by Tania Crosse
‘No idea. I’ve never applied for an office job before. Depends who else applies, I suppose.’
‘Well, I think you should get it. You know all about the factory, but you’re wasted on the shop floor.’
‘Thanks, Gert,’ Hillie replied ruefully. ‘We’ll just have to see. But I’d best get on now. If I’m too long at the library, there’ll be hell to pay,’ she concluded, jabbing her head along Battersea Park Road in the direction her father had taken.
‘And that wasn’t? Hell, I mean.’
‘Oooh, no.’
Hillie gave a short, ironic laugh and waved to Gert before setting off with a brisk step along Falcon Road. The sooner she arrived at the library, the sooner she could put her mind to completing the application form. The long walk alone, though, under the rank of railway bridges crossing the road as the multiple tracks left Clapham Junction Station, and then up Lavender Hill as far as the tall, brick building of the public library, gave her time to think. She’d given the form a cursory glance and had a rough idea of what it contained. It was only short, so she needed to make a glowing impression in a few words.
The library was silent but for the hushed sounds of people scanning the shelves to choose new books. It was a busy period, Hillie knew. As most people were at work the rest of the week, there weren’t many in this industrial part of south-west London who could visit the library at any other time.
Hillie found herself an empty table and sat down. She carefully unfolded the sheet of paper and smoothed it out with reverent hands. She’d brought her fountain pen with her, a prized present from her mother, wrapped up in a sheet of blotting paper in case it leaked. Now she tore off a narrow strip of the absorbent paper and wound it round behind the nib of the pen. She wasn’t going to risk any ink splotches marring her chances of getting an interview!
Personal details, that was straightforward enough. Concentrating on writing them down in an impeccably neat hand seemed to calm her nerves. This could be the gateway to releasing the real Hilda Hardwick, whose heart burst with a passion for life beyond the backstreet where she lived and the factory where she worked. It would be but a small step, but it would be a job where she could use her brain a little more, and the extra money would allow her a little more freedom of whatever type she chose. Presuming her dad didn’t get his dirty hands on it, of course!
Qualifications, now that was trickier. She had no shorthand and typing skills, but Mrs Harrington had explained those weren’t necessary as this was a strictly clerical post. The only academic qualification Hillie had was her school leaving certificate, but with ‘excellent’ in every subject, that must surely prove her intelligence. In case she ever needed it, she’d proudly stored the certificate in her drawer in the bedroom she shared with Joan, Trixie and Daisy, three of her five younger siblings.
Experience. Well, she’d worked at Price’s for three years, only as a packer, perhaps, but she knew every kind of candle the factory produced, every shape and size, the type of wax for different uses, the differing wicks and how they were prepared from cotton or flax, and the various companies they manufactured candles for that required their own labels to be affixed rather than Price’s own. She’d also done a stint in the soap-packing house when there’d been a huge, urgent order to fulfil. She’d really enjoyed that, with all the fragrances and pretty colours in the silky smooth bars. And although she had nothing to do with the lubricating oil production at the factory, she had a reasonable idea of the processes involved. So overall she had a pretty good notion of the entire factory and how it worked, which surely must stand her in good stead for a position in the office. She also added that she was a conscientious worker, young and enthusiastic, and quick to learn any new skill that was required of her. They would also see from her records that she was never late and had only been off sick once in her three years of service.
Hillie paused to chew the end of her pen. She mustn’t be too long or her dad would come down on her like a ton of hot bricks. She didn’t want him to know about her application. He’d see it as her getting too big for her boots, and he’d want to keep her in her place. And if she didn’t get the job, it’d only provide fuel for his cruel mockery of her, and she didn’t want that! She could just imagine him ridiculing her for trying to prove herself better than she really was.
Well, she’d do her level best to prove that she was worth more than standing at a bench packing candles all day! She went back to finishing off the form. It had taken her half an hour to complete, and when she’d finished, she sat back to observe it with a critical eye. It certainly looked good, almost like a work of art, her handwriting small, slightly and evenly slanted, artistic and yet utterly legible, and not a crossing out or an ink blot. It was as perfect as she could make it; even if she wasn’t successful, at least she wouldn’t have disgraced herself. With a proud sigh tempered with apprehension, she slid it back into the envelope Mrs Harrington had provided and then went to choose a new book to read during the week. She deliberately chose one large enough to conceal the envelope and then set off home, nervous excitement simmering in her young breast.
*
‘There. That’s everything done, isn’t it, Mum?’
Hillie and Nell Hardwick surveyed together the back room of their terraced house in the Latchmere area of Battersea. It served as both kitchen and dining room, with a rustic kitchen table placed in the centre. A curtain across the recess at one side of the narrow chimney breast hid the pull-down bed where Luke, the eldest of Hillie’s younger siblings, slept at night. Off the room was a scullery which housed the enamel gas oven on its tall legs on which Nell cooked for her family of eight, and the chipped butler sink with its corroded cold tap perched on the end of a lead pipe protruding from the wall. All was as neat and tidy as it could be, everything washed up and stowed away in its rightful place after Sunday lunch.
‘Yes, I think so, Hillie dear. Thanks for your help. And I’m glad you applied for that job,’ Nell said, dropping her voice. ‘I won’t tell a soul. I understand why you don’t want your dad to know.’
‘Thanks, Mum. It was a nice dinner, by the way.’
Hillie beamed at her mother, who returned her affection with a timid curve of her mouth as if she was almost afraid to show her pleasure. She appeared so small, so vulnerable, that Hillie was overwhelmed with an irresistible surge of protectiveness and enveloped Nell in her arms. Her mum just about came up to her chin, and Hillie wondered for the umpteenth time where she got her own height from, since her father wasn’t particularly tall either.
‘Oh, get away with you,’ Nell pulled away, blushing shyly. ‘And it wasn’t a nice dinner at all.’
‘It wasn’t at all bad, and it was the best you could do to feed so many of us on the pittance Dad gives you for housekeeping.’
‘And what you give us,’ Nell corrected, cheeks pinked with embarrassment. ‘If I had my way, we wouldn’t be taking so much of your wages from you. You deserve to keep more money for yourself.’
‘But you couldn’t manage on any less. And what would I do with it, anyway?’
‘But your father always has enough for his cigarettes and more than a few pints every week.’
Hillie clamped her jaw. She’d thought the same herself on numerous occasions. She was convinced her dad earned more than he let on. But she had enough to argue with him over without challenging him on that score as well. Besides, their rows upset her mum so much that she often gave in for Nell’s sake.
She was saved having to find a suitable reply, though, as her father came in through the back door from the yard, pulling up his braces. Hillie knew he’d been using the outside lav. It was his ritual after Sunday lunch, and everyone else had to wait. Now his broad, stocky figure filled the doorway between the scullery and the kitchen, casting an ominous shadow over the two women. Hillie sensed her mother shrink against her.
‘You done everything properly?’
Hillie’s chin shot up. ‘Of course. Can’t you see? So I ass
ume you’d have no objection if we all go to the park for the afternoon? It’s such a lovely day.’
‘Humph,’ Harold snorted, knowing he was bested since the room and the scullery were immaculate. ‘Make sure you’re back to help your mother with the tea.’
‘Of course. Come on then, Mum. The others are all waiting outside.’
‘Just get my hat, dear.’
Hillie bit down her frustration. She couldn’t wait to get away from the suffocating atmosphere her father created in the house. But her mother was of the generation who couldn’t put her head outside the door without sticking some sort of covering on it.
‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ Harold’s voice sliced through the stiff air as he leaned forward to grasp his wife’s arm before she even got as far as the dark, depressing hallway. ‘I didn’t say you could go, did I?’
Hillie waited for the indignation to scorch down through her body and land heavily in her boots. Why shouldn’t her poor, downtrodden mother have a few hours’ pleasure wandering through Battersea Park and playing with her children? She had little enjoyment in her life as it was.
Hillie’s mind raced. How could she diffuse the situation without aggravating her father even more? ‘Why don’t we all go, Dad?’ The words tumbled gaily out of her mouth before she could stop them. And then, cringing at her own actions, she linked her arm through her father’s. ‘You’d enjoy it. I’ve probably got enough in my piggy bank for us all to go on the boating lake.’
‘What would I want to go boating for? Take the little uns if you want,’ her dad barked back, snatching away his arm. ‘Keep them out of my hair for a few hours. Give your mother and me a bit of time together.’
He drew the tip of his tongue over his suddenly drooling bottom lip, and Hillie felt sick. She knew what her father had in mind. Oh, her poor mum. If her dad was as domineering in the bedroom as he was in everything else, her mother must be desperate. And Hillie was desperate to save her mum from the ordeal, this once at least.
She opened her mouth to make some sort of protest. They might not get such a lovely day again for weeks, perhaps? But her mother caught her eye with an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
‘You go along and enjoy yourself, Hillie dear,’ Nell said, a false smile trembling on her lips. From the pleading expression on her face, she didn’t want Hillie to interfere. And perhaps it’d be worse for her mum if she did, Hillie considered, though her rancour towards her father stuck in her throat.
‘OK, then. See you later.’ She tried to force some brightness into her voice as she skipped out of the front door into the blinding brilliance of the afternoon sun. But in truth all she felt inside was bitterness and anger towards her father.
Having lent a hand with the washing up earlier, Luke and Joan, the eldest of her younger siblings, had been allowed by their father to go off and find their own friends. Odd how he allowed them to get away with a lot more than she ever did when she was that age, Hillie always thought. But the youngest two, little Daisy and Frances, were playing on the doorstep under Trixie’s watchful eye. Hillie sometimes wondered if Trixie was more like their father than any of them. She never allowed her charges much fun, but though only eight years old, she could be relied upon to keep her younger sisters safe.
‘Hey, you lot,’ Hillie addressed them fondly, trying to keep her mind off what she knew was about to take place indoors. ‘We’re going to the park. We can… Oh, never mind.’ Damn. She was so riled up about her dad that she’d forgotten to run upstairs and raid her piggy bank, but she certainly wasn’t going back indoors now! ‘You wait here. I’m going to call for Gert and see if any of them want to come, too.’
‘Goody! Will you ask Jake to bring his football?’ Daisy piped up.
Hillie laughed, grateful for the diversion from her unhappy thoughts. She went a few steps down the street and knocked at the front door to the Parkers’ house. It was opened only seconds later by a little tot barely tall enough to reach the latch. The child stared up at Hillie, eyes huge in a pinched face that still bore evidence of the meal the family had recently eaten.
‘Hello, Trudy!’ Hillie beamed. ‘Is Gert in?’
Ermintrude Parker’s enquiring expression moved into a grin. ‘Hillie!’
Holding up her arms, the little urchin leapt into the air, obliging Hillie to catch her. In time-honoured fashion, Hillie hoisted her onto her hip – and immediately wished she hadn’t. She could feel that the toddler had wet her knickers and nobody had noticed – and Hillie was wearing her best summer dress, taken, freshly washed and ironed, from its hanger that morning. To her utter relief, though, Trudy started to wriggle herself free the instant she spied Daisy and Frances through the open door. Hillie set her down on her feet again and the child rushed outside. Hillie knew she’d be perfectly safe playing hopscotch on the pavement under Trixie’s strict command.
Hillie stepped inside the house and walked down the narrow hallway with its chipped brown paintwork and walls of similar hue. The door to the front room stood wide open, revealing the single bedstead where Gert’s grandmother, Old Sal, slept. Half hidden behind the door was another bed that Hillie knew little Trudy shared with her brother, Jake. Even though the windows had been opened, the room smelt of stale urine. But when Hillie’s nose screwed up, it was from bitterness rather than distaste. Why wouldn’t her dad allow their front room to be used as a bedroom, instead of insisting it was kept as a pristine but spartan parlour only he was allowed to set foot in? It would certainly ease the crowded conditions in the bedroom four of them squeezed into; and even though he was probably the brightest in the class, poor Luke had been caned more than once for falling asleep at school. But it was no wonder when his bed was in the kitchen and he couldn’t go to sleep until his parents had retired for the night. And what would happen as the youngest, Frances, who still fitted in the cot in her parents’ room, got bigger? But their father’s word was law, no matter how often Hillie tried to reason with him over their sleeping arrangements – and received a cuff round the ear for her troubles.
Her frustration, though, was quickly forgotten as lively chatter filtered through from the back room of Number Eight. As Hillie pushed the door wider, the happy atmosphere wrapped its welcoming arms about her. In shape and size, the room mirrored that in her own house, but that was as far as the resemblance went. Yes, there was a table in the middle, but it was still littered with the detritus of Sunday lunch – and probably the past week’s meals as well. Hillie grimaced to herself as she reflected that her dad would have a fit if he came home to a table like this. Unadorned with the starched white tablecloth that he insisted was replaced every day, the Parkers’ table was always bare, deep scratches and burns from scalding pans placed directly on the wood unashamedly on show. Bread and cake crumbs, so stale they’d dried into minute solid lumps, were scattered across its surface among ring marks and dirty crockery. Hillie noticed greasy gravy dripping from the spout of a cracked jug and congealing on the table, even though the pudding, the remnants of which looked as if it might have passed as jam crumble, had already been served and eaten.
But what did all that matter? The clash of merry conversation – each voice raised higher and higher to make itself heard – didn’t cease as a sea of faces turned to Hillie, drawing her into its chaotic bosom. The very goodness of it all made her heart ache with envy.
‘Wanna cuppa, ducks?’ Evangeline Parker called out from the scullery. ‘Just putting the old kettle on.’
‘No thanks, Mrs P,’ Hillie called back. ‘I’m just taking my lot up the park and wondered if any of you wanted to come.’
‘Course,’ Gert gulped through her last mouthful of whatever it was. ‘I’ll just get me hat. I’ll take the kids and all, Mum, so you and Dad can get some peace.’
‘No. You go, too, Eva girl,’ Stan insisted, emerging from behind his newspaper. ‘I’ll stay ’ere and keep an eye on Old Sal. And clear away the battlefield,’ he added, winking at Hillie as he disappea
red behind the sports page again so that she wondered if so much as a teaspoon would have moved by the time they got back. Dear Mr Parker, so different from her own father, Hillie sighed to herself.
‘D’you mind if I have a cuppa first?’ Eva asked from the doorway now.
‘No, go ahead,’ Hillie answered. ‘We’re not in any hurry.’
‘Better tidy these two up, anyway,’ Gert grimaced, getting to her feet and waving her hand towards her younger brother and sister, Mildred and Jake. ‘I’ll change Baby Primrose’s nappy, too. Just had a feed, hasn’t she, so she’ll sleep in the pram for a few hours if we’re lucky.’
‘I think Trudy needs some attention, too,’ Hillie whispered as Gert passed. ‘She’s gone outside with mine, but she’s wet her knickers.’
‘Righty-ho,’ Gert chanted amiably, disappearing off to her tasks like a proper little mother, and Hillie wondered what on earth she’d do without Gert and her happy-go-lucky family.
It was only as the crowded room cleared that Hillie realised Gert’s elder brother was perched on the far chair, patiently feeding Old Sal her pudding. As the old lady had no teeth left, eating was always slow. The poor thing was riddled with arthritis and spent most of her time in an armchair by the fire. The seat sagged and stuffing was hanging out of the upholstery here and there, but it was more comfortable than the wooden kitchen chairs everyone else had to make do with.
‘Hello, Kit. Come round for Sunday dinner, then?’
Kit smiled briefly over his shoulder as he used the spoon to catch the custard that dribbled from the corner of Old Sal’s wrinkled mouth. ‘Best roast in Battersea.’ He shot Hillie another glance, one eyebrow arched ironically. ‘Apart from your mum’s, of course.’
Hillie returned his grimace. Nell was a good cook, but as her dad never allowed any visitors into the house, Kit Parker and anyone else had to take Hillie’s word regarding her mother’s culinary skills.