The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  “You’re looking very lovely today, miss. Does this old soldier’s heart good to see you.”

  “Thank you, Archie. You’re looking very smart yourself.” She watched him spin a shining steel wheel, and the elevator began to rise slowly. Katherine had a soft spot for Archie Waters. A retired army sergeant, he had been with Eagle Newspapers since the very first day. His bristling short hair had turned whiter in eleven years, but his back was as straight as it had ever been, and his skin glowed with a just-scrubbed freshness.

  “Beautiful day out there, isn’t it, Miss Eagles?” Archie ventured. “Makes you think we might even be blessed with a summer this year.”

  “I wouldn’t be that optimistic. Come Wimbledon fortnight and we’ll be eating our strawberries and cream beneath umbrellas, just like we always seem to do.”

  Katherine no longer tried to correct the elevator operator about her name. When she had started work eight years earlier, she had been Miss Eagles. But two years after that, she had married Franz and she’d been Katherine Kassler ever since. Katherine Kassler on her byline and on her paycheck. Katherine Kassler to everyone except Archie Waters. Perhaps Archie found Eagles easier. After all, it was the same as the newspaper company which employed him, just as it was the same as the man who owned the company. Roland Eagles, Katherine’s father.

  As the elevator crept level with the second floor, Archie said: “That story you wrote in today’s paper, Miss Eagles. Made me good and mad, it did.”

  Katherine was not surprised to hear Archie comment about the women’s section; the elderly man read every word of every page while he waited for his elevator to be summoned. “What do you think should be done about it, Archie?”

  “Bring back the birch,” he answered immediately. “That’s the only thing bullies understand, a good taste of what they give out. Think twice before they ever laid a hand on some poor woman again, I can tell you.”

  The elevator wheezed to a halt at the third floor. Archie started to slide back the door, then stopped. He looked uncertainly at Katherine. “Do you think you could spare me a few minutes later on, Miss Eagles? I need some advice.”

  Katherine was puzzled. What advice could she possibly give a man like Archie? “Let me do a couple of things first.”

  Archie slid the door fully open, and Katherine stepped out into the Daily Eagle’s editorial offices. The smaller editorial staff of the Sunday Eagle was housed on the second floor. The two newspapers shared advertising and circulation staff, and printing facilities, but editorial remained independent. Nodding, smiling, and saying, “Good morning,” she made her way past blocks of desks belonging to news and sports writers, business writers, and industrial specialists. She considered Archie Waters’s comments again. One thing stuck in her mind — what she’d written had made him good and mad. If she could make an old soldier good and mad, then she must be doing her job well. Especially when she was writing about women who were the complete opposite to herself, a woman who had known only wealth and comfort.

  The knowledge that she could transcend such a gap filled Katherine with satisfaction. Another young woman with a similar background might have been content to write society pieces, little puffs about a life-style that only one percent of the country gave a damn about. Not Katherine. To her, being a journalist was more important than flattering the egos of the select few. She wanted to write about real people, about the other ninety-nine percent, with such warmth and feeling that her readers would care enough about their problems to demand change. To do so, she was not about to let a privileged background stand in her way.

  She reached that area of the editorial floor allocated to the staff of the Daily Eagle’s women’s pages. Katherine assumed she was the first to arrive, until she saw the door to Erica Bentley’s office closed, with a large “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging from the handle. Erica, who edited the women’s section, was Katherine’s immediate boss. Through the window, Katherine could see her hunched over her desk, making notations on sheets of paper. Only then did Katherine remember that Erica had a budget meeting scheduled for later that morning; she was revving up to fight for more money for her department.

  Katherine’s own desk was by a small, grimy window overlooking Fleet Street. She dropped her attaché case to the floor and sat down, glancing at the half-dozen messages tucked into the platen of her typewriter. As she assigned priorities, the telephone rang. She lifted the receiver.

  “Happy birthday, Kathy,” the caller greeted her.

  No one but Katherine’s father ever called her by the familiar Kathy. No one else ever dared, not even Franz. She loathed the diminutive version of her name, except when her father used it. Over the years, he had made it something special, an esoteric code of love between father and daughter. “You must have eyes everywhere,” she told him. “I just this instant got to my desk.”

  “I’m supposed to have eyes everywhere. I have to know what time my staff gets in.”

  Katherine swung around to look over the editorial floor. Was her father there, on another line, laughing as he witnessed her confusion? No. Roland Eagles would be calling from his office on the fifth floor of the Adler’s department store on Regent Street, where he could gaze through his picture window at the Café Royal, and then down the sweeping curve of Regency architecture to Piccadilly Circus and the statue of Eros.

  “The children know it’s your birthday?” Roland asked.

  Katherine could hear the pleasure in her father’s voice as he spoke of his grandchildren. “Henry presented me with a card he’d painted. Joanne gave me a big, wet kiss.”

  “I envy you,” Roland told his daughter. “Nothing’s as sweet as a little girl’s big wet kiss. I should know — you gave me plenty.”

  “Daddy, you’re embarrassing me.”

  “I don’t mean to, Kathy. What did Franz give you?”

  “A beautiful diamond eternity ring. And . . .”

  “And . . .?”

  “Nothing.” Katherine bit her bottom lip, and touched a hand to her burning cheek. “I was thinking aloud.”

  “What time will you be over for dinner tonight?”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  “Look forward to seeing you then, Kathy.”

  Before the connection was broken, Katherine blew a kiss into the mouthpiece. Sharing her birthday with her father was a tradition. The occasion was as important for Roland as it was for her. Not even a guaranteed exclusive on the Second Coming would stop her from keeping that date.

  Katherine spent much of the morning catching up on correspondence. When she finished, just after eleven, she remembered her promise to Archie Waters. She walked across the editorial floor and summoned the elevator. “Got time for a cup of tea?” she asked Archie.

  Archie accompanied Katherine to a small canteen on the fourth floor. They took cups of tea to a table in the corner. Archie lit a pipe, puffed on it for a few moments, then asked: “What do you know about Islington?”

  “It’s in North London, and it’s become quite fashionable. It’s in demand because it’s close to the City and the West End.” Katherine recalled that Archie lived in Islington. How did he, with his old-fashioned values, feel about his neighborhood changing from working-class to chic, his comfortable pubs being transformed into trendy bars, and his cafés to restaurants with French and Italian names? The affluent young moved in, altered the character of an area, and no one ever seemed to care about the people whose lives they changed.

  “Property values have gone up in leaps and bounds,” Archie said. “That’s fine for homeowners, but people paying rent — people like me — are left holding the short end of the stick.”

  “What do you want my advice about? Changing neighborhoods?”

  “No. Landlords harassing tenants. I live in a block of flats called Cadmus Court, which is on the edge of Islington’s desirable section. The owners of the building, a mob called Cadmus Property Company, want to do the flats up, then sell them off for a nice profit.”


  “How many flats are there at Cadmus Court?”

  “Sixteen. Four floors, four flats on each. Some three bedrooms, some two. Six months ago, all the flats were occupied. By working people, like me. Cadmus Property Company paid off ten of the tenants. Gave them five hundred pounds each to clear out and find somewhere else to live.”

  “Five hundred pounds? That won’t go far.” Katherine bit her tongue immediately; it might not seem a fortune to her, but it was a far from paltry sum for a man like Archie.

  “It was enough to get ten of the tenants to leave. The rest of us said no. So the offer was increased to seven hundred and fifty pounds. Two more families left. Then the owners changed tactics. The carrot hadn’t worked, so they turned to the stick. Garbage was dumped in the hallways, things broke down and weren’t fixed. An empty flat was let to the biggest bunch of rowdies you ever saw. They were only there for a month, but it seemed like a year. Loud parties every night, carryings on like you wouldn’t believe. Enough for three more tenants to pack up and leave. Now I’m the only tenant left.”

  “Wait a minute,” Katherine said. “Are you saying the rowdies were placed in the building by the owners? Just to cause a disturbance?”

  “Of course they were. When Cadmus Property Company is paying folk to leave, why would they accept new tenants?”

  “It’s just you and your grandson, right?”

  “That’s right. Brian. He’s sixteen. My son died when the boy was young. His mother was a no-good trollop. Didn’t care about the boy at all, only about having a good time. So my wife and me, we brought him up like he was our own. Now, of course, with my wife gone these past eighteen months, it’s just me.” Archie let out a long sigh and gazed absently at his pipe. “As if life’s not tough enough, I’ve got my landlord trying to kick me out on the street. Now they’ve started decorating the empty flats. Until late each night they work. It’s impossible to get any sleep.”

  “There are laws to protect tenants from unscrupulous landlords, Archie. Why don’t you go to the police?”

  “The police?” Archie’s look of derision left Katherine with little doubt about his opinions of the police. “Those useless buggers couldn’t find their way out of a cul-de-sac in broad daylight. I thought, Miss Eagles, that maybe you could write about it in the paper, like you wrote about that shelter today.”

  “Accuse the owners of breaking every landlord-tenant act in the book?” Katherine shook her head. “No, Archie, all that might do is leave us open for a libel suit.” Which my father, she added silently, would eventually have to settle.

  “Miss Eagles, I’ve lived in Cadmus Court for fifteen years, ever since I got out of the army, and long before the present owners had the building. I’d have an awful time finding any place half as good. I just can’t afford to move, certainly not when I’ve got my grandson to consider.”

  Mention of the elevator man’s grandson tipped the balance for Katherine. Despite the shake of her head only moments earlier, she’d been trying to find a way to help the elderly man. The odds were stacked against him, and Katherine had inherited her father’s affection for a gutsy underdog. Now she was certain she had to help him. The cross he’s carried all these years, bringing up his late son’s child. Doing it alone for the past eighteen months. Katherine knew she would never be able to look him in the eye unless she helped.

  “Leave it with me, Archie. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Katherine returned to her desk, knowing that she would have to talk to Erica Bentley about it. Erica was her boss; even the owner’s daughter went through a chain of command.

  Erica returned at one-fifteen. “Meetings,” she muttered disparagingly when she saw Katherine. “That’s all anyone ever does around this bloody place. Had lunch yet, or are you demonstrating how conscientious you are by working through it?”

  They rode the elevator to ground level, and walked west along Fleet Street. They presented a study in contrasts. Eleven years older than Katherine, Erica was a tall, willowy woman who could have made herself look quite attractive. She had chosen not to, wearing heavy glasses that accentuated the thinness of her face, and flowing dresses that wrapped themselves around her spare frame like a flag twisted around its pole on a windy day. It was as though she were flaunting a sign proclaiming that whatever she had achieved had been done on talent and hard work alone. Next to Erica, Katherine, in her well-cut suit and heavy silk blouse, looked every inch the fashionable businesswoman.

  The relationship between the two women was also unusual. Erica was placed in the odd position of supervising the proprietor’s daughter, although Katherine had pointedly never made any fuss over the family connection to Eagle Newspapers. When she had commenced working at the Daily Eagle in 1968, she’d followed the same route taken by any newcomer: running errands and doing odd jobs.

  Only once during those early days had anyone poked fun at Katherine for her pedigree. In February 1969, a show-business writer noted for his acerbic wit had called Katherine to his desk. “Would you run over to the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane and pick up my comps for Mame? If,” he added as Katherine turned to leave on the errand, “that isn’t too demeaning a task for our owner’s precious little ray of sunshine?”

  Katherine swung around, eyes as cold and hard as sapphires. “Don’t you bloody well patronize me!” she snapped in a voice that cut clear across the editorial department.

  Leaving the show-business writer with a scarlet face, Katherine marched tight-lipped across the suddenly silent floor. As she reached the elevator, a sports writer called out, “Winner by first-round knockout, and still champion of editorial, Katherine knock-your-block-off Eagles!” It was all Katherine could do to keep from exploding with laughter until the elevator door had closed behind her.

  After a year at the Daily Eagle, Katherine had moved as a junior reporter to the women’s section, to work for Erica. Between 1971 and 1973, Katherine took a leave to begin her family. When she returned to work, she resumed her former professional relationship with Erica, and from it a firm friendship had grown. Both Erica and her veterinarian husband, Cliff Bentley, were keen riders. They lived on a small farm near Farnham, an hour south of London on the Surrey-Hampshire border, and were members of a local hunt. Katherine had been an avid horse lover from the moment she had first been treated to a pony ride at Regent’s Park Zoo. At least once a month, Katherine, Franz, and the children would spend a day with Erica and Cliff Bentley at the farm. Those days were of special importance to Katherine for the closeness they provided with her two young children. Balancing motherhood and a career was no simple feat, especially when that career entailed occasional evening work. On the weekends, she had the opportunity to amend for her absences.

  The two women entered an Italian restaurant. After the waiter had taken their orders, Erica said, “I’ve heard a lot of very positive response to that article on the women’s shelter. Good social-minded reporting.”

  Katherine spotted her opening. “Archie Waters thought highly of it as well. Said that the story” — Katherine stiffened her back, thrust out her chest, and affected the elderly man’s slight Cockney accent — “had made him good and mad. Buggers should be birched!”

  Erica gave a dry chuckle. “Archie, our arbiter of good journalistic taste. But then again, maybe he’s not so wrong.”

  “Poor devil’s got a ton of trouble at home. Enough to make him tug on my arm and ask for some help.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Katherine did. Over lunch, she told Erica everything. How Archie had brought up his own grandson, the harassment and upheaval he now faced. “I can see you’re itching to write the story,” Erica said at last. “And if you include as much passion as you used in telling me the tale, you’ll have our entire readership in tears. Only that kind of story is not in my bailiwick. I can’t say yea or nay on it. All I can do is pass the idea on to Gerry Waller.”

  Katherine was satisfied with that. Gerald Waller, the Daily Eagle’s editor, was always st
ressing the importance of having plenty of human interest in the newspaper. Waller had probably been one of those at the budget meeting who had praised the story in that morning’s edition.

  As they drank coffee, Erica asked, “Made any plans for New Year’s Eve yet?”

  “A bit in the future, isn’t it?”

  “Cliff’s idea, actually. Why don’t you all spend it at the farm, and then you and Franz can be our guests for the New Year’s Day foxhunt meet. It’s ceremonial, really. Get dressed up in full regalia, assemble in the village square, have a picture taken for the local newspaper. Or are you” — she gave Katherine a look filled with suspicion — “one of those holier-than-thou nasties who opposes foxhunting?”

  “Do you ever catch any?”

  Erica shook her head. “We drag hunt, lay our own trail for the hounds. That way, there’s always a scent to follow, so no one’s disappointed. We get a good run for our money, plus we can dictate where the hounds run. No farms, no main roads, and no damned railway lines. Besides, you don’t really think my veterinarian husband would belong if we killed foxes, do you?”

  “I was wondering about that.”

  “We still get picketed by the real antihunt fanatics, though. They’re against the very principle of hunting. They can’t accept that we’re just having harmless fun. Too bad.”

  “Yes, it is,” Katherine agreed. “I’ll pencil the date in my diary now.”

  *

  Half an hour after returning from lunch, Katherine received a summons from Sally Roberts, editorial director of Eagle Newspapers. Katherine took just enough time to run a brush through her hair, then she took the elevator to the fifth and top floor — the group’s executive floor.

  Sally Roberts’s office was unlike any other on the top floor. The rest had somber paneling, dark carpet, the forbidding appearance of an exclusive men’s club. Sally’s was painted in pastel shades. The carpet had a bright pattern, and the furniture was modern. The ambience was Sally’s statement that the group had a woman on its board.