The Ever Open Door

by Glenice Crossland

  ‘Nowt’d please me more, lass, nowt’d please me more.’

  Daisy received a letter from the literary agent to say he was accepting her as a client and had passed her poems on to a publisher to be appraised. This boosted Daisy’s confidence so much that she left school a couple of hours early and made her way to the offices of the Millington & Cragstone Gazette.

  The receptionist there looked down her nose at Daisy. ‘Yes?’ she snapped.

  ‘I’d like to see the Editor,’ Daisy said.

  ‘Have you an appointment?’

  ‘No. But I’ve taken time off school so I’d really like to see him!’

  The girl got up and hobbled on three-inch heels through a door marked EDITOR, closing it behind her. When she came out, she looked Daisy up and down and told her he could spare her a few minutes.

  The Editor seemed to be surprised when he saw his young visitor. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and how can I help you?’

  ‘I’m Daisy Butler. I’m a writer and I’m leaving school next year. The thing is, I’d like to gain some experience now so that, if possible, I can work as a reporter then.’

  He smiled but said, ‘We have lots of people wanting us to employ them. Why do you think we should consider a young girl like you?’

  ‘Because I’ve already acquired a literary agent, I’ve won an important writing competition and I’ve got my own typewriter! Most of all, because writing is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.’

  The Editor sat up straighter in his chair. Daisy showed him the letter telling her she’d won the competition, and the one from her agent. She also had a letter from her English teacher. The Editor put on his spectacles and glanced at all the letters. ‘Hmm, most impressive. You’d no doubt be an asset to any newspaper. The thing is, we don’t happen to have any vacancies at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to employ me yet. I couldn’t work anyway, I’m still at school. What I want is the experience … I wouldn’t expect to be paid. If I could just do something out of school hours, that’s all I ask.’ Daisy fluttered her eyelashes, sure of how attractive men found her. ‘Please,’ she added.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

  ‘Millington.’

  ‘Mr Dennison is our reporter for your area. You’ll have to see him.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Can you wait? He’ll be in any time.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll wait all night if necessary.’

  The Editor grinned, ‘I don’t think you’ll have to do that.’ He pressed a button and spoke to his secretary. ‘Jane, two coffees, please.’

  The girl’s attitude had changed when she brought in the tray. ‘Do you take sugar?’ she asked politely.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Jane studied Daisy as she poured the coffee, wondering what made her so special. Daisy caught her eye and winked, and the other girl blushed bright red. At that moment they heard a sound from the outer office.

  ‘Sam!’ the editor called. ‘Here a minute.’ Sam was elderly, balding, looked as though his shirt had never been ironed. ‘Sam, this is Daisy …?’

  ‘Butler,’ she reminded him.

  ‘What’ve you got on for this weekend, Sam?’

  ‘Too much,’ he grumbled. ‘Wedding at Millington. St Catherine’s. Cragstone Show to cover, and the football match at Sheffield Wednesday.’

  ‘Do yer want to offload the wedding?’

  ‘Do I! I hate bloody weddings. I’m hopeless at describing wedding frocks and bridesmaids’ headdresses. Never can tell blue from green, or roses from anemones.’

  Daisy knew he was only joking and smiled nervously.

  ‘Right, Daisy Butler. Wedding at St Catherine’s. What time, Sam?’

  ‘Three o’clock.’

  The Editor took off his glasses and polished them on his hanky. ‘On my desk by Tuesday morning, Make a decent job of it and you’ll be paid the going freelance rate, per word. Make a bollocks of it and you’re out that door. Right?’

  ‘Right, thanks.’ Daisy was so pleased with herself she even gave the stuck-up receptionist a radiant smile on her way out. When she got home she said to Sally, ‘Mum, I’m not going to music lessons any more.’

  Sally had been expecting this. Daisy had only learned in the first place to be the same as Carol. ‘But you’re doing so well, Daisy. What about the exams you’ve passed?’

  ‘A waste of time,’ she said. ‘You spend weeks learning three pieces of music, over and over again, so that you can almost play them in your sleep. Then, when you get there they just ask you to play one and you know you’ll never play any of them again. How can that prove you’re a good pianist? Then there are the aural tests, but I’m no good at those. It was pure luck that I passed.’

  Daisy thought the only good thing about sitting the exams was that they had meant a day out, with lunch in a cafe and a visit to the pictures afterwards. Sally was relieved in a way. It meant she wouldn’t have to go traipsing to the other side of Sheffield and sit about in a cold, damp schoolroom again while Daisy sat her exams.

  ‘Can I learn instead?’ Kenneth said. ‘I want to learn to play the piano.’

  ‘Yes, when you can read properly your grand-dad’ll teach you. It’ll be something to pass his time on.’ Joe Denman had been lost without the Home Guard meetings.

  ‘I can read my name.’

  ‘Yes, I know you can, you’re a clever boy, but you need to be a bit bigger before you can read music.’

  ‘Come on, Kenny, I’ll teach you,’ Daisy said. It was his sister who had taught him to read simple words and his name.

  ‘Why have you suddenly gone off the music lessons?’ Sally asked her daughter.

  ‘I was never bothered about them really. Besides, I’ve got a job.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to interview the bride for an article in the Gazette. Then I shall have to type it out in time to deliver it by Monday teatime.’

  ‘Goodness! My daughter a newspaper reporter.’ Sally was so proud of Daisy. ‘Will you be paid?’

  ‘Of course.’ Daisy preened herself.

  ‘Where’s the wedding?’

  ‘St Catherine’s.’

  ‘Are you taking photographs?’

  Daisy hadn’t thought about pictures and the Editor hadn’t mentioned any. ‘I don’t know, do you think I should?’

  ‘Well, it would show you have some initiative.’

  ‘But I haven’t a camera, only Dad’s old box one. Besides, I couldn’t get them developed in time.’

  ‘What about Uncle Bernard? He develops his own. He might do one for you on Sunday. He’s always experimenting in the cellar. He might lend you his camera, too. Just this once.’

  ‘Oh, if only he would! If I make a success of this first report, I’ve got the job. If I’m useless, I lose it.’

  ‘Go and ask then. I bet he’ll jump at the chance.’

  Bernard was just a keen amateur, but some of the photographs he’d taken of the kids and the local landscape were really professional.

  ‘I’ll not only develop the film, I’ll lend you me camera.’ Uncle Bernard seemed quite excited at the prospect.

  He had invested in a good two-lens camera and turned the cellar into a dark room. Enid grumbled about developing tanks and dishes cluttering up her kitchen and lengths of negatives hanging from door handles to dry. She couldn’t resist showing off the finished pictures to her friends at the school, though, and was actually quite proud of her husband’s hobby.

  Bernard spent the next half-hour happily explaining about light meters and exposure times. He wished his daughters would take an interest in his hobby, but Pat was interested in nothing but the theatre and Norah obsessed with her latest boyfriend.

  Daisy couldn’t sleep on Friday night. The questions she would need to ask were rehearsed over and over again in her head. Then she wondered if she should dress up a bit, being as it was a wedding. When should she do the interview? Perhaps she should take a picture as they left the church, make not
es of the dresses and flowers, and then go back later to the reception. If only she had asked who was getting married … she didn’t even know their names. Why hadn’t she asked Mr Dennison? It just proved she wasn’t up to the task.

  On Saturday morning the sun was shining. Grandma Butler made her customary visit and, while they were chatting away, said, ‘It’s a lovely day for the wedding.’

  ‘Whose wedding?’ Daisy pricked up her ears.

  ‘Young Molly Murphy’s. It’ll be a grand do, Catholic weddings always are. They all seem to have such big families.’

  ‘Grandma, do you happen to know who she’s marrying?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Zillah Brown’s grandson. Not sure about his first name, though.’

  ‘Where does the bride live?’ Daisy doubted her grandma would know, but she did.

  ‘In the Co-op houses, the first one in the row behind the Co-op butcher’s. I used to see her and her sisters skipping in the yard. Eeh, that doesn’t seem two minutes since, and now she’s getting wed.’

  Daisy didn’t stop to hear any more. She ran upstairs and put on a blue costume and a pink blouse, slipped a jotter and pencil into her bag, picked up the camera and ran downstairs.

  ‘Daisy, where are you going?’ Kenneth asked his sister.

  ‘Not far, I won’t be long.’

  Molly Murphy lived with her parents and a houseful of sisters and brothers. Daisy knocked on the open door.

  ‘Come in!’ Mrs Murphy called.

  Daisy went in. There were kids sliding down the one-ended settee. Another stood drying himself on the table, and one sat in a zinc bath in front of the fire. A clothes horse stood to one side, adorned with white shirts on hangers. Sitting up to the table was a small, thin woman with metal curlers in her hair. ‘Come in. Joan, put the kettle on!’ she called. ‘Mek this lady a cup of tea.’

  ‘No! Please, don’t bother.’ Daisy thought she’d better introduce herself, although nobody seemed to care who she was. ‘I’m from the Millington & Cragstone Gazette. I wonder if I could ask Molly a few questions about her wedding?’

  ‘Is our Molly going to be in the paper then?’ Joan came and stood by Daisy, unnerving her with an unblinking stare.

  ‘Well, I ’ope so,’ Mrs Murphy said as she rocked in the creaking chair.

  ‘Is Molly in?’

  ‘Aye, she’s upstairs. Joan, go fetch our Molly.’ Joan went through a doorway that had once had a door on but now had only hinges. She could be heard clomping up the bare wooden stairs. ‘Molly, yer’ve got to come. Me mam says.’

  ‘It’ll be funny, our Molly being a bride after all’t times she’s been a bridesmaid,’ Mrs Murphy said.

  ‘Has she been a bridesmaid a few times, then?’

  ‘Seven.’ Mrs Murphy smiled, obviously proud of their Molly. ‘Well, yer see, I’ve ten brothers and sisters and they all wanted our Molly because she’s so pretty.’

  Molly came running downstairs with Joan following. Molly had obviously just washed her hair as she had a towel round her head. Mrs Murphy’s comments had been an understatement even so. Molly was more than pretty, she was beautiful.

  ‘This’s the newspaper woman, Molly,’ Mrs Murphy said. Daisy stood up and offered her hand to Molly, who held her fingers out of reach.

  ‘Sorry. I’ve just varnished my nails, and they aren’t dry.’

  ‘I wondered if I could ask you a few questions?’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘Right. Can you describe your dress, the material and its style?’

  ‘You might as well look at it, it’s in the front room. Come on.’ Daisy followed Molly, Joan and another sister who she learned was named June. Another snotty-nosed girl trailed behind. The dress was hanging on a picture hook on the wall. Four turquoise bridesmaids’ dresses in various sizes were laid out over a threadbare three-piece suite.

  ‘Oh, Molly, they’re absolutely beautiful!’ That was no exaggeration. Molly’s dress was of white taffeta with a sweetheart neckline, puff sleeves and a tiny nipped in waist. A broad cummerbund trimmed with lace and rhinestones completed the ensemble. Daisy jotted down the cummerbund details and those of the bridesmaids’ dresses.

  ‘And what are the names of your bridesmaids?’ she asked.

  ‘Joan, June and Jean Murphy, and Stella Brown.’

  ‘And what about the bridegroom’s name? Can’t have a wedding without a groom.’

  ‘John Brown, and his best man’s his brother, James.’

  ‘Right. And what about your headdress? And flowers?’

  ‘Full-length veil held by a wreath of rhinestones. These lot are ’aving ribbons trimmed with flowers.’

  ‘And the flowers?’

  ‘Red roses and lily-of-the-valley. My dad insisted on roses. To tell the truth, I don’t know how he can afford this wedding but he’s determined all his daughters are going to get a good send-off. He said he would give us all a good do on our wedding day, if we promised to give him and my mum a good one at their funerals.’

  Molly looked pensive. ‘Do you know, I think we were the poorest family in Millington at one time, but we were the richest when love was handed out.’ She changed the subject then. ‘The kids are carrying posies of pinks.’

  ‘Well, you’re all going to look beautiful.’

  ‘Thanks to Mary Holmes.’

  ‘Do you mean Mary Holmes on Barkers Row?’

  ‘Yes. She’s a fantastic dressmaker.’

  ‘She certainly is, if she made these.’

  ‘You can put down that she made ’em, I like to give credit where it’s due.’

  ‘What about the mothers, what will they be wearing?’

  ‘My mam’ll be in blue, with navy accessories. His mam navy with white.’

  ‘And where will the reception be held?’

  ‘St Catherine’s Hall. There’s supposed to be a hundred guests but I expect there’ll be nearer two hundred when the dancing starts.’

  ‘Dancing?’

  ‘Aye, Mr Crossman from over Warrentickle.’

  ‘Well, it certainly does look like being a good do. Are you going away?’

  ‘No. We’ve got a house, we’re moving straight in.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Main Road. Oh! You can put that the girls in the umbrella department ’ave bought us a canteen of cutlery – Sheffield steel, of course – and the billet mill men a clock.’

  ‘My dad works in the billet mill too,’ Daisy said. ‘Would you mind if I take a picture at the church?’

  ‘No, come to’t reception after tea, if you like. Take as many as you need. Jean, don’t you dare touch that dress!’

  ‘Well, thanks, Molly. You’ve been most helpful.’ When they went through to the kitchen, another little boy was just getting dried.

  ‘Come on, Joan, you’re next. Yer can’t go to a wedding wi’out a bath,’ Mrs Murphy said. ‘June, you put some more watter in’t boiler for when it’s our Molly’s turn. She can’t be getting bathed in mucky watter on ’er wedding day.’

  ‘Well, goodbye, everyone, and I hope you have a lovely wedding. Thank you very much.’ Daisy put her jotter safely in her bag and left.

  ‘Don’t shut door!’ Mrs Murphy called. ‘We need to let steam out.’

  Daisy wondered if the door would still be left open when it was Molly’s turn to bathe. She wouldn’t be at all surprised.

  Daisy didn’t attend the reception, she didn’t like to gatecrash, but she got a lovely picture of the couple outside the church. She was going to love this job if it meant she would be in contact with people like the Murphys.

  After school on Monday she got off the bus a stop early and handed her typed-up article to the Editor. He opened the envelope and was surprised to see the photograph.

  ‘My, my, a picture too.’ He looked pleased as his eyes scanned the neatly typed pages. ‘Well, Daisy …?’

  ‘Butler,’ she offered.

  ‘Well, Daisy Butler, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a new part-time reporter.
You don’t need to come to the office on Fridays, you can ring Sam. I’ll give you his number. Call him on Friday evening and he’ll tell you what’s going for the weekend.’ He scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. ‘There might not be work for you every week, it’ll depend on Sam. I can tell you this, though, he hates weddings and fancy dinner dances so you’ll be sure of those.’

  ‘I’d better buy myself a posh frock then,’ she joked. She was walking on air for a few days.

  When the weekly Gazette came out on Thursday, she almost snatched it out of the newsagent’s hand. She couldn’t believe it. There, at the bottom of the front page, was her photograph of the bride and groom, with the headline ‘SEVEN TIMES A BRIDESMAID, THIS TIME A BRIDE’ by Daisy Butler.

  She danced up and down amongst the bags of carrots and potatoes.

  ‘I wrote that, Mr Baraclough!’ She felt tears filling her eyes.

  ‘Eeh, Daisy love. Let’s ’ave a look.’ He called to his wife who was weighing out half-pounds of butter, ‘Come and ’ave a look at this what young Daisy’s written. Eeh, and look at the picture, isn’t that lovely? And you’ve even mentioned Mary Holmes. Now she’s going to be making a frock for my missis, she’s just put a card up on the adverts board.’ He grinned at Daisy. ‘Looks like we’re surrounded by famous folk.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not famous yet, Mr Baraclough.’ Daisy giggled. ‘But I shall be, one day.’

  Daisy had noticed the car when they got off the bus from school. It was parked round the corner at the bottom of the Donkey Path and had been there on a few other occasions. She had thought she’d recognised the man in it, but now she was certain. It was Carol’s father. She wondered if her friend had seen him too and chosen to ignore him. Daisy decided not to mention it.

  He hadn’t intended spying on his daughter but the old urge had got the better of him. He had been disappointed when she’d alighted from the bus, though. Carol had grown into a young woman, attractive but too mature for his taste. Daisy was a different matter. She still had that childish quality about her, had not filled out like his daughter.

  He felt the familiar thrill as he imagined that fresh young body … He would bide his time, he could wait, but not too long.