"Mm?"
"Do you want me to do the stuff on war-time canning?"
"I suppose you know all about canning too?" inquired Sylvia.
"I’ll bet I know just as much about it as you do. Don’t I, Eric?"
"Don’t you what?"
"Don’t I know as much about canning as Sylvia does?"
"Leave me out of it", said Erica. "I’m busy".
Weathersby returned to his desk, regarded Sylvia thoughtfully for a while, and asked finally, "Now supposing you wanted to make jelly… how would you go about it?"
"What kind of jelly?"
"Any kind".
"Couldn’t we start with jam and work up to it gradually?"
"We did", said Weathersby patiently. "We did the jam yesterday. Today, we are going to make jelly. So what would be the first step?"
"The first step would be to read the Government bulletin on war-time canning, just like you", she added pointedly. "If you can understand it, presumably anyone can. Give", she said, holding out her hand.
"I haven’t read it yet", said Weathersby without moving.
"Oh? How did you get to be such an authority on making jelly, then?"
"Because I’ve watched my mother. The trick is to get it to set so it doesn’t come out all runny".
"Not really", said Sylvia. "Did you figure all that out for yourself?"
"And just how would you get it to set?"
"I’ll bite", said Sylvia. "How would I?"
"Well, if you knew anything about canning, which you obviously don’t, you’d mix it with wax".
"I beg your pardon?"
"You’d mix the fruit with melted wax-after you’d strained it, of course".
"I see", said Sylvia. She regarded the long stringy figure of Weathersby Canning with some admiration and then said at last, "Bubbles, how would you like to have a column of your own? We could call it…" She paused, her chin on her hand, and then suggested, "We could call it ’Canning on Canning’. If you were given a sufficiently free hand, the results ought to be genuinely interesting".
"I don’t know", said Weathersby doubtfully. "I don’t think I know enough about it to keep it up indefinitely". He picked up the Government bulletin, glanced through a few pages and said, "Well, can I do it, Eric?"
"Ask Sylvia".
"What is it?" said Sylvia. "A press release?"
Weathersby nodded.
"O.K., go ahead and rehash it but stick to what it says there and don’t put in any of your mother’s bright ideas. We don’t want all our readers to be poisoned".
"Why not?" said Weathersby. "They wouldn’t be poisoned all at once; a lot of them wouldn’t get around to eating the stuff till sometime next spring. I mean, it would be so gradual that no one would notice".
"No one but the circulation department and they’d start noticing in a couple of days. The circulation department is unusually sensitive".
"What’s the matter with you two?" asked Erica, finally ripping the sheet from her typewriter with one hand and reaching for her phone with the other.
"I wouldn’t know about Weathersby", said Sylvia dreamily, "but I’m getting married".
Erica’s hand dropped from the phone and she said, "Mike?" Sylvia nodded. "Oh, darling, I’m so glad!"
"Thanks, Eric. I still feel sort of dizzy", she remarked apologetically. "We’re going to be married a week from Saturday. We’re only inviting a few people-just you and Marc and one or two others. Do you think Marc will be able to make it?"
Erica shook her head. "He won’t get any leave till the week after. I’ll come, though. That doesn’t mean you’ve given up your job, does it?"
"No such luck. Mike’s joined the Army. We’ll have a week together somewhere and then he’s going to camp".
"He’ll be here for months yet, anyhow", said Erica, her face changing. "You’re lucky".
"After all", said Weathersby, talking to himself out loud. "What difference does it make? She’s probably died of old age by this time, so why bother?"
"Why bother what? Who are you talking about?" asked Erica.
"Why bother answering your telephone".
"Good heavens", said Erica, and grabbed her phone. "Hello, Mimi… are you still there?"
"Hello, Eric. This seems to be a lousy time to call you…".
"No, it’s all right. I was finishing up a job and then Sylvia suddenly announced that she was getting married".
"Who to?"
"Mike O’Brien, one of the reporters".
"Wish her luck for me", said Miriam. "How are you, Eric?"
Erica looked blankly at Weathersby who was sitting with his feet on his desk in the corner, engrossed in the Government bulletin on war-time canning, and she said, "I guess I’m all right".
"When did you get in?"
"On the ten-thirty from Ottawa, only it was late. Marc’s train left just after mine so I didn’t have to…" She stopped, and asked, "What do you want, Mimi?"
"I wanted you to lunch with me".
"All right. I’ll meet you at that Italian restaurant round the corner from the cathedral at one. It’s just off Place d’Armes…"
"I know where it is", said Miriam. "Thanks, Eric".
Erica rang off, sat for a moment, then straightened up, drawing in her breath, and asked, "Where’s the stuff on the Wrens?"
"On your desk underneath that pile of pictures", said Weathersby. "Are you feeling all right, Eric?"
She stared at him and then said suddenly, "Shut up".
"O.K.", said Weathersby. "O.K". He glanced at Sylvia, raised one eyebrow and demanded, "Why Mike, for God’s sake?"
"And what’s the matter with Mike?"
"He’s got red hair. If I were a woman, I wouldn’t marry a guy with red hair who can’t even afford to pay for his own lunch. Well, anyhow", said Weathersby kindly, "congratulations. I hope you’ll be happy on relief".
"Thank you, Weathersby", said Sylvia. "Just for that, I’ll allow you to write up my wedding. Eric…"
"Yes?"
"I’ll do the Wren story for you".
"No, thanks, I’ll do it. What’s this?" she asked, referring to a pile of photographs. "Don’t tell me we had that many weddings left over!"
Erica started to work again. When the final edition was ready to go to press, she began to line up her material for Tuesday’s first edition. The thing was to go on working and not to look up, for fear you might see him standing there and hear the sound of his voice and feel the touch of his hands, not to stop for a moment for fear you would be caught. The thing to do was to go on working and not to think of the future which contained forty-eight hours, one week-end, and probably nothing more. Some women are lucky; they say good-by and knew exactly what they’re up against-the simple, straightforward, uncomplicated all-or-nothing alternative of life or death. If he lives, he comes back; if he’s killed, he doesn’t. But Marc may live or he may not, and if he lives he may come back, or he may not.
Later, put it off until later. Get your mind on something else.
She looked down at the typewritten page in front of her which was headed "Women’s War Group Extends Work", and a moment later she heard her own voice call out, "Sylvia!"
"Yes", said Sylvia, starting. "Yes, what is it?"
"I… I don’t…" She put one hand to her forehead, wondering what it was she had meant to say. Sylvia was looking at her in alarm, and it was necessary to say something, so she asked, "Where’s the syndicate stuff?"
"On your desk, Eric". She got up, crossed the room and standing in front of Erica she said, "Are you sure you’re feeling all right?"
"Yes, I’m sorry".
She said, "He hasn’t gone yet, Eric. Besides, they get postponements-my brother was home three times after his embarkation leave".
"Was he?" Erica looked up at her for a moment, and then said, "It isn’t that".
"Why don’t you go and get some lunch?"