Chapter 18

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -

I knew something was up the moment I entered CRNB and saw Mr. and Mrs. Cramp waiting in the reception area. They smiled at me as though I were their long-lost sister whom they hadn't seen in years. Mr. Cramp's spoken greeting was equally enthusiastic. "Grace! Just the person we've been looking for! I've been telling Callie how much I love your commentaries on New Bedford Notes." He beamed down at his wife. "Haven't I, darling?"

Callie beamed back. "Yes, dear." She looked at me. "He's always telling me how colorful and pithy they are."

The word pithy did sound more like her husband than her. Mr. Cramp nodded. "That's true. All I have to do is close my eyes and listen and I can see whoever or whatever you're describing with perfect clarity. You also have a rare talent for cutting straight to the heart of any issue."

It must have taken a Herculean effort for him to resist the urge to add the words "even when you're wrong."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Cramp."

I was sure that at this point the penny would start to drop. Mr. Cramp didn't disappoint me. "You're an excellent writer, Grace. Have you ever thought that working in radio you might be hiding your light under a bushel?"

I looked at Mrs. Cramp. She was still smiling. Only her eyes betrayed even a hint of the intense longing she must have felt to reply to her husband's slight of broadcasting in kind. This conversation was becoming more alarming by the second.

The airwaves vs. print was a standing bone of contention between the Cramps, always good for at least a week of bickering whenever one or the other of them brought it up. I couldn't imagine what could keep Mrs. Cramp from rising to such tempting bait. I took a moment to return the lower half of my jaw to the vicinity of the upper half. Then I answered. "Er. No."

Mr. Cramp took my hand in both of his and gave me his most benevolent smile, the one filled with deep concern that he used to persuade reluctant merchants that if they didn't advertise with the Chronicle their businesses would go under within a month for lack of customers. "Grace, dear, have you ever thought that at a newspaper you might find more scope for your talent."

A tiny glimmer of light began to dawn. "In what way?"

Mr. Cramp answered. There was a strange note in his voice. It took me a second to recognize it as sincerity. "I was deeply moved by your tribute to Millie Everly. Such a beautiful summary of a life well lived."

Mrs. Cramp nodded her head. The same note was in her voice. "It's hard to believe she's really gone. Her column in the Chronicle meant so much to so many people.

Mr. Cramp agreed. "It did and does. Thanks to her and her sister, Millie's Corner and Laura's Corner before it, have been New Bedford institutions."

I didn't doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Cramp genuinely regretted Millie Everly's passing. She was a very sweet and lovable old lady and her household hints column was a treasure. Anyone who didn't know the Cramps would have had no suspicion of an ulterior motive. Mr. Cramp was as grave as a judge. "Choosing a worthy successor is a solemn responsibility."

Mrs. Cramp took over without missing a beat. "When Alden and I put our heads together, there was only one possible choice."

For a second, I marveled as much at the Cramps' rapport as at their nerve. I couldn't help wondering if in ten or twenty years Van and I would be that closely attuned to one another. Before I could dwell too long on the chances of us being together even one year from then, Mr. Cramp took his turn. "Would you consent to take over Miss Everly's column?"

I was floored. "M ... me? I thought maybe you wanted my advice, but this . . ."

"Say yes," Mrs. Cramp pressed. "Grace's Corner has a lovely ring to it."

I was not anxious to add the job of homemaking columnist to my already full workload as executive secretary, president of the Friends of the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion, and radio broadcaster. However, I knew I was missing something. "Why me?"

Mr. Cramp smiled at me like a crooked gambler in a bottom-of-the-bill western inviting a naive cowhand to a friendly poker game. "You're perfect for it. You kept that big house for your mother for years. You have a card box full of Mrs. Rutledge's recipes that she gave you when she left town after Rev. Seale died. You even cared for your nephews after your brother's passing so you know something about raising kids."

The moment Mr. Cramp said that last sentence, I could see the straws he was clutching at. Three months trying to keep up with a couple of spirited, impulsive boys might qualify me for a medal for heroism. It certainly gave me a new understanding of what it means to have the patience of a saint. However, it didn't make me a childcare expert. Neither did sometimes minding Doris for Toppy when she was a baby. "You couldn't find anyone else to take the job, could you?"

Mr. Cramp actually managed to look hurt that I could even suggest such a thing. "Callie and I may have mentioned two or three other names when we were talking this over, but you were the only possibility we seriously considered."

I wasn't fooled. "After all the others said 'no'. I wondered why you were willing to have me write for the Chronicle after all the disapproval you've printed about me and my work for the Spanish Republic"

Mr. Cramp was not deterred for an instant by my skepticism. He even managed to wax indignant. "I'm not desperate. I'm civic minded. The women of New Bedford have relied on that column for homemaking advice for over thirty years. It's a glorious tradition. More than that, it's an old, familiar friend. Can you imagine how disappointed your neighbors will be when they open their morning newspapers only to learn that their friend is gone?"

It was Mrs. Cramp who decided to play dirty. "Can you imagine how disappointed your mother will be. She was friends with the Everly sisters before you were born."

I could imagine. What was worse, she wouldn't be any more disappointed in me for letting the Corner die than I would be in myself. I couldn't believe what I was about to say. "You win. I'll do it, but only until Van comes home."

Mr. Cramp beamed. "That's our Grace. I knew you'd come through."

"Don't say that until you've read my first column," I cautioned. "I can probably cobble together something passable, but there was only one Millie Everly and I'm not her."

Mr. Cramp waved my reservations away. "I'm sure what you are will be good enough. Let's talk about the job. Millie always had two or three unpublished columns in reserve in case of emergencies. We've been running through those since she died."

I could see what was coming next. "So, I'll start after the last of them runs. When's my first deadline?"

"Tonight." Mr. Cramp glanced at his watch. "Press time is at ten thirty. Your deadline is ten o'clock. You should have almost forty-five minutes to put your column together once you get off work here."

"T…ten o'clock!" I sputtered. Then I hiccoughed. I hadn't experienced that particular nervous habit in some time and had hoped it was behind me.

"Now, Grace," Mr. Cramps said with infuriating good cheer. "A real journalist doesn't complain about deadlines. She meets them."

He put his hat on and tipped it to me before he left. "I'll see you tonight."

I wanted to say something, but nothing came out. All I could do was gape at him as he walked out the door.

I rushed into the Chronicle office at 9:25, having been delayed by a hurried discussion with Mrs. Cramp about Friday's programming. A desk and typewriter were pointed out to me. I put the paper in the carriage and promptly busied myself with being unable to think of a single word.

After a few minutes, a concerned-looking Mr. Cramp came up to me and told me to take a deep breath and relax. "Think of all the loyal readers who wrote to the paper about how wonderful Millie Everly and her column were. I know you won't let them down."

Suddenly, a glorious ray of light burned away the fog in my brain. I knew what I had to do. At my insistence, Mr. Cramp brought me the letters of tribute to Millie.

I began to look through them. Then I chose three or four that I felt were especially meaningful and began to write. When I was through, I had a column composed mostly of the thoughts of Millie's readers on what she and Millie's Corner had meant to them.

I didn't rip the last page out of the typewriter the way reporters always did in the movies. Do that in real life and you can tear the page in half if it gets stuck. I turned the cylinder knob as fast as I could until the paper came loose. Then I rushed the column to Mr. Cramp.

He scanned it for errors with surprising speed. When he finished, he handed it to Mr. Hennessy, the linotype operator, who took it with a lot less enthusiasm than I would have expected. Mr. Cramp grinned from ear to ear. He tapped his wristwatch with one finger, and said to Mr. Hennessy, "Pay up."

Mr. Hennessy shook his head. "I never would have thought she could do it. An entire homemaking column-her first-researched and written in less than 35 minutes. It shouldn't be possible."

Mr. Cramp's grin became even wider as he extended his hand. "You're holding the proof."

Mr. Hennessy fished a five from his pocket and with a snort turned to his work. The paper's one reporter, Ralph Thomas, sheepishly handed over five dollars of his own. I gave Mr. Cramp my chilliest cold stare. "I can't believe you and your cronies actually took bets on this."

Mr. Cramp smiled benevolently at me. "I knew you could do it. Anyone who can write copy like you do has a true journalist's instincts. Your first column will look perfect alongside Millie Everly's last."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Her last column?" I glared at Mr. Cramp, thinking nasty thoughts having to do with high cliffs with no protective railings at their edges. "You mean you could have simply printed her last column by itself? I could have had an entire week to prepare my first?"

"You didn't think I'd take a chance on a deadline that tight did you? I had an extra story ready to fill the hole if you didn't make it. I just wanted to see if you could rise to the challenge."

I'm pretty sure that my jaw was wide open. "I can't believe this. Where do you get your nerve?"

Mr. Cramp kept grinning. "The same place where you get your writing talent. From the printer's ink in our veins."

"And I could have sworn you signed a brimstone-scented parchment in blood."

That got a laugh out of everybody but Mr. Cramp. His smile only broadened slightly. "I'll expect your next column same time next Tuesday."

"Maybe you'll get it. Maybe." I picked up my purse, put on my hat, and stalked out of the Chronicle office. "Goodnight, Mr. Cramp."

As I walked into the town square, I couldn't help wondering what I had gotten myself into. The worst part was that ideas for next week's column were already running through my head.

May Bailey to Jessie Buchanan July 31, 1937

… When we arrived home from the office, Grace immediately made a beeline for the mailbox. I continued to the house. Grace came in almost on my heels, an official looking letter bearing a Spanish postmark in one hand, the rest of the mail in the other, and a worried expression on her face. She set the bulk of the mail aside on an end table and tore open the official looking one. Instead of fetching a letter opener, she used first one of her nails and then the fingers of both hands.

Her eyes widened with shock as she read the pages contained therein. I could tell the news was bad as the shock slowly settled into deep misery. The letter was from Steve Nelson, the Commissar of the Abraham Lincoln Battalion. The Canadian soldiers that Phyllis Fraser and Barry Black had been writing to are dead, both killed in that wretched charge up Mosquito Ridge.

Grace had arranged to be informed first if such a thing should happen. It is a heavy burden to have to break such terrible news to children, but she shouldered it in the hope that hearing of their loss from a sympathetic person would be less painful than reading of it from a lifeless piece of paper. I cannot imagine the kind of courage that must have taken. I have never been so proud of her.

Grace Mainwaring to Sally Henry August 2, 1937

… "You should be ashamed of yourself," he [Lawrence Bridgeman] thundered. "How could you do such a thing?"

I tried to be calm. "I'm not sure what you mean?"

"Yes, you are! I forbade Laura to write to your nephew, but you mailed her letters to him with your own! You also delivered his replies to her! Don't you have any respect for parental authority?"

"For reasonable parental authority, yes. You have every right to keep Laura away from a heel, but Hub is nothing of the kind."

"He's in favor of the priest-killing Spanish Republic just like his aunt!"

It took an effort not to raise my voice as Mr. Bridgeman was doing. "The murders of priests and nuns ended months ago. Franco's soldiers are still filling mass graves with civilians and prisoners of war, including fellow Catholics, as fast as they can dig them."

Mr. Bridgeman all but sneered. "So, I hear, every morning at the breakfast table. You've divided my household just like you have the rest of New Bedford. Well, I won't stand for it anymore. Laura is going to her grandparents in Toronto for the rest of the summer. They won't tolerate any nonsense from her."

Later that day, Fr. Fitzroy took his turn to criticize me, although I will say that he did so in a spirit of sadness rather than anger. "Lawrence Bridgeman had a right to be unhappy with you, but not to scream at you in the street. I believe he will be apologizing to you for his hot temper. I hope you can understand that it is upsetting to parents to have outsiders question their authority over their children."

"I can understand that, but I hope he can understand that if he isn't less heavy-handed with his authority, he runs the risk of turning Laura against him."

"Like your mother almost did with you?"

I smiled ruefully. "Mother and I get along much better these days. How much did Honey tell you about us?"

"Nothing that I've repeated to anyone else. A priest can't be a gossip if he wants to keep the trust of his flock. He also can't disrespect parental authority and still be a father to his flock. That's a lesson your nephew will need to learn if he intends to be one of us."

… This letter is getting long and it's almost time to start preparing dinner, so I'll say goodbye and wish you and your family nothing but happy days.

Affectionately Yours,

Grace Mainwaring

P.S. I feel like running outside and dancing all the way across New Bedford with the next person I meet! Mr. Boyd just arrived with the mail and there was a letter from Van in it. He's alive and unhurt and so are Harry, Will, and Oscar. Thank God! …

Next Post: The cost of battle. A visit to Bas Lake. A bluesman remembers.