Beneath the Abbey Wall Read Online Free PDF

most of the advertisers from before you took on reporting duties, could you give her a hand?” He was waving his cigarette in the air as he spoke. “I realize it’s extra work, and we’ll run an advert for a replacement for—not that anyone could replace Mrs. Smart . . . ”
    Joanne felt a lurch in her stomach. Her first thought was, No, I don’t want to give up working as a reporter. I’ve come too far and I love my job. What she was yet to acknowledge was that the job gave her a sense of self-worth; something her father, a minister of the strictly John Knox branch of Scottish Presbyterianism, had tried to discipline out of her; something her husband had tried to beat out of her. Plus, she needed the money; supporting their two daughters was not something Bill Ross remembered very often—unless it was to bribe them for information about their mother.
    â€œOf course . . . ” she heard the hesitation in her voice; her second thought, coming over her left, the devil’s, shoulder, was saying, Who do you think you are? You? A reporter? Up there with the professionals? The voice, or rather voices, had been with her her whole life—first from her father, then from her husband, and often from herself. “If you want me to help . . . ” Her voice trailed off.
    McAllister saw her struggling with the idea. “You’ve comeon so much in the past six months, and you’ve the makings of a good journalist . . . ”
    Don’t patronize me, she thought, but he didn’t catch her flash of anger.
    â€œWe’ll advertise for a manager,” he continued, “but in the meantime the Gazette needs someone on the business side. We have to ensure we have the revenue to pay for all the changes plus pay the wages.”
    No pressure then, she felt like saying. “I’ll do it,” she said.
    He would never know it, but if he had only used a different tense, an “I” instead of a “we,” it would have been different; she would have felt valued by him, not the organization.
    â€œI know it might be hard for you to work with Betsy . . . ” McAllister had offered to ask Betsy Buchanan to leave when learning of her ongoing affair with Joanne’s husband.
    That’s not fair, Joanne had said. Besides, I’m grateful to Betsy for keeping him out of my hair.
    Women, I’ll never understand them, had been McAllister’s comment to Don. Don had agreed.
    â€œI know how to deal with Betsy.” She smiled when she saw his reaction. “Don’t worry. I’ll be all sweetness and light. She’ll never know my manipulating ways.”
    â€œWe can’t afford to lose another member of staff.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Even the words coming out of my mouth are wrong—along with everything else. “Thanks, Joanne. As I said, it’s only temporary . . . ” But she had left before he could say more.
    Joanne ran down the stairs. The phone was quiet for once. She didn’t see the unplugged leads on the switchboard—Betsy’s way of dealing with the volume of calls.
    â€œBetsy, can you come upstairs?” Joanne asked.
    Joanne could see Betsy was nervous as she came into the reporters’ room.
    â€œJoanne, I’m sorry. I know you must be angry at Bill for leaving you . . . ” Her voice had gone up a register.
    Joanne said nothing to this remark. If it salvages his pride saying he left me rather than the other way around, let him.
    â€œWe’re really in love,” Betsy was saying.
    All Joanne could think was, You poor thing. She knew she had married a damaged soldier who’d been through a terrible war. But she thought she could heal him. She failed.
    She remembered the beatings from Bill Ross, her soldier laddie, her beautiful beau turned wife-beating-bully-boy husband. She remembered