Beneath the Abbey Wall Read Online Free PDF Page B

hiding the black-and-blue marks from her children, her colleagues, until one day, when he had hit her too hard, she ended up in hospital, and she was the one who felt ashamed—of being a battered wife.
    â€œBetsy, I really don’t care about you and my husband, some things are more important.” She saw Betsy didn’t understand. “Mrs. Smart . . . ”
    â€œOh. Right. I know. It’s terrible . . . ”
    â€œMr. McAllister has asked me to help you look after the business side of the Gazette until a replacement manager is found. But I can’t do that without you.”
    â€œThat would be great, only . . . ”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œMrs. Smart being killed is so terrible. I can’t stop thinking about it. But I was hoping . . . ” Betsy couldn’t look directly at Joanne. It was obvious she wanted to say something. Joanne waited.
    â€œI was hoping . . . maybe . . . ”
    Joanne guessed what Betsy was hoping but did not feel like being generous.
    â€œThe advertisement for a manager will be in next week’s Gazette . In the meantime, I will help if I can. But Betsy, youknow the ropes, everyone likes you, you’d be so much better talking to the advertisers than me.”
    Betsy Buchanan couldn’t help it. It is what she is, Joanne thought as she watched Betsy cock her head to one side, put her hand to her hair, smile in that oh so annoying little girl way, and say, “Do you really think so?”
    â€œI do.” Joanne sat down. “So tell me what needs doing.”
    â€œI’ll visit our major advertisers, and get the ads off them. Mrs. Smart always said the personal touch was best.”
    And I bet you’re good at that, Joanne didn’t say. “That’s great, Betsy. I’ll help with the layout and coordinate with editorial.” Joanne found she liked being decisive. They decided that McAllister would sign off on any major financial contracts Betsy recommended, and in less than an hour they had decided who was to do what.
    â€œOne thing, Joanne. Mrs. Smart paid me a commission on the advertising I sold. I’m happy to stay on the same wages if I get paid the extra.”
    Betsy was not the most educated of women, having left school at fifteen, but she had no doubt that she could do very well with a commission-based career.
    Joanne laughed. “Ask McAllister. But I can see the Gazette will do very well with you in charge of sales.”
    â€œI’ll need a title. I was thinking ‘Advertising Manager.’”
    Manager? Joanne thought, and then saw that it was only a title. “How about Advertising Executive ?”
    â€œI like it.” More than anything it was the idea of a title and a business card that thrilled Betsy Buchanan—and the extra commission she was sure she would make.
    When Betsy left, Joanne was pleased with the way she had handled the situation—professional and businesslike. Plus she had achieved her aim—to make sure that helping Betsy did notinterfere with her job as reporter. I can do both, was her thinking. After all, I’m a working mother, able to do half a dozen things at once.
    *  *  *  
    Mortimer Beauchamp Carlyle was seldom surprised by human nature, but the news he was about to convey to the staff at the Gazette had disturbed and dismayed him and his sister.
    As he walked into the reporters’ room, seeing the bent heads, hearing the clatter of the ancient Underwood typewriters, he fancied he felt the air vibrate as the words formed on copy paper, waiting to be edited, typeset, proofread, printed, the black type making the news and stories real, ready for the denizens of town and county to digest, to discuss, to sense that they were part of the Highlands of Scotland 1957. This was their world—a world changing too rapidly for many.
    They needed their local newspaper to