The Dazzle of the Light

Chapter 3

10

Thursday, late morning

Harriet stands, arms folded, watching Robert Pickford. Her editor is in the reporters’ hall, in deep discussion with his chief news writer, Jimmy Cartwright, about his story. She is furious. The fury is so intense that she dares not speak, for fear of losing her temper, her job and the slim respect she’s earned at the Gazette in the last few months.

But it was her story. It was her story.

Pickford doesn’t look up. He doesn’t see anything except the words on Jimmy’s sheet of paper.

She can’t hear what they’re saying; the noise in the hall is as loud as ever. Their conversation is lost beneath the rattle of keys and impenetrable hum of voices as the roomful of men talk, share information and hammer out copy on their typewriters. But she knows that Pickford is asking for details from Jimmy. Details that she knows and he does not, because she was there when it happened.

News of yesterday’s raid at Mr Enderby’s jewellery shop will be all over Kensington and Chelsea by this evening – with Jimmy’s name attached to it.

Pickford wanders back to his office, talking to one or two of the other men as he goes.

Harriet waits, growing steadily angrier, until she sees Jimmy Cartwright making his way over to her.

He runs a hand through his hair and grins. The war did not dint his confidence in his ability to charm any woman. But he is not, Harriet knows, an innocent. There is a hard, ambitious side to Jimmy, underneath the boyish friendliness. She has not yet worked out whether he is angling for Pickford’s job or whether he sees himself as serving his apprenticeship at the Gazette before making his way into one of the national papers. Whichever it is, as long as he is here, Jimmy is Pickford’s ace. His golden boy.

But he has also stolen her story.

As she had agonised over the framing of sentences and tried to capture the essence of the raid in her own words, the vivid brilliance of that girl, Jimmy had slipped out to interview Mr Enderby, returned with the story and tapped out his report in swift staccato. It had been too late for yesterday’s edition – but even so, Pickford had chosen his piece over hers. He wrote it faster and more efficiently than she did. And, in truth, it is this realisation that has stung her. He is by far the better writer.

‘The old boy’s in a good mood.’ He jerks his head towards Pickford’s office. ‘Asked me to tell you that he’d like you to write a piece on jewellery for the women’s section. Who’s buying what now the war’s over. How about that?’

‘I’d rather write the report on the raid at Mr Enderby’s,’ she says, trying not to sound petulant. ‘I was there, after all. It was my story, Jimmy.’

‘And it was a great story,’ he says, dropping the foolish smile and looking serious. ‘Not quite what Pickford was after, but it’s all in the writing, not the newsgathering. You’re a natural at finding the story.’

She will not let him flatter her. It is just a trick.

‘It was my story,’ she says again, more firmly. ‘I wanted to write it, and you took it from me. You stole it.’

He frowns at this.

‘If I hear of a raid, I’m going to run out for the story, Harriet. That’s how it works. Don’t accuse me of stealing something when I’m doing my job. You should pay more attention to your own work if you want to get on around here.’ He pauses for a moment before adopting a less snappish tone. ‘Come on, don’t be angry with me, eh? I can help you, if that’s what you want – show you how to write the sort of copy Pickford loves?’

In a matter of months, once she marries Ralph, her time at the Gazette will be over. She is determined to finish with her words on the news pages – and with a byline – if it kills her. She swallows her pride. Jimmy is the star reporter. She could learn from him.

‘I’m sorry. Yes, I would like that, I would like some help. It’s kind of you to offer.’

The smile returns, along with the softer gleam in his eye.

‘Happy to help. Once you’ve written your piece about the jewellery habits in Chelsea and Kensington, I’ll take a look at it. Make some comments and help you craft it.’

He turns to walk away but stops and turns back to her, head c****d to one side.

‘By the way, the car they used, to escape from Enderby’s, what model did you say it was?’

It was a Vauxhall. She gave the details – including the registration number – to the police officer. She didn’t think to mention it in her piece for Mr Pickford.

‘I don’t know. It looked like any other motor car to me.’ She is still too cross with him to share the information.

He stares at her for a moment, unblinking. Then he smiles again. ‘That’s a shame. It doesn’t matter.’ He walks away.

Harriet takes a deep breath, picks up her handbag and hat and reaches for the coat she has folded over the back of her chair. She says nothing to any of the men as she leaves the room and makes no comment to the porter in the reception hall as he holds open the front door.

It is only when she reaches the pavement that she exhales.

It was a white lie – an omission – but she is unused to lying.

And she did it out of spite.

She paces the streets for ten minutes, walking briskly away from the newspaper offices, stamping out her annoyance with Jimmy – and her frustration with herself. The morning air is still damp. It might rain again before the day is over. Her umbrella is propped up next to her desk, but she will not return for it.

The sensation of being squeezed, crushed about the ribs, begins to subside as she paces, until she finally feels ready to return to the typewriter and consider a piece about jewellery fashions. She knows the sort of thing Pickford will expect: ‘Engagement Rings for the New Decade’; why London jewellers are following Paris; the influence of American film stars on the choices women make. Light, frothy stuff. Nothing to upset or tax the minds of the Kensington and Chelsea ladies – people like her mother.

She really should not think about her mother. She turns down another street, travelling further away from the office again, stamping harder.

There are women, heroic women, writing serious articles for newspapers far superior to the Kensington Gazette. Women write about war, prison conditions and starving children in blockaded Europe. They have been foreign correspondents and literary reviewers. There is even a society for women journalists. If she could only push a foot through a door, the right door, she could…

She could what?

She rubs a thumb over her n***d fourth finger. She has a marriage to look forward to.

She loves Ralph. Of course, she loves him. She has committed herself to him and, come summer, she will be liberated from her parents’ suffocating hold. Ralph is a modern man, and their marriage will be the adventure she longs for. Besides, she won’t need to report the news when Ralph will be making it, when he is in government. And she will be there to influence his politics, support his campaigns against injustice and corruption. They will stand, side by side, for dignity and decency, and build a new post-war world fit for women as well as men. And in a few years, once she turns thirty, she will be proud to vote for him herself.

She stops still and tries to shake away the wounded pride. Jimmy Cartwright was only doing his job. He is b****y good at it. And he needs the job far more than she does.

Harriet turns around and heads back towards the office.

‘Hurry up,’ Maggs grumbles when Ruby meets her on the agreed street corner. Albert Richmond and her own husband, Alf, are in tow. ‘We’ve got work to do. Where’ve you been?’

‘Out and about,’ Ruby says. ‘Nowhere in particular.’ She hasn’t bought anything. She’s spent the last couple of hours just looking, dreaming, trying to decide what to buy. She didn’t even buy a new pair of gloves. She remembered that she was working with Maggs and didn’t want to arrive with armfuls of goods. But she has seen plenty of lovely things and will enjoy spending her money another day.

Maggs narrows her eyes. ‘You never go nowhere in particular.’ She tears Ruby’s handbag from her shoulder. ‘Where was this nowhere, exactly?’

The men walk ahead, leaving Maggs to her business.

Maggs jostles Ruby away from her as she rummages in the handbag.

‘Aw, Maggs, leave it out,’ she whines.

‘You’re a filthy liar, Ruby. What’s this?’

‘It’s Solly’s money. I’ve been at Ray Calladine’s this morning, on Solly’s business. That’s his money.’

Maggs grunts but continues to rifle through the bag. She finds the secret pocket in the lining and tugs out the notes from the old gentleman and the few extra coins she’s lifted on her way here. ‘How about this, then? There’s more than a score here. Twenty quid.’

‘It’s mine,’ Ruby says. ‘I’m saving it.’ She has already spent it, in her head.

Maggs takes the notes and coins and pushes them into her coat pocket. ‘Not yours. This is money for the girls. You’ve worked with the Forties long enough to know the rules. You were keeping this for yourself.’ Maggs is angry. She’s looked after Ruby for several years, and still the girl insists on operating on her own. ‘Where did you have it from?’

Ruby pulls a sulky face.

‘Picked a pocket a few streets away on my way here. Rich gent. He wasn’t looking where he was going so I bumped into him. It’s mine, Maggs. My money.’

She takes a sharp breath as Maggs grabs her arm and twists it. No one will notice. To passers-by, they will look like two friends, arm in arm. But Maggs could dislocate her shoulder with one movement. It hurts enough even now.

Maggs remains silent as they march along the street, following the men. She does not need to say anything. Ruby is very aware that she is in trouble.

They turn into a quiet crescent just beyond Earl’s Court station.

She’s not really noticed where they are because she’s so concentrated on fighting against the pain in her arm. There’s another of the Elephant Boys ahead, leaning against a wall.

‘The houses are chalked,’ he says, casually, when they reach him. ‘We’ve got four of them. One of the lads was watching earlier.’

They are letter-raiding. The postman has made his deliveries. He won’t have known it, but he was carefully observed. In this street, the houses are set back a little, offering privacy to home-owners – and to thieves. On the pavement, in four places, one of the Elephants has scratched a short double line, not with chalk, but with a stone, marking out those places where no one is at home. No innocent passer-by will notice the marks – no innocent passer-by will be looking for them.

‘That one.’ Alf jerks his head to Maggs, who is still twisting Ruby’s arm. ‘Take her to that one.’

Maggs drops her arm, causing more pain than when she twisted it. Ruby does not cry out but curses, silently, violently.

The two women make their way up the path to the front door. Maggs nods to Ruby, her lips still fixed in a hard and angry line. She doesn’t need to tell her what to do – Ruby has done this hundreds of times. The letterbox is set low in the door, barely above ankle height. She kneels on the step, her face only inches away from Maggs’s boots, and pushes it open. She slides her hand through the gap and reaches inside for the letters on the hallway floor, then brings her hand back slowly through the letterbox, trying not to scrape her skin. There are four letters. She silently hands them to Maggs and stands up.

They repeat this activity twice more, working swiftly, but make no attempt on the fourth property when they hear a low whistle of warning from one of the men.

Three out of four is not bad. The letters may contain money, cheques that can be altered and cashed or information that may be useful to housebreakers. Ruby, with her slender arms and hands, will be paid for her work. This thought almost makes up for the ache in her shoulder blade.

Once they are safely away from the street and have separated from the men, Maggs becomes her usual self, laughing about something or other. Ruby’s attempt to keep her own cash – and the vicious twisting of her arm – are forgotten. By Maggs, at least. Maggs always forgets about that sort of thing. Instead, she loops her arm through Ruby’s and drags her to meet up with other members of the Forties on Oxford Street for an afternoon of hoisting, promising a pot of tea and a plate of cakes at Maison Lyons on the way.