Veronica's Bird

by Veronica Bird

  We ran into Christmas at break-neck speed, our busiest time of the year following which Joan, as every year, almost like clockwork, took to her bed complaining how ill she was. This meant I would be driven to work in the Mexborough shop to help unload the dozens of boxes and sacks of potatoes being brought in from Hull, Covent Garden and from the farmers directly from their muddy fields. There weren’t any of those spotless King Edwards in those days.

  Back from the market did not mean a rest, for I was now made responsible for the washing and ironing for the entire household. Fred’s very large garage held not only a loo but a twin-tub, one of those old top-loader models. To get through this pile of laundry would take most of the morning so if I was lucky and the wind was in a drying mood, I would be able to start the ironing by the evening. Fred’s clothes stank in the washing basket from the heavy inhaling of Players Please but it was only for him as Joan never smoked. She was a sweets person; sweets replaced the desire to smoke.

  While I laboured, Fred would leer and jeer but, when challenged would say he was just being protective. I became fed up with him saying, ‘That’s all men want.’ He managed to reduce everything in life to sex.

  My own sex-life though, did not advance, but it did not stop Joan attempting to pass off a young Woolworth’s manager who she knew, suggesting to him he might enjoy a date with me. I found her idea unusual but accepted to go out once or twice. A short time later Michael the manager, came around to wish me a Happy New Year. Fred and Joan were preparing to go out for the evening leaving the children with me while I was talking to Michael. Fred left for the dance with a sideway glance at us both. A few minutes later Michael also said goodbye and I returned to entertain the girls. They were well tucked up in bed when at about quarter to midnight I heard someone shuffling about in the outer porch followed by the crash of a flower pot being knocked over. Terrified, I rang 999 and was told to put all the lights on, on the first floor but I was too frightened even to move out of the kitchen. The police arrived; three motorcycle units and a car (nothing changes, does it?) but they were very good and searched all around outside the house. The broken pot was there lying in pieces so they knew I had been telling the truth. After they left, explaining they would be close by on call, I grasped what had happened. Fred, suspicious of leaving Michael with me alone in the house had sneaked back from the dance and, having knocked the pot over and found me alone, I presume, had returned to the dance with Joan. I could quite understand why Michael could see no future in taking me out, and the whole thing fizzled out before it had even started. Damp and squib are two words which framed the affair in those days.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SOME LIGHT AHEAD

  I simply had to change direction and towards this aim I began to read the advertisements in the local newspaper. One caught my attention. Marks and Spencer was looking for Trainee Managers. I had often been guilty of day-dreaming through their stores, studying the clothes racks for older women as there was little for my age available in those days. There was also the minor point I had no money to buy anything anyway. The idea of becoming a manager in a Marks and Spencer store appealed and I wrote off asking to be considered. After all, I had several years in front of the customer, had a nice speaking voice and I understood retail selling. One has to pack out one’s c.v. as much as possible these days, but I believed I had several attributes of value to such a great company though you shouldn’t get carried away with the idea I wanted to become some Captain of Industry.

  I was told my letter was passed on to Leeds who sent it on again to Baker Street, their Head Office, and I received back a letter asking me to attend an interview in London. I had passed Ackworth; I could do it again.

  I must detour for a moment to explain how I got to London for the interview. By this time, I had passed RSA English and Typing at night school which I had had to pay for myself but, with some money left over, and telling no-one at all, I took some driving lessons, together with putting in some hours reading through the Highway Code. Did you know, because I didn’t, the Code was first published in nineteen thirty-one surprisingly? It has grown to contain three hundred and seven rules to learn. On the carefully managed day of the Test, it being a half-day closing for me, my Instructor arrived in his car to take me down to the Test Centre. It coincided exactly with Joan’s return.

  ‘What’s ‘e doing here?’ She demanded.

  I had to come clean saying I was taking my test in the next half hour. I felt deceitful under her withering stare.

  ‘Well, you won’t pass that,’ she said as she pushed past me to the front door.

  Not a good start when my nerves were already exceeding the limit where I could keep my hands steady and calm.

  But I did pass. And, not only passed but was lent Fred’s Mini to go to London for the interview. Astonishing turnaround you might well consider. There was, of course, an horrendous quid pro quo and one I had to accept. I was to take the girls with me. There was to be no option for I had to continue with my home jobs whether I had wanted to or not. My interview was quite secondary to Fred.

  ‘But, I’m going for an interview in the Head Office of Marks and Spencer,’ I wailed. ‘Baker Street.’ What else could I say?

  ‘That’s alright. They can stay in the waiting room. They must have one of those.’

  I could have tried to go by train as my expenses were going to be reimbursed, but the point was, and it was made very clear, Joan could not look after all the children all day.

  Fast forward to the day of the interview. I drove the girls down the Great North Road to stay with a friend overnight. My first impression was of the smell of polish and the shine on the furniture but I don’t think she was expecting three small girls to be put up as well. I had to share the bedroom with not only my friend but my nieces as well, but it was a free bed and I could not argue. In the morning, we went in by tube and found the Head Office in Baker Street where I spoke to the girls very carefully, keeping my voice low-key but deadly serious. I was going to have to leave three young girls on a busy road while I attended the interview. I simply did not have the nerve to take them inside the lush offices. When I came out of the office having stumbled through the interview I learned that the children had been taken into a furniture store after they had been seen by the staff leaning on the wall. They made them sit down by a window so they could see when I was coming out. To leave them like that today would be an offence and probably then too. Needless to say, stressed beyond words, waiting for a scream or a crash of a car against a soft body, I failed to impress and my life was not to end up as an executive manager with a smart brief case, climbing up the ladder towards the Marks and Spencer Board. Raging against the unfairness of life, I took the tube north to where we had left the car, and drove back but, so exhausted by the whole event, I had to stop in a motorway station to rest up, getting back eventually at eleven in the evening. What a waste of time, what a waste of effort and, for nothing. I was still in the tunnel with not even a gleam of light at its end. I had no idea of its length or whether I would be able to recognise the end if I saw it coming.

  *

  I had to leave. Having planned before and failed, I knew it was the only hope for my sanity to try again. It might be thought, rightly so, the use of the word ‘sanity’ was a bit powerful, a bit over the top, but these stresses in my life were to build until they became uncontrolled later on. Fred and Joan’s suffocating interference in my life, especially from Fred, swamped me. He was everywhere that I was, prying into every aspect of my life, ‘suggesting’ other ways to do something, preventing me from cementing even small friendships. Let me colour this in for you.

  On Mondays, I would have to take the week’s takings to the bank, several thousand pounds in total, a great deal of money in those days. Sunday evenings would be chaotic as Joan would bring in Monday’s cash contained in a brown paper bag; it might be stored in a drawer all week with one or other of the family taking a fiver here, a fiver there for purchases nee
ded. Then would come Tuesday’s, a separate bag in another hideaway, and so it would go on. I would walk to the bank, blissfully unaware of being the subject for a snatch, if only my routine had been studied, for the same streets were always followed. Arriving, I usually engaged in friendly chat with the same young cashier over the counter before going home. It was all very innocent, just a break from the routine. Fred got to learn through his friend, the same bank manager, of my smiles and chats. He moved quickly and it did not take him long to insist to the manager he should remove his member of staff to another branch in the shortest possible time. He did.

  As I say, I had to leave.

  *

  I was more than usually depressed, one day when a neighbour, meaning to be kind and seeing my face stopped me in the street. We chatted for a while until she pursed her lips together in anger.

  ‘You’ve got to get away Veronica. You are nothing more than a little slave.’

  I knew in my heart it was true, and I was beginning to morph into something lower than a service maid, unable to apply my abilities to any worthwhile future. (Have I written this before?) There had to be something I wanted to do. There is nothing wrong in being a service maid but I wanted to do something which would stretch my mind and, out of that see a change for the better. Up until now I had worked and looked after the children solely to keep the peace. My neighbour’s comments struck a chord; they became my tipping point.

  Determined this time, when I read an advertisement in the Sheffield Evening Star, I kept it to myself and told no-one. A couple were seeking a live-in nanny, a mother’s help if you like, where there was one young son and another on the way. The new nanny would be required to start immediately with £3 a week, three times what I was getting from Fred, my own room and all meals provided. It was a roof over my head, I would be warm and fed and, free. I telephoned as soon as I read the advertisement and was, amazingly accepted. Thrilled if shaking, I went upstairs and packed my entire life in a small, overnight bag and waited for the return of Fred and Joan.

  ‘I’ve found a job. In Sheffield. I’m starting tomorrow,’ I declared, spilling it out before I had time to lose my nerve.

  ‘Tomorrow? What about the girls? After all we have done for you. I’ve put pounds in your pocket,’ said Joan, visibly angry. Joan was shouting as she knew there was nothing she could do about it. It dawned on her she would have to look after her own children. You see, I was the Cheap option. Nothing would be cheaper or more convenient than me.

  I could not stop myself. I screamed back. ‘Yes! But I’ve worked for every one of those pennies. I am going to be paid three times what you pay. Three times,’ I repeated in my anger,’ storming back to my room knowing I had made a giant leap forward in breaking the fetters which bound me to Barnsley.

  The next morning, early, I left without a backward glance, my tiny case held protectively in front of me as I headed for the railway station. Joan took years to forgive me and returned all the children’s presents I bought them for Christmas. It hurt, for the girls had grown up with me and I had grown very fond of them. We had forged close bonds. Like most nannies, they knew me better than their parents. When I had been sent to Flamborough Head to stay in Fred’s parents’ house, I was alone with them all day for three weeks. So, they knew me well and would not have understood why I left so suddenly.

  I arrived in Sheffield Station to be met by Mrs Grainger who drove me to their house, chatting all the way. I cannot but wonder what she thought of my small bag, though at the time all I could think of was, I’m free.

  I was showed to my room where I was to sleep with David. One of my duties was to take him for a walk every afternoon in the park. I helped, willingly in the house and formed a warm, comfortable relationship with both Grainger’s who really took an interest in my welfare. Once I had had supper with David in the kitchen I could go to my room to listen to the radio. I rarely went out, there was no point, and it meant I could save money.

  It was a happy time. Mrs Grainger was a very good cook; her home-made soups were delicious. She and her husband could never thank me enough showing their appreciation for looking after David while Mrs Grainger was in her final months of confinement. She was to have another boy, Jonathan, and both boys went on to do very well in life and who, magically were reunited with me later in life.

  It was like a pantomime. Like the ubiquitous ‘baddie’ in whatever show you want to think of, Fred re-appeared from the wings, on stage, not perhaps to audience boos and hisses but certainly to raised eyebrows from the family. A knock at the door one day revealed Fred standing there ostensibly asking after my health. ‘How is Veronica? Is she getting on alright?’ I had not told him where I had gone and had to assume one of my family had given this crucial information away, probably under constant badgering. I explained to Mrs Grainger he was a brother-in-law and where he fitted into the sorry picture. She nodded politely but she was an astute woman and I could see she was far from convinced he was the right person to pass on any information about his young sister-in-law. But Fred called again; strange questions for no apparent reason and I knew he was going to cause trouble. He told me sotto voce that Mr. Grainger fancied me, a ludicrous suggestion. I knew and had experienced what a loving family they were.

  *

  In the depths of my despair the conclusion was clear I would never be free unless I moved completely away, somewhere where Fred could not follow. Joan had mentioned to me on several occasions she would have liked to join the Police Force which only marriage had prevented. In a uniform, in a police station, surely, I could be free of interference? Joan’s words now acted like a stage prompt and I wrote off for an interview. Women in the police force were few and far between in those days, it was, after all, still a male orientated society. These were the years of bobbies on the beat, of television’s George Dixon and ‘Z’ cars. This could well be a job I could manage well for a few years, even just two years, until I had sorted myself out. I had to have a job with a roof over my head if I was to move, as Fred would never welcome me back to his house in Daleswood Avenue unless it was on his terms.

  The only alternatives for me were to be a bus conductor or work on a factory line, both jobs which I could learn in a week after which boredom would set in. Neither did the Armed Forces appeal to me.

  The Police have an entrance exam covering English and Maths. With RSA English behind me I was lucky in my maths for it was all standard stuff, not Geometry or Algebra with which I could have come unstuck. I was told to be ready for an interview that afternoon which implied, at least, I had passed the written papers. There were only four of us up for the interview but Doncaster Borough Police Force was very small in comparison with other cities.

  Having been called to ‘…enter’ I examined the eyes of each of the examining board seeking assurance, approval, rejection or plain disinterest. There no signs of immediate dismissal nor a look of ‘next please’ about them. It was an encouraging start. Whatever the men thought of women being involved in their work, they did not reveal it to me. The questions were searching but fair and I began to see a life filled with interest and one where I would be taught to look after myself. This idea I liked very much, being told I would hear shortly by mail.

  It was not long before a letter arrived in Sheffield one morning. I had passed.

  The Grainger’s were devastated, for they had said, very kindly, I had a natural gift with children (I had had years of experience) and they had hoped I would have stayed on. Being intelligent people I am sure they realised there was an underlining force driving me away and it was not of their making. I kept up with their two boys for some years but, as I was moving so much I eventually lost contact. What they did do for me was to remind me there were good people in this world, where kindness came before seeking a profit, people interested in me and what I wanted to achieve in life.

  *

  The Force allowed me to join at the age of twenty-one. It was but a short time until, in February nineteen sixty-
four I reported for my first day of a two-week induction course at Doncaster. Success there would allow me to progress on to my training at Warrington, I was told. Within half an hour of shaking hands with the CID Officers they started briefing me, explaining patiently to a young woman slightly bewildered at the pace of things, they had been trying to catch a purse thief. A woman who operated in the market was quietly removing purses from the open baskets which shoppers used in those days. Before I knew where I was, I was handed just such an open basket and a purse and told to walk around the market to see if anyone might take the bait. This was a very long shot to me, having just arrived that morning; surely no thief would just happen to be there when I turned up out of the blue armed with basket…and purse? I had a lot to learn. I was to notify the police if the purse disappeared at which time they would arrive on the scene waiting to pounce. Oh, so that’s alright then.

  ‘We will be following you,’ they said reassuringly, one officer seemingly being almost half again taller than me.

  After just half an hour, trying to act as a choosy customer, unbelievably I saw the purse had gone. I made haste to signal for the police to close in, but, nothing happened. No sign of a burly man in uniform as promised. Turning, I could see a woman walking quietly away, heading for the toilets on the lower ground floor where she disappeared. At the same time one of the officers did arrive. He ran down the steps to find her. But, the delay had been just enough time for the woman to vanish with her basket and my purse, or rather the property of Doncaster Police. We had to return to the police station not a little frustrated. I tried to give a description of the thief, but being untrained, and first day confusion, I fear the likeness was nothing like a real person.