Bobby got up when Charlie did at 6:30 a.m. – Marmaduke kept up his habit of early rising. She began by making his breakfast, then there was the house to air, grate to sweep, ornaments to polish, lav to scrub, clothes to wash and darn and iron, meals to prepare, and a dozen other jobs that wreaked havoc on her aching back and swollen ankles. In the evenings, her needles clicked away making things for the baby.
Monday was washing day, which left little time for anything else, and Friday was the day Bobby went shopping in Settle. Yet in spite of the many jobs that had to be done, she found she still had a few hours each day to herself. The doctor had urged her to prioritise rest now she was well into the final stage of her pregnancy, but Bobby didn’t feel guilty about using the time to write. It wasn’t strenuous, and it kept her mind off worry about the birth.
The fact she was still managing to write only made Bobby more irritated when she readThe Tykeand noted the decline in quality. Tony’s work was… well, fine. He wasn’t a bad journalist when he committed to doing some work. But he had neverreally understood what the little magazine was all about, and besides that he was no Dalesman, either by birth or adoption. Circumstances may have dropped him in Silverdale, but Tony Scott was a townie through and through. His articles lacked heart, Bobby felt. The freelance reporters produced good work, but as Bobby knew from her stint as deputy editor, that came at a higher price than using staff writers.
She could do so much better! Reg might at least have considered keeping her on at home until the birth, while there was no baby to care for. What could have been the harm in that?
Bobby had seen a little success in her new endeavour of writing for the wireless, but not enough to compensate for the loss of her work on the magazine. Whenever she had a spare hour, she set herself the same goal: a dozen jokes, which she would aim to sell to one of the radio comics. She didn’t confine herself toITMA, but sent material for the attention of all the great and the good – even Arthur Askey, the BBC’s golden goose. Sometimes Bobby’s letters fell on stony ground, but other times she received a response – occasionally accompanied by a very welcome postal order.
Her success rate, Bobby supposed, was about twenty per cent. If she wrote a dozen gags, perhaps two or three would be considered good enough. Not all the comics paid five bob either. If her work was rejected by Askey or Handley then Bobby might try her luck with one of the up-and-coming names, but from them she would be lucky to get half a crown.
Still, while the money didn’t flow in as fast as Bobby might have hoped, it gave her a buzz to hear her work broadcast. The fact it was a secret only added zest. And she was increasing the twenty-five pounds her dad had advised her to put away, little by little. By the time she had passed the seven-month point in her pregnancy, Bobby had earned an additional three pounds for herrainy-day pot. She might have hoped for more, but it wasn’t bad for a few hours’ work every week.
It also performed a valuable function in occupying her mind. As the date she was due to give birth drew nearer, Bobby was becoming increasingly anxious – almost to the exclusion of everything else. She couldn’t help being haunted by that night Lilian had given birth. Lil had nearly lost her life that night, and then there was what had happened to poor Georgia. Writing had become a lifeline to Bobby at a time when her worrisome brain badly needed something to dwell on other than the potential for catastrophe.
Her writing sessions did carry a feeling of guilt, however, that she could derive so much pleasure from them. It made her think of Reg’s words the day she had begged him to keep her on: that she’d never fully commit to motherhood while she had half her mind on her job.
It had started Bobby thinking: would she be a good mother? It wasn’t something she had questioned before. She had cared for her brothers when they were young, she often minded Annie, and she loved helping Jess and Florrie with their problems. It was the Parrys’ presence in her life that had made her realise how much she wanted a child. But her thoughts had always been about herself: how much she wanted to be a mother. She hadn’t considered it from the child’s point of view. Would it be bad for Marmaduke to have a mother who wanted to do more in her life than care for him? Would he feel neglected, and resent her for it?
And yet Bobby knew she did need more than motherhood. It was frustrating to have the pleasure of creativity swamped by feelings of guilt. She wished she could be like Jolka, who stood defiant as she claimed her right to be more than simply a woman and a mother. Bobby couldn’t detach herself from the weight of society’s expectations the way her bluestocking friend seemed able to do.
She worried about Charlie too. He had been working at the bank for over a month, but although he rarely complained, Bobby could sense he wasn’t entirely happy there.
He seemed to have made his peace with his role, although he would still describe himself as a clerk when asked. He was grateful to be earning a wage, even if the salary wasn’t what he had been used to. He admired his boss, Mr Miller.
The big problem, Bobby could tell – and she could tell because she had been in that position herself – was that Charlie was bored. There was little to challenge him in typing and filing. She knew he missed his veterinary work, and would give anything to be able to practise again. Bobby wished there was some miraculous cure for the tremor in his hands, but there wasn’t.
The only part of Charlie’s new job that produced a spark of interest was learning Pitman’s shorthand. Forming the symbols was easier for him than writing longhand, and like Bobby when she had first studied it, he enjoyed feeling he was learning a sort of secret code. One of Bobby’s favourite parts of the day was when Charlie asked her to help him in his learning. He would attempt to write her love notes in those strange-looking symbols. Bobby laughed as she corrected them, rewarding him with a kiss for every word he got right.
Today was Friday, Bobby’s shopping day. The post hadn’t arrived when she left to get the bus into Settle, but there were two letters on the mat when she returned.
One was for Charlie and one for her, both with typewritten addresses, which usually heralded something official. Charlie’s letter bore those always significant initials: OHMS.
Could it be about his DFC? He hadn’t confided whether he had written again to the Air Ministry now he had a job, turning down the decoration. To be honest, Bobby had forgotten all about it in the flurry of things that had happened recently: leaving her job; her father’s wedding to Mrs Hobbes, a low-key affair that hadtaken place the previous month; helping Captain Parry with the arrangements for his own wedding in late May. Bobby wondered if Charlie had forgotten too. She put the envelope on top of his newspaper for him.
The name ‘Bancroft’ caught her eye on the other envelope. That meant it must be from the BBC.
She tore it open, hopeful it might contain another welcome postal order, but there was only a letter.
Dear Miss Bancroft,
I have been asked to thank you for sending your work to Mr Jenkins. However, I’m afraid he feels it would not be suitable…
Bobby didn’t bother reading on. It was a standard rejection: she’d had too many like it not to recognise the format. She sighed and stuffed the thing into the pocket of her voluminous maternity housecoat.
It was a shame, though. Bobby had been proud of her last lot of jokes, persuaded they were some of the best she had written. There had been twenty in total, and all of sufficient quality for broadcast, she had felt. Yet not a single joke had met with approval.
Bobby frowned as something in what she had read registered. She pulled the crumpled letter out and looked again at the first line.
Dear Miss Bancroft…
Miss! Why would they address her as Miss? She always sent her work in under a male name.
She took out the envelope. That, too, was addressed to Miss Roberta Bancroft.
Oh Lord. Had she inadvertently signed her real name? Pregnancy did seem to be making her absent-minded.
Well, that accounted for the rejection then. What an idiot! Why hadn’t she checked her letter over before sending it off? She could slap herself.
