by Lewis Orde
“If I wrote it, Mr. Saxon, I must have meant it.”
Saxon nodded slowly. “I suppose I asked for it.”
“You most certainly did. However” — Katherine glanced at Waller — “it wouldn’t do any harm to write a short follow-up piece, would it? Show how the Eagle made things happen.”
“Thank you,” Saxon said. “After today, your readers must think I’m a hard-hearted ass. I’d appreciate the opportunity to show them that I can do the right thing. I would also like you to formally introduce me to Archie Waters. I think my company owes him something.”
Katherine left Waller’s office with John Saxon. She introduced him to Archie Waters, and in the time it took for the elevator to descend from the editorial floor to the lobby, Saxon had promised to make it all up. Cadmus Property Company would no longer try to sell the building. It would be kept and managed properly. And Archie’s home would be completely redecorated.
“I’m not such a heartless devil after all, am I?” Saxon asked as Katherine saw him to the door of the Eagle building.
“You sound as though you’re seeking your own approval.”
“I already have that. I was looking for yours.”
Katherine stared at Saxon and wondered how much it had taken for him to make the journey from St. James’s Square. He had that warmth in his eyes, yet she felt he was a man who did not really give a damn whether people approved of him or not.
“I’m still waiting for an answer.”
Katherine put into words her thoughts from Sunday night. “I don’t think I could ever wholeheartedly approve of a man who claims that St. James’s Square is his own front garden.”
To her surprise, Saxon burst out laughing. “I knew that went down like a lead balloon the moment I said it. I was holding your arm at the time, and I could feel it turn to wood.” They reached the street. Moments later, a maroon Rolls Royce Silver Shadow drew up. Before the uniformed chauffeur could help, Saxon opened the rear door and jumped in. Katherine watched until the Rolls turned the corner and was lost to sight.
The following morning, she arrived at work to find one dozen long-stemmed red roses on her desk. The accompanying card was unsigned, and bore the simple message: “From my own front garden.”
An hour later, John Saxon telephoned. “Were my roses delivered?”
“They were. I was about to telephone and thank you.”
“Demonstrate your gratitude by having lunch with me.”
“I’m afraid that’s quite impossible.”
“Not today. I wouldn’t dream of asking you at such short notice. Tomorrow, sometime next week, even.”
“That’s also out of the question.”
A short pause from Saxon’s end of the line was followed by “I understand. You must be very busy.”
“I’m afraid so. Between working on a newspaper and looking after two small children and one large husband, I don’t have much time left for anything else.”
Saxon chuckled. “Whatever attributes you might possess, subtlety is most assuredly not one of them. But you make your point very clearly. Goodbye.”
In St. James’s Square, Saxon replaced the receiver. And at the Daily Eagle, Katherine remained staring at the telephone, confused, knowing she had done the correct thing in turning down the invitation, but wondering — just wondering — what an hour or two over lunch with John Saxon would have been like.
She was crazy, she told herself. She loved Franz, loved him more than anything else in the world. How could she possibly be frightened that her feelings for him might be compromised by a lunch date with another man?
*
The story on Cadmus Court aroused a wave of reaction. Some of it amused Katherine, like the left-wing tenants’ group which made a big show of presenting her with a plaque acclaiming her effort and sacrifice on behalf of the working class. The very next day, the president of the group telephoned to request the plaque’s immediate return. The group’s members had not realized that Katherine’s father owned the newspaper; the awards were meant for workers, not for bosses.
Another approach, made by local Labour Party officials, was received more seriously. Was Katherine interested in being a candidate for the next borough election? A young woman who combined family life with a highly visible career would be a sure draw among young women voters. Katherine declined, but not before expressing how flattered she felt. She was not a politically minded person. Not for her could there be blind allegiance, a vote for the party rather than for the man or the issue. It was another area in which she emulated her father. He had always stressed that good flourished in both major political parties, but the farther left you went in Labour, and the farther right you traveled among Conservatives, the wilder the lunatics and bigots became. Sanity prevailed only in the Labour right wing and the Conservative left, the crossover point of common sense and common decency.
The most tantalizing response of all came from within the Daily Eagle. Erica Bentley broke the news in an offhand manner over lunch at the Cheshire Cheese toward the end of July. “I should never have let you take that assignment at Cadmus Court, you know. Now I’ve gone and lost one of my best people.”
“Thanks for the compliment, but I’m not going anywhere.”
“Oh yes, you are. To your own column, you’re going.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You’re about to be offered a brand new column, a platform where you can wield a gleaming broadsword on behalf of readers who’ve been given the short end of the stick. Of course, if you’re not interested, I’m sure Gerry Waller won’t force it on you.”
The news became official two days later. The column would be called “Satisfaction Guaranteed!” and Katherine, so Sally Roberts promised, “would be able to rake all the muck she could find.”
“Satisfaction Guaranteed!” would debut in the last week of September. Advertisements ran in both the Daily and Sunday Eagle; spots were scheduled for commercial television. Katherine saw her own face staring back at her from billboards, a portrait shot worked into a caricature of Don Quixote tilting at a row of windmills. Each time she saw one of the advertisements, a thrill swept over her. It was all she could do to refrain from stopping people in the street and telling them that they’d better buy a paper when her first column came out.
Three weeks later, Katherine was dithering over which topic to use for the column’s launch. She had narrowed the choice down to three: a blind woman threatened with eviction from an old-age home because her newly acquired guide dog violated a no-pets rule, a dry cleaner claiming that he and fellow merchants were being shaken down by council garbage collectors who refused to make regular pickups unless they were tipped, and an accusation of police harassment by a black youth club.
Katherine took her work home, asking the housekeeper which subject she ought to use. Edna Griffiths gave the question careful consideration. “You’ve covered rotten landlords already, and as for those colored kids and their club —”
“You think I should do the council dustmen,” Katherine cut in quickly, before Edna could air even a mild prejudice.
“Yes, do the dustmen,” the housekeeper agreed. “Do them good and proper, lazy good-for-nothings. Drop garbage all over the yard for fifty-one weeks of the year, they do. Then comes Our Lord’s birthday, they turn up with their compliments-of-the-season smiles and their grubby hands stretched out for a Christmas present.”
Katherine laughed. She would wait until Franz got home, to ask his opinion as well. He would be late tonight, having spent the day in Amsterdam, at a department store owned by the Eagles Group. Katherine did not mind Franz’s occasional day trips to Europe. They were really no different from any other day. She heard him leave the house in the morning for his run over the heath, and at night she went to sleep in his arms — just like always. The only trips she disliked were those he made to the United States, when he would be away for three or four days.
Franz arrived home at nine-thirty. He never returned
from even a simple day trip without bringing gifts. This time, he had a Dutch-girl doll for Joanne and a toy car for Henry. To Katherine, he gave a tall box. She opened it. Inside was a model windmill, with battery-powered wooden blades.
“Now you have the real thing to tilt at,” Franz told her.
She kissed him and promised to put the windmill on her desk as a reminder of her new position. When she asked Franz which topic she should use for her first column, he agreed with the housekeeper’s choice. “Get to the bottom of the story about the dustmen who are extorting money from the merchants. Your readers will be able to sympathize with it. Everyone hates the dustmen. If you feel you really must do something about the black youth club, wait until ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed!’ is more established and you can afford to go into a subject with which your readers might not be so sympathetic.”
Katherine saw the sense of Franz’s suggestion, the financial sense of it. Going after the garbage crews would have wider appeal than questioning police behavior against black youths. Later, after building up readership loyalty, she could air more urgent social issues.
Sometimes it was good for a principled writer to share her bed with a hard-headed pragmatist, who appreciated that every business had two functions to perform: to give a service, and to make a profit.
*
The new position entitled Katherine to her own office and a pair of assistants. She selected two junior reporters in their early twenties, Heather Harvey, a chubby girl with curly black hair and lively brown eyes, and Derek Simon, a tall young man with thinning sandy hair over a very high forehead.
Together, they soon wrapped up the garbage extortion story. They spoke to the merchants involved. Posing as shop clerks, they watched garbage collections being made. Sid Hall joined them, using a telephoto lens to capture pictures of the truck driver being handed money by each shop owner before any trash would be loaded. The driver always offered a reason for wanting payment. Many of the merchants were simply told that their level of garbage exceeded the council limit, whatever that was; no one seemed too certain. For the dry-cleaning shop, the driver used his imagination. Exhaust ducts from the machines were near where the garbage was stacked. The dustmen had to risk inhaling dangerous chemicals; they were entitled to a hefty tip.
Finally, Katherine visited the council offices with Sid Hall. For once, the photographer carried no evidence of his trade, although one pocket of his loud Prince of Wales check sportcoat bulged strangely.
“Are you aware” Katherine asked the supervisor, “that one of your garbage crews is operating an extortion racket?”
The supervisor, a dry, officious man, sprang to the defense of his department. “That is a preposterous accusation! Preposterous and slanderous!”
“Look at these, and tell me that again.” Katherine spread half a dozen photographs across the man’s desk. Each one showed the truck driver accepting his payoff. As the supervisor’s mouth dropped in amazement, Sid Hall pulled a pocket camera with a built-in flash from his jacket pocket, whipped it up to eye level, and pressed the shutter button.
It was the picture of the shocked supervisor that topped Katherine’s first column. Beneath it was the headline “Why Is This Man Gaping?” At the bottom of the column were the photographs that had so stunned him. In between was the story of how a group of merchants, fed up with complaining to the council about irregularities in the garbage collection, had called in the Daily Eagle to have their Satisfaction Guaranteed!
Katherine celebrated at lunchtime, champagne in plastic glasses passed around the editorial floor. The telephone had been ringing all morning with readers who had problems that needed solving; there would be no shortage of topics for the new column.
“Enjoy your triumph while you can,” Gerald Waller advised Katherine. “Glory is like today’s headline — very fleeting. Tomorrow, everyone will be after your blood.”
“Especially a group of dustmen.” But she doubted it. The men had not been fired; they’d been disciplined, whatever that meant. Katherine suspected that dismissal would involve a clash with whatever union guarded their interests, and before you knew where you were, every municipal worker in the country would be out on strike.
Erica came up and kissed her. “Taught you well, didn’t I?”
“You did.” Erica’s sentiments were identical to those of Sally Roberts, who had come down earlier from the executive floor to offer congratulations. Katherine had learned plenty from each woman.
“Got a big evening all planned?” Erica asked.
“Just an early night to recover from all this excitement.”
“What? You’re not painting the town red with Franz?”
“He’s not here. He had to fly to Chicago yesterday.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous. Your big day, and he clears off.”
“He’s working on some acquisition over there. It sounds so easy, buying a bunch of stores, but there’s so much more to it than just the transfer of some deed. All the people involved —”
“I’ll make sure to tell him what a loyal wife you are. He disappears for your big moment, and you won’t hear a bad word said about him.”
Katherine turned away to look at the model windmill on her desk. Someone had flicked the switch, and the blades were revolving lazily. Everyone had been a part of her triumphant moment . . . her father, who had sent a congratulatory telegram, and her fellow journalists, who had gathered for this small party on the editorial floor, and had treated her exactly as she wanted to be treated — as one of their own. Everyone had shared this moment with her except Franz, who had popped the surprise three days earlier that he would be flying to Chicago.
“Can’t you put it off?” she had pleaded. “You know what happens this week.”
“I know. But, Katherine, your first column will be a success whether I am here or not.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Katherine, there is nothing I can do about it. I am not the only person involved. I cannot ask for meetings to be put off for a few days because my wife’s new column is appearing.”
He had left instructions with his secretary to send a huge display of flowers and a card to Katherine at the Daily Eagle, but it was not the same. Katherine wanted him here to share this moment with her. She didn’t want his flowers, his card, his good wishes, and his absence!
Sensing Katherine’s bitterness, Erica switched sides. “Your man’s got an important job to do. You shouldn’t be so upset just because he’s not here.”
“What makes you think I’m upset?”
“I’m women’s editor . . . I know these things,” Erica answered, nodding sagely. “What about Franz’s work in Chicago? Once this deal goes through, he’s going to want to celebrate, isn’t he? So how do you think he’s going to feel with you not being there to celebrate with him because you had your first column?”
“For someone who talks in riddles,” Katherine said with a wan smile, “you occasionally make a lot of sense.”
“That’s better. Now have a good time.”
Katherine did, her mood lifted by the talk with Erica. She had not completely forgiven Franz for being away, but she was not going to let his absence ruin the day.
She left the office just after six o’clock. Walking along Fleet Street, close to the curb, she heard her name being called. She turned around as a moped slid to a halt beside her.
“Want to jump up behind me and go for a ride?” Brian Waters asked, lifting the visor of his crash helmet.
“Is this how you normally pick up girls?” When Brian nodded, Katherine asked, “What are you doing on Fleet Street?”
“My job’s here, isn’t it? I started work with Mercury Messengers a few weeks ago.”
Katherine nodded, remembering Archie Waters mentioning that he had found Brian a job with the messenger company owned by Eagle Newspapers; in all the excitement of getting the column off the ground, it had slipped her mind. “Are you enjoying it?”
“Yeah, it’s
all right. ’Bye then.” Revving the moped’s tiny engine, he sped away.
Katherine watched him weave in and out of the stagnant rush hour. Cheeky little devil, asking if she wanted a ride. His grandfather would have a fit if he knew. So would her own father. Sixteen-year-old messenger boys were not supposed to speak that way to the boss’s daughter.
*
Katherine arrived at work the following morning to find another bunch of long-stemmed red roses in her office. Even before she flicked open the accompanying envelope and looked at the card, she knew who had sent them.
“Well done,” she read aloud, “for putting our slothful council workers in their place.”
“Beg your pardon?” said Derek Simon, who had followed her into the office.
“Talking to myself. Did you see who brought these?”
“They were sent up from the front desk.”
Katherine waited for Derek to leave the office before dialing the number of Saxon Holdings. When she was through to John Saxon, she asked, “Are these also from your front garden?”
“No. I’m learning humility. I no longer claim St. James’s Square as my own private property.”
“I’m glad I had such a positive effect on you.”
“I enjoyed your first column. I’d like to discuss it.”
“Go ahead.”
“Over lunch.”
“You don’t give up easily, do you?”
“Not even when informed about small children and large husbands.”
Large, inconsiderate husbands, Katherine thought, who disappear when you want them around to be part of something really special. Bed had been a particularly solitary place last night. As if to emphasize his absence, Franz had telephoned just as Katherine was turning out the bedside light. He had asked how the first column had been accepted, and she’d told him about the small party. At last, they had said good night, blowing kisses across some four thousand miles of space and cable. And Katherine had gone to sleep wondering how sincere Franz’s interest really was. After all, deep down he did not believe women should work. Was that why he had made no special effort to be with Katherine on her big day?
