Death of a Unicorn

It was like being back in the nursery when Nanny and Mummy were setting up for a battle. I went scarlet and hobbled out. Mr Todd closed the door behind me. All my misery and fury came back. I leaned against the receptionist’s desk and tried to will them away, but I was now quite certain I knew what was happening. Until this morning I’d hardly thought about Night and Day. It was just another magazine, slightly more exciting than some of them because Mummy wouldn’t have it in the house. The reason she gave was that some of the cartoons were ‘unsuitable’ (there was usually at least one of an artist saying something to a naked model and another of a blonde saying something to an old gentleman she was in bed with), but really it was because she hated the ‘Social Round’ pages, which were written by somebody called Cynthia Darke. She disliked all that sort of thing, I think because she thought that what they were about was extremely important but private, and it was obscene to have it all written down for dentists’ wives in Wimbledon to read. But though she disapproved of ‘Jennifer’ and the others she had an especial hatred for Cynthia Darke. Presumably the woman I’d just met was Cynthia Darke, which made what she’d said about my parents’ wedding and my dear mother a bit ironic.

Anyway, when I read the magazine in the hairdresser’s—naturally grabbing it first because it was banned at home—I used to glance at the grisly ‘Social Round’ to see if any of my friends were in it, then look at the cartoons, then read the theatre and book reviews, and then if there wasn’t any other magazine handy try some of the articles and poems. I was so used to it that it had never struck me as at all odd that a magazine that was mainly like Punch or Lilliput should contain a section on what the debby-and-horsey world was up to. Now I was actually in the place and had seen and smelt the difference between the two sides of the swing door I realised that I was dealing with two almost separate kingdoms. Mr Brierley had talked about ‘my magazine’ and I’d heard Mr Todd saying that he’d got a new proprietor. Naturally he wasn’t happy about having some chance-met girl foisted on him so he’d decided to shunt her over the border into the other kingdom. He was only pretending to like what I’d written so that he could put all the blame on Cynthia Darke for turning me down. And equally naturally Cynthia Darke wasn’t going to let it happen like that. Well, if they didn’t want me, I didn’t want them. I pushed through the swing doors and along the corridor to the landing, where I pressed the button for the lift.

It was an age coming. In any other skirt I could have gone clattering ostentatiously down the stairs. I waited and waited, working myself into a frenzy that Mr Todd would come out and find me there. From down the stairs a tenor voice began to sing one of those Irish ballads about a prisoner turning his last gaze on the green hills of Erin before the English did something unspeakable to him. The voice enjoyed itself, enjoyed the echoing stairwell which made it sound as though it was filtering up from some dungeon deep under Shoe Lane. Another voice interrupted and the singing ended in a laugh. Footsteps tapped on the polished wooden treads. Not wanting to be caught so obviously running away from my defeat (that’s what I felt, though I don’t see how the men could have known) I moved away from the lift and pulled myself together a bit. When they came in sight I realised that they’d only just finished luncheon, though it was nearly four o’clock.

One was about forty, scruffily shaved, balding, stooped. Thick spectacles. Hairy tweeds. The other was a few years younger and very dapper. Pale brown suit and yellow waistcoat. Small hooky nose, cheeks flushed and pudgy, dark eyes. As they reached the top of the stairs he laid his hand on his friend’s arm to draw attention to me.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said.

I muttered back.

‘Are you here for a purpose, other than the enhancement of the scenery? A sufficient purpose in itself, mark you.’

He swayed, deliberately I thought, to show he was a bit tight and so to be excused.

‘I came for an interview,’ I said.

‘Shorthand and typing too!’

‘No shorthand. Two fingers. And I can spell “accommodation”.’

‘Do they know you’re here?’ said the other man. He gave the last word a funny hooting emphasis, as though the problem was that they thought I was somewhere else.

‘I’ve been sent to wait in the corridor while Nanny has an argument with the master,’ I said.

The younger man laughed vaguely. The other man moved aside so that he could peer through the open door of Mr Todd’s room. He frowned.

‘I’m Tom Duggan,’ said the younger man. ‘And Ronnie Smith here.’

‘I’m Margaret Millett.’

‘And your genius is about to burst upon the world through our poor pages?’

‘I came to see Mr Todd about giving me a job.’

‘Did you, indeed? Come and inspect the conditions of work, Miss Millett.’