Business as Usual Page 16
Yours sincerely,
Hilary Fane
2A Christchurch Street
Chelsea
March 9th, 1932
Dear Mr Grant,
Thank you for your note. I’m glad you liked the unofficial account of the Staff Play. I’m also and more glad that you liked the drawings. People mostly don’t, or at least they don’t mention them, which is worse I think on the whole.
Herewith the estimates for redecorating the extension of the Library. I got three, which don’t vary substantially, except that one seems more comprehensive than the others. In the meantime I’ve been getting on with the minor innovations, such as knocking down the wall which used to separate us from the Baby Linen Department (now removing in extreme displeasure to the annexe on the third floor).
That extra floor and shelf space is going to be a godsend, and quite worth the interview I had with Mrs Barlow, the dispossessed buyer. The new desks are in and the new shelves in course of construction. I’ve controlled the scheme rather carefully, so that the department has never been entirely out of action at any time, though the assistants have been harried by workmen and exasperated by carpenter noises for the last week.
Miss Sparling sits at her desk refusing to move herself or her papers under a rain of sawdust and small tools. You know that sort of obstinate, unnecessary infuriating heroism.

Most of the others are visibly intrigued, and the new, alphabetically placarded desks have been greatly admired. I explained that subscribers would now change their books according to the initial syllable of their surnames, not according to the sort of subscription they can afford. Even a Fiction C subscription can now be taken out without contumely.74 I’m sure that’s likely to swell the numbers, besides being a humane innovation. It’s so pleasant to have one’s humble order treated with the same deference as one given by the lady with the sables and the Rolls.
I’ve also engaged half a dozen rather well equipped and beautiful clerks to staff my desks. I’ve set my heart on raising the standard of librarians to the level of the Daily Post Book Guild’s young women. No one without a title or a degree need apply. Subscribers do appreciate good diners-out.
May I know, at your convenience, how far I may go with my schemes? Do you like the idea of a row of cases of rare bindings and first editions and book-plates? I think it might fire the mere library fans to Own Books, and urge them towards the shop.
Yours sincerely,
Hilary Fane
2A Christchurch Street
Chelsea
March 11th
Dear Aunt Bertha,
I’m dreadfully sorry, but I shan’t be able to come to tea this Saturday after all. It’s business, of course. But not really sweated labour, so please don’t take any presidential notice of it. It just happens that we’re instituting some alterations and reforms on the Book Floor at Everyman’s, and Mr Grant, my immediate superior, is pinned to his sofa with a sprained ankle and other incidental damage. We both want the alterations to go through without any delay, and see eye to eye in the way that none of the economical old gentlemen on the Board would be likely to, as they’re handicapped by an enormous respect for the present state of affairs.
I’ve been getting reports ready, so that I can have them approved and put into action first thing Monday morning, and Mr Grant has summoned me to appear at his flat with them. You do appreciate that that sort of royal command isn’t to be taken lightly, don’t you? I’m very sorry to miss your tea-party, and Trades Union annoyed at having to work on Saturday afternoon.
That’s what comes of not being quite a hireling, of course. You can’t always leave the work to look after itself over the week-end. But Mr Grant is rather a brilliant person, with infectious enthusiasms. I wonder if Uncle Tom knows him? He represents Everyman’s on the United Purveyors’ Council, I believe. So they may have met.
I do hope you understand about Saturday, and will forgive me. Perhaps I might come in for half an hour on my way home instead?
Yours affectionately,
Hilary
2A Christchurch Street
March 12th
Saturday evening
Dearest family,
Thank you very much for the nice, familiar chairs. Are you sure that you can spare the one from the library? I shall love to have them, though I’m sorry you didn’t like the idea of those packing-cases. Perhaps it’s all for the best, though. What with your contributions and Aunt Bertha’s astonishing gift of assorted furnishings Mrs Bland’s confidence is quite restored. Especially since she’s been allowed to break up the painted packing-cases and lay the sittingroom fire with them. They’re wonderful for getting it going, though they smell rather during conflagration.
And I was glad to have your temperate letter about Greece and Rutherford Worsthorne. I’m still dithering towards the idea, but I’ve been so busy at Everyman’s that I’ve only been able to take it out in crowded buses where it seems like heaven, and just before going to sleep when it seems a very Momentous Step. No decision so far. Tremendous reconstructions are going on in the Library, and all sorts of calculations and correspondence and continual reports are involved. In the absence of Mr Grant (post-motor accident) I’ve been coping with these entirely. And I’ve had to bring sheaves of papers home in the evenings to work at till all hours. Mrs Bland came in to wash up after supper and found the sitting-room snow-drifted with them. She said: ‘Dear me, miss, you have been busy. But of course you’re always littry.’ Now, which do you think she meant?
But it’s really been rather fearsomely responsible work, so I was glad as well as astonished when I was bidden to bring my reports to Mr Grant’s flat on Saturday afternoon, overtime though it was. He has one of those nice bachelor flats that look over the park, and I expected him to be laid out on a sofa. But he was at the top of a library ladder in his study, reaching down books, with one foot bandaged and dangling in a bedroom slipper, and a gorgeous grey Persian cat was sharpening its claws against one of the brown leather arm-chairs.
He said, ‘Good-afternoon,’ very stately; but on second thoughts asked me to hold the ladder while he got down. After that I produced my papers and we talked business besottedly for an hour and a half. He has an immense, and most alarming appetite for detail: his mind grabs each fact and swallows it whole while mine grasshoppers from point to point. By the time I had proved my conclusions and he had approved my schemes I was worn to a thread. But his man wheeled in restoratives; tea and buttered toast and a very solid cake, just in time.
The cat had kept its distance till then, but as I was asking about cream and sugar two stone of grey tom-Persian landed disconcertingly on my lap. Mr Grant said: ‘Push that thing off if it annoys you.’ But I was much too flattered to disturb it, though it was thoughtfully kneading the shape out of my new spring suit. We spent a very restful hour, just eating and smoking, and talking about mice and psycho-analysis and Walt Disney and chair covers and Spiritualism and Black Magic (he has some enthralling books on witchcraft). Just as I was going he said it was so good of me to have sacrificed a whole precious afternoon of free time to business. He’d like to arrange something to repay us both – a dinner and theatre, he thought. Did I agree?
So we fixed a date, rather far ahead, as he said he doubted if he’d be an adequate escort for three weeks at least. What festivities! I’ve got to go to another Hellenic lecture on Tuesday week.
On my way home I called on Aunt Bertha. Since I’d missed her tea-party I thought it might be a tactful thing to do. So I received her sympathy for my hard afternoon’s work quite heroically. It seems that Uncle Tom knows Michael Grant slightly – which may be dangerous. I hope that Aunt Bertha won’t attempt any of her machinations for my preferment at Everyman’s.
But she was very sweet, though obviously on the verge of a party and preoccupied about what to wear. I didn’t stay long, and took away all sorts of messages and love to you – the sort that wants acknowledging, I rather thi
nk. Do write.
It’s raining: I shall slither out to post this, and then go to bed, very conscious of my day’s work. And I shall stay there All To-morrow.
With lots of love,
Hilary
Christchurch Street
March 22nd
Dearest Family,
Just a note. I’m feeling harried. I came in from my Hellenic lecture which was (saving your presence, Professor) quite gruesomely dull, to find an incredibly monogrammed invitation card waiting for me. From Aunt Bertha! It’s one of her most stupendous dinners at which decorations are to be worn. Me, of all poor relations! I can’t think what’s possessed her.
But as she’s chosen the same night as Michael Grant I think I ought to refuse for the sake of my Career, on the same principle as I attend Hellenic lectures. I shall have to tell Aunt Bertha that I’m going away for the week-end. Nothing else sounds adequate. I thought I’d better let you know at once, so that if you’d not written already you wouldn’t commit yourselves about my doings.
Love,
Hilary
EVERYMAN’S STORES
For use in inter-departmental correspondence only
From Fane
To Staff Supervisor
March 26th, 1932
Subject
Ventilation in the Clerical Department, Book Floor
Memo
In accordance with your memo of yesterday’s date, I have investigated this, and the following facts emerge.
There are five windows: all are closed.
The general opinion approves of this: though
Miss Dowland says she likes fresh air, and would sooner have a window open even if she had to wear two of everything in consequence.
Miss Watts won’t have her window open because she’s so subject to rheumatism, and if I’d ever tried to type with a real stiff neck running down both arms I’d know how awkward it could be.
Miss Hopper won’t have her window open because she suffers with her stomach, and the least thing gives her a chill on it. And
Mr Simpson says that once people go opening these windows he’ll have trouble with his bronchs all spring. He knows just how it’ll be. It isn’t that he minds for himself at all, but he’s often noticed the way Ventilation takes all the good out of Heating, and it wouldn’t do for the typists to be cold. As it is, Mr Millett lets in far too much cold air, opening and shutting the door the way he does.
Miss Lamb has chilblains.
I have told Mr Millett to keep the door shut and got the carpenter to open one window. Suggested a muffler to Miss Watts, a body belt to Miss Dowland, changed Miss Hopper’s seat, advised Miss Lamb to take an iron tonic and offered thermogene to Mr Simpson.
Looked in two hours later. Window closed. Doubt if it is likely to remain open unless fixed; with nails.
Please advise.
H FANE
The Flat
April 1st
Dearest Mummy and Daddy,
Easter was marvellous. I didn’t go into details of my plans beforehand, as I felt that you would be unlikely to show any pronounced enthusiasm at the idea of Mary Meldon and me cruising across England in a car which Mary had just bought for £10. Now that we’re safely home without a bruise between us I can enlarge.
The car hadn’t much hood, only one door and no paint whatever. I was rather shaken myself at first sight of Mary’s Colossal Bargain, but she said: ‘My good girl, don’t look. Listen. She’s ticking over like a Daimler.’ We tried her out on the Great West Road after work and came home babbling with excitement at her behaviour. As Mary said, one could always take the worse hills (up or down) in reverse. Though actually we only had to do that twice.
We wrangled a bit about destination beforehand. Mary said Wales and I said Yorkshire, so we had to go to Devonshire instead. We left at six o’clock on Thursday – like everybody else, unfortunately – and came back proudly from Salisbury alone and at sunrise on Tuesday morning.
It rained a good deal, but we reinforced that hood with a waterproof sheet and enjoyed ourselves triumphantly, though the car drank as much oil as petrol, which began to come expensive. After the first hundred miles the springs sagged a good deal, and one mudguard broke loose and flapped. All the young men on motor cycles putt-putted up to us and craned their necks to Point it Out before they streaked off in front. Also there were streams of obese motor buses carting people in paper hats to the sea. ‘Hell’s Delights!’ said Mary, and systematically passed them on corners.
We walked a lot on Sunday and Monday, barelegged with sandshoes, which is, believe me, the only way of walking in Devon at Easter. The return journey was queer and exciting: the first villages were all asleep (and it’s startling to know how few people open windows even in 1932), the next had a few postmen and labourers wheeling out bicycles: then there were milk bottles and newspapers on doorsteps, and London finally was broad awake.
Tuesday, of course, was just the longest day I’ve lived through, though I only went to sleep once, quite discreetly, in my office. But I had to keep going up to the Canteen for large black coffees. Still, a success. Mary’s going to farm out the car to a young man who wants to take round samples and will garage it till Whitsun. Then we’ve promised ourselves the Lakes, even Edinburgh if I could get the Saturday morning off and we could drive all night. What do you think?

By the way, you’ll be interested to know that Mr Worsthorne has made up his mind about Greece. He reappeared yesterday with all his plans cut and dried, and wanted my decision At Once.
I said no. Always the best answer in an emergency. And much less disruptive. I suddenly and surprisingly felt that I couldn’t bear to leave London. After all the fuss I’ve been making about travel and holidays and congenial work too! Stability instead of adventure – how are the mighty fallen. That sort of mad-rabbiting across Europe sounds so marvellous, but it doesn’t seem to lead anywhere. I was very apologetic and threw him Mary Meldon’s address as a sop. But he went away muttering.
So here I am, settled down for the summer. I must look out for some striped sun-blinds for the flat. It ought to be easy: Everyman’s Garden Accessories department shows everything from snail-traps to statues.
I can’t write more now; I’ve just got time for a bath before I go out to dinner with Michael Grant.
Much love to you both,
Hilary
PS – ‘Nothing canst thou to damnation add greater than this!’ Shakespeare’s profanity, not mine. But applicable. What an evening! It began beautifully too. I do so appreciate dining in public with an expert, and Michael was entirely charming – quite unofficial. We set out for Drury Lane purring companionably.

Then things began to happen. My dears, just as we were sidling into our stalls I looked up and was Transfixed by the sight of Aunt Bertha’s party constellated in the Stage Box. I very nearly died, but just managed to keep my chin down, praying that she wouldn’t recognise the top of my head. We enjoyed the first act. But in the interval Michael said happily: ‘Hallo, there’s Lady Barnley. I should have been dining with her to-night if you hadn’t provided an alibi!’
Of course I saw the whole thing! I knew that Aunt Bertha would machinate for my betterment, but I never dreamed that Michael, offered a chance of meeting quite as many potentates, would so honourably refuse. And you know how touchy Aunt Bertha is!
In my panic I looked up and found her astonished lorgnettes full on us. My one idea was instant and abject flight with a vague idea of the next train north, but Michael made me stay and insisted on supper afterwards, which saved the evening.
Will you kindly tell me – what does the victim do next?
H
2A Christchurch Street
Chelsea
April 2nd
Dear Michael,
I went round to Cadogan Square this afternoon to explain about last night. Aunt Bertha was hurt. She couldn’t see why either of us should seriously consider the
other a ‘previous social engagement of long standing’ when invited to the sort of Dinner where Decorations were to be Worn. Especially when I had made things worse by saying that I was to be away for the week-end.
It was all a little unfortunate, particularly since I refused a Saturday tea-party in the rather immediate past because you had commanded an audience. I talked and talked. She said, quite reasonably, that I should have told her who was taking me out instead of ‘making such a mystery of it’. Then we’d have found out that we’d meet each other at her dinner. As intended. And young men don’t have a chance of talking to the President of the Board of Industry every night, not to mention Uncle Tom and a Cabinet Minister. (Oh, Michael, what have I done!) Just as I was saying to myself that Aunt Bertha might be so useful, carefully handled, too! I’d even thrown out little suggestions which I hoped might get you invited to some of her dull, grand parties. Then she spontaneously gives an invitation and I wreck it all. Why didn’t you tell me? We’d have changed our day. I do understand the importance of dining out among the great.
But I think it’s more or less all right now. Except that we’re to go to dinner on Saturday – ‘just ourselves. So nice’. I’m afraid that nothing will recall that Cabinet Minister or the President of the Board of Industry. Do you think your career is shattered? As for Saturday, I think I ought to sacrifice the evening, but I’m quite willing to be offered up alone if you can think of any excuse now likely to carry conviction.
I’ve apologised too much in the last few minutes to be capable of expressing any further regrets. But I’m miserably conscious of having completely mismanaged things, though I enjoyed our evening, with its alarums and lovely, extravagant supper at midnight quite enormously all the same.
Yours,
Hilary
2A Christchurch Street
Chelsea
April 5th