Memories of You (22 page)

Long before she reached the top landing she could hear the sound of typing, and judging by the rhythm it sounded much more professional than her own. The door was ajar. Helen paused before she knocked. She had no idea what to expect but imagined the room might look like one in a film she'd seen about a plucky girl reporter who had battled with the editor and finally won his heart, as well as making her point.

‘Come in, come in!' someone shouted just as she was about to knock. ‘I can see you hovering there. Do come in, we don't bite.'

What she saw was nothing like the film set. It was simply an untidy room with two desks positioned opposite each other under the sloping eaves and any spare bit of wall lined with filing cabinets and bookshelves.

‘Ah, there you are,' the voice continued, and Helen turned to face a jolly-looking girl with a mass of curly hair who was sitting at one of the desks. She looked far too young to be the editor of a magazine. In fact she didn't look much older than Helen herself.

‘I take it from that envelope you're clutching that you want us to read some of your work?'

‘Yes . . . I mean, no. You've already read it. You asked me to come and discuss it. I'm Helen Norton.'

‘Ah, yes.' The girl smiled brightly. ‘Lovely to meet you. I'm Charlotte. Charlotte Street. Isn't that a hoot?'

‘A hoot?'

‘My name. Charlotte
Street
!'

Remembering the route she had taken to get here, Helen smiled.

‘My mother has no sense of humour whatsoever so I can only presume she's rather dim,' Charlotte said. ‘I like to get that over with at the start,' she added. ‘And we won't mention it again if you don't mind.'

‘Of course not.'

‘And now you'd better meet my boss who is also my aunt. She's my mother's sister but she's not a bit dim, are you, Jocelyn dear?'

Charlotte smiled across the room at the woman sitting opposite her. Helen was flustered. She'd been so taken up by Charlotte's eccentric greeting that she hadn't turned to look at the occupant of the other desk. She did so now and saw a woman who was as thin as Charlotte was plump, and who was rather beautiful in a faded but distinguished way.

‘Jocelyn Graves,' the editor introduced herself, ‘and I'm glad you came, Helen. I think we have something very promising here. But do sit down. Charlotte, shift that pile of paper off that chair, will you, and brew up a pot of tea.'

Charlotte took the papers from the chair, stood and looked round indecisively for a moment and then dumped them on the floor. She dragged the chair closer to her aunt's desk and then left the room. Moments later she was back with a tray of tea and biscuits and the discussion began.

‘I have to admit you are younger than I imagined,' Jocelyn Graves began. ‘You have a very confident style.'

‘Do I?'

‘No false modesty, please. You must know that you're good.'

Helen flushed. She wasn't pretending to be modest; she was genuinely surprised. However, she thought it best not to say anything when things seemed to be going well.

Charlotte had taken her tea to her own desk and resumed her typing. Outside a wind had risen and was hurling rain against the windows. Helen became aware that the room was chilly and she glanced at the hearth and saw that a fire had been there recently but that it had died. The coal scuttle was empty.

Jocelyn Graves saw her momentary puzzlement and laughed. ‘We operate by the skin of our teeth here,' she said. ‘I put my own money into this venture, and although we're not exactly broke I won't be able to pay you very much.'

‘Pay me? You mean you're going to publish my articles?'

‘I do indeed, my dear, but I asked you to come and talk to me because you will have to make some changes.'

‘Of course! Anything!' I shouldn't have said that, Helen thought immediately, she might want me to make changes I don't agree with.

Miss Graves smiled when she noticed Helen's frown. ‘Don't worry,' she said. ‘Nothing major. But I take it Stefano's is a real restaurant?'

‘Yes.'

‘And Stefano is the owner and Marina is his wife?'

Helen nodded.

‘And Dorothy? She's an interesting character. She's real?'

Helen smiled. ‘Absolutely.'

‘Well, you'll have to change all the names. We don't want to be sued.'

‘Sued? But I haven't written anything that isn't true – or anything too dreadful about anyone.'

‘You can never tell what will cause offence.' Miss Graves smiled. ‘And also we don't want the readers to identify the place. They will try to, of course. That will be part of the fun. Usually they will get it wrong, but if anybody guesses and asks you, you must deny it. Also you'll have to keep your own secret. If anyone suspects that you are writing these pieces it will all be over. No one will act naturally in your presence again.'

‘I didn't think of that.'

‘Don't worry. I'll keep you right. By the way, these incidents you write about, they are true, aren't they? I mean they are fact, not fiction?'

‘I didn't make them up.'

‘Or even embellish them a little?'

Helen thought for a moment and then said, ‘I didn't embellish but I did edit.'

Jocelyn Graves raised her eyebrows. ‘Good answer. Here, let me see.' She reached across the desk for the envelope Helen was holding. She took the sheets of foolscap out and read through them quickly. ‘This shouldn't take much work,' she said. She shuffled the papers and added, ‘These four can go in with only the changes I mentioned. The other two need cutting. Each piece should be about a thousand words. But before we go ahead I have to ask if you can keep this up. Can you write something about your life as a waitress in London every week or have you put all your heart and soul and all your experience into the pieces I have here?'

‘No . . . things happen every day, I'm always taking note – interesting people, the things they say; I've kept a diary for years just so that I could remember everything.'

‘Good. Now if I make some notes will you take these home and work on them?'

‘I'll bring them back tomorrow!'

Jocelyn Graves laughed. ‘Well, if you can. But we haven't mentioned your fee, have we?' She sighed. ‘I'm afraid all I can offer you is seven guineas. Will that do, or do you want to take your work elsewhere? I'm sure it will be accepted.'

‘No, I sent it to you because I think
Potpourri
is just the right place for it. And seven guineas will do very nicely. Although . . . is that . . . I mean . . .'

‘What are you trying to say?'

‘Is that for all six of them, or only for the four that don't need much work?'

Miss Graves opened her eyes wide and then smiled. ‘Oh, my dear girl, I don't approve of slave labour. I mean seven guineas for each piece, paid on acceptance.'

‘Each piece?'

‘Yes.'

‘Seven guineas?'

‘Yes, and from the looks of you right now I think I should ask Charlotte to make another pot of tea, or better still let's celebrate with a glass of good Scotch whisky, a bottle of which I just happen to keep in the top drawer of my desk.'

Without being asked, Charlotte bustled over with three mismatched glasses. ‘Good-oh!' she said. Then, ‘Down the hatch!' as the three of them raised their glasses and drank a toast to Helen's future as a feature writer for
Potpourri
.

Helen had never had whisky before – or anything stronger than a glass of wine if Stefano was feeling generous and Marina was in a good mood. After she had caught her breath she decided that it probably wouldn't be the drink of her choice but nevertheless it was fitting that this moment in her life should be celebrated.

Miss Graves decided they would make the minor changes to four of the manuscripts there and then and the windows were dark by the time Helen left the office. Charlotte was busy tidying up. If lifting piles of papers from one place and putting them down in another could be called tidying.

‘By the way,' Miss Graves said as she was slipping on her coat. ‘The title. I'm going to stay with the one you've given it – “À la carte” – I don't think I could have thought of a better one myself.'

 

On the way home Helen called at Eli's, a delicatessen not far from where she lived, and bought a couple of crusty bread rolls, some really smelly cheese, a few slices of salami, olives and a pickled cucumber from the barrel beneath the counter. She also bought herself a large slice of almond cheesecake. Coffee, she thought, a really good coffee, not the bottle of coffee essence I usually settle for. She perched on the high chair beside the counter and waited while Eli ground the beans. She savoured the different aromas and the atmosphere of the shop, at the same time delighting in the variety of customers who called there.

Alone in her room she set her private banquet out picnic-fashion on a tablecloth on the floor, lit the gas fire and threw down some cushions to sit on. It didn't bother her in the slightest that she had no one to share her feast with, or to share her triumph. She would write about it in her diary later, try to record for posterity what it was like to have a dream come true, but tonight, as well as feeling pleased by her success, she couldn't help thinking what this would mean to her financially.

Seven guineas for each article. Was it really true? At the restaurant she earned thirty shillings a week plus tips. Most customers were generous and sometimes the tips added up to more than her wages. She wasn't exactly starving, especially as Stefano gave the staff at least one good meal every day. But an extra seven guineas a week was more than she had ever dreamt of earning. Her life could change dramatically.

Or could it? Not really, she thought. I can't give up my job; I need it if I'm going to go on writing about the life of a waitress. And I can't suddenly move out of here and find a better place to live – a modest little apartment, for example. Dorothy would want to know why – and how I could afford it. If she saw the articles in
Potpourri
she would put two and two together straight away, and Miss Graves said I must remain anonymous.

Helen stared at the gas fire which had begun to splutter and pop as the money in the meter ran out. Well, at least I'll be able to keep that little monster fed with pennies, she thought, and if I can't buy myself some nice new clothes I could at least buy some luxurious lingerie, sheer and lightweight instead of sensible and serviceable. No one would ever see my underwear. She laughed nervously. What on earth put that idea into my head? She stared at the half of the pickled cucumber left on her plate. Could the vinegar have fermented? Could she be drunk?

By the time Helen had cleared up and gone to bed she knew exactly what she was going to do with any money she earned. She was going to open a bank account and save as much as she could. She remembered how her aunt's ninepence a day had given her a satisfying sense of independence. Well, how much more independence would seven guineas a week give her?

One day, she thought, in two or three years' time, perhaps, I may have saved enough money to buy a house of my own. Somewhere for me to live with my sister and my brothers when we are all together again.

 

Helen worked on her features for
Potpourri
and opened a bank account as she had planned. She kept her word to herself and saved almost all of the money she earned from her writing, but she did discover a hitherto unexpected side of her character. Now that she could afford it she craved a little luxury, so she gave in and indulged herself in the luxurious silk underwear that she was sure no one would ever see.

She also, much more sensibly, had her eyes tested and bought herself a pair of spectacles. The lenses were round and the frames were of faux tortoiseshell. She wore them at home when she was writing but also took them to work to wear in her lunch or tea breaks when she might read the paper.

When Dorothy first saw her wearing them she told Helen that she looked like a schoolteacher or a socialist. This was a favourite expression of hers. Helen remembered that that was how Dorothy had referred to Matthew. Then she had been joking but now when she said it to Helen, there was a slight hint of disapproval.

‘Well, what's wrong with that?' Helen asked.

Dorothy sighed. ‘Honestly, Helen, you have no idea at all, do you? I mean, you'd be quite attractive if you tried harder but you just don't seem to care.'

Helen smiled and tried to laugh it off, and looked away so that Dorothy would not see how hurt she was.
Quite
attractive. Was that all she was? And was that why Matthew Renshaw never seemed to have noticed her as a real live person?

She glanced back at Dorothy. No one could say that she didn't make the best of herself. Her hair was always cut and styled in the latest fashion and every spare penny was spent on cheap copies of the latest collections from Paris. And what had this brought her? It had brought a relationship with a man who either didn't want or wasn't able to commit to her. There were things Helen could say to Dorothy that might be just as hurtful. But she wouldn't say them. She knew she would never be able to say anything that might destroy another person's dreams.

 

Danny liked to take a book and sit in a park or a garden square. Joe encouraged him to do this, saying the fresh air and the sunshine would be good for him. He had his favourite places but he also liked to discover somewhere new. This was the first time he had come to Russell Square, which made what happened all the more amazing.