by Heron Carvic
Anne stared in astonishment. Then she and Miss Seeton spoke together.
“I’m sorry,” said Anne, “but Miss Seeton didn’t . . .”
“I’m sorry,” said Miss Seeton, “but I don’t think I quite . . .”
They looked at each other. Both said, “I’m sorry.” Both stopped.
“Pardon me, I should have said. I’m from the Daily Neg . . . Hey, hold it right there. Did you say Miss Seeton? That’s . . . never,” Mel Forby pointed, “never tell me that’s Miss Seeton?”
“But of course,” said Anne.
Even Mel’s brash façade was shaken. From her first days on a newspaper Mel Forby had recognized that nature was against her: she looked too soft; she was too soft. A genuine flair for clothes, a gift for writing intelligent comments and forecasts on fashion, had landed her a job. For a softy that was as far as it would go; always supposing that she could hold the job. Putty—that was her trouble. Soft as putty right through. She had studied her face. Putty could be remodeled. No—come to think of it the modeling wasn’t all that bad. A good paint plan should put the face right—particularly the eyes. Wide wondering eyes were out for this racket; eye shadow and black liners would take care of it. Gentle manners and good speech would get her nowhere, she decided. She read the tougher American novels, attended the toughest American films. She practiced assiduously and the result though spurious was in its way effective. To alter someone’s nature completely may not be possible, but constant cooking will hard-boil the softest egg. It is doubtful if by now even Mel Forby could gauge how much the original putty had finally hardened through exposure. She waved an apologetic hand. “You’ll overlook it if I just die right here of shame. Have me swept out when the trash men call. And bill the editor of the Daily Negative, he got me into this and he can damn well pay to have me carried out.”
“You’re a reporter,” accused Anne. “How could you burst in like this?”
Recovering, Mel gave her a wide grin. “Honey, that was no burst—just a stride-in. When I burst you wouldn’t know what’s hit you. Look,” she reasoned, “take it easy. I was sent down here to pit my puny strength against some muscle-bound Amazon they call the Battling Brolly and told to stay here till I find what gives.” She waved her hand toward Miss Seeton. “And then you give me that. I,” said Mel, “give up.”
Anne caught herself almost smiling back at this odd, engaging stranger. “Why can’t poor Miss Seeton be left alone? It’s not fair.”
“Who asks for fair? Is life? If I take off, you’ll get another. The penalty of fame is press. What’s the story?”
“But there isn’t a story,” protested Anne.
“Don’t give me that. I shopped around some in the village before I came on here and dug up enough dirt to fill the front page: Miss S had been arrested; she’s out on bail; she’s been let go for lack of evidence; she tried to kill some girl by slinging her under the wheels of a car . . .”
“Effie!” exclaimed Anne. “That little horror. She’d make up any story.”
Mel was watching Miss Seeton. “Say, don’t look now,” she murmured, “but what’s she up to?”
Anne turned. Oblivious, Miss Seeton, whose yoga exercises had accustomed her to the floor, was sitting cross-legged. She had taken a sheet of paper and, with the cover of the portfolio as a drawing board, she was working absorbed.
“Hi, Miss S.” Mell leaned forward, offered her hand. “Miss S? Mel Forby. Proud to know you.”
Miss Seeton jumped up, penitent. “I’m sorry. How very rude of me. But so interesting. It seemed important to get it down. Quite dreadfully rude, I—” She looked at the tray. “I’ll make some more coffee. It won’t take a moment.” She collected the cups, hesitated in the doorway feeling that perhaps she hadn’t expressed herself well. She smiled. “The bones, I mean.” She left.
“You know, she’s cute. What’s that with bones?”
Anne leaned over to see what Miss Seeton had been doing. “Your bones, I gather.”
Mel joined her, studied the sketch: in flat, hard planes, Mel Forby’s face built up to a pair of luminous, softly shadowed eyes. She moved to the mirror on the wall; reviewed her eye makeup—hard black lines. She shrugged. “So if I could look like that,” she indicated the sketch, “where’d it get me? On the Street you’ve got to look tough, act tough, or go under.”
A chuckle escaped Anne. “Well, you could always try looking like that, then acting tough. Sort of take them by surprise.”
Mel lingered, looking, then left the mirror. An eyebrow lifted. “Honey,” she reflected, “you’ve maybe, just maybe, got something.”
On Miss Seeton’s return with the coffee tray, Mel took it from her and pointedly set it on a low table by the fire. Miss Seeton knelt to add wood while Anne collected the drawings into the portfolio and kept it by her as they settled, this time in chairs.
Anne was worrying: the drawing of Effie Goffer worried her; the presence of Mel Forby worried her. How to get Miss Seeton alone? “What time’s your train?” she asked.
The penciled eyebrows slanted. “If trouble’s coming up, my job is troubleshooting. So no train, baby; guess you’re stuck with me for the duration.”
Miss Seeton put down the poker, took up the coffee pot. “Trouble? The duration?”
“Say we just take for a start the Lewisham morgue and then the Yard. What gave with those two trips of yours?”
Miss Seeton debated. Surely there could be no particular secret about that since Anne said the whole village knew. “They asked me to do a sort of Identikit drawing, because they had no photographs. And, apparently, they don’t always find photographers very successful when they’re dead. The subjects, I mean. Perhaps it might be best if you spoke to Superintendent Delphick about it,” she suggested.
Anne was indignant. “You’ve no right to ask such questions.”
“That so?” Mel rounded on her. “Getting news is my job. Get it straight or get it crooked—but I’ll get it.”
“That’s the point,” retorted Anne. “When you’ve got it, half the time it gets twisted. It seems to me all newspapers really want is bad news.”
Mel laughed. “Sure. Bad news’s good news—good new’s no news. Presswise, that’s the way it goes.”
“But that’s what I mean. In the long run your job has to be paid for by other people’s feelings.”
“Anne.” Miss Seeton was distressed. “I can’t believe that Miss Forby would do anything of the kind. In the way of distortion, that is. She has her work to do and, though I’m bound to admit that the newspapers sometimes do seem to concentrate on—well, yes, I suppose you could call it bad news—surely that must be, really, in a way, the fault of other people. After all, if it wasn’t what they wanted, they wouldn’t buy them, would they? The newspapers, I mean. If Miss Forby . . .”
“Make it Mel, Miss S. Born Amelia. Which left the choice; good works or bad intentions. Stuck a T in it. Now I’m stuck with it. So what? Everyone calls me Mel, my unfriends call me Dear Mel and enemies add Darling.” She turned to Anne. “Look, baby, let’s not fight. You’re for Miss S, I’m for Miss S, so why the fire and fury?” Reluctantly Anne grinned. “With all the facts, we do our best to help—the most of us.” Mel shrugged. “Without, we help ourselves. My editor, God save him, said, ‘It needs a woman’s touch.’ I’m getting what he means. Let’s start over. What’s with those pictures there you’re sitting on,” she pointed at the portfolio; her voice quivered with laughter, “like you’re a tigress in defense of cubs? I miss my guess or from the look of things there’s something—something there that’s got you buffaloed.”
Anne was startled, Miss Seeton sharp. “No. Those,” she explained, “are just odd notes and sketches, or impressions. There’s nothing there to do with anybody else. They’re purely personal.”
Mel gave a joyous crow. “First time my face’s been labeled pure and guess I’d always thought it personal to me.”
“Oh dear.” Miss Seeton looked sheepish. The bones, of cours
e. She shouldn’t have. So very ill-mannered; but it had seemed important. And such an unusual arrangement. The eyes, plainly, were a mistake. Superficial—but a mistake. Those hard black lines destroyed the theme. Quite wrong. But, naturally, one mustn’t say so—be careful not to criticize. “Bones,” she murmured, caught Mel’s eye, got flustered, added hurriedly, “but not the eyes, naturally. Quite wrong.” She bit her lip.
“Yeah, honey,” agreed Mel, “we did kinda get the point about the eyes.”
Unexpectedly Anne giggled, dragged forward the portfolio and opened it. She glanced at Miss Seeton for permission. “I think we’d better, don’t you? We’re not going to get rid of her,” and she made a face at Mel, “so we’ll have to trust her. Wait a minute, there’s something . . .” She pounced on a watercolor of Plummergen Church, painstaking and dull. She flipped it over on to Miss Seeton’s lap. On the reverse side in quick, carefree strokes Mel Forby’s face leaped from the paper. “Do you see?” Anne pointed in triumph. “Now will you admit there’s nothing wrong with you?”
Miss Seeton considered it; a weight lifted, she felt renewed. Of course it was only rough, a note carelessly done, but at least it was complete. Not like those others. And that meant . . .
Mel Forby had sorted the drawings into two lots. The larger pile, the earnest, ineffectual children of care, she pushed to one side with her foot. “Trash,” she observed. Anne’s head jerked up, ready for quick defense. She saw the expression on Miss Seeton’s face and protest became stillborn. Miss Seeton could appreciate another artist, active or passive, whether engaged on work or criticism, and her fleeting smile was one of understanding. Mel Forby, unaware of rudeness and innocent of the intention, was absorbed. She had an awareness of art, and to see so much plebeian work where occasional quick sketches showed the spark of genuine talent to her was sacrilege. “Run of the mill,” she continued with impatience, “just wasted effort. But these—” she picked up a collection of line sketches, cartoons, and caricatures which included those of Sergeant Ranger and Effie Goffer; “these are something else again. These are really something. Want a job, Miss S?” she suggested. “Like me to show them to the art editor?” Embarrassed, but pleased, Miss Seeton shook her head.
Anne grabbed one of the Effie portraits. “Tell me,” she asked, “the Lewisham drawing, was it anything like this?”
“Why, no.” Miss Seeton frowned. Anne had said that the other had proved helpful after all; though frankly she couldn’t see how. But it did imply that one ought to be accurate—try to remember. It had been so worrying and disappointing at the time that she hadn’t really noticed. “The other was very messy,” she apologized. “And then, I’m afraid, I sort of crossed it out.” Unconsciously her fingers began to trace the air. “But perhaps,” it became clearer, “I may be imagining it, but I think—yes, there was a difference in the two sides of the face.”
“Then if you don’t mind,” said Anne, “I’ll send one of these to Bob. If you had the same trouble over both of them, don’t you think there might be a connection of some kind?”
“To Bob?” Mel Forby held up the Alice caricature. “You mean the Oracle’s sidekick?”
Anne laughed and reached. “I’ll take that too.” Her gaze lingered on it. “Miss Seeton gave it to me, it’s mine.”
“So’s he, looks like,” remarked Mel, watching her. “Congratulations; he’s quite a lot of man.” Her eyes were dreamy, her mouth mocking. “Tell me—I’m a sucker for romance—just between us girls, does he give you that burning sensation in your midsection?” Anne balked for a second; then her eyes twinkled and she nodded. Mel stood up. “I guessed it was like that,” she observed. “I’ve been there in my time; don’t let it fool you, baby, it’s ulcers, take bicarb. I’ll do my best for you, Miss S. We’ll keep these under wraps,” she indicated the drawings, “and see how it pans out. But news is news no matter what. I’ll do a kind of introduction—shift the focus. Try to switch the pitch.”
* * *
From the Daily Negative—March 21
THE PEACE OF THE ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE
by Amelita Forby
*
Piece 1. Umbrella Cover
To our armed forces it is air cover in time of war, to the cosmopolitan—gay beaches, to the Continental—cafés, to the golfer—colorful protection; but to the greater majority of us the word “umbrella” conjures up gray visions of city streets crowded with glistening black mushrooms under sluicing rain.
Here in the peaceful depths of the rural English countryside, in this tiny Kentish village of Plummergen in England’s garden, the word has another connotation: for here it is that in a small cottage is stabled that most famous of all umbrellas—the Battling Brolly.
Last year many people in perusal of their daily papers acquired the erroneously false impression that the Battling Brolly was a woman.
Inexact. Of powerful personality, of adventurous disposition, a battler for the right, black-silked, steel-spoked, crook-handled, rumor hath it that this memorable gamp is on the move again.
Sensational developments are to be confidently anticipated and . . .
* * *
chapter
~4~
THEIR TRIBAL FEUDS and internecine strife laid by, the village needed new disport.
Although old Mr. Dunnihoe had held out as long as he could and longer than could be expected, his death a few weeks before had caused a humiliating drop in the population figures. It could be argued that the differential between four hundred and ninety-nine and five hundred was numerically only one digit; the difference in the look of the thing was great. And it was the look of the thing that counted. Now, with two new arrivals who had moved into the Dunnihoe cottage down by the canal, Mrs. Scillicough expecting and from the look of that it was evens on twins and four to one on a litter, the population of Plummergen was safely back in the five hundreds. A young couple with the girl’s little brother had rented that ramshackle bungalow Saturday Stop out near the Common beyond the council houses. There was a visitor at the George and Dragon. Miss Seeton had returned. All in all there was plenty of new material upon which to embroider.
The trio at Saturday Stop were a success. The young man looked pleasant although little was seen of him, which was natural since he would be at work. What work was still uncertain but two days was short notice even for Plummergen to have completed a dossier on a newcomer. The little boy was found to be attractive with a sunny smile and good manners. That he was deaf and dumb was sad but it made him an ideal subject for patronage, and if he resented the shoulder and head pattings he was unable to say so since his attempts at speech were for the most part unintelligible. His elder sister was completely charming: the completion of her charm being the notice on the post-office board, WANTED DOMESTIC WORK. Her open face and good manner were felt to be reference enough and the response to her advertisement had been substantial; competition for her services was keen. She solved the problem, granting two hours here and two hours there, mornings and afternoons, by arranging to oblige eight households a week. It was to be hoped that the family might decide to extend their stay beyond their three months’ lease or even to settle permanently in the village.
The pair at the Dunnihoe cottage were viewed with disfavor. They were very young, of sullen mien and of retiring disposition; infractions of custom of which the last was the most significant since at no time of life could there be honorable excuse, only dishonorable reason, for keeping yourself to yourself. Their extreme youth, seventeen or eighteen at most, coupled with the prefix Mr. and Mrs., made them untrustworthy. They could be married, no one was prepared to deny the possibility, but at that age it was “really too unlikely, wasn’t it?” The boy’s appearance was variously described as mumpish, not a good type, a wrong’un if ever I saw one, and “really too churlish.” The girl was dubbed silly, scared, scared-silly and “it’s too obvious he beats her.” In the week since their arrival they had avoided or ignored such friendly, impersonal overtures as “Ho
w old are you?” “When were you married?” “Where do you come from?” “Why did you come to Plummergen?” and “What do you do?” This completed their damnation. The vicar’s sister reported after a duty call that she found them clean, tidy, and very reserved. She was clearly influenced by her friend Miss Seeton, whose verdict of “shy” was ridiculous. Their contact with Miss Seeton counted against them. She had been seen in earnest conversation with them after that quite dreadful episode of Effie Goffer and the car; also she had been observed speaking to the girl on the Street.
The visitor to the George and Dragon was in a different category. She talked to everyone, asked questions and, unusual and therefore suspect, listened to the answers. Her speech came from films; her clothes, too unsuitable, and her makeup placed her as an actress. Someone who had read the registrar at the inn recognized the name Amelita Forby as that of the fashion writer in the Daily Negative, so in all probability she was a model which was the same as being an actress only worse. Her arrival on the same evening that Miss Seeton returned from London gave rise to speculation: she was a policewoman in disguise, or if the model story was true, someone hired by the police to keep an eye on Miss Seeton; she was a confederate from London; a member of a rival gang; certainly her own story that she was a reporter on a job could be discounted—there was nothing to report. As for that rubbish in the Negative; the less said about it the better. They’d had enough of umbrellas last year. Some connection with Miss Seeton was palpable. This Miss Forby, if that was indeed her name, had called at Sweetbriars at the first opportunity, staying nearly an hour, and the fact that Anne Knight parried all attempts to discover the subject of such a prolonged conversation shed a sinister light upon the visit.
Sinister. Bob Ranger let out a small yelp of surprise and laid the drawing on his desk.
Delphick, entering, turned on his way across the office. “If you’ve got hiccups, drink water with your ears shut.” He tossed down a newspaper, sat, glanced through the in-tray, picked up his post. “What’s a fashion writer doing in Plummergen? And how did the Negative get on to it?” he asked. Bob started. “You don’t read the Negative?”