Chapter 2 #2
‘Save it, son,’ Reg told him shortly. ‘Don’t matter if you’ve got fifty years’ experience in papers. It’s this magazine you need to know – this magazine and this place.’
‘And what about when she buggers off to have a baby?’ Tony demanded. ‘Waste of time employing women.’
Bobby felt her colour rise, and hid her cheeks by pretending to blow her nose.
‘We’ll talk about that when the time comes,’ Reg said firmly. ‘Now get to work, the pair of you.’
Bobby floated to her desk in a daze.
Deputy editor! It was everything she’d dreamed of when she came to work here. Perhaps Reg was even thinking she’d take over from him as editor one day. When the war ended and paper became once again plentiful, who knew to what heights the little magazine might rise?
Bobby felt elated for a moment, until her fluttering belly brought her back to earth. Her excitement had awoken Marmaduke. It reminded her that this was only temporary – just for a month or two, until she left to take up her duties as a mother.
What would happen then? Reg would promote Tony to deputy editor, she supposed, and hire a junior reporter to work under him.
It would be unlikely there would be any way back for her once the baby was born.
Bobby knew well enough from Lilian how all-consuming the responsibilities of a new mother were.
There would be no time to think of writing between changing napkins, washing, cooking and cleaning.
The irony of it – of being offered everything she had dreamt of, only to then have it snatched away – brought a lump to her throat.
She forced it down, feeding a sheet of paper rather violently into her typewriter. Ridiculous to be crying over good news. Marmaduke’s fault, she supposed. Her emotions seemed to lurch between extremes far too easily these days.
Too curious to wait until Monday, Bobby hurried to the Parrys’ cottage as soon as she finished work at midday, stopping only to promise Mary that she would return shortly to help her and Lil with the Christmas baking.
The captain might well be working a shift at the department store in Bradford where he was employed as a tailor, but if he was at home, Bobby was sure he would let her peep inside her new office. If he wasn’t, she could at least peer over the wall.
‘Shed’ didn’t sound too promising. It made her think of the rotting wooden construction on her dad’s old allotment in Bradford. Then again, in the Dales, ‘shed’ could refer to buildings of many sizes. It might just as easily be a large cowshed as one of the garden variety.
More importantly, though, what condition was it in? Bobby didn’t relish the idea of an office reeking of animal dung, with rainwater leaking through the roof and wind whistling through cracks in the wall.
She spotted Tony a little way ahead, also heading for the Parrys’ place. Bobby should have guessed he would have had the same idea.
Well, she supposed it was no bad thing to have an opportunity to clear the air.
Her brother-in-law had been casting her resentful glances all morning, her promotion over him clearly rankling, and she knew from long experience that there was nothing harder to extract work from than Tony Scott in a sulk.
She hailed him, and he slowed to let her catch him up.
‘You should have waited and we could have walked over together,’ she said when she fell into step beside him. ‘Don’t forget it’s me who’s got the key.’
‘Not likely to forget, am I?’ he said grumpily, choosing to interpret this as an attempt to rub her seniority in his face.
Bobby nodded to the cottage up ahead.
‘What do you think of all this?’ she asked. ‘I suppose it’s a good sign. The magazine must be in a strong position if Reg is willing to put it in our hands.’
‘I just hope he’s not dying. Never thought he’d retire while he was still able to hold his blue pencil.’ Tony turned a resentful gaze on her. ‘Followed me to gloat, did you?’
‘Don’t be daft, Tony.’
He thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘It was bad enough when Don Sykes made you his pet at the Courier, but Atherton really seems to think you’re God’s gift to journalism.’
Bobby shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve worked for him longer. You shouldn’t take it so personally.’
‘Helps your career prospects if you’re married to his brother, I reckon.’
‘Perhaps it does.’ She smiled warmly. ‘And since you’re married to my sister, that makes The Tyke a thoroughly family affair. Let’s not fall out over it, eh?’
‘Bloody humiliating when I’m made junior to a bird on a tinpot rag like this, after ten years in the newspaper business,’ Tony muttered.
‘It’s that attitude that’s going to keep you junior as well,’ Bobby said sharply, her patience thinning. ‘Reg promoted me because I understand what’s special about The Tyke. All you ever do is sneer at it.’
Tony ignored this.
‘Not going to put on airs and start ordering me about, are you?’ he demanded. ‘Don’t forget who gave you your start in this business.’
Tony often threw this in her face, which Bobby felt was rich considering what ‘giving her her start’ actually meant – getting her to write his copy back when she was still a humble typist, while he took his girlfriends out on the newspaper’s time.
She felt that now wasn’t the time to bring this up, however, and adopted a conciliatory tone.
‘Things won’t be any different, I promise – except that with Reg stepping back, we can both have more creative control,’ she told him. ‘It’ll be a partnership.’
‘Apart from the extra few bob you’ll be pocketing.’
‘I’ll gladly split the difference. One and six a week is a small price to pay if it’s going to stop you sulking.’
‘No thanks,’ Tony said, adopting a superior expression. ‘I won’t take charity.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘But you’ll take a pint at the Hart later, won’t you? You, me, Lil and Charlie can make up a foursome, and my dad can mind Annie. Show there’s no bad blood, eh?’
Tony looked slightly mollified. ‘Aye, all right. Just don’t be getting ideas above your station because you’ve got “editor” after your name. It don’t mean owt.’
They’d reached the cottage now, and Tony rapped on the door.
It wasn’t Captain Parry who answered but Florrie, with Ace the border collie at her feet.
The dog immediately hurtled out and flung himself at his old friend Bobby.
He was a sizeable hound now, quite capable of winding her, but no one could persuade him he wasn’t the same ball of fluff as when he’d first joined the family.
Bobby laughed as she made a fuss of him.
Ace was full of beans but Florrie seemed rather tired, Bobby thought.
She wondered if growing pains had been costing the child sleep.
Florence was really getting quite grown-up now – she would be celebrating her thirteenth birthday in the summer.
Already she was nearly as tall as Bobby, seeming to gain inches whenever the adults turned their backs on her.
But tired as she looked, Florrie grinned to find a friend on the doorstep.
‘Hullo, Bobby.’ She turned dutifully to Tony. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Scott.’
Tony gave an awkward ‘good afternoon’ in return. Unused to the company of children, he often seemed ill at ease around the Parrys. The girls sensed his wariness and rarely prattled to him as they did to other members of the family, reserving their best formal manners for him.
Having observed the social niceties, Florrie turned her attention back to Bobby.
‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ she said. ‘Me and Jessie want to go to Moorside and help Mary with the mince pies, only Dad said we’d to wait till he came home. But if you go with us, I bet he won’t mind.’
‘I’m sure Mary will be grateful for extra help, as long as you’re not just after her carefully hoarded raisins,’ Bobby said, laughing. ‘Mr Scott and I were hoping to talk to your dad. Is he at work?’
‘No, he went into Skipton for summat. Jessie says she bets it’s Christmas presents.’ Florrie looked at Bobby hopefully. ‘Do you think it is?’
‘I’m sure I couldn’t say,’ Bobby said with a smile.
‘You can come in if you want. Dad says we’re not to let people in when he’s out, but I think he meant strangers, not you. Jess is in the garden, feeding her hens.’
‘We came hoping to look at something. Reg told us your dad’s got a shed we’re to use for the magazine. Do you know about it?’
The girl’s eyes kindled. She had always taken a lively interest in the magazine, earnestly working on stories of her own in the hope that one day, she too could join the staff of The Tyke.
‘Yes, it’s the shepherd’s hut in the field behind our garden,’ she said eagerly. ‘I didn’t even know it was ours. We’ve never been allowed to play in it, because there used to be rats and stuff.’
Bobby shuddered. Rats! She hoped Reg had been thorough in evicting these former residents.
‘Can we have a look inside then?’ Tony asked Florrie, more gruffly that he probably intended.
‘I guess that’s all right,’ Florrie said. ‘I’ll take you to it.’
She led the way through the house, swaggering a little in her role as guide. Bobby tried not to smile.
In the garden, they found Jessie sitting by her little chicken coop, singing to the two young hens that Mary had given her from her brood of chicks.
Jessie, too – now all of nine years old – was growing up.
This was reflected in her new fascination with what her big sister scoffingly called ‘the lovey pictures’.
Jess was an avid reader of the film magazines Lilian saved for her, sighing besottedly over every big-screen romance and cutting out pictures of her favourite stars.
Her hens, therefore, had been christened Joan and Olivia, after the leading ladies she most admired.
Jessie had been convinced of the power of song to produce more and better eggs ever since she had tended Mary’s elderly biddies at Moorside, and every day spent half an hour singing earnestly to her own girls. Bobby smiled when she heard what the child was chanting.
‘Old Hitler’s a funny ’un, he’s a face like a pickled onion,’ Jess warbled in a dirge-like tone. ‘A nose like a squashed tomato, and eyes like green peas.’
‘I dread to think what flavour eggs you’ll get with that song, Jess,’ Bobby said with a laugh.
The child squealed and jumped up to hug Bobby around the waist. Bobby lifted her up to swing her around, pleased to see the girl but fearful lest Jess noticed her thickening waist. She would have to be cautious about hugs from the children if she wanted to keep her pregnancy secret.
‘It’s all right,’ Jess said when Bobby had put her back down. ‘Dad says Joanie and Livvy lay their best eggs when I sing songs about Hitler being bad. I bet they hate him as much as us human beings do.’
‘Well that’s mightily patriotic of them.’
‘Have you come for a game?’ the girl asked hopefully. She glanced at Tony. ‘You can both play.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Bobby said. ‘I promised to help Mary with the Christmas preparation after work, and then I have to make tea for your Uncle Charlie. Mr Scott and I came to take a look at your dad’s shed.’
Jessie jutted her lip. ‘Aww. You promised you’d play Spy School next you saw us.’
‘This isn’t an official seeing you. Spy School is for tomorrow at Moorside, after Sunday dinner.’ Sundays were family days, when Athertons, Scotts and Parrys would gather for a convivial meal and an afternoon in each other’s company.
‘But a quick game though?’ Jess asked. ‘Half an hour isn’t long.’
‘I really don’t have time, sweetheart.’ Bobby bent to kiss the child’s head. ‘But I know Mary’s desperate for help with her baking, and I’m certain Lilian would let you help put Annie to bed afterwards.’
‘Ooh, yes please!’ Florrie said. ‘And may I read her a story from my book? I’ve written a new one.’
‘You’d better ask her father.’
‘May we, Mr Scott?’ Florrie asked, turning to him with pleading eyes.
Even Tony had to smile at the children’s fondness for the baby, who they cooed over as if she was the most precious thing in the world.
‘She’d like that,’ he said, in a softer, less awkward voice. ‘She loves stories and lullabies.’
‘I’ll do the lullaby,’ Jessie said eagerly. ‘I’m best at singing and Florrie’s best at stories.’
Bobby laughed. ‘All right, but nothing about Hitler. We don’t want to give baby Annie nightmares, do we? Flor, can you show us the shed?’
Florrie pointed to a building at the end of the field behind their garden. ‘That’s it. I haven’t got the key but you can look through the window.’
‘That’s all right, I’ve brought the key Reg gave me. I hope your father won’t mind if we peek in.’
‘We’ll show it to you,’ Florrie said, and Bobby and Tony followed her and her sister to the shed.