The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  As the solicitor paused, Skrone picked up the baton. “We demanded that Mr. Burgess’s company remove the faulty system, repay us the money we had invested in it, and offer some compensation for our losses. Not all of it, you understand, was covered by insurance. This they did, but only after legal maneuvers.” Skrone inclined his head toward Grimley, who gave a smug smile. “Mr. Burgess, whose fault the failure was, came out of the whole affair with rather a lot of egg on his face. He threatened to get his own back, and he used you to do so.”

  “How?” Katherine asked, although she could guess the answer.

  “He and his wife bought the MG Midget from Skrone Motors, perhaps a year before his company installed the alarm system. A few months ago, the Midget needed a clutch. Claiming that hard feelings no longer existed, Mr. Burgess brought the car to us, and we carried out the necessary work. I can assure you, Mrs. Kassler, that my company put in a new clutch. I would bet every penny I own that Mr. Burgess then replaced that brand-new clutch with some worn-out clutch he had found in a breaker’s yard, and used your ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed!’ column, and your own gullibility, Mrs. Kassler, to make Skrone Motors look bad.”

  “The Daily Eagle has not been a newspaper in this unfortunate affair,” Grimley added. “It has simply been the means of one man’s twisted vengeance against another. I am afraid that we cannot allow that situation to pass uncorrected.”

  Stunned by the entire revelation, Katherine demanded of Skrone, “Then why, in God’s name, did you say nothing about this to me at the time?”

  “Mrs. Kassler, you walked into my showroom with your mind already made up. You had swallowed Mr. Burgess’s story, hook, line, and sinker, and you were looking for a fight. When you asked for my comments, your manner was so ungracious and hostile that I felt you had already tried and convicted me. So, damn you, I thought, I’d let you carry on.”

  “Carry on until the story came out in print, where we all look terrible?”

  “I tried to stop you once more. On Friday. I called your office a number of times. At first, I was given the royal runaround. Finally, when I asked for your home number, after being told that you had left for the weekend, I was informed in a very snooty manner that there was no point in ringing you at home because you wouldn’t speak to me anyway. So, I thought: you publish, and you be damned.”

  Katherine turned to Waller. “What can we do about Burgess?”

  “Burgess doesn’t matter. Our concern is to clear this up.”

  “We will take action against Mr. Burgess, you can be assured of that,” Grimley promised. “However, we would like to come to some amicable arrangement with Eagle Newspapers. I have already discussed this with Mr. Skrone, and we agree that ample compensation would be a correction — written by your staff, and approved by us — of the same size as the original article. Your newspaper did, after all, carry the story in good faith. The only malice was contained in Mrs. Kassler’s attitude.”

  The two men left. Katherine remained standing in front of Waller’s desk, feeling like some naughty child on a trip to the headmaster’s study. Waller looked at her through the smoke of a freshly lit cigarette. “If this is the last we hear of this particular incident,” he said slowly, “then I think we can count ourselves very lucky. A correction is a cheap price to pay for what could have been a very nasty situation. Do you agree?”

  “Yes.” Katherine felt she had to say more. “Gerry, if you choose to dismiss me, I’m certain that my father wouldn’t interfere. He hired you to run the newspaper, as I heard you remind him once before.”

  Waller smiled at that. “I’m not going to dismiss you. But I can assure you that today’s ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed!’ will be the very last.”

  “What about my two assistants, Derek Simon and Heather Harvey? This had nothing to do with them.”

  “They’ll be offered other positions.”

  “And me? Do I go back to working with Erica Bentley?”

  Waller shook his head. “Erica already has a full staff. I had planned to transfer you to news.”

  Being responsible to Lawrie Stimkin, the Eagle’s news editor, was a blow to Katherine. Stimkin, a middle-aged bachelor, was known by the Eagle’s female staff members as Fleet Street’s leading male chauvinist pig. “If I elect not to take the job?”

  “Then you may resign. Please let me know by five o’clock.”

  Katherine walked back to her office in a daze. She took Derek and Heather out to lunch, and told them what had happened. When she returned, she found a message from Sally Roberts, asking her to come up to the executive floor.

  “What do you intend doing?” Sally asked her.

  “I’m staying, of course.”

  “As a news reporter?”

  “Sally, from that day in 1965 when my father launched the Eagle, it was my burning ambition to work on it. Nothing is going to drive me away from this place, not even the loss of my little empire.”

  “You might have to take some pretty hard ribbing.”

  “I can live with it. Has anyone spoken to my father?”

  “I did, after Gerry Waller spoke to you. Your father agreed with the action Gerry took. He was grateful to get out of this without an expensive libel action. He also told me that he was hoping you’d do exactly as you’re planning to do — stick it out as a news reporter, and not resign. Just don’t let Lawrie Stimkin wear you down. He’s driven more than one woman reporter out of the building.”

  “Like I said, Sally, nothing is going to chase me out of here. When I do eventually leave the Eagle, it will be because it’s time to move on. Not because someone has driven me to it.”

  Chapter Eight

  KATHERINE DID NOT take up her new position immediately. Owed vacation time, she decided to exchange the gloom of an English winter for the sunshine of Tenerife, in the Canary Islands. She booked airline flights and week-long hotel reservations for the entire household, confident that the change of scenery would benefit everyone. A week in the sun would help Henry’s arm to heal quicker. It would certainly pick up her own spirits, and it might even lift the veil of depression that had settled over Franz. When she broke the news to Franz, however, he told her that he was not interested in leaving London for a week.

  “You go,” he said. “Take the children with you and enjoy yourselves. I am quite content to stay here.”

  “And do what?” Stare into space? she wondered; watch whatever’s on the television?

  “I have to go to the hospital for therapy.”

  Katherine felt he was using that as an excuse. He did not want to go away with her and the children because he believed his broken body imposed on them. Like any loving husband and father, he wanted only what was best for his family; perversely, he felt that his absence from their lives fell into that category. It seemed that nothing could shake the despondency that imprisoned him. Even the counseling he received at the hospital had little effect, and when Katherine had suggested he seek other help, he had refused to listen to her.

  She changed the reservations, and flew to Tenerife with Henry and Joanne. While the children played on the beach and cavorted in the water, with Henry’s cast protected by a plastic bag, Katherine sat back and tried to come to terms with what had happened to her life.

  Not long ago, she’d been very proud of having a marriage and a career that were both successful. Pride had certainly gone before a fall. Now, the marriage was wallowing like a rudderless ship, and the career had been switched from the main line to a local track. She understood that there was nothing to be done about the marriage, not until Franz found a way out of his depression, but there was plenty she could do about the career. All she had to do was prove that she was the best news reporter on the Eagle, and while she was doing that, she’d keep eyes and ears open for other opportunities.

  For the first few days in Tenerife, the children never mentioned their father. On the day before they were due to fly home, Henry asked, “Will Daddy ever be able to walk again?”

/>   “I don’t know, darling.”

  “I broke my arm, and the doctor said it would be as good as new. Why can’t Daddy’s neck be as good as new?”

  Katherine lifted Henry up. “Necks are a lot more complicated than arms.”

  “Will he always be so angry?”

  “He isn’t angry,” Katherine answered. “He’s sad.” But she understood where Henry saw anger in his father’s frustration at being so dependent on others.

  Both children bought gifts for their father. He accepted them graciously and asked Henry and Joanne if they’d had a nice time in Tenerife. Then the curtain fell again, and Franz withdrew behind it. . . .

  Wearing a golden tan, and with her hair bleached even lighter by the Tenerife sun, Katherine turned up for her first day on the Eagle’s news desk. Lawrie Stimkin was waiting for her. He summoned her into his glass-fronted office — much larger than the one Katherine had used until her demotion — and gave her the same welcoming speech he issued to everyone.

  “Welcome to the best bloody news department on all of Fleet Street,” Stimkin growled in a heavy Scottish brogue. Fifty years old, he had left his native Glasgow twenty-eight years earlier to find newspaper fame in London. He had brought with him all the negative stereotypical characteristics of a Scot. He was notoriously cheap with a penny, always finding an excuse to disappear when his turn came to buy a round of drinks. He was dour in looks — possessing a long, lugubrious face with sunken brown eyes — and he was dour in nature, never joining in the laughter that greeted some ribald joke.

  “I want nothing fancy, nothing funny. Remember, we’re reporters here, not fiction writers. Double- and triple-check all facts and names. And if I see one story from you that uses prior to instead of before, or conflagration instead of fire, you’ll be out on Fleet Street before you can sing ‘God Save the Queen.’ Do I make myself clear, Kathy?”

  She let the “Kathy” pass. This time. “I’m familiar with Eagle style. I’m not exactly a newcomer to the company.”

  Stimkin glared at her, so neat and professional-looking. His own clothes — wrinkled sportcoat and trousers — looked positively shabby by comparison. “There’s one thing I need to know.” The deeply set eyes took on a gleam of humor. “Are you one of those women who burst into tears if a single word of their copy’s changed? Or are you the daddy’s-little-darling type, who’ll go running to her father because she thinks her words are too precious to be edited?”

  Katherine stared right back, refusing to yield in this battle of wills. She guessed that Stimkin viewed her as a natural enemy, because she came from a background totally different from his own. His father had been a dockworker and union official on Clydeside; his two brothers, a teacher and an engineer, were members of the Communist Party. Stimkin’s own political views were not so vehement, but Katherine guessed he detested nepotism. This was a part of the ribbing that Sally Roberts had told her to expect. You didn’t give up a shiny new Mercedes for a secondhand Volkswagen without other Volkswagen owners making comments.

  “Well, Kathy? Will you go running to your father?”

  Katherine understood that this was her moment of truth. She could either cave in now, or she could make the stand she had vowed to make. “My name is Katherine. If you call me Kathy one more time, I am going to plant this” — she tapped the pointed toe of her dark brown boot on the parquet floor — “where it will transform you from a bass-baritone into a coloratura soprano.”

  All humor disappeared instantly from Stimkin’s eyes. “See?” Katherine said. “I’ve just answered your question. I don’t need to run to my father, because I’m perfectly capable of fighting my own battles. And for your further information, I do not burst into tears when copy of mine is edited — professionally!”

  Katherine soon learned that the pace of the news desk was ten times faster than that of anything on which she had worked before. Lawrie Stimkin ran his reporters ragged. In her first day alone, Katherine’s assignments varied from interviewing a minor Hollywood celebrity who was staying at the Connaught, to covering a student demonstration at a college, topped off by reporting on a traffic accident. When she went home that evening, she was ready to drop. But the very next morning, when she came down for breakfast, her first act was to pick up the delivered copy of the Eagle. The only story of hers that was carried concerned the student demonstration. Her photograph, which had always accompanied her columns, was missing, and the subject matter was not what she would have chosen. But a byline was a byline, all the same.

  Stimkin kept her so busy that it wasn’t until her second week on the news desk that she found time to meet Erica Bentley for lunch. As they sat down in the restaurant, Erica said, “This is the first lunch we’ve had since Franz came home. Where have you been hiding?”

  “Hiding? Nowhere. I’ve just been forsaking old friends. I’m sorry, and now can we change the subject?”

  “All right. How do you like your new job?”

  “I don’t get to stand around and gather dust, that’s for sure. This morning, I had to interview some duchess whose husband had just run off with the maid. She bit my head off, demanded to know why newspapers couldn’t concentrate on the misfortunes of the poor . . . why we had to bother decent people. And this afternoon, I’m supposed to cover the opening of some strip club in Soho, where the strippers are men.”

  “Be sure to let me see the pictures.”

  Katherine grimaced. “To tell you the truth, Erica, I wish I was back working for you. Writing about women’s subjects was more fun than covering traffic accidents. Only Gerry said your department was full.”

  “That’s not exactly true. Gerry did talk to me about you, but I didn’t think it would do your career any good to come back to the women’s pages.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “You can’t go back in life, Katherine. If you can get past the fact that Lawrie Stimkin gets out of the wrong side of bed every morning, you’ll find that working for him will give you another perspective on this business. Believe me when I say it will help you grow professionally.”

  “I’ve picked up a few pointers from him already. But I certainly wouldn’t let him know that.”

  “Has he given you any trouble?”

  “He tried to. I told him if he didn’t quit, I’d kick him where it would make him a soprano.”

  Erica roared with laughter. “Good for you. You’re probably the first person who ever stood up to him.”

  After lunch, as they walked back to the Eagle building, Erica touched Katherine’s arm. “You haven’t been out to the farm for more than a year. Is it because of the accident?”

  “Yes. I used to love horses, Erica. The first piece of mail that was ever addressed to me was a copy of Horse and Hound. But now, all horses make me think of is that hideous day.”

  Erica nodded understandingly. “Just remember, when things get too hectic here, or too depressing at home, there’s always a place where peace and sanity prevail.”

  “Thanks, Erica. I will remember that. One weekend, when it gets a bit warmer, I’ll bring Henry and Joanne out for the day.”

  *

  After Katherine had been on news for two weeks, Lawrie Stimkin called her into his office. He was wearing the same rumpled sportcoat and creased trousers he always seemed to wear. Wondering whether he had any other clothes, Katherine smiled.

  “Something funny?” Stimkin asked.

  “Just remembering an amusing thing that happened on the way to work,” Katherine lied.

  Stimkin snorted. “Leave amusing anecdotes outside the building. Here, we’re concerned only with what’s news. Except for some departments, of course, which waste valuable space with advice to the lovesick, fashion tips, recipes, and the like.”

  “You think a newspaper should be nothing but hard news?”

  “Of course I do. That’s why it’s called a newspaper.”

  Katherine had never known Stimkin so talkative. She decided to capitalize on it. “Where do
I fit in? On a newspaper, or on one of the other pages?”

  “For the fortnight you’ve been working for me, you belong on a newspaper.” While Katherine digested the grudging compliment, the news editor added, “This afternoon, you can gorge yourself on cheap English plonk and curling cucumber sandwiches at the opening of some new hotel out by Heathrow Airport. The Chiltern Towers, it’s called.”

  “You don’t sound too keen on it.”

  “I’m not. What’s the point of another hotel? Instead of luxury accommodation, we need basic shelter for our homeless. Just be there, in case something out of the ordinary happens.”

  Katherine took a taxi to the Chiltern Towers, arriving there at three-thirty. Inside the hotel, burgundy-uniformed doormen guided journalists to the convention center, which was one of the features of the hotel. A public-relations person handed out press kits. Waiters offered cold champagne and hot hors d’oeuvres. Stimkin was wrong, Katherine thought with malicious pleasure — no cheap wine or curling cucumber sandwiches. The general manager of the hotel made a speech welcoming the “distinguished ladies and gentlemen” of the press. A ten-minute film about the new hotel was shown. Finally, it was time for the V.I.P. of the day — a lesser-known member of the House of Lords — to officially open Chiltern Towers.

  “Make a bet with you,” Katherine turned and whispered to the reporter from the Daily Mail, “that I junk my press kit before you throw away yours.”

  The lesser-known member’s head snapped up as the Mail reporter’s ribald laugh interrupted his hotel-opening speech.

  As the opening ceremony finished, the supply of champagne and food dried up. With nothing left to eat or drink, the reporters lost what little interest they had in the new hotel and began to drift away. Not caring who saw, Katherine dropped her press kit into the closest garbage can. As the lid slammed shut, a hand dropped gently onto her shoulder, and a voice said, “A lot of people worked very hard to produce that press kit, you know.”