In Name Only: The Journal of Margret Ford

Author's note: This is an account of one woman's journey through difficult love. Be warned... although there are some sexual events throughout the story, it is NOT riddled with sex. If that is what you are looking for please don't waste your time reading this. All characters involved in a sexual activity are 18 years and older. This is a work of fiction and any similarities to real persons are purely coincidental.

Margret Ford,

Martinsville, West Virginia, January 1948

Willoughby Holler, Tennessee was founded by my daddy's uncle's great-granddaddy. But that distinction did nothing for our standing in the community. We struggled to survive along with everyone else. I am one of three children born to Ian and Eileen Ford. I've an older brother, Francis, and a twin sister who died at birth.

Willoughby Holler has always struggled to exist, but the black blizzards of the 1930's were the Holler's and my family's undoing. The first few years were of unbearable hardships. My father and brother worked unceasingly in an attempt to keep the family farm going, always praying, always hoping for rain to no avail.

We lost them both to dust pneumonia for their efforts. After the men died, my mother couldn't run the place by herself so she was relieved when the bank took the matter out of her hands by foreclosing on our farm. It was all the incentive she needed to let go of my father's barren legacy and flee Willoughby Holler for good.

We packed up and moved Martinsville, West Virginia to live with her mother. Life was better here, but still very hard. Mother's health was never right after the living through those storms, and she worked herself to an early death taking care of me. I always feel guilty when I think of it, but I was so young then and could offer little in the way of helping her.

She died when I was ten, leaving me to my elderly grandmother to raise me. Grandma was a kind and gentle woman who raised me with care. She passed on two months ago, and now I am alone.

New York City, May 1948

New York was not the city many claimed it to be. Fame, fortune and bright hopes realized within minutes of your arrival, was not a given. The "big apple" I'd been eager to take a bite out was like dust in my mouth. It's a hot, smelly, unfeeling city, with too many people, and too little opportunity for employment now that the war has ended and the soldiers have returned to the city's work force. My high hopes are crushed on a daily basis.

I left Martinsburg, with expectations of quick and easy success. But I was young and naïve, and not prepared for the largest city in America. The pleasant wholesome little town of Martinsville hadn't quite prepared me for a place like this.

I have never met so many rude, unfriendly people in all my life. On more than one occasion, I've had to fend off smartly dressed men looking for a goodtime girl to spend a few hours with them. This place I had come to realize my aspirations was one of immorality and desperation, bursting with worn-out, selfish people, enviously holding fast to whatever they owned, giving no quarter to those who had nothing.

Broadway lights lose their sparkle once the veracity of big city life smacks you full in the face—as I had come to realize once my daily routine began to take its toll. I've worn a hole in the sole of my only pair of pumps—grandma saved up special to buy them for me and I adored them—as I pounded the pavement looking for work. I've been lost more times than not, and have sought the help of these very busy people, with little success. Oh, sure, I got the occasional point in the right direction, but, as a whole, I've trudged through this cement jungle unaided.

Although my enthusiasm has somewhat dimmed, I still hung on the hope of becoming a secretary to a rich bachelor, marrying him and settling down with two kids (a boy and a girl is preferable) and a dog—I do intend to nix the white picket fence; I'll have a mansion, instead, with a huge kidney shaped swimming pool, sculptured lawns and heavy wrought iron gates surrounding my lair... Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?

I looked up at the tall, tall building that is my final destination for the day, and sighed. If I don't get this position, I may have to sell my mother's wedding ring. I feel shamed just thinking about it. It was the only thing I owned of hers that was worth any monetary value, and I'd hoped to keep it with me forever. I had to land this job. I just had to.

I've been renting at Mrs. Tatterly's Boardinghouse for Young Ladies, a huge brownstone in Manhattan. It's a goodish sort of place. The beds were clean and somewhat comfortable—though you had to share a room with a stranger. I got lucky with mine; Patty Harry is a real peach of a roommate.

Mrs. Tatterly's establishment touted a real shower and an inside toilet—a real luxury for one whose family could not afford to make the change and was forced to make numerous trips to the outhouse. She also provides a light breakfast of toasted bread and tea every morning and a hot supper served promptly at seven o'clock for those of us who show up on time—stragglers miss out—and, although the fare is usually accompanies some type of heavy gravy. But it's sustaining, it keeps the hunger pangs away.

I was fortunate to find a place for the low price of twenty dollars a month. But after two months of joblessness, I am fast running out of money. I'm afraid I'll be turned out on the streets if I don't find work quickly. You see Mrs. Tatterly—though an exemplary landlady—does not have a heart of gold. She will swiftly and efficiently rid her home of those who do not, or cannot, pay her on time. Unfortunately, I may be one of them if I don't land a job soon.

I entered the building and was instantly relieved and surprised by the cool interior. The Gleam On soap powder building is one of the few air conditioned buildings in the city. I crossed the huge lobby to take the elevator to the 17^th floor.

I was talking to a waitress at Waldworth's five-and-dime, and she told me Gleam on were looking for a secretary. I practically ran over here in order to be the first in line for the position.

I can't thank my grandmother enough for encouraging me to take those typing classes because it's the only skill I have to support myself. While I waited in the elevator, I quickly ran a comb threw my hair, powdered my nose, and reapplied my lipstick. I was hot and frazzled, but with the sweat wiped from my brow and nose and my lips refreshed, I hoped I'd appear presentable to my possible employer. The elevator dinged open unexpectedly. I smoothed my dress, took a deep calming breath and I stepped out—and was, once again, grateful for the coolness of the air.

A brunette sat behind a heavy wooden desk typing away on a Smith Corona. She looked up as I approached her desk, and I was struck by her absolute beauty.

"Hello, I'm Margret Ford. I've come to fill the secretarial position." I said with a confidence I didn't feel.

She smiled, a truly lovely smile, and pointed to a chair near the far wall, "Hello, Margret, take a seat. Mr. Ellison will see you shortly."

"Thank you," I said, returning her smile. I took the seat she indicated, and then settled down to wait. I was very impressed with the office. There was another wooden desk on the opposite side of the room. A Royal Wide carriage typewriter sat stately and imposing on its polished top, waiting for a user. It looked a monster compared to the one stunning brunette was using.

The wooden floor was nearly invisible under the huge Samarkand rug. The wall war dark paneled with beautiful landscapes dotted about. It was a welcoming atmosphere, despite the austere surroundings. I've no doubt I'd like working here. I hoped I get the chance to find out.

The brunette's intercom buzzed, she smiled at me and then went into the office on her right, closing the door behind her. After a few minutes, she reentered. "Miss Ford, Mr. Ellison will see you now." She said, giving me an encouraging smile.

"Thank you," I said, smiling in return. But as I moved past her into his office, my knees shook. I took a deep breath to study my nerves. "Hello..." I said as I approached his desk. I froze in mid stride, practically tripping my own two feet. I normal did not believe in love at first sight—I thought it juvenile to accept such foolishness—but I am a believer now. How my heart did thump strongly in my chest the second my eyes fell upon him.

He was unlike any man I'd ever seen. Martinsville has never, and will never, produce such a magnificent specimen. Six feet tall or taller, broad and muscular, rich dark, dark brown hair, cobalt blue eyes, a chiseled jaw with a most becoming five o'clock shadow—which enhanced the sheer sexiness of him. For the first time in my life embarrassing warmth moistened my panties. I must've gone five shades of red, but I did my best to recover. I'm not sure I succeeded; I couldn't stop staring at him across his enormous desk.

"Miss Ford, enlighten me as to how you learned of this position? I haven't had a chance to advertise as yet, so you'll forgive me if I seem taken aback, this is the first time I've interviewed a candidate before the job's announced."

"Oh..." I cleared my throat. "Well, I happened by the five-and-dime, and a waitress there mentioned you were hiring. I'm sure tomorrow morning would have been more appropriate but I really want this job, so I wasted no time in coming to apply."

"Good, good, I appreciate a determined worker," he smiled—and I sighed and melted.. "How's your typing speed, and what are your filing skills?"

"I do seventy --five words per minute, and my filing skills are excellent. I also know shorthand and can transcribe dictations."

He smiled again—and I became mush. "That's more than satisfactory, Miss Ford," he stood up and offered me his hand, "you're hired."

I shook his, and enjoyed the sensation of electricity shooting throughout my body. "Th-Thank you, sir," I stuttered, licking my suddenly dry lips, "Thank you so very much. When do I start?"

"Tomorrow okay?" He asked amusedly, raising a brow.

"Oh, that's just swell!" I exclaimed. "I'll be here bright and early." My mind was already running through my limited wardrobe, trying to think of my most flattering dress.

"Not too early, I hope." he chuckled. "Office hours begin nine o'clock."

"Oh, yes, of course." I said, wanting to slap for being so revealing.

"Welcome to Gleam On, Miss Ford."

"Thank you, thank you so much." I jabbered awkwardly. He probably thought I was too enthusiastic. I thought I should depart before he changed his mind. "Well, until tomorrow then..."

"Yes, tomorrow." he replied, his beautiful eyes sparkling with humor.

As I rose to leave, I realized I forgot to ask the most important question of all. "Uh, Mr. Ellison... How much does the job pay?"

"Thirty-five a week."

A very generous salary—I practically jumped for joy as I left his office. Mrs. Tatterly will have her money on time after all. I gave the thumbs up to the brunette as I floated by. Not only did I have a job, but I think I have also found my future husband.

I got a quick glimpse of his name plate as I was leaving his office. His name is Walter. Walter Ellison III. Mrs. Walter Ellison III. I like it. Whereas, before, my spirits where the lowest they'd been since I arrived in New York, they were now at their highest peak. A job and a man in one sweltering afternoon... things were looking up.

********

I returned to a subdued household. Mrs. Tatterly had given the heave-ho to another delinquent border that afternoon and many of the girls were forced to face harsh reality once again. I'd made it home for the evening meal. We suffered in the hot, stuffy room, breaking out in a sweat as the thick, hot vegetable stew raised our temperatures us even more.

Although I was grateful for the bonus of morning and evening meals, I truly wish Mrs. Tatterly would serve seasonal meals. The hearty soups and stews she tends to dole out are cost effective, which is wonderful for her, but not so great for those of us who profusely perspire while eating it.

"So, Miss Ford, I gather your day has been quite successful." Mrs. Tatterly said, spooning more stew into her bowl.

No sweat on her brow at all. I was amazed and took a second too long to respond. I marveled at how she remained moisture free while packing it away. Amazing.

"Come, come Miss Ford," she said, impatiently, "surely, you have some news for us."

"Oh, yes, yes, please...excuse me. I have very good news," I said, looking at all the dewy faces around the table. "I was just hired by Gleam On Soap Company. I start tomorrow."

Mrs. Tatterly produced a genuine smile. "Well, that's a relief, dearie. I agonized over turning you out—you coming from West Virginia, and all. But, now... well, this is good new, indeed."

I blinked and managed a small smile in return. "Thank you." I'd no idea she'd been thinking of me at all...I have a week to go before rent was due. How could she have known I was on my last five dollars?

The girls smiled wanly in my direction and offered their congratulations. I empathized with them, but I wouldn't worry with them tonight about who would be ousted next. I had a tall, dark and handsome man on my mind, and I couldn't wait to go to my room to daydream and write about him.

My journal lay abandoned on my chest as I let my mind wander. I couldn't find the words to describe him. His eyes were surrounded by thick lashes which made his blue eyes dazzling. I blushed when I remembered his full sensual lips. I wondered how they'd taste. And his hands... he had big hands and long fingers with manicured nails; I closed my eyes as I imagined them caressing me...

"Margret?"

My eyes popped open. "Yes, Patty," I answered, blushing.

"I thought you were asleep." She took a closer look at me. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine." I got off the bed and opened my wardrobe. Should I wear the green dress? It was by far the best out of the three I owned.

Patty sat down on her bed. "I-I'll be moving in a day or two."

I turned around to look at her. "Moving? Why? You're paid up until next month."

She sniffled. "I'm to be married." She said, wiping her eyes.

"Married?" I stared at her, my mouth agape. "But...but, why? When?"

Weeping, she covered her face, her words came out muffled. "I'm... in the family way, a-and Carlo refuses to help me find someone to-to... I can't do it myself...I'm too afraid."

"Patty, you're pregnant...? But you said—why did you—he's Italian... and-and catholic."

"I know!" She moaned dejectedly. "I don't know what... It just happened! Carlo touched me, I-I couldn't help myself..."

"Oh, Patty," I sighed, "what are you going to do?"

She lifted red, teary eyes to mine. "I can't go home, not like this. My mother would be so ashamed and my father—" she shook her head at the thought of her father reaction. "I-I'm going to marry him. I-I think I can learn to love him after all we've-we'vel... I'll be fine, Margret, you'll see." She said, smiling mistily.

"Sure you will, Patty, why, I bet Carlo will make a fine husband." I wanted to believe so badly that he would. Patty was such a kind girl. "Have you told Mrs. Tatterly you're leaving?"

"Yes, and since the tightfisted old biddy won't refund my money, I told her to credit your account one month."

"Oh, Patty, that's so generous of you, but you didn't have—"

"I know, but I don't want the battleaxe profiting from my early departure. I'm glad to do it."

We got into our beds, and then faced each other across the narrow space between our beds. "You will write to me, Patty, won't you?"

She smiled, though the sadness in her eyes was heartbreaking. "Of course I will, Margret, we are friends aren't we?"

"Yes, we are." I reached across that narrow aisle for her hand. Her hand grasped mine strongly, and I felt fear and anxiety in her ice cold grip.

New York City, June 30, 1948

Mrs. Tatterly rang out the news of Patty's death at dinner this evening. We stared at her in shock, not comprehending what we'd just heard. At which time, she promptly repeated the news, describing the sordid details in subdued tones. But I wasn't fooled. There was something in her eyes that belied the sadness in her voice.

My dear sweet friend—of whom I believed would have remained so for the rest of my life—is dead. She hid her misery from me... from us all. Apparently, love is not what drove her and Carlo's relationship, and becoming his wife had been more than she'd been willing to endure.

She'd chosen to trust some stranger with her life rather than marry him. But her desperate attempt had been fatal. I cried all night berating myself for not being there for her. I would have gone along with her to the back alley butcher. I would have helped her. She wouldn't have bled to death all alone on a grubby motel room floor. And her folly wouldn't have become fodder for Mrs. Tatterly's sanctimonious censure and gossipy friends.

I'll never forget Patty. I'll always remember her kindness. And I promised myself to never get into the same predicament that took her life.

New York City, July 1948

I'm afraid I showed up for work a little worse for wear—compliments of a night of tossing and turning. My eyes were puffy and my skin a little blotchy. I was, therefore, quite grateful my hair choose to be cooperative. My golden stresses are, perhaps, my best feature. I am not a plain Jane, mind you, but not supremely beautiful either. I am average height; I wear a respectable size six, and, although I am not overly blessed in the chest department, I think I'm quite adequate.

I hurried to my desk, to begin my day. I was inserting paper into my typewriter when Walter's office door opened and Vivian emerged. She was as beautiful today as when we first met. I envied her easy beauty. Looks like hers will never fade away. Although... after a second glance, I noticed she was quite flushed and... glowing? Was she unwell?

"Oh," she gasped, blushing even brighter. She was obviously surprised to see me, though I wasn't sure why—it's ten past nine and I was late.

"Morning, Vivian." Vivian is Walter's sister and his head secretary. I like the fact that Gleam On was a family business and Vivian worked along side him. It allowed for a less formal atmosphere. He was a generous boss. We were treated very well in the office. And a blind person could see that he loved his sister very much—a definite asset when one is trying to choose a husband.

"G-Good morning, Margret." she said, slightly flustered. "You're early today."

"Actually, I'm a little late" I told her ruefully, looking pointedly at the clock.

"Oh, yes...well that's fine." She went to her desk and picked up a thick pile of papers.

I groaned, inwardly. This is going to be a long day. "I have this report to finish." I explained, holding up Walter's three handwritten pages. "I'll be done in a jiffy."

Vivian deposited the handwritten notes on my desk. "He will need these typed up, as well, Margret. But there's no need to rush, he won't need them right away. "

"Sure thing, Vivian." I said, and then became absorbed in my work. I thought of my dear friend Patty. Poor Patty, her impetuous nature landed her in that predicament and now she's lost her life because of it. I wondered if she'd had a nice funeral. Her body had been sent back to her family in Missouri. It hurt that I hadn't a chance to say a final goodbye to her. Some friend I turned out to be. I would've wanted to, at least, place flowers on her grave.