Sally Read Free Page B

Leicester Square. One small room and a gas ring. I would gladly throw it up for a home and a garden—even if that home was full of someone else’s children.
    “Good-bye,” said Sally meekly. “I will take your kind advice.”
    Miss Fleming looked at the small, elflike, tear-stained face, at the heavy battered suitcase, at the dusty boots. “Come back and see me when you’re in London again,” she said with a sudden smile, which lit up her harsh features. “I’ll treat you to an ice at Gunter’s.”
    “Thank you,” said Sally, smiling back. “I won’t forget.”
    Miss Fleming shook her head and went back to her typing. Sally trailed down by way of the stairs, not having the courage to operate the lift herself.
    She stood on the burning pavement outside, irresolute. Newsboys were already crying the evening papers’ headlines.
    That little spark of hope was growing into a flame. No, Sally would not give up so easily. She went up to a newsagent’s kiosk and bought a map of London and, standing on the hot pavement, looked up Bryant’s Court. She turned to look for a hansom, for although Leicester Square and its environs was within walking distance, her case felt heavier by the minute.
    But as she turned around toward the street the sunlight was shining on a small brass plaque at the side of a doorway in one of the courts that led off Fleet Street. Sally was immature enough to be superstitious, and she immediately felt that that plaque had been lit up expressly for some reason.
    She looked up at the name of the court—Haggen’s Court—and then walked forward, shadowing the plaque with her body so that she could read the name.
    HOME CHATS read the curly legend. THE FAMILY MAGAZINE .
    She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. A steep flight of wooden steps led upward, and Sally toiled up it, bumping her suitcase against the walls. At the top she almost collided with an ink-stained young man. He took one look at her tear-stained face and schoolgirlish dress.
    “Agony,” he said obscurely. “Mrs. Hepplewhite. Through there. Don’t tell her I sent you.”
    There was a frosted glass door with a legend in black lettering: AUNT MABEL. LETTERS EDITOR .
    Sally shrugged wearily. It was a beginning. She pushed open the door.
    A little elderly gray-haired lady started in alarm and quickly thrust a bottle and a glass into the top drawer of her desk.
    “Yeees?” she said in a soft, genteel voice.
    “My name is Miss Blane,” said Sally, “and I want a job.”
    “Did you write to me?” asked Mrs. Hepplewhite, alias Aunt Mabel, peering myopically at Sally.
    “No,” said Sally flatly.
    There was a long silence. Aunt Mabel sighed. “I have no time to speak to you,” she said at last. “I have so many, many letters to deal with. So many sinners. Take this one.” She held out a piece of cheap notepaper covered with tear-blotched, illiterate scrawl. “This is from some housemaid who has become… er… tut-tut… pregnant. She wants my advice.
    “I shall tell her she must read two chapters of her Bible every day for the rest of her life and to report immediately to the Society for Fallen Mothers.”
    Sally thought privately that this was the most heartless piece of advice she had ever heard but nonetheless sat down, first because she had given up hope and saw Emily and the children looming closer, and second because she was tired.
    “Yes, yes,” dithered Aunt Mabel, looking slyly at Sally and producing both the glass and the bottle out of the top drawer again. “Medicine,” she explained, although Sally thought Aunt Mabel’s medicine smelled remarkably like gin.
    “Now, here’s another… yes… yes…” went on Aunt Mabel after fortifying herself from the bottle without resorting to the glass. “Young lady is being forced to marry rich neighbor’s son. Does not want to. Ungrateful girl! Shall tell her marriages are not made in Heaven but by sensible parents. Honor thy father and thy