Chapter 31
Bobby received a telegram from Jake the next morning, letting her know he had arrived at his barracks safely.
She also received a rather longer letter from Kathleen a few days later, thanking her for her kindness and letting her know that Jake had been confined to barracks for a month as punishment for going AWL.
This was lenient, considering. Bobby guessed the CO had been sympathetic when he heard the story of the two young lovers and imposed the minimum punishment.
She was thankful Jake’s confinement would be over by the time his baby was born.
One Tuesday over a week later, Bobby woke rather late.
Now she was drawing closer to the birth, Marmaduke seemed to have decided he might as well enjoy sleeping in.
She was going to have to stop relying on him and start setting the alarm, or she’d never manage to get everything done.
It would be a mere two months now until the baby arrived, and only a month until Charlie would be travelling to London to receive his DFC.
Bobby had seen Dr Minchin, and while he had reminded her there was no guarantee Marmaduke wouldn’t decide to arrive ahead of time, he had said there was no significant danger in making the journey.
That was good enough for Bobby, who informed Charlie she would be coming with him whether he liked it or not.
Major blitzes were rare these days, with only the occasional ‘tip and run’ raid, so she wasn’t worried on that score either.
She hoped Marmaduke’s new-found tardiness didn’t imply any unwillingness to come out. She was heartily sick of being big and sore and having ankles the size of oranges. As afraid as Bobby was of giving birth, she was beginning to feel the day couldn’t come soon enough.
Charlie’s side of the bed was empty, but Bobby could hear him bustling about so she knew he hadn’t gone to work. She pushed her feet into her slippers before seeking him out in the parlour. He was bent over the coffee table, writing.
‘Morning,’ she said, yawning. ‘Sorry I overslept. Have you had breakfast?’
‘Yes, I made myself some toast.’
‘What are you writing?’
‘A note for you. You might as well read it now you’re here.’
He handed it to her.
Don’t forget I’m seeing Roger Turner in the Hart after work so will be later than usual.
This was followed by some Pitman’s shorthand. Charlie’s skills hadn’t progressed enough yet for him to write the whole note that way.
‘What’s this supposed to say?’ Bobby asked him.
‘“I love you”. Doesn’t it?’
‘Not quite. You’ve got some of your strokes the wrong way round. What you’re actually telling me is that you vole me.’
‘Oh. Well, that’s close enough.’ He came to take her in his arms. ‘I’d better go for my bus.’
‘Good luck with Roger. I hope he buys the instruments.’
‘So do I. I’ll give him my finest spiv patter, quite worthy of a Peter Dixon.’
‘Good idea, and pay for his beer as well.’ Bobby gave him a squeeze. ‘Have a good day, darling. You do really, truly vole me, don’t you?’
‘You and only you, Mrs Atherton.’
He pressed a kiss to her hair before grabbing his hat and hurrying out.
Bobby was sitting down to a breakfast of boiled egg, toast and orange juice when the post arrived.
Along with extra eggs and milk, orange juice was one of the few perks of her pregnancy, since what supplies there were of the precious vitamin-filled liquid were available only to expectant mothers and young children.
You couldn’t always get it even with one of the special green ration books, but Bobby had been lucky enough to find some put aside for her under the grocer’s counter on her last shopping day.
She tried to savour it, knowing her days of enjoying this particular treat were numbered.
The soft ‘flump’ of the post suggested a well-stuffed envelope was among the letters. Bobby abandoned her breakfast and went to the front door to see what it might be.
She hadn’t neglected her writing ambitions in the wake of her brother’s tempestuous visit.
The very day after he and Kathleen had departed, she had read her WAAF story over and found that not only did she think it well worth sending in to The Girl’s Own, but also that it might be the best thing she had ever written.
She had longed to show it to Charlie, but had forced herself to hold on to her excitement until she had an answer from the magazine.
Their submission guidelines had been on the back page, although there had been nothing about fees.
Bobby would have liked to know how they compared to the five shillings per joke she had received from the BBC.
She was instructed to send her story and a covering letter to the editress, along with a stamped, self-addressed envelope.
Bobby’s heart sank as she bent her poor sore knees to pick up the single envelope.
The address wasn’t typed, as she would have expected from a professional publication. It was handwritten, and in a hand she knew well. Her own.
That could only mean a no. The self-addressed envelope she had sent had been for the return of her story if it was deemed unsuitable.
Bobby took the letter back to the parlour and stuffed it under Charlie’s paper, unable to bring herself to open the thing and read those depressing words of rejection.
She tried to curtail her feeling of disappointment as she nibbled her toast, but honestly, she felt like crying.
When she had approached the BBC she hadn’t allowed herself to get her hopes up, hardly daring to believe that her words could be good enough for that illustrious institution.
And yet they had been – some of them, anyhow.
Perhaps that had made her over-confident, but Bobby hadn’t been able to help letting her imagination run away with the notion of her story being printed in The Girl’s Own.
This time it would have carried her byline, unlike the anonymity of the gags she had sold to the BBC.
This time she could tell her friends and family, and bask in the knowledge she wasn’t just a published writer but a published author.
Perhaps Florrie and Jess would read her story, and boast to their schoolmates of her.
Perhaps it would lead to more and better things, until she really was managing to bring in a decent income from her pen alone.
But the daydreams had been for nothing. The magazine didn’t want her work.
There was no anti-woman prejudice at play – not at The Girl’s Own, for goodness’ sake, with a woman editor and mostly female contributors.
No, her story must have been rejected for the standard of writing alone.
And if even this, which Bobby had been so convinced was the best thing she had written, wasn’t good enough, there was precious little point in her striving to do more.
A gloom settled on her as she began her chores – those she could still do, at least. Now she was the size she was, she and Charlie had been forced to invest some of their weekly budget in engaging a home help for a few hours a week.
Bobby had been considering speaking to Charlie about making the arrangement permanent, and perhaps confiding in him about her little pot of money – the twenty-eight pounds she had hidden in her biscuit tin under the bed.
It would have freed up some of her time to write so she could bring in badly needed cash.
But there was no point now. If she wrote, it would be solely for her own amusement. They couldn’t justify paying a home help so Bobby could dabble in her hobbies.
By the end of the day, however, Bobby’s depression of spirits had turned into annoyance.
She was sure that had been a good story.
She was sure of it! What possible reason could the editress have for turning it down?
Was it because Bobby was an unknown where so many contributors were established authors?
Or was her WAAF heroine too similar in nature to Captain Johns’ Worrals?
She had to know. If it was the latter, and not to do with the standard of her writing, she might at least be encouraged to try her luck with a different periodical.
Putting down her duster, Bobby waddled to the coffee table – at least, her walk felt like a waddle these days, as if the baby had caused her to become half duck – and took the envelope from under Charlie’s paper.
She slid out the contents. Yes, there was her story, returned as she had thought. Only now it was covered in notes in blue pencil. It looked like one of her pieces for The Tyke after Reg had subbed it.
Bobby looked at one of the margin notes.
Love Lindy’s pluck here, but what is she feeling? More interiority please.
What did it mean?
Under her story were three other things.
One was a letter from the editor. One was a legal document of some kind.
And the other… Bobby almost dropped it when she saw what it was, and the amount written on it.
It was a cheque, not a postal order, made out to Mrs Roberta Atherton. And the amount on it was four pounds.
Bobby slumped on to the settee.
Four pounds! It had taken her months to earn anywhere close to that writing jokes. Four pounds was two weeks’ salary on The Tyke.
When she had recovered, Bobby took up the letter.
Dear Mrs Atherton,
I would like to express my sincere gratitude to you for sharing Lindy’s story with me.
I don’t believe I’ve smiled so much while reading a submission in a long time, or been quite so on the edge of my seat waiting to see what would happen.
As you can imagine, many of the submissions we receive these days feature a heroine who is either a WAAF, a Wren or an At – more than I could ever cram into my pages even if the standard were sufficiently high.
But Lindy is something special. Pending some minor revisions, I would very much like to include her story in a future number of The Girl’s Own Paper.
Bobby stared at the words. Truth be told, it hadn’t occurred to her that the periodical might be swamped with military stories among which hers could be lost, yet they had loved it in spite of so much competition.
She had never had such fulsome praise from the BBC: only a yes or a no.
None of her editors – neither Clarky, Don nor Reg – had been prone to excessive praise.
She swelled under this vote of appreciation from the editress of such a prestigious and long-established publication.
She read on.
I see from your letter that your writing background is primarily in newspapers and non-fiction periodicals, which does rather come across in your work.
The prose is spare, clean and readable, and you write emotion well where it is included, but I did feel that I would like to venture more into Lindy’s head at times.
I have taken the liberty of noting these on your manuscript.
I would be grateful if you could return the revised draft along with the enclosed contract under our standard terms, which commissions another five stories in the Lindy series.
Should these prove popular with readers, as I do not doubt they will, I would be very keen to discuss the possibility of a serial.
Do let me know when you and your agent (if you have one) would be free to visit my offices in London.
Once I have received your revised manuscript, I will arrange for the other half of your payment to be sent to you.
Sincerely,
Phyllis Flagg (Mrs)
Editress, The Girl’s Own Paper
Bobby almost swooned for the second time that afternoon when she read ‘the other half of your payment’. She snatched up the contract that had been enclosed with her manuscript.
Yes, it was true. The fee was to be eight pounds per story for first publication rights, whatever that meant – eight pounds each!
And they wanted another five stories, and a Lindy serial to follow perhaps.
That meant nearly fifty pounds for the stories in total, and who knew how much for the serial? Bobby could hardly imagine such riches.
She didn’t know what to do. Her heart was jumping about like a mad thing. She started pacing the room.
She needed to lie down. No, no she didn’t.
She needed to get an agent. The letter said she ought to have one.
Where did one find agents? Was there some equivalent of a marriage bureau for writers where they paired you with one?
What to do, what to do! Should she walk to the Bull, where they had a telephone, and ring up Charlie at work?
Oh Lord, she was all of a flutter! It was like a dream, but it was real.
It was real, and it was happening to her, now.
Marmaduke was squirming inside her, as if he, too, was fidgeting with excitement.
A glance at her watch showed her she couldn’t telephone Charlie, as he’d be on the bus back from Skipton. Still, she had to tell someone – right away, this instant. She might burst if she didn’t.
Not even bothering to change out of her pinny and headscarf, Bobby threw on her overcoat and hurried to her sister’s.