‘I’m afraid it isn’t convenient. Good-bye, Mr Bartlett.’
‘Won’t you call me Hector?’
To my own astonishment I said, ‘No, I call you Pisseur de copie.’
The morning noise of the office took over. I remember it now in these sweet waking hours of the night that I still treasure so much, here far away from the scene of my life in those days, far away in time.
The morning clattered on, with the sound of Ivy’s typewriter and Cathy the book-keeper’s muttering, the sound of all our shoes on the bare boards of the office floor and the rattle of cups as one of us made the tea. There was also the usual visit of Patrick’s wife, Mabel, who that morning had found someone other than me to make a scene about, and whose noise-creating was indirect, consisting of the efforts of the others to reason her out of her fit. The outside telephone shrilled and the intercom buzzed. Ivy responded superciliously.
‘Mr York is in a meeting. May I take a message?’ — ‘Mr Ullswater is out of London for a few days. Who is calling? Can you spell that name, please?’ (Ivy’s ‘n’s sounded ’d’ so that ’name’ sounded like ’dame’) — ‘Mrs Hawkins is in a meeting. Oh, I don’t know when she’ll be free, would you like to try again?’ — ‘I’m afraid that Mrs Hawkins …’
Out of this general din, I heard my name wanted on the phone rather more frequently than usual.
‘Who are the people on the phone for me, Ivy?’ I said.
It’s one lady only. A Mrs Emma Loy. She’ll ring again, it’s urgent.’
Everyone who rang our office was always urgent, but Emma Loy was important even though she didn’t publish her books with the likes of us. I told Ivy, ‘Next time she rings I’ll take the call.’
She rang on the stroke of twelve. I remember this fact because it was my habit to silently recite the Angelus at twelve noon, and even if I was interrupted in the middle of it, the phrases went on in my head.
The angel of the Lord brought the tidings to Mary …
‘It’s Mrs Loy for you, Mrs Hawkins,’ Ivy sang out.
And she conceived by the Holy Ghost …
‘Hallo, Mrs Loy. How are you?’
‘I’m very worried. About Hector. What exactly did you do to him this morning?’
‘Me? Nothing. He wants to make a film out of one of your novels.’
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord …
‘He said you called him something, some very, very, strange epithet.’
… is with thee, blessed art thou …
‘All I said was “pisseur de copie”. It’s the absolute truth. Now, isn’t it?’
She must have known that it was. ‘Mrs Hawkins!’ she said, and rang off.
And the Word was made flesh …
That day I lost my job with the Ullswater Press. Martin York was in tears when he told me I had to go. Emma Loy had powerful friends in publishing and printing and, even worse, in the whisky business that Martin York was desperately trying to retrieve his fortunes by.
‘Why did you say it? What made you? It was a disastrous thing to say to anyone, Mrs Hawkins, especially to a close friend, and such a close friend, of Emma Loy.’
The late afternoon sun touched lovingly on the rooftops reminding me of time past and time to come, making light of the moment. I had really wanted to go. Really, I had. ‘I’ll send you your paypacket,’ said Martin York in a broken voice. And I wasn’t in the least surprised that he didn’t.
He was tried in October on eight charges of uttering forged bankers’ documents and intent to defraud. The case was all over the papers. Martin York pleaded guilty and was sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment, a stiff term even for those days. ‘Commercial life’, said the judge, ‘cannot be carried on unless people are honest;’ which simple sentiment was almost word for word what I had once told him myself. Only, I wouldn’t have jailed him for seven years on the strength of it.
After the sentence Hector Bartlett wrote numerous gloating articles about Martin York, full of vindictive and invented anecdotes which implied a close acquaintance. They appeared in some of the popular papers and got lost with the rest of the newspaper pulp. It wasn’t till many years later that the Pisseur himself resurrected them, added to and embroidered them, in his ridiculous old-age memoirs printed at his own expense, subtitled Farewell, Leicester Square. I read them only a few years ago, having picked up the book quite by chance on a remainder bookstall.
I had some savings and a small pension, so I had no need to find another job immediately. In the months between my abrupt departure from the Ullswater Press and Martin York’s arrest I wasted my time with a sense of justified guilt. I enjoy a puritanical and moralistic nature; it is my happy element to judge between right and wrong, regardless of what I might actually do. At the same time, the wreaking of vengeance and imposing of justice on others and myself are not at all in my line. It is enough for me to discriminate mentally and leave the rest to God.
‘Commercial life cannot be carried on unless people are honest.’ But no life can be carried on satisfactorily unless people are honest. About the time that the Ullswater Press folded up I recall reading a book about one of the martyred Elizabethan recusant priests. The author wrote, ‘He was accused of lying, stealing and even immorality.’ I noted the quaint statement because although by immorality he meant sex as many people do, I had always thought that lying and stealing, no less, constituted immorality.
In those months before his arrest Martin York telephoned me, at first frequently. He needed someone to whom to say ‘I must restore confidence in the business. Credibility, Mrs Hawkins. I must find other avenues. If I might say so without exaggeration I have a first-rate brain, some say brilliant.’
To answer the telephone in Milly’s house one had to stand in the hallway. There was no chair. It was not a suitable place for long conversations, especially with my great weight on my legs. I felt uncomfortable in every way, now, talking to him. It is not because we are rats that we tend to abandon people who are down, it is because we are embarrassed.
‘What good has he ever done you?’ Milly said. ‘Giving you the sack on the spot after all your work and overtime, and owing you your pay.’ He stopped telephoning after a while, perhaps not insensitive to my discomfort. But in the first weeks of my idleness I was incessantly called to the phone by the rest of the office about books in production left lying where I had left off, and the panic of their knowing that no one was coming to replace me. Cathy the book-keeper rang me.
‘You have to realize’, I said, ‘that the firm is broke. It’s only a matter of time. Why don’t you all look for another job?’
‘Another job I never find,’ Cathy said. ‘Where is another job for me? I know exclusively the Ullswater Press. Without the job I put my head in the gas oven.’
This was something I felt she would never do. It is true that survivors from the death-camps had been known to inflict on themselves later in life the very death they had escaped, but these were few. Cathy’s experience had made of her a natural survivor. Besides, I reflected, no one seriously talks of suicide in a special form unless they have envisaged it; in Cathy’s case I knew she had no gas stove. The room in Golders Green where she lived was one of ten in a converted house; each was equally fitted with an electric fire, an electric hot-plate and a meter. There was no housekeeper’s flat: Cathy paid her rent to an agency. I had been to supper with Cathy. She cooked on a many-tiered type of pot on the bain-marie principle, the lower pot being filled with water and gradually heating the others. From this contraption she had produced an impressive meal. But there was no gas-oven, no gas at all in the house, a fact that Cathy lamented. I promised to let her know if I heard of a job suitable for her. There was small hope that anyone would employ Cathy.
‘A job in publishing,’ specified Cathy with determination.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘I don’t want to come down in life,’ said this brave woman.
It was likewise with the rest of the staff
of the Ullswater Press. Ivy, whose total office experience was less than eighteen months, told me, ‘I look up the wanted secretarial in the papers every day but there’s nothing in publishing, Mrs Hawkins.’
Mabel, Patrick’s fraught wife, telephoned me.
‘Mrs Hawkins, is it true that the Press is busting up?’
‘I think so, Mabel,’ I said severely, not wishing her to overlook and forget her jealous scenes in the office.
‘And what is Patrick going to do, may I ask?’
‘You may ask,’ I said. ‘But ask Patrick, not me.’
‘But he has to have a job with books. He’s writing a book, Mrs Hawkins.’
‘Well, tell him to try a book warehouse or a bookshop. I’m afraid I have to go, I’ve got something on the stove.’
It was a relief one evening to be called to the phone, not the one in the hall but young Isobel’s private phone. She knocked at my door. ‘I’ve got Daddy on the line, Mrs Hawkins. He wants to speak to you.’ He wanted to ask me to dinner at the Savoy next Saturday, and I accepted with pleasure and joy. He said, ‘I look forward to that very much, Mrs Hawkins. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty, all right?’
‘Seven-thirty, Mr Lederer.’
I, too, looked forward to that very much. I sat chatting for a while in Isobel’s neat attic room, and would have chatted on had her telephone not begun to squeal again; some boyfriend or other.
Isobel was fair in colouring. The father was grey-haired, not old. I would have liked to know more about him, but I left Isobel to her phone calls. When we had all had lunch together after church the previous Sunday we hadn’t touched on anything so private as his wife, whether she was at home, dead or divorced. This was, in theory, something I should have known before accepting a dinner date with him. But only in theory. Nobody except mad Mabel would have put me in the husband-snatching class: I was Mrs Hawkins. I put my mind to what I would wear. For special occasions I had my black lace dress and my fur cape. I busied myself with shaking out the fur and pressing the dress. It was five years old but I didn’t want to dip into my good nest-egg for a new party dress in haste, and with all the difficulties of my size, simply on the strength of dinner at the Savoy.
‘He must be well-to-do, Mrs Hawkins,’ said Milly. ‘See how he provides for Isobel, her phone and her toll-calls every day, and look at her clothes. She takes a taxi when she wants.’
‘Where’s the wife?’ I said.
‘I’ll find out from Isobel,’ Milly said.
I begged her not to question Isobel just at this time. Isobel would know exactly why she was being questioned.
Milly said, ‘When I met him I thought he was a lovely gentleman. He would do lovely for you, Mrs Hawkins.’
‘I can’t forget the past,’ I said, for I had loved my late husband most dearly. I said, it could never be quite the same.’ But in cases like this, we never want it to be quite the same.
That week I was called downstairs to the phone by Emma Loy.
‘Yes, Mrs Loy?’
‘Oh, Mrs Hawkins, I just wanted you to know that I’ve no ill-feelings. I understand you left Ullswater Press, am I right?’
‘Yes, I lost my job.’
‘I want you to know that I wouldn’t, myself, dream of giving Hector an introduction to Martin York’s uncle. Hector is not to be trusted. As for the film of any of my novels, I’ve no need whatsoever for introductions. I’m not even sure that Hector is quite the person to adapt them. It was only that I thought it strange, the objection coming from you, and Hector was offended. I had to say a word.’
‘He is a pisseur de copie,’ I said.
‘Jobs in publishing, Mrs Hawkins, are very hard to come by. You might bear that in mind. I could put in a word for you in many quarters. Only you must, simply must, retract.’
‘I’ve got something boiling over, Mrs Loy.’
Saturday night, there I sat at the Savoy, by candlelight, eating their speciality of salmon mousse and sipping white wine, opposite Hugh Lederer, feeling quite as well turned-out as anyone else in the room.
I forget what we ordered next: something exotic. This was in the last few weeks of all food-rationing and the Savoy was making an anticipatory splash. But I ate very little of the exotic dish because it was at this point that Hugh Lederer leaned forward and put his hand on mine. ‘Mrs Hawkins,’ he said, with a change of voice.
He had a good voice, full of deep modulations. In appearance-and I try to see him as I had seen him so far-he was very well built, not fat, but large and slightly taller than I. He had that sort of tanned and lined face I had always associated with retired civil servants from the Colonies and with secretaries of golf clubs.
‘Mrs Hawkins,’ he said, ‘I can see you are a very understanding woman.’
I didn’t care greatly for this; I thought the gesture came too soon and the words made me out to be some kind of a comforter, if not an outright madam. I said absolutely nothing and he took his hand away. I felt rather sorry for him, then, and supposed he was only a bit awkward. During the mousse he had told me he was in the porcelain business and had plans for opening up a trading line in Czechoslovakia and Bavaria. I had told him in return that I liked fine china and admired old Czechoslovakian glass.
I hadn’t had time to tell him I had lost my job. Only the Sunday before, when I had lunch with him and Isobel after church, I had been saying how interesting it was to work in publishing.
He said, now, ‘I wonder if my daughter Isobel would do well in publishing? She had a very good education.’
‘It’s difficult’, I said, ‘to get into publishing. What is she doing now?’
‘Secretary,’ he said. ‘In a chartered accountants’ office, Gray’s Inn. But I’d like to get her into publishing. She’d meet more cultured people, nicer people.’
‘Cultured people are not necessarily nicer people,’ I told him. ‘Frequently, the reverse.’
‘Oh,’ he said,’ but surely in publishing you get to meet authors, artists, people of that kind? Interesting people, I mean.’
‘Yes, that’s true. But it’s mostly dealing with books, not people.’
‘I want Isobel to meet a better sort of people. Like yourself, Mrs Hawkins. I value your friendship with Isobel very much.’
Now, I had only a rooming-house acquaintance with young Isobel; and I could see that at least a part of dinner at the Savoy was in aid of my getting Isobel a job in publishing.
‘I’ve lost my job in publishing,’ I said. ‘So I can’t help.’
‘Oh, you no longer work for that firm you were working for last week?’
‘No longer. Anyway, I don’t recommend publishing for your daughter. The secretaries are underpaid; everyone’s underpaid.’
‘Well, it’s a sort of privilege job, isn’t it?’ he said.
Whatever it was we were eating I wasn’t enjoying it. The candlelight and the wine and my black lace dress, Mr Lederer’s white cuffs with gold cuff-links and his tanned, lined face seemed to accuse me of being there under false pretences. I began to remind myself that I was Mrs Hawkins and I didn’t need a dinner at the Savoy, while Hugh Lederer proceeded with his protest to the effect that in a privileged job like publishing one didn’t care about the pay.
‘In Isobel’s case the salary is a secondary consideration,’ he said. ‘It’s a question of the elements. I’d like her to meet certain literary elements, more above the commercial, you realize, Mrs Hawkins. If you should hear of an opening —’
‘I’ll let you know if I hear of anything for Isobel but I’m looking for a job myself.’
The people at the other tables, in twos, fours, sixes, were having a good time. So I supposed. The people at the other tables always look happy by soft lights in those restaurants where the talk and tinkle are not too loud. I thought I, too, ought to feel tranquil with that looked-after sensation that good restaurants bring about. But I was uneasy, and perceived that Mr Lederer was aware of it. And at the same time, I must say, I felt sorr
y for him, with Isobel so much on his mind that he had to dine out so ambiguously for her.
‘How did you come to lose your job so suddenly, Mrs Hawkins?’
I told him the story, across the elegant table.
‘And what was that French name that you called the man? I didn’t catch —’
‘Pisseur de copie.’
‘Which means?’
He knew what it meant but was hoping he was wrong.
I told him. And I said, ‘In the literary world there are many pisseurs de copie.’
He was smiling feebly, overcome with great embarrassment. Which gave me a certain satisfaction.
‘But Hector Bartlett is the top pisseur of our literary scene,’ I said; and I only mentioned the name, Hector Bartlett, to give authenticity to my tale. I didn’t expect him to know the name, but he did.
‘Hector Bartlett. But Isobel knows him. She met him at a party or in a pub with some friends, and he’s trying to get her a job in publishing, too. I haven’t met him personally, but he has a certain influence. Only I thought that you, Mrs Hawkins, might be more in the know. Poor fellow, does he have a real problem of the bladder, then?’
‘No, I was speaking metaphorically.’
Dance music was playing somewhere. I ate those small oblongs of toasted bread with oysters, anchovies and other involvements, called angels on horseback, which were then more commonly served at the end of a meal than they are now. Mr Lederer had a brandy.
‘Isobel’, he explained, ‘likes artists and so on. She goes to those pubs and places where they all meet together and talk about culture. But I mustn’t bore you.’
‘Isobel should go to concerts, art galleries and poetry readings,’ I said.
He got a taxi and insisted on taking me to the door.
‘Good-night, Mrs Hawkins. It was nice to have your company.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr Lederer.’ Whether Isobel’s daddy was married, divorced, widowed or simply a bachelor, I was never to know.
Indoors, there was a sound of revelry from Milly’s kitchen. On investigation I found it did not arise from revelry but from consternation. Wanda’s anonymous menacer had struck again, this time by telephone, only half an hour before, at quarter-past eleven. Wanda had roused the house and here she was, weeping and drinking tea, with Milly; with Basil and Eva Carlin, those quiet ones from the front bed-sitting-room; Kate Parker, the district nurse; with young Isobel, sleepy and yawning, her hand delicately patting her open mouth; with the medical student William Todd, fishing cotton wool out of an aspirin bottle; with, in fact, all of us. The Carlins wore Liberty dressing-gowns, looking better dressed than they did in the daytime, and in fact somewhat romantic. It occurred to me they were in love. Kate Parker had put on a white overall over her pyjamas. William Todd was wearing striped cotton pyjamas; his pocket didn’t run to dressing-gowns. Wanda had on a purple taffeta kimono and Milly a blue silk one. And Isobel wore something of transparent pink nylon. I, in my black lace dress with my fur over my arm, caused a temporary silence, possibly astonishment. Then Wanda began, all over again, to tell her tearful story interspersed with the comments of the little crowd. Everyone had gone to bed. The telephone had rung. William had bolted down to answer. It was a man, urgently demanding Mrs Podolak. William had fetched her and started to climb the stairs to his room again. The house was then awakened by a long scream from Wanda.