by Rachel Hore
Isabel took a while to fall asleep that night. The alcohol rushed in her blood, and the strange conversations she’d had jangled in her head. She worried about Vivienne, but had no idea what to advise. She had no experience of the kind of environment her friend worked in; it was a world away from her own. The situation was difficult given that she was one of only a few women at the university working in her precise specialism. Vivienne told her she would have to endure it until she’d gained her research qualification in two years’ time, then look for another job.
Despite the oddness of everything, Isabel had enjoyed the party. It had been interesting, glimpsing Hugh Morton’s world. She wasn’t sure she liked Jacqueline, who wore a wedding ring yet was clearly very fond of Hugh. She wondered whether it was this that made the woman so unhappy. Then again, perhaps she was a widow, and Hugh wasn’t as oblivious to Jacqueline’s feelings as he appeared. In which case, what did he think about her – Isabel? Oh, it was all such a muddle. And yet she was becoming aware that the answers to these questions were of the gravest importance.
She’d read the new draft of Hugh’s novel, read it and loved it. He’d understood completely what she’d explained and had introduced delicate changes to the book that made the characters more vivid, touching and believable. She’d write to him at once. How should she address him, now that they were becoming friends? Not ‘Dear Mr Morton’ any more, surely. ‘Dear Hugh.’
‘Dear Hugh,’ she whispered to herself as she slid into sleep. ‘My very dear Hugh . . .’
Chapter 13
Emily
Dear Hugh, began a letter in the old file.
Thank you again for lunch last week, and for the most enjoyable party on Saturday. What fascinating people you know. Vivienne enjoyed herself splendidly too.
I have now read Coming Home in its final form, and it strikes me that you’ve achieved everything you set out to do. Every note of this book now rings true. Your portrayal of Diana is masterly; she is such a tender, delicate creature, but following your adjustments I exactly appreciate how her claustrophobic upbringing must have damaged her, how frightened she must have been of making any significant decision. I hope you don’t mind if I list a few small queries that I made during my reading of the book. You might like to address these before I begin the final mark-up for the typesetter . . .’
What followed were several pages of detailed commentary, none of it very interesting, so Emily passed on to the next document and struck gold. It was a letter to Isabel signed in thick black ink,
As ever, Hugh.
My dear Isabel,
Further to your letter of 9 June, I enclose my response to your comments and emendations, together with some replacement pages. I’m sorry that it has taken so long but there were a number of details I needed to check, not least the matter of the dates you raised, which required some delicate tinkering. I think I’ve solved it now, but am sure you’ll advise me if you judge otherwise. I am indebted to you for identifying this problem, which might have caused me significant embarrassment.
You’ll see from the postmark that I have returned to Suffolk for the time being. Mother suffers from attacks of asthma and I was briefly worried about her. The doctor assures me that she’s well now, but I will be staying on here to enjoy this period of wonderful weather. Please would you let Mr McKinnon know that I look forward to seeing the jacket of Coming Home, which he mentioned recently was underway
On 25 June, Isabel wrote in reply:
My dear Hugh,
I’m relieved to say that Coming Home is now with the typesetter and that we expect proofs in a few weeks’ time. I’m so very glad that you like the picture on the jacket, which I agree is imaginative and well executed, and conveys the tone of the book most effectively. All is well here in the office. Audrey Foster has announced the date of her wedding, so the gossip is all of dresses and guest lists, and it’s a miracle that any of us are getting any work done. I am so sorry to hear that your mother has been unwell and hope that the sunnier weather will see her improve . . .
This letter marked a change . Isabel’s voice, previously deferential, was growing more confident. She made wry little jokes. Hugh, on the other hand, took himself a little too seriously, Emily thought, and she loved the way Isabel sometimes dug gently at him for this – only very gently, though. Letters and memos told the rest of the book’s progress. Coming Home was published in October 1949. Hugh wrote to Stephen McKinnon to ask about the placing of advertisements. McKinnon’s letter in return was evasive. Then, as now, Emily noted ruefully , there was little money for publicity. She read two admiring newspaper reviews . The man in the Telegraph called it ‘an unusually engaging story about the yearnings of youth’ and the Mail reviewer looked forward to seeing something else from Morton’s pen. The remaining documents in the file were boringly administrative: a reprint had been considered but rejected, a letter from an Army officer pointed out some error concerning buttons on military uniform.
Isabel’s voice, however, fell silent.
Emily, disappointed, tidied up the file. It occurred to her to ring Joel , to tell him about this latest find, but it was late , after seven now, and she thought better of it. She rang Matthew instead, but his phone was turned off so she texted: Heading home. Speak later? Em xxx
After supper, she tried to read , but it was difficult to concentrate on anything. She rang Matthew, but once again there was no answer. It was the first day for ages, she thought, that they hadn’t spoken. She texted quickly. Hello? Worried about you. Is all OK? Em xxx and waited, staring at the screen, willing a reply, but there was none. She went to bed, but lay awake for some time, haunted by the thought that something was wrong.
Chapter 14
Isabel
The first signs of trouble came one lunchtime in November 1949 when Isabel was alone in the office, snatching bites from a sandwich and catching up on the filing. The door opened and a smartly dressed blonde walked in. Grace McKinnon was pretty in a pale, demure sort of way, as in the photograph on Stephen’s windowsill, but seemed a little agitated. There was something about her, the conventional appearance, the timid way she glanced round the office, that recalled Berec’s description. Isabel had never met Stephen’s wife before.
‘Sorry, I’m looking for Mr McKinnon. Is he to meet you here?’ she asked Isabel, making no effort to look friendly. ‘It’s rather important, I’m afraid.’
‘He might be in the Fitzroy,’ Isabel replied, pointing to the pub beyond the window. ‘With William Ford.’
‘William Ford?’ Stephen’s wife asked, looking blank.
‘Yes, there’s been that awful review in The Times. Mr McKinnon thought he needed consoling.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that. I never read the papers,’ Mrs McKinnon said, taking off her gloves. ‘There’s never anything cheerful in them. Do you mind if I wait?’
‘Not at all. Jimmy’s about somewhere. I’ll send him across with a message. Would you like some tea or something? It wouldn’t be any trouble.’
‘Oh no,really,’ Mrs McKinnon said.
Isabel dispatched Jimmy, and when she returned to the office it was to find Grace McKinnon examining a wall poster advertising an exhibition of abstract painting as though it were something entirely foreign to her.
‘Jimmy’s gone to see.’
Mrs McKinnon looked properly at Isabel for the first time. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said. ‘ I suppose you must be Isabel.’
‘Yes.’
‘Stephen did mention you. He says you’re doing very well – you should feel flattered.’ The woman curved her lips in a vague smile and glanced out of the window. They saw Jimmy come out of the Fitzroy Tavern, but instead of coming back to the office he turned right up the street and out of sight.
‘I suppose he wasn’t there. Do you think he’ll be long?’
‘I hope not, but Mr Ford can be very . . . time-consuming.’
In the end she settled Mrs McKinnon in Stephen’s office with
a glass of water, which was all the woman would accept. It was another twenty minutes before Stephen appeared, smelling of the pub.
‘Did Jimmy find you? Your wife’s here,’ Isabel whispered to him.
‘No, he didn’t,’ Stephen replied, looking alarmed. He immediately went into his office and shut the door. Now Grace McKinnon clearly lost her coolness, because the sound of raised voices was audible. Isabel was too curious to absent herself, but to avoid any accusation that she was eavesdropping she started to type loudly as if her life depended on it. A minute or two passed before the door flew open and Stephen stormed out, closely followed by his wife.
‘It won’t do any good. Stephen. Daddy simply won’t have it.’
‘I need to go and sort out a misunderstanding,’ Stephen told Isabel, snatching up his coat. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He left in a hurry, almost bumping into Jimmy on the way. Grace McKinnon and Isabel stared after him.
The next day, Stephen didn’t appear in the office at all, but he rang up Audrey and gave her various instructions to pass on to Mr Greenford. Over the next couple of weeks, he was often out and there was a heightened atmosphere of uncertainty. Redmayne Symmonds marched in once and closeted himself with Mr Greenford in Stephen’s office, going over ledgers. Everyone else carried on as usual, though Philip looked perpetually worried and Trudy was unusually quiet.
‘What’s going on?’ Isabel asked Audrey when she got her on her own.
‘Money,’ Audrey said shortly. ‘He’s looking for new backers. Redmayne Symmonds won’t put in any more.’
‘No!’ Isabel said, horrified. ‘But I thought business was going well.’
‘So did I, but who knows. Don’t worry your pretty head too much. It’s happened before. He’ll sort it out.’
And that’s exactly what did happen. After another week or so, the tense unhappy look Stephen had worn for so long lightened. He even arrived in the office whistling one morning. That was the day he called his small staff into his office, where they gathered in nervous anticipation. Only Trudy was absent.
There was good news, Stephen told them. ‘You might have heard rumours about the firm’s imminent demise. In fact, it’s completely the opposite: we’re expanding.’ He explained that although Trudy’s husband had decided to withdraw as a director, Stephen had secured the investment of two City businessmen. When he mentioned their names, Isabel was surprised. One of the names meant nothing to her, but the other was Reginald Dickson, Penelope’s manfriend. From what Isabel could gather, Penelope had introduced Stephen to him.
Stephen went on to assure them that Trudy would continue working with the firm, and to announce that he’d been able to buy up a small publisher of books in a new line: psychology. The editor and his assistant would move into the building. ‘We’re taking the tenancy of the flat above our heads, all being well. And we’re going to recruit a sales manager!’
It was as everyone was trooping back to their desks that Stephen called Isabel back.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, amused by her anxious face. ‘It’s nothing terrible. Trudy has made it known to me that she intends to cut down her days. I don’t want to lose her. She manages the schedules like nobody’s business. But we’ll be needing another editor.’
‘Another editor? Isabel had a sudden vision of this new editor. A man, probably. But Stephen was continuing.
‘You’re still very new, but you’ve been learning fast. I’d like you to take on the role, if you would. Under Trudy’s guidance, of course.’
‘Me? Oh yes, thank you.’ She was smiling at him stupidly, but he didn’t say any more so she thought she was dismissed and she stood to go. At the last moment she remembered. ‘I’ll need more money,’ she told him firmly. ‘I can’t be expected to manage on what you’re giving me.’
Stephen burst out laughing. ‘I thought you weren’t going to ask at all,’ he said. He lit a cigarette and looked at her through narrowed eyes. Her feeling of power began to fail.
‘How about another hundred,’ he said. ‘That’ll bring it up to two-fifty .’
Two hundred and fifty pounds a year! She nearly said yes, but something stayed her. She had no idea what other women in the firm earned – no one would have been so ill-bred as to discuss it. But maybe they didn’t need money like she did. Trudy was married and Audrey lived in a flat paid for by her father.
‘I’d like three hundred, please,’ she said, in the same tone in which she’d ask the greengrocer for two pounds of potatoes.
He looked at her in surprise, then thought for a moment.
‘Very well, three hundred,’ he said finally.
It took Vivienne, that evening, to spell out the maths. ‘It’s obvious,’ she said. ‘He’s transferring to you the money he’s saving from paying Trudy. He’s not giving Audrey a new assistant, is he?’
‘He hasn’t said so.’
‘And if he took on a man he’d have to pay him more.’
‘That’s true.’ Still, nothing could stop herself feeling pleased for holding out for the money.
In February 1950, Hugh Morton telephoned her at the office. ‘I’ve tickets for a show on Friday,’ he said. ‘Tom Eliot’s new play. Do you happen to be free?’ She pressed the receiver more intently to her ear.
‘I imagine that would be acceptable,’ she said warily, aware of Audrey earwigging. In truth, she and Hugh had only corresponded on business matters recently and she wasn’t expecting an invitation like this. She wasn’t sure what it meant and whether she should go. However, she was longing to see The Cocktail Party. Berec was always talking about T. S. Eliot.
At the other end of the line, Hugh laughed. ‘I’m glad to hear you say so! Shall I come to the office at five? We could perhaps have a drink in the bar there first, a little supper.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, hunching over the phone. ‘How about meeting there?’ Coming to the office wouldn’t do at all. She’d never mentioned going to Hugh’s party – and that, anyway, had been with Vivienne. She wouldn’t be able to bear it if they all saw her going off somewhere with Hugh. The embarrassment would be terrible. Going out with Berec was somehow different. For some reason it never seemed to enter anyone’s mind that she and Berec were anything but friends. Berec was everyone’s friend, as comfortable as toast.
‘You’d rather meet me at the theatre?’ he said patiently. ‘I don’t see why not. Shall we say six-thirty?’
When she finished the call, Audrey was looking at her curiously. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.
‘Just a friend.’
‘Just a friend, my foot,’ was Audrey’s drawled reply.
Isabel had rarely been to the theatre, and then only to see productions of Shakespeare or once a J. B. Priestley play Nothing had prepared her for The Cocktail Party. It started in the manner of a drawing-room farce with a married couple quarrelling over the fact that the husband had taken a mistress, and the wife leaving in high dudgeon just as guests were expected for drinks in their London home.
‘I must say, I don’t see what all the fuss is about,’ Hugh confided during the interval. ‘All seems very ordinary to me.’
But when the curtain rose once more, the play turned dark and complicated. An uninvited guest brought the wife home again. It turned out he was a psychiatrist and he proceeded not only to reveal the most unpleasant things about the couple’s relationship, but to point out how much worse it would be if they were to separate.
‘I felt sorry for Celia, the mistress, in the end,’ Isabel said afterwards. ‘Why did she have to suffer like that? It was dreadful, the way she died.’ The discarded mistress had become a missionary, but was killed by the natives she had gone to convert.
‘She had to be sacrificed,’ Hugh said impatiently. ‘It’s sad, but symbolic. She nearly broke up the marriage.’
‘The husband was as much to blame,’ Isabel replied, outraged.
‘Quite possibly, but there were more important things at stake here. Celia shouldn’t h
ave allowed herself to come between a husband and wife. Of course the institution of marriage had to come first.’
‘I still don’t see why Mr Eliot let her be killed like that. She didn’t deserve it.’
‘You don’t know anything about Greek tragedy do you? There are clear references in the play to Euripides. But don’t let the play upset you. I should never have brought you.’
‘Oh, but I enjoyed it,’ she said, her eyes shining.
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. It made me cross, but I like that.’
‘You are a funny girl.’ He smiled fondly and the smile started up a little thrill of warmth inside her. ‘Funny but sweet. I like your hair like that,’ he said, ‘you know, brushed back at the side. Why did you do that?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s just an experiment. Audrey does it.’
‘Goodness, don’t turn into Audrey, will you?’
She shook her head, rather charmed that he liked her for herself. She knew Audrey won when it came to the beauty stakes and pedigree – and, well, style, she supposed – but perhaps she had her own attractions after all. Hugh didn’t seem bothered about silly things like her family background. At the same time she felt a little ashamed for having talked about her grandmother’s big house in Norfolk as though it was a part of her life. To think she’d never even seen the place.
She tried for a moment to imagine Hugh greeting her parents in the ugly pebbledash house. The thought was excruciating. Her father would very certainly be wearing his dreadful old cardigan and say something gauche that tried to put Hugh down. But she was running ahead now, into the future. Quickly she reined in her thoughts.