A Quarter Past Dead. TP Fielden
of duty told her she must answer, truthfully, and to the best of her ability.
She pushed the letter to one side and picked up another.
Dear Hermione,
I am in tears as I write this. I feel my son has been poisoned against me by my daughter-in-law and no longer wishes to see me. I am seventy next birthday and a widow.
I fail to understand why things should be this way when I have always gone out of my way to help my daughter-in-law with her children. I am always on hand to give good advice, even going to the trouble of writing her long letters advising her of better ways of managing things. I pop in at odd times to give the children a surprise – also it gives me a chance to help with the cleaning, going through the cupboards and so on.
I feel for some reason this annoys her, though why I can’t…
Miss Dimont looked up at the big clock down the other end of the newsroom. Almost lunchtime!
Dear Hermione,
I have been happily married for five years, but recently my husband has been suggesting that we…
Instinctively Miss Dimont told herself to read no further. Some problems are best left unexplored, certainly in a family newspaper like the Riviera Express, and without further ado she let the letter float gently into the wicker wastepaper basket by her ankle.
Just then she spotted the ethereal figure of Athene Madrigale flitting through a door and she beckoned her over. Devon’s most celebrated astrologer negotiated her way over to Judy’s desk and sat down.
‘Yes, dear?’
‘I see what you mean,’ said Judy.
‘What’s that?’
‘This wretched agony column, Athene. Since I got you off writing it, I’ve become Hermione.’
Athene blushed. ‘I never meant for that to happen, dear.’
You might have predicted it if you’d looked in your crystal ball, thought Judy unkindly, but aloud she said, ‘It’s impossible to answer these cries for help, isn’t it? Impossible!’
‘They made me quite upset,’ said Athene. ‘I had to go and lie down. There was one from a happily married woman whose husband had been suggesting…’
‘Yes, I threw that one in the bin. But Athene, how tangled people’s lives become! A woman who interferes in her daughter-in-law’s child-rearing, two old friends falling out over a pot of jam…’
‘You see why I couldn’t do it,’ said Athene. She was plaiting her hair into the bright blue paper rose which was her favourite adornment.
‘Well, I can’t do it either,’ said Judy. ‘And anyway what a rotten idea to have an agony column in the first place.’
‘Mr Rhys. His idea. Only a heartless man could wish to expose other people’s misery to the world.’
‘It’s called journalism, Athene,’ sighed Miss Dimont. ‘It’s called journalism.’
It was never quite the same, doing a job with Betty. She was efficient, she asked the right questions, she had a good shorthand note and was usually charming enough to winkle that extra cup of tea out of the grieving widow, football pools winner, or someone whose young Einstein had just won a place at university.
Terry liked her, but that was it – she did not infuriate him like Judy did. She never told an interviewee what to think, which Judy sometimes did. She didn’t make a nuisance of herself by challenging heavy-handed authority, which Judy always did.
She had a lovely smile but often it was spoilt by the wrong choice of lipstick, and the haphazard way it was applied at her desk without the benefit of a mirror did her no favours. And then her clothes! Lime green seemed to be the favourite of the moment, but teaming it with royal blue or pink, as she did, verged on the downright reckless.
Terry snatched a glimpse of her as they drove in the Minor out to the Marine Hotel, Betty looking out at the grey listless sands stretching for miles to the rainy horizon. Temple Regis boasted the most sunshine hours anywhere in Britain, but just a mile or two down the road at Ruggleswick, there seemed to be a micro-climate which favoured grey over blue, wind over stillness, stratified clouds over a clear blue sky.
To the well-heeled patrons of the Marine, this was a bonus – their view of the sands and sea remained largely uncluttered by the human form. For the inmates of Buntorama it was proof, yet again, that British holidays were a washout. They dreamed instead of joining the exodus to Benidorm where they could drink cheap brandy and get a nice all-over sunburn.
‘This makes a change,’ Betty said half-heartedly, but she was not her usual chatty self. Terry didn’t interest himself in her love life, but she’d brought him up to speed on the matter of Dud Fensome and his thing for platinum.
This morning she was wearing a silk scarf on her head, so it was difficult to see what had been achieved over the weekend by way of damage-control but Terry, with his photographer’s instinct for the ways of women, guessed it had probably not been a great success. At least she wasn’t wearing the ruddy cat.
‘She’s got an amazing voice,’ Terry was saying. ‘You could hear it all the way down in the lobby when we went to see Bobby Bunton last week.’
Betty wasn’t listening. Instead she said, ‘I wanted to ask her about – well, she’s quite stout, isn’t she? I thought our lady readers would be interested in what she wore, you know, underneath – to keep it all under control.’
Terry looked at her disbelievingly. ‘Woman’s angle, is it? Crikey, Betty, Moomie Etta-Shaw is one of the greatest jazz singers this country has ever been lucky enough to host.’ He sounded a bit like the advertising handout he’d glanced at before leaving the office. ‘She’s had hit records! Been on the Billy Cotton Band Show! You must have heard her singing “Volare” on the radio!
‘Stout! You don’t know the meaning of the word!’
Betty did. Dud had used it quite recently.
‘I prefer a dance band myself,’ she said, quickly changing the subject, but Terry was ahead of her. Maybe she had put on a little weight.
‘Almost there,’ he said. ‘Pictures first, Betty, then you can have as long as you like with her.’
Here was the perennial struggle between snappers and scribblers, as to who went first. Terry usually got his way, but with celebrity set-ups like this one he could take up to half an hour getting what he wanted, leaving little time for the reporter to get to grips with her subject. It was often a point of dispute between Terry and Judy, but Betty was more flexible and didn’t mind much who did what – it was just a relief to be out of the office. And the great thing was that if it was a picture story, she could always get a ride in the photographer’s car rather than catch the bus, which is what reporters were supposed to do.
Again this was something which could elicit a peppery remark or two from Miss Dimont, but Betty was more pliable. The photographer looked at her once more and realised that, whatever else happened over the weekend, she’d been let down again.
‘Good weekend?’ he asked, hoping to draw her out.
‘We’re here,’ sighed Betty with just a touch of tragedy coating her voice. ‘Don’t take too long!’
It probably didn’t improve things that Moomie was singing ‘Lover Come Back To Me’ as they entered the ballroom. Wrapped in a figure-hugging silk dress, she looked ready to entertain a thousand fans at the London Palladium, not rehearse a one-hour set for her debut tonight. Terry thrilled at the colour combination of her dark brown skin, dazzling white teeth and midnight blue wrapping