By the end of the year, Margaret had a book advance from another publisher for a collection of stories and poems. It was enough to pay for a trip she’d long wanted to make to Ireland. She was eager to see the land of her ancestors, but her father had refused to let her go alone. She coaxed Roberta into coming along by arranging for her to receive an advance as the illustrator of the book. Most likely because Basil would join them, her father approved of the trip.
Margaret planned to write and visit art museums in London for two weeks prior to meeting Roberta and Basil in Paris. Her plan went astray on the ocean liner as it crossed the Atlantic. On the boat, Margaret met a charming group of young men who asked her to join them on a bicycle trip along the coastline of Cornwall. It was the best way to really see the land, they promised the adventurous Margaret.
She bought a bike when the boat docked and followed the boys. They stayed with farmers and fishermen along the way and found pubs in every hamlet. Their haphazard planning didn’t always assure comfort. One night, Margaret’s makeshift bed was a bathtub. She woke with a very sore neck and vowed to plan her travels more carefully. It was, though, a glorious trip—much better than traveling alone or with another girl.
If her father had known his daughter was traipsing unchaperoned through the English countryside with a gaggle of boys, he would have been horrified. It certainly defied convention, but anyone of literary merit wouldn’t have turned down an adventure like this. Nor would he or she have stayed away from the pubs, where cider and conversation with the local villagers made for colorful evenings. This was the England she had pictured. Kind farm people, dark pubs, fields of heather and stone that disappeared into the sea and fog. This felt like a pilgrimage and she like a real author.
On her last evening on the coast, she walked through a fine rain as it drifted over the granite-topped hills of Dartmoor in North Bovey. Dusk was setting in. She was alone on the rocks except for the occasional bunny or sheep that materialized out of the waves of mist blowing over the heathery land. The farmhouse where she was staying wasn’t far; she would be there before dark.
Over the past few days, she had grown close to the couple who rented her a room at their small country house. They shared warm dinners and hours of conversation with their American guest. Margaret was delighted each time their orphaned pet calf mooed at the back door for milk. Kittens, dogs, and geese wandered the farm, too. It was a most relaxing place, and Margaret hoped to stay there for three more days, writing and painting. As she walked along the moors, she wondered about her future as a writer.
Just thinking about her deadline sent a twinge of anxiety down Margaret’s spine. She really should have finished the book by now. Snippets of poems were coming to her, but they were far from sonnets; they were merely ideas without solid purpose or form. She still wanted to write something serious, something literary. Margaret thought that perhaps a course in playwriting could help her step out of the children’s literature world. Learning a new way to write might unlock her ability to write for adults. But as the English mist swept around her, she reconsidered. The problem wasn’t her style of writing, she realized; it was that she couldn’t think up anything of importance to write about. Maybe she should stop writing altogether and just grow up. She wasn’t sure how to do that, though. Growing up seemed to be something that happened rather than something that was done.
Margaret headed back toward the farmhouse. The bicycle trip had been impulsive, but it had led her on a wonderful journey. She felt stronger than she had in years, and she wanted to ride her bike around Ireland. Maybe she would ride it to Paris to meet Roberta. She didn’t know where she would stay between here and there, but she had faith that the winds that blew her to this corner of England would see her safely south.
*
After meeting Roberta and Basil in Paris, they went to the International Exposition of Arts and Technology in Modern Life, which was being held near the Eiffel Tower. Countries from around the world displayed their latest inventions and art in pavilions built especially for this world’s fair. The swastika of Hitler’s political party marked Germany’s exposition, but its menacing shadow had only begun to cast darkness over Europe.
Margaret was fascinated by the modern art she saw on display in the French pavilion. Long ago, she’d learned that art was a window into every era. As she visited medieval castles in these ancient lands, she scribbled notes on scraps of papers. Try as she might, she couldn’t separate her modern view to imagine life inside those walls centuries ago. She promised herself to visit art galleries more often on her return to America. Perhaps by seeing the changing world through artists’ eyes, she could better understand history and her own place in this world.
*
When Margaret came back to work at Bank Street, she found that Lucy Mitchell had been busy starting a writers’ collective called the Writers Laboratory. As a member of the publications staff, Margaret was automatically a part of the group. The other members had been handpicked by Lucy to write for Bank Street’s publication division. Its members met each Wednesday to review works in progress and to discuss the results of manuscripts that had been tested in front of children. Lucy was a good-humored and enthusiastic coach who helped the writers tailor their words to the interests and language levels of their desired readers. She critiqued their work through plumes of cigarette smoke while sitting on a worn green couch. All the members considered these productive sessions a rich reward for having survived Lucy’s courses on grammar.
Lucy also found Margaret another new part-time job. Lucy had convinced Bill Scott, the parent of a Bank Street student, to start a publishing company to produce books based on the school’s literary principles. Lucy provided office space in the Bank Street building and suggested that Scott hire Margaret as his editor and principal writer.
Scott’s aim was to produce unique children’s literature that did not copy what had been done before. Exploring new ways to make books appealed to Margaret’s sense of adventure, too. She saw so many opportunities in this field that, even though she desperately wanted to write something more serious, she considered it her duty to make certain juvenile literature was set on the right course. She settled in as editor at William R. Scott Inc. and was proud enough of the letterhead that bore her name and title that she pasted multiple versions of it into her scrapbook.
Eight
1938
They fished and they fished
Way down in the sea,
Down in the sea a mile;
They fished among all the fish in the sea
For the fish with the deep sea smile.
FROM THE FISH WITH THE DEEP SEA SMILE