The Girl from the Corner Shop

by Alrene Hughes

The Irish woman didn’t react to Helen’s words and she could feel the anger rising inside her. She took a deep breath and calmed herself. ‘I know there are women who get into trouble with the police, and I’m sure there are times…’ Had she already said too much?

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m sure some of those women must be frightened and having another woman there could calm them or speak to them with… you know, with some understanding.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Helen Harrison.’

  She nodded. ‘Wait here.’

  Minutes later the woman returned. ‘Here, take this – it’s an application form for the WAPC. Talk to your family and think long and hard about whether you want to spend your working days with unsavoury characters and desperate people. We’re having interviews on Wednesday, for police constables, but if you want to apply, fill in the form and be here at ten o’clock. We’ll squeeze you in before they arrive. Ask for Sergeant Duffy, that’s me.’

  *

  When she arrived home, there was a letter on the mat. She recognised Pearl’s handwriting immediately. No doubt it was about Charles Brownlow and how she should count herself lucky that a wealthy man was interested in her. She’d been taken in with her kindness, all right, offering an office job but, in the end, she wanted to push her into becoming some man’s mistress, just like herself. She put the letter unopened on the mantelpiece.

  She boiled some potatoes and heated up the mince left over from yesterday and, when she had eaten and cleared the table, she took the WAPC application form from her bag.

  The first page was for basic information: name, date of birth, address, previous employment and skills, then the medical questions. Overleaf, it asked for the name and address of someone who would give a reference. That might be a bit tricky, she thought. The rest of the page was blank, except for one sentence. ‘Please explain why you think you would be suited to a role in the Women’s Auxiliary Police Corps.’ She sighed and pushed the form away from her. Why was she suited to the role? She had no idea.

  Instead of worrying, she picked up the cushion cover she had been embroidering for the past two weeks. The woman in a crinoline dress, her face hidden by a bonnet, was already completed, and Helen was looking forward to starting on the cottage garden full of flowers. She had just completed a row of daisies, when there was a knock at the door. It was Gwen.

  ‘I used to have a friend called Helen who lived here, but she seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.’

  Helen threw her arms around her. ‘Come in, come in. Thanks for coming round and I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. The girl who was injured in the bombing came back to Fenner’s and I’ve been really busy getting things up to date before I left. Now I’m looking for a new job.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘I’ve applied for a few out of the paper. Now I’ll have to see if I get any replies.’

  ‘That’s funny, I was thinking of changing jobs myself. I’m fed up at Mather and Platt.’ She sighed. ‘Fed up with everything really.’

  ‘Why’s that? You and Frank are all right, aren’t you?’

  Gwen shrugged her shoulders. ‘Not really, I hardly see him. He does a lot of overtime now he’s been promoted.’

  ‘Promoted?’

  Gwen didn’t meet her eye. ‘I’m sorry, Helen, I shouldn’t have said anything. He’s a leading fireman now.’

  Helen turned away from her and busied herself making tea. It was Jim’s job, of course, and it would have been logical to promote Frank, but it hurt so much to hear that everything at the station had moved on and soon Jim would be forgotten. Worse still, Frank had never thought to tell her that he had taken her husband’s place.

  Gwen was still talking. ‘It’s not just that I don’t see him, it’s that he doesn’t seem interested in me anymore. To tell you the truth, he’s not been the same since Jim died. I’ve asked him to tell me what’s the matter. He says it’s nothing and I should stop going on about it. But I think I’m losing him.’

  ‘He’s bound to be sad, they were good pals.’

  ‘I know, but I think there’s something more to it.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s found somebody else.’

  ‘Frank wouldn’t do that; he’s straight as a die.’

  ‘I know, but he’d better buck up his ideas or I might be the one who goes looking. Anyway, let’s not talk about him. Tell me, what sort of job are you after?’

  ‘I was thinking of a clerk, but then I thought I might join the police.’

  ‘The police, really? I would’ve thought that would be the last thing you’d do.’

  Helen was taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Helen, I’ve never seen a policewoman who looked like you with your blonde hair and your lovely figure. Most of them look like the back end of a bus.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be what you look like, it’s whether or not you can do the job. I went to the headquarters in Bootle Street and spoke to the woman sergeant. She certainly weighed me up, but she gave me an application form and said to bring it back on Wednesday because they were having interviews.’ Helen pushed the form across the table.

  Gwen quickly read it. ‘What will you say about why you’re suitable?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ll try and think of something.’

  ‘And you’d be all right dealing with criminals?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be doing that. This is for the Women’s Auxiliary Police Corps, they assist the police doing all sorts of jobs like telephone operator, driver, clerk, but there might be a chance to work with women and children as well. That’s what I’d really like to do.’

  ‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs, Helen Harrison. I never would have thought you’d want to do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, you’ve not exactly mixed with the rough and ready types you’d find in a police station, have you? The only crime you’ve seen is snotty-nosed kids stealing farthing chews.’

  Helen was determined not to be put off. ‘Gwen, since Jim died, I’ve learned a lot about women fending for themselves. How hard it is, especially when they have children to feed and clothe.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Helen, I wasn’t criticising. You’ve showed guts leaving home and striking out on your own like you did. And if you want to join the police, well good luck to you.’

  When Gwen had gone, Helen went back to the application and worked on it until midnight. It wasn’t perfect, but she hoped it was sincere and sensible. She was about to go to bed when she remembered Pearl’s letter. She took it from the mantelpiece and ripped it open. It was almost a repetition of what she had said at the Grosvenor: she knew nothing about Fenner’s scheme to pair Helen up with one of his cronies; yes, she was Fenner’s mistress, and she was ashamed of that. She hoped they wouldn’t fall out, when they had become such close friends working together. The letter finished, ‘I’ve been a mistress. It was the worst decision I ever made and I wouldn’t want you to make the same mistake. I care about you, Helen, and if you need anything at all, I’ll always help you.’

  There was no point in being angry, she had already moved on. Now she had a chance to make her own way in the world, to be independent and to do something worthwhile. She just had to prove to those who might doubt her, that she could join the police.

  Chapter 13

  Helen arrived at Manchester Police headquarters ten minutes early for the interview and was shown into a bright, airy waiting room with lots of framed government posters on the walls.

  Another lady came in, older than her, and she, too, wanted to join the WAPC. She said her name was Sissy Riley. ‘I’ve been looking after my mother,’ she explained. ‘But she died last month and I got to thinking I should do something for the war effort.’ She gave a shy smile. ‘Don’t know if I’m too old, but I’d love to be a telephone operator.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not. My name’s Helen. Hope we b
oth get taken on.’

  At ten o’clock, Sergeant Duffy came in. ‘Mrs Harrison, come through please.’

  Helen sat across the desk in front of three people and Sergeant Duffy introduced herself, the deputy chief superintendent and a detective inspector.

  The deputy chief superintendent began, ‘Thank you for coming, Miss Harrison.’

  Helen was taken aback that he had addressed her as ‘Miss’. She didn’t correct him; he’d already moved on. ‘I’m looking first at whether you’ve any particular skills that would be useful in the WAPC. I see you’ve worked in a corner shop, not sure that’s any use to us. Ah, you have office experience – filing, invoicing – that might be relevant, lots of paperwork in the police. Hmm, you’re twenty-two and it strikes me a good-looking girl like yourself must have other…’ he searched for the words, ‘shall we say, ambitions such as marrying and having children. I wouldn’t want to spend money training you, if that was the case.’

  Sergeant Duffy leaned across to him and jabbed her finger at the application form. The deputy chief superintendent gave a splutter. ‘Ah, I see, a widow, eh? Was your husband in the forces, my dear?’

  ‘No, sir. He was a fireman. He was killed in the bombing at Christmas.’

  ‘Well, you’ll understand the sacrifices made in the public services better than most, I venture.’

  Helen lowered her eyes and nodded.

  The detective inspector cleared his throat and Helen was glad to see it was his turn to ask questions. ‘Mrs Harrison, you’ve given DC Kershaw as your referee. Could you tell me how you came to know him?’

  At last, Helen felt she was able to talk about why she wanted to join the police. ‘The first time I met him was on the day my husband died. I’d gone to look for him and PC Kershaw, as he was then, could see I was distressed. He calmed me down and advised me to go home and wait for news. I didn’t see him again until there was a robbery at the business where I worked. I had spoken to the woman involved in the robbery the day before and was able to describe her in detail to DC Kershaw. He took me to Oldham police station where I picked her out in an identification parade.’

  ‘Is it also true that you were attacked by this woman during the parade?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but it was over in seconds.’

  ‘And that didn’t put you off wanting to join the police?’

  Helen had to smile. ‘Not at all, I was impressed by the policewoman who was there and she told me about the WAPC.’

  ‘Just one more question from me, Mrs Harrison. You’ve spent some time in the waiting room this morning. Do you recall any of the posters on the wall?’

  Helen was puzzled. ‘Yes, sir. Clockwise round the room there’s “Digging for Victory”, “Walls have Ears”…’ and she named all eight posters.

  ‘Did you notice anything else?’

  ‘Well, one of the light bulbs has gone and the wastepaper bin hasn’t been emptied for a while.’ She caught the smile he had tried to suppress as he thanked her and invited Sergeant Duffy to ask her questions.

  ‘There are lots of jobs in the WAPC, most of them based in our offices such as clerical work, operating the switchboard… then there are drivers and mechanics. What sort of work do you think you would be suited to?’

  Helen had hoped they would ask her just that question and she had her answer ready. ‘I want to work with the public, especially with women and children whose lives have been turned upside down because of the war. I wouldn’t mind if they were victims of crime or criminals themselves. I want to do something to make Manchester safer for everyone.’

  Sergeant Duffy nodded. ‘Indeed, Mrs Harrison, that’s what we all want. Now, the interview is over and I’ll ask you to wait outside while we decide whether or not you’re successful.’

  *

  Helen got off the bus on Church Street and called into the tripe shop for three roll-mop herrings, then on to the bakery for a cob loaf and a scone. She thought she deserved a treat. It’s not every day you get the chance to make people’s lives better and she just knew that Jim would have been so proud of her, now that she had become a member of the Women’s Auxiliary Police Corps.

  Chapter 14

  Helen felt transformed. She had passed her training with flying colours and at last she could wear the uniform of a WAPC. It was her in the mirror, but a more confident, stronger-looking version of herself. Her dark blue tunic and skirt, starched white shirt, black tie, lisle stockings, sturdy lace-up shoes and finally the cap, made it clear who and what she was. At least, the uniform said that, but inside she was still Helen who grew up in the corner shop, with a mother who didn’t think she would amount to much. She felt like going back there to stand in front of her and ask, ‘What do you think of me now?’ But that would be foolish because her mother would always have a cutting remark to puncture her ambitions. And, right on cue, a wayward tangle of blonde curls fell from under her cap and spoiled the whole look.

  There was a knock at the door. Frank! She’d forgotten all about him coming to mend the oven door. She dithered. Should she change out of her uniform? Another knock. No, this was who she was now.

  He shook his head at the sight of her and sighed. ‘For God’s sake, Helen, what have you done?’

  ‘I told you I might join the police.’ She tried hard not to be upset.

  ‘I’ll give you two weeks. No, make that one week,’ and he walked past her into the kitchen.

  ‘You don’t understand, Frank, I want to do something worthwhile.’

  He didn’t answer, just started to root about in his tool bag, but she could feel the anger coming off him.

  ‘Look, it’s just like you and Jim joining the fire brigade.’

  ‘No, it isn’t, Helen. You’re not cut out for dealing with the raw, disgusting mess on the streets of a city.’ He turned away from her and set to work on the oven.

  She left him there and went to take off her uniform, then she lay on the bed worrying if she’d done the wrong thing. She was to start her two weeks training the following day and she had been looking forward to it, but Frank’s attitude had knocked her side-ways.

  An hour later he called up to her. ‘I’ve finished.’

  She didn’t answer. The front door closed – he had gone.

  *

  On their first morning as fully trained WAPCs, Helen and Sissy, who had also passed her interview, reported to Sergeant Duffy in her office. The two of them lined up, as regimented as soldiers, while she inspected their uniforms. ‘Don’t ever let me see you less than perfectly turned out. No make-up, no rolling up skirts and, most of all, your cap must be placed at the front of your head not at the back. Now before you take up your duties, the chief superintendent has asked to see you.’

  They were ushered into his office and lined up again. He made a brief speech about the changing force and how he hoped they would free up police constables to spend more time solving crime. He then presented them with the red and blue cap badge of the WAPC. ‘Wear it with pride, ladies.’

  Helen had been disappointed that she was made a clerk, but Sergeant Duffy had explained that there would also be opportunities to walk the beat with police constables, helping them with everyday policing. ‘It’s my belief that we need more women coppers on the streets and you will get the chance to be on the front line with the rest of us.’ Sissy had been delighted to get her dream job as a telephone operator and confessed to Helen that she had no inclination to pound the beat.

  After a week’s clerking, Helen signed on for an extra shift at the weekend; she was desperate to be patrolling, and she would rather be at work than on her own at home. She arrived at the station and went straight to briefing room four. There were six officers there: three policemen; a WPC; Sergeant Duffy and Helen, the only WAPC. There had been a report that a group of children were sleeping rough having broken into one of the Victoria Arches opposite the cathedral. ‘We’ve no idea how many are in there,’ Sergeant Duffy told them. ‘A lot of these youngsters are running wil
d, most of them are evacuees who didn’t like the country life and some have run away from God knows what at home. We’ll pick them up and bring them back here, find out who they are and see if we can get them back with their parents or put in children’s homes. Any questions?’

  An officer suggested, ‘We could take the older ones to a rest centre?’

  ‘Ach, let’s see how many there are first, sure we don’t want to swamp the centres. They’re still busy with bombed-out families. Right, everyone, let’s go.’

  The series of arches that ran along the banks of the River Irwell close to Victoria Bridge were mostly used as lock-ups for storage; a few signs showed they were business premises too – a rag and bone merchant, a knife grinder…

  A man in greasy overalls with a grimy face stood outside a welder’s workshop and, as the police came towards him, he gave the slightest nod towards the arch next to his.

  Sergeant Duffy ordered the two burly police constables to slide back the door and, as they did so, they shouted, ‘Stay where you are!’ The light flooded the dank, dark space, and Helen gasped at the sight. There must have been nearly twenty children there: grubby faces; wide, frightened eyes; dirty clothes. Some lying on the ground barely moved, others were getting to their feet. Two older boys tried to make a run for it, but they were no match for the constables.

  Sergeant Duffy’s voice reverberated round the brick arch. ‘You’re not in trouble. We’re here to help you. First of all, we’ll take you to the police station, where you’ll get a hot meal. Then we’ll take your names and addresses so we can tell your parents that you’re safe.’

  One of the older boys who had tried to run away shouted, ‘I’m not goin’ back to them! I can look after meself.’

  The policeman nearest to him spoke sternly. ‘If you can prove you’re old enough, we’ll let you go wherever you want.’

  They walked the children to Bootle Street where the canteen had a hot meal ready for them. They looked half-starved, shovelling the stew and potatoes into their mouths and mopping up the gravy with doorstep slices of bread. There was tapioca pudding as well and, by the time they’d polished that off, they seemed less wild, placid almost. Sergeant Duffy assigned Helen to six of the girls ranging between six and fourteen. ‘As well as names and addresses, try and get as much out of them as you can,’ Duffy told her. ‘Their story, if you like, why they’re on the streets or if there’s been any ill-treatment.’