Category: #Poetry

Chapter 25. A Mysterious Employer

On her way to pick up Fern she bought all the London papers. Scarlet found herself unable to return the newsagent’s “Happy Christmas” with anything more than a nod. It was NOT a merry Christmas. The most that she could give thanks for was that Nicholas was too young to notice.
She phoned Pom from a call box and luckily, he was in.

“I wonder if you could suggest a London solicitor,” she asked.

“What’s it in aid of?” Pom inquired, very reasonably. “Purchasing more real estate?”

She had actually hoped not to get into it but she realized now she needed to simply rip the bandage off.

“We’re getting a separation,” she said. “I’ll be moving to London so I think I should find a solicitor there.”

“Oh, my God,” said Pom. “This is all my fault.”

Good thing she had phoned him instead of dropping by. How humiliating if he saw how her cheeks suffused with red – she could never explain properly and he could never understand. If it was Pom’s fault it was the world’s fault. How could she ever explain about the photos – the detective – how utterly disgusting Ian was and how low he was willing to go. His enraging method of manipulating and ruining everything. But Pom continued smoothly, “Selling you that awful house. I ought to be shot.”

“No, really,” she gasped, almost grateful for his thorough misapprehension. “It isn’t that. I think it was Nicholas being born. He says now he never wanted children.”

“Well, he’s an arrant idiot. Forgive my caterwauling, no one sees inside a marriage, do they? My solicitor’s Bob Thomas in Maida Vale – he’s the best – and he’s got several partners. I’m sure he would recommend the right person. He’s jolly easy to talk to – he just lets me wail and then offers sane, useful suggestions. Should have been an alienist, I always tell him.”

“Alienist.” Strange expression. Like ‘Alienation of affections…’

“I’m a shoulder to cry on, don’t forget,” Pom said as he gave her the number. “Two shoulders, really. And I don’t judge.” If he only knew what she’d involved him in. But somehow, she didn’t think he’d be angry. She scribbled in her datebook and rang off.

Bob Thomas’ clerk Mr. Gotobed said “Mr. Thomas” never handled “matrimonial,” that was Pelham D’Arcy and he had an opening tomorrow at twelve. After that, nothing for a week. Scarlet chose tomorrow at twelve.

When she stopped in at Mrs. Mugle’s the other woman said she would be “most pleased” to take Nicholas tomorrow. She had Ladies Union – would it be all right to take Nicholas along? Naturally Scarlet agreed and Mrs. Mugle all but jumped up and down in her excitement. She did not enquire why Scarlet needed to go up to London again – seemingly taking it for granted that leasing a London flat was a complex endeavor.

Back at Wyvern House, Ian was closed in behind the library door, making himself scarce. She could hear him murmuring into the phone. Fern said, “I’ll take the babby for a walk, shall I?” and Scarlet hastily agreed. She took the newspapers up to her tower room to peruse them in privacy. And there, in the window, was a round stained glass rondo depicting a medieval hunter – possibly Robin Hood – setting an arrow to his bow while a fox peeped out of the luxuriant shrubbery. Candi was the hunter and Ian was the fox? Or was Scarlet the prey?

Scarlet felt so faint she almost fell back down the stairs. She picked up the offending object from its chain – it was quite heavy – and battled with herself not to open the window and fling it out onto the courtyard.

However. It was glass. Pointless to assist Candi in wreaking yet more havoc on Scarlet’s household. She wrapped it in the political news and taped it up so she wouldn’t have to look at the thing. The right method of disposal would come to her. Grinding it up and putting it in Candi’s food? Dropping it on her head from an airplane? Concealing it on Ian’s side of the bed where he would break it with his big, no-longer-desiring, no longer desirable body?

All these revenge modalities threatened unforeseen consequences. The solution came in a flash – church jumble. Exactly the right thing to do with a houseguest’s gift you had previously begged them – by telegram – not to assault you with.

She pushed the object away and opened Situations Vacant.

Nothing. Nobody wanted to hire an American poet to do anything. Teachers, even nannies, were expected to have extensive, specialized qualifications. Scarlet couldn’t imagine herself even pretending to keep house or cook to request. “Companions to the elderly” paid worse than kennel maids. Sewing and laundry facilities sounded like sweatshops – she couldn’t support Nicholas on that kind of pay. Librarians’ assistants were expected to be British and bookshops and galleries requested “equity” investment in the business – YOU paid THEM. Jewelers and antique shops wanted “bonding”. Fashion and advertising firms wanted “portfolios.” Even clerks’ jobs seemed to require a civil service exam. Selling door to door was “commission only.” The only hope appeared “typing pool” – if she could pass “the test.” But poets don’t cultivate speed – slow deliberation is the necessary pace. “Maybe I could speed up if I had to,” she thought. And then she saw it – a boxed advertisement in the top corner:

Editorial Ability – Temporary.

Possibly, thought Scarlet.

“Editor required to update Victorian novels. Three months’ employment. Present qualifications in person to:

14 Norfolk Crescent, Fitzrovia, Tuesday – Thursday, 2-4 pm only.”

No telephone number! What did THAT mean? In America, this kind of “cattle call” meant they wanted to take a look at you. Scarlet felt hope for the first time. Thank God, she’d bought those new tweed suits. At least she could look the part, although it was certainly possible that she would be rejected simply for being American. It really depended what kind of Victorian novels these were. But she might be able to talk her way into it – whatever it was. She had a good knowledge of Victorian literature, had indeed studied Mrs. Humphrey Ward as well as all the poets. Literary qualifications were the only kind of qualifications she really possessed. And a three-month job might give her exactly the kind of entrée, recommendations and resumé to try for better positions.

She began hashing out a list of “qualifications” and immediately ran into the problem of references. Her American references seemed pointless and outdated. All her London connections were more Ian’s than hers. Gossip about their separation would soon be rife: who could she trust? Rather desperately she wrote Pom’s name feeling he was the only human being she could truly depend on to represent her well. She felt too embarrassed about it to even call him. She called Francesca Joringel, instead, at The Fruitful Browser and explained her difficulty.

“I really need someone to testify to my familiarity with Victorian literature,” she said shyly.

“I think I can testify to more than that!” Francesca said with unexpected loyalty. “They would be lucky to get someone so well-spoken with such wide interests. Now, who are they exactly?”

“I don’t really know,” said Scarlet. “I’ll be finding out about them while they’re finding out about me.”

“Some kind of literary jobbing would be perfect for a new mum,” offered Francesca, “Particularly one whose husband works for the BBC.” Gossip jumped from the rooftops while truth struggled to put on its spats. “I’d be honored to speak for you, and I’m easy to reach. I’m always here, working on my manuscript.”

So comforting.

“We’ll see,” Scarlet sighed. “Thank you. It may all be a mare’s nest.”

“Or,” said Francesca, who loved Mystery, Adventure and Thrillers best of all, “It could be the Opportunity of a Lifetime.”