No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (4 page)

‘You have to learn the basics of publishing first, Celia, it’s imperative you understand that.’

Celia said meekly that of course she did, and worked goodtemperedly and patiently for some time on all the more tedious tasks which came her way: and a great many of them there were too, she had a suspicion that Oliver fed her more proofs to check and manuscripts to mail out for approval than he did to the other editors, but she didn’t care. She was totally besotted with her new life; it was like a love affair. She woke up longing to be with it again, and left the office later and later, reluctant to part from it, often missing Giles’s bedtime. She tried to keep this from Oliver; she knew it would upset him. He had only agreed to her joining Lyttons on the understanding that it would not come too seriously between her and Giles. Jenny, who had been given a pay rise and a rather grand new uniform in honour of the new arrangement, and was very happy indeed with it, was often obliged to cover up for her mistress, implying, where a conversation with Oliver required it, that Celia had arrived home far earlier than she actually had.

Celia was paid a salary: one hundred pounds a year, all of which she passed directly to Jenny. Both Oliver and LM had agreed that it was essential her position at Lyttons was on an official basis. The other staff, initially suspicious of her, irritated by her appointment, came swiftly to accept her; she worked so hard and so uncomplainingly, never pulled rank, made appointments to see Oliver and LM like everyone else in the building, agreed, publicly at least, with everything Oliver said, and made so many good suggestions that it was impossible for them not to appreciate her presence. Although Lyttons was an important publishing house, extremely well-regarded both for its innovative approach and its high standards, it was small, especially on the editorial side, employing only two senior editors and two juniors; an extra brain, and one of such high calibre, was very welcome.

Celia was a superb proof reader; she never missed a single typographical or grammatical error while remaining sensitive to every writer’s style. She even quietly pointed out errors in detail or sequence, such as when a character left the house on foot and yet arrived at his destination by hansom cab, or had a father who died a few months before the onset of a fatal illness. The first time she noticed a mistake of this kind, she was shocked, surprised that a powerful creative intelligence could co-exist with such incompetence. Oliver told her it was extremely common.

‘They get carried away with the excitement of telling the stories, and then can’t be bothered, when the work is finished, to go through the tedious business of checking. We once had a two-year pregnancy in a published novel; carry on your good work, my darling, we need it.’

He came round quite slowly to her being at Lyttons; he still felt manipulated into it, and the knowledge made him angry. On the other hand, she did have an inordinate number of good ideas. Her most successful was a series of simply written medical books, aimed primarily at mothers, incorporating tips for diagnosis, first aid, and simple precautionary advice against infection. It was such a great success that LM went into Oliver’s office, shut the door behind her, and told him that the annual profits of Lyttons would be boosted by at least five per cent and that Celia should be rewarded: ‘Either financially, which I doubt she would value, or by increased status. Make her an editor, Oliver; you won’t regret it, I’m quite sure.’

Oliver said there could be no question of Celia becoming an editor so soon, others in the firm had had to work there for years before attaining such a position, and she had only been there for just over twelve months. LM who told him he was being pompous and biting off his nose to spite his face (she was rather given to clichés) nevertheless conceded. However, when the biography of Queen Victoria went into its sixth printing, and Celia suggested a companion volume about Prince Albert, to be sold as a bound set with the first, as a Christmas gift, things changed. She found herself sitting in Oliver’s office, with a glass of madeira wine in her hand, being asked it she felt able to accept a new position as junior editor with a special interest in biographies. Celia smiled sweetly first at her husband and then at LM, and said that she did indeed feel able, promised to work very hard indeed and hoped that they would not regret their decision.

Oliver said later that night, rather stiffly, that he would regret the decision on one basis and one basis only: if Giles were to suffer from a lack of attention.

He was devoted to Giles; fatherhood, despite its rather precipitant entry into his life, had made him extremely happy and given him a confidence that he had lacked before. He found watching Giles turning from baby into little boy and observing his development, extraordinarily fascinating. He loved to hear the shout of, ‘Daddy, Daddy, hallo, hallo,’ each night, which was Giles’s special greeting to him (Celia only got a single, ‘Hallo Mummy’) and loved to have him on his knee, singing and playing with him, looking at picture books.

Celia promised him that Giles would continue to receive as much of her attention and time as he needed, and then proceeded to break her promise on an almost daily basis as she fell into her new world and work with a passion and a delight which surprised even her. Fortunately for her, and for the time being at least, Oliver did not notice and Giles was unable to complain.

CHAPTER 3

Four days late now. Or was it five? Yes, five. Five days without it. Without the wonderful, reassuring, blessed pain and mess and extra work; five days of a growing fearful worry; five days of trying to face what it meant; five days of trying to imagine what they could possibly do.

If only she’d said no; if only. She knew when it had been; that Saturday night, when he’d had the glass of beer and everyone had been asleep. She hadn’t wanted to, of course she hadn’t; but he’d been so good, he worked so hard, was so generous to them all, and uncomplaining.

‘Come on old girl,’ he’d whispered, ‘just quickly now. I’ll be very careful, I’ll pull out.’

It hadn’t seemed fair to refuse him. He didn’t have many other pleasures in life.

Sylvia sighed and heaved the bucket of grubby water up on to the table to soak the baby’s nappies. That was what she did, soaked them in the water she’d already used; she’d only washed a few things that day, in any case, just the baby’s things and the boys’ shirts. It would save her going out to the yard for clean water twice. It was hard work, that. And tonight Ted was going to want his bath. It being Friday. He needed more water than the children; it meant two more trips out to the tap, and then heaving the pans on to the stove to heat the water for the tub. Sylvia felt weary even thinking about it. Although maybe the strain might bring it on. It had happened before. She must try not to think about it, about her missing monthly. The more you thought about it, the more it could delay it. Once she’d been almost sure, then the baby had got a fever and she’d been so worried, she forgot and sure enough, next day, there it was.

She sighed, and looked at the clock which stood on the table. It had been her mother’s, that clock; it kept good time in spite of being so old. It was already seven o’clock. Ted had been gone half an hour. She’d nursed the baby while he had his breakfast, and if she was quick now, she could sweep the floor before she woke the other children. And maybe get their bread and dripping on the table. The main thing was to keep the ex-baby in bed as long as possible. He was such a problem, was Frank, such a large, energetic child. Sylvia hated having to restrain him in the high chair, but it really seemed the only thing to do for most of the day. That or tying him to the table leg. It was just too dangerous, with the stove alight, and the hot water on it in the big pans, to have him crawling about. And he was trying to stand now, he’d pull it over on himself if she wasn’t careful. She would really make an effort today, to finish her work by the time the children went back to school after dinner, so Frank could crawl round the front steps. Or maybe if she didn’t manage that, perhaps one of the older ones would take him out down the street for her. Poor little chap. He cried a lot. It must be very dull for him.

Sylvia and Ted Miller lived in Lambeth, with their five children. They had one quite large room about twelve foot square, and one smaller one, in the basement of a house in Line Street, one of several like it off Kennington Lane. Steps in the front of the house from a tiny hall led up to the street. The back room led straight outside to the yard which housed the tap, the privy, and a hanging larder which kept the milk and dripping and so on cool – in the winter at least. In the summer, it didn’t work too well.

Sylvia, Ted, the baby and Frank, the ex-baby, slept in the larger room which doubled up as kitchen and temporary bathroom twice a week. Frank shared their bed, the baby slept in the bottom drawer of the large chest-of-drawers bequeathed to them by Sylvia’s mother. It stored their clothes, some food, and indeed most of their other posessions. On one side of the room, facing the bed, was the coal-burning stove, and there was just room for a small folding table under the window and the big old high chair that had been Sylvia’s mother’s.

The family ate in shifts; there was no room at the table for them all to sit at any one time and, anyway, there were only two chairs. The children usually ate standing up, or sitting on their parents’ bed. The three older children slept in the small room, in a large bed, top to tail like sardines in a tin. There was room, Sylvia reckoned, for one more child in that bed, for Frank when the baby finally outgrew her drawer. After that – Sylvia resolutely turned her mind away from after that. It was possible to make a cot out of a banana crate, lots of the families did that, and there was just room for it in the back bedroom.

Ted worked in a city warehouse, an hour’s walk away; he did a twelve-hour day, and was paid twenty-three shillings a week. It was said in the district that as long as you earned about a pound a week, you could manage; the minute you dropped under that, even to nineteen shillings and eleven pence, you were in trouble. The rent was seven shillings a week, and the family spent another shilling a week on coal. It was a lot, but then the basement was cold and damp; that was the drawback of the low rent. Sylvia’s friend, Joan, who lived just beyond the Oval, had three upstairs rooms, seven children and managed on far less coal. Still, Sylvia wouldn’t have swapped places with her; Ted was so kind and gentle, had hardly ever hit any of the children, and had certainly never hit her.

He had even given up smoking years ago, and scarcely ever drank. Although if he did, he changed a bit. Joan’s husband had a terrible temper; he beat the children if they were naughty, or even cheeky, with a leather belt, and if Joan didn’t have his dinner ready, or his breakfast, for that matter, when he came through in the morning, he hit her too. And although he earned more than Ted, as much as thirty shillings in a good week, he spent up to a shilling on drink.

Ted and Sylvia had been married for eight years now; and they were still happy. Life wasn’t exactly easy of course, but their children were all healthy, and the three at school were doing well, could all read and write their names and the oldest, Billy, was really good at his numbers. And it was a nice street they lived in, very few troublemakers, everyone ready to lend a hand to everyone else. The landlord wasn’t too bad either; twice when Ted had got behind with the rent, once because the baby was ill and they’d had to pay the doctor, once when Ted himself was ill and off work for three weeks, he’d given them time to pay. Being thrown out on the street was not something Sylvia worried about. Finding room for them all, within their few, constricting walls, keeping them healthy with the constant damp, keeping them clean with the high cost of soap and of heating water, keeping the housebugs at bay, those were the daily problems she had to cope with. Somehow, with Ted’s kindness and patience, she managed, and managed to stay fairly cheerful as well. But she was very much afraid that if she was in the family way again, she might not be able to.

She couldn’t be. She simply
couldn’t
be. Not now. Not just when everything was so much better; not when her work was so wonderfully enthralling and satisfying; not when she was feeling happy and strong; she just couldn’t be. Of course she wasn’t. It was only a few days late. Probably because they’d been so busy lately. Yes that must be it. And worrying about it of course. That always held it up. But – well she knew when it had happened. If she was. The night after a literary dinner where Oliver had been the guest speaker. He had been terribly nervous, had rehearsed his speech for days. She’d listened patiently, making suggestions, admiring this turn of phrase, that literary reference, all the jokes. It had been at the Garrick, so she hadn’t been able to go. He had got ready, dressed in his white tie and tails – it had been that grand – in silence. He had been white-faced, clearly felt sick.

‘You mustn’t worry,’ she’d said, going over to him, putting her arms round him, ‘you’ll be marvellous. I know you will. And I shall sit here, thinking about you and just willing you through it.’

‘Yes, yes,’ he’d said, ‘but you don’t understand, so many marvellous people are going to be there, all the giants of our business, Macmillan, John Murray, Archibald Constable, Joseph Malaby Dent . . . it will be David and Goliath, Celia, I really don’t know—’

‘Oliver,’ she said almost severely, ‘that is an absurd thing to say. You know perfectly well David slew Goliath. As you will tonight. Now give me a kiss and let me do your tie. You know you can never do it when you’re nervous. There. You look wonderful. So handsome. And more important, very impressive and – and literary. Now go along, my darling. And don’t forget to pause at the end of each paragraph. Don’t hurry it. Let them enjoy it, savour it.’

She sat, as she had promised, in her small sitting-room on the first floor, reading, thinking of him, when she heard the car pull up in front of the house – very late – after one. She ran down the stairs two at a time. He came in the door, threw his hat down on a chair, looked at her solemnly for a moment, then smiled.

‘It was marvellous. I probably shouldn’t say it, but it was. The whole thing was magnificent. What an occasion! If only, if only my father had been there to see it.’

‘Come upstairs,’ she said, taking his hand, ‘I want to hear about every moment of it. Every single moment.’

‘You’re so good to me,’ he said kissing the top of her head, ‘to me and for me. I could never have done it without you. Never. And you’ve stayed up waiting for me all this time. You must be so tired.’

‘I’m not a bit tired,’ she said, ‘and of course I couldn’t have gone to bed. Now I mean it, every single moment—’

Later, empowered by happiness and triumph, he had made love to her. She had lain in bed, waiting for him, excited, both physically and mentally, had felt her body lurch with pleasure at the first touch of him. She had been impatient, hungry, the ecstasy had been huge, intense, straight away; she reached one orgasm swiftly, felt herself rise, crying out, to touch the next. Too good, too strong, too overpowering even to pause to think of the consequences, never mind take any kind of action, but as her body finally quietened, fell into peace, she did think, with a touch of panic, that it was exactly, exactly the very time she was most likely to conceive. And – well maybe she had. And if she had – Celia wrenched her mind away from her biology and tried to concentrate on what was going on.

It was the weekly editorial meeting, and she had an idea to propose. A very good idea. She was nervous about that as well. Waiting for her turn to speak, her heart was thumping so hard she was sure that nice Richard Douglas, the senior literary editor sitting next to her, must be able to hear it. She always tried not to show emotion in the office. It wasn’t fair. Apart from LM, she was the only woman, and if you were going to work as men’s equal, then you must behave like one too. But this was very difficult. It would be even more difficult if Oliver turned the idea down.

He shouldn’t; of course he shouldn’t. If he did, it would only be because she had proposed it. He was still inclined to do that, even now. Even now that she had several successful books either out, or in the process of coming out. He seemed to feel he had to: not because he resented her success, he was very proud of that, but because he was so anxious to be fair. Not to favour her in any way. Not to abuse his position. She liked that in a way, but on another level it irritated her dreadfully. Because it actually wasn’t fair. She tried to take it well, tried not to refer to it even, when they were at home together, or travelling back from the office, in the motor car Lord Beckenham had insisted on giving them for their last Christmas present.

Oliver had tried to resist it, but she had persuaded him it would be unkind and hurtful.

‘He really likes you so much, Oliver, Mama told me so. Ever since Giles was born, he’s thought you were wonderful. He wants to help. And it would be enormously helpful anyway, to have a car. I hate always having to catch the bus, especially in the evening. It makes me late for Giles.’

This was quite untrue, since if she was late leaving the office (supposedly never after half past four these days) and she couldn’t find a bus, she simply took a hansom cab. She argued to herself that it was an entirely appropriate call on her salary, but she knew it would annoy Oliver, who was naturally careful with money, a legacy from a childhood when everyone had talked constantly about his mother’s extravagance. It upset him, those references. Even though he couldn’t remember his mother, he had felt in some way that her behaviour reflected badly back on him; and it had left him with a strong resolve to behave quite differently. He feared greatly, and sometimes even expressed the view, that Jack took after her.

LM, who was even more thriftily inclined, walked to work most days. She had sold the big house on Fitzjohns Avenue which her father had left her, bought a far more modest one in Keats Grove, and had adopted a mode of dress on her thirtieth birthday - long skirt, white shirt, coloured cravat and neatly tailored jacket – which was never to alter for the rest of her life, and which saved her from having to keep up with (and therefore spending money on) fashionable clothes.

Celia, who adored clothes, and spent a great deal of money on them, mostly with the allowance from her father, found this almost impossible to understand, but she did feel that LM, rather perversely, looked very nice in her uniform. It flattered her tall but distinctly shapely figure, and the large, loosely knotted cravats in a range of brilliant colours set off her strong, dramatic features, her large dark eyes. LM clearly took after her mother, Celia thought. Oliver’s golden looks came from Edgar. No one would ever have dreamed they were half brother and sister. Robert on the other hand, she remembered thinking at the wedding, could have been LM’s twin. Celia had liked Robert; she wished they saw more of him. He had, despite his rather serious manner, a wonderful and rather wicked sense of humour. He was apparently becoming extremely rich, in his tall building in New York’s financial district. Half the mothers in New York must be after him for their daughters.

‘Yes, Celia?’ Oliver was saying. She jumped. She really should concentrate harder in meetings. She found it rather difficult, even when she wasn’t worrying about her biology. Her mind roamed around as they discussed costings and publication dates and the wording of Lyttons’ entry in the
Writers and Artists Year Book
, a new work of reference for writers, illustrators and publishers.