrupted trip to Ernie’s office, where I knocked on his door.
“C’m in,” he called.
So I went in. “Mr. Godfrey is here to see you.”
Ernie folded the Times, sighed, and set it on his desk. “All right. Show him in.”
So I did that, too. As soon as the door closed behind the two men, I picked up my posy and went in search of a vase. Or at least another jelly jar. It really had been nice of both Ned and Mr. Godfrey to bring me flowers, and I suppose it was unkind of me to wish they hadn’t.
Deciding that I probably ought to use the stairway, since exercise was good for one’s stamina, I did so, trotting down the three flights and ending up in the lobby, where Lulu still filed her fingernails. She glanced up when she heard my sensible shoes clop across the lobby floor.
“ ’Lo, Mercy.”
“Hello again, Lulu. Do you have any idea where I might find something in which to put these flowers?”
Her face split into a grin. “So you’re the one, eh?”
I blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I saw that guy bring ’em in and wondered who they were for. I kinda hoped he’d give ’em to me. I like flowers.”
“So do I.” It crossed my mind to give the flowers to Lulu, but then decided that wouldn’t be right, and it might hurt Mr. Godfrey’s feelings. And that would be going directly against my secretarial duty. “But I need something to put them in.”
“Sure. I bet Ned has something.”
Drat. I’d already considered Ned, but didn’t want to offend him or make him feel bad by asking him for a container for another gentleman’s flowers. Then I decided I was being too sensitive. It wasn’t my fault two men had decided I needed flowers today, curse it! “I guess I’ll go down and try to find him.”
“Sweetie, all you have to do is whisper his name, and he’ll come running.”
I’m not sure why that comment made my nose wrinkle, but it did. “Swell,” I said sarcastically, and Lulu laughed.
Nevertheless, I tramped down another flight of stairs to the basement. Since I didn’t feel like spending hours on my quest, I called out, “Ned!”
Instantly, a closet door opened, and Ned appeared, holding another book. Glancing at the title, I saw it was The Mysterious Affair at Styles, by Agatha Christie. I couldn’t fault his literary taste, even if he was an annoying sort of person. “Miss Allcutt!” Ned beamed at me.
“Hi, Ned. I need something to put these flowers in, please.”
His smile vanished. “Where’d you get those?”
Forgetting that Ned already believed he had a grudge against the person who’d given them to me, I said, “Mr. Godfrey.”
His lips pinched into a flat line, and Ned’s skimpy eyebrows formed a perfect V over his pale blue eyes. “Godfrey! I should have known.”
Oh, dear. However, I reminded myself that Ned’s dislike of Mr. Godfrey, and Mr. Godfrey’s dislike of Ned were of no concern to me. Therefore, I merely smiled. “Do you have a vase anywhere around, Ned?”
“Huh?” He jumped a little, as if he’d forgotten my presence in his contemplation of the enemy. I had heard from friends who seemed to know more than I about the subject that men were irrational creatures. If most men behaved like Ned, I believed it.
I lifted the small bouquet. “A vase?” I reminded him gently.
“Oh, yeah. Um … I think there’s one around here somewhere. Lulu gets flowers sometimes.”
“That’s nice,” said I, meaning it. I’d just as soon give her these.
So I followed Ned around the basement, watching him open doors and marveling at his incoherent (to me) method of organization. What he needed was Mrs. Biddle to come to the Figueroa Building and show him how to put things in order. At last he opened a door to a closet whose contents looked promising. “Knew they were here someplace,” he mumbled, and stepped aside. By gum, he was right. Before my very eyes was a shelf with glasses and vases on it. So I picked one out, thanked Ned, and climbed the four flights back to my office, deciding as I did so that, while stair climbing might be good for one’s stamina, it played havoc with one’s flowers. They were already beginning to wilt in the summer heat. I detoured by the ladies’ room to put water in the vase.
Evidently Ernie and Mr. Godfrey were still conferring when I arranged the bouquet on my desk and sat again. I was glad of it, because I wanted time to catch my breath before I had to do any talking.
I hadn’t quite recovered from my morning’s exertions when the telephone rang. This was the very first time I’d had to answer the telephone for my job, and my heart sped up when I lifted the receiver.
“Mr. Templeton’s office. Miss Allcutt speaking.” Chloe had told me that was how Harvey’s secretary answered his telephone, so I adopted the method for myself. It sounded very professional.
“Good morning,” a husky female voice purred in my ear. Mrs. Von Schilling. Nuts. “May I please speak to Mr. Templeton.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Templeton is engaged at the moment. May I take a message?” I picked up my pencil and poised it over my message pad, just like a real secretary. Which I was.
“Please have him telephone me, dear.”
Dear? Egad.
“Certainly.”
“Mrs. Von Schilling,” she said, as if anyone in the world besides her spoke in that sultry voice. “Madison six two four nine six.”
“I’ll certainly do that, Mrs. Von Schilling.”
“Thank you so much, Miss Allcutt. You’re a treasure.”
A treasure, was I? Phooey. However, I dutifully copied the name and number, detached the message from the pad, and set it precisely at the corner of my desk where Ernie couldn’t help but see it—and I wouldn’t forget it. Not that there was much chance of that, messages thus far being quite unusual in that office.
Because I wanted to take pride in both my work and the room in which I did it, I’d stopped by the five-and-dime to purchase a dust cloth on my way home from work the day before. I’d just finished dusting the office, not a difficult task since there was so little furniture, and decided the place needed a rug on the floor and a table for magazines and maybe another chair or two and a picture on the wall, when Ernie’s door opened and both he and Mr. Godfrey walked out of it. Ernie looked at my dust cloth, then at the new bouquet of flowers on my desk, and gave me an ironic grin that I believed was uncalled for.
Mr. Godfrey saw that I’d put his pretty little b
ouquet in a vase with water and smiled. When he smiled, his piggy eyes almost disappeared into his fleshy face. It was an unfortunate result of a facial expression that usually brightens a countenance.
Peeved with him and with Ernie, I snatched the message off my desk and thrust it at my boss. “Here. You have a message.”
“Thank you, Miss Allcutt,” he said so politely that I knew he was making fun of me. He read the message, his eyebrows lifted, and he said, “Ah,” in a pleased-sounding voice. And he turned and went back into his office, leaving me alone with Mr. Godfrey.
Drat the man!
Mr. Godfrey pulled out the chair next to my desk and made as if to sit in it. I knew what that meant. He wanted to talk. And talk, and talk. Well, I didn’t want to listen. Hoping I didn’t sound too rude, since Mr. Godfrey was, after all, one of Ernie’s clients, I said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Godfrey, but I must consult with Mr. Templeton now. Thank you very much for the flowers, and have a lovely day.” And I held out my hand for him to shake. The poor man couldn’t do anything else, thank God.
As soon as he left, I went into Ernie’s office. “When are we going to Pasadena?”
“After I return Mrs. Von Schilling’s telephone call.”
Humph.
However, he’d meant it, I guess, because it wasn’t another ten minutes before he left his office again, this time clad in coat and hat and bouncing some keys in his hand. “Ready?” he asked with a smile.
“One minute, and I will be.” I retrieved my hat and handbag from my desk, straightened my suit jacket and skirt, plopped my hat on my head, and said, “Ready.”
“Good. Come on, kiddo.”
Because I was pleased with Ned’s recent industry, I made Ernie take the elevator down. “Don’t worry, it’s safe,” I assured him. “And I know how to operate it.”
“I’m not worried. But the stairs are quicker.” The elevator groaned to a stop in front of us, and I pulled the lever that opened the doors. “And they’re quieter.”
“Not when you’re galumphing down them,” I said, feeling perky.
When the elevator got to the first floor, I had to experiment a couple of times before I got the car level with the floor. I didn’t want to trip—more, I didn’t want Ernie to trip. I figured it would be bad form to cause one’s employer to fall splat on the floor because of something one did.
Again, Ned and Lulu were conferring when we entered the lobby. I waved at them both. Ernie said, “Twenty-three skidoo.”
Lulu waved some fiery red fingernails at us. Ned just stared. He wasn’t a particularly verbal young man.
I was eager to see what kind of an automobile Ernie drove. I didn’t expect it would be a fancy model, like the ones driven by Mr. Easthope and Harvey. Actually, Harvey didn’t drive his big, enormous Pierce-Arrow Series 33. He had a chauffeur on staff to drive it for him. I was right. Ernie led the way out of the Figueroa Building and down the street a ways until he got to a Studebaker that looked as if it had been around the block a few times. Around several blocks several times each, actually. He opened the door on the passenger’s side. “Slide on in, kiddo. It’s not fancy, but it runs like a top.”
“I’m sure,” said I, not wanting to make him feel inferior by indicating in any way whatsoever that I wasn’t accustomed to being driven around in such dilapidated automobiles.
Which pointed out to me once again that one is constantly bombarded with evidence of prejudices one might not even know one possesses until they figuratively slap one in the face. The truth is that I was inwardly sneering at Ernie’s car. And that automatic sneer was mine only because I’d been privileged to have been born into a wealthy family. And being born into a wealthy family had been pure dumb luck on my part. See how silly human beings can be without half trying? I determined not to indicate by so much as a lift of a lip that I considered Ernie’s Studebaker beneath me. Well, it was beneath me, in reality, but not in that way.
He got in on the driver’s side and grinned at me. “Not what you’re used to, is it, Miss Allcutt?”
I frowned at him. “If I’m supposed to call you Ernie, you really should call me Mercy, you know.”
He pressed the starter button on the floor. At least he didn’t have to crank the silly thing. “Mercy. That’s short for Mercedes, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Classy name.”
“Is it?” Curses! Now even my name was classy. It occurred to me that I might never be able to fit in with the common herd.
But that was defeatist thinking, and I wouldn’t allow it to fester in my bosom.
“I was named for an aunt,” I told him. “That’s not so classy.”
He shrugged as he leaned out the window and looked at the traffic passing by on Seventh Street. “She got money, this aunt of yours?”
“She’s dead,” I said, not caring to go into that issue. In fact, my aunt Mercedes had been wildly wealthy, which is one of the reasons I was named after her.
“But she had money, didn’t she?”
Darn it, he wasn’t going to let the subject drop, was he? “I suppose she was fairly well to do.” I spoke repressively, and hoped he’d catch on to the fact that I didn’t want to talk about my family’s relative wealth.
“ ‘Fairly well to do,’ you say. Ha! I bet she was rolling in it.”
“This is a very unsuitable conversation, Ernie. My family’s financial status has nothing to do with the matter at hand, and I don’t care to discuss it.”
I’d used my lady-of-the-manor voice, the one I’d learned from my mother when she spoke to disobedient servants, and I could have kicked myself as soon as I heard what I sounded like. It didn’t seem to faze Ernie, who grinned as he guided the Studebaker out into traffic. He turned north on Hill, slung his right arm over the back of his seat, and steered one-handed.
“All right, kiddo,” he said at last. “I won’t tease you about your bags of money.”
“Bags of money? Nonsense!”
But he was right, and we both knew it. Why was it that every time I seemed to sense a lessening of the social gap between me and the world I strove to enter, somebody like Ernie Templeton came along and ripped out the fragile stitches I’d sewed in an attempt to mend the gap? It was a very annoying problem, but I vowed I’d overcome it or die trying.
Then I decided there was no reason to carry things that far.
Nine
We’d been tooling along Figueroa Street, heading vaguely northwards for about twenty minutes, before my temper was under control enough to initiate a conversation. “Whereabouts does Mr. Godfrey’s fiancée live?”
“I dunno. But I got some information that she’s working at a bookstore on Colorado.”
I gaped at him. “In Colorado?”
“On Colorado.”
Oh. “Colorado is a street in Pasadena?”
“Right. It’s the main east-west street. It’s the street the floats and bands go down on New Year’s Day.”
“Ah. Yes, I’ve seen pictures of the Tournament of Roses Parade. It must be lovely.”
“It’s okay. I saw it once.”
“It must have been beautiful.”
“Yeah.”
“When you come from back East, as I do, you probably appreciate seeing all those flowers in the middle of winter more than you do if you’re from around here.”
“I guess.”
So much for that topic. After about another hour or so of driving through some very lovely scenery, Ernie making an occasional comment of a neutral nature, we reached the city limits of Pasadena. His next comment was not in the least neutral. “I’ll take you down Millionaire’s Row, kiddo. You’ll feel right at home.”
It was far from professional behavior on my part, but I lost my temper again. “Darn it, Ernie Templeton, why do you persist in flinging my origins in my face? I’m trying very hard to be a normal, everyday working girl.”
He let out a roar of laughter that nearly deafened me, and he proceeded to laugh so long
and so hard, he actually had to pull over to the side of the road, pull his handkerchief from his pocket, and mop tears from his eyes. I glared at him the while, cross as crabs, my arms folded across my chest, unable to see any reason whatsoever for him to have succumbed to such hilarity. After several minutes of that nonsense, he calmed down some and I spoke again. “And what, if I may be so bold as to ask, is so funny about wanting to be perceived as a normal, everyday working girl?”
“You’ll probably never understand,” he said, his voice weak from the strain of so much laughter.
“I’m sure I can if you explain it to me,” I said coldly.
After wiping his eyes one more time, he stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket, took a swig from that accursed flask he kept in his other pocket, turned in his seat until he faced me, and said, “You don’t get it, do you? Don’t you know that any other girl in the universe would trade places with you in a heartbeat, if she had the chance? You’re the only person I’ve ever met who’s willing—hell, eager—to trade a life of luxury and ease for one of toil and care.”
“Toil and care?” I’d never heard myself sound so sarcastic. “My, my, aren’t we poetic all of a sudden?”
He choked back another laugh, I think, to judge by the noise he made. “I’m a real poetic guy, Mercy. And you’ll still never understand.”
I only glowered some more, and he went on. “Well, hell, how could you? You can’t possibly comprehend the irony of it all.”
“I understand irony perfectly well,” I said, offended. “But I can’t discern any in this instance. For your information, there’s a very good reason for me to want to become a part of the worker proletariat.”
He threw his arms out in an expansive gesture. “See? That’s exactly what I mean! Do you honestly think that—oh, take Lulu LaBelle as an example—do you think she considers herself part of your worker proletariat?”
Put that way, I guess he had a point, although I’d never admit it. “Not unless she reads a lot. Or takes up with a union organizer, I guess. Which isn’t impossible, curse it!”
Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) Page 12