by Jenny Holmes
The empty pipe came to represent an empty life, Cynthia realized with a pang of pity. Ellis Ambler was a grey shadow next to the fireplace who had not ‘been right’ for years, unable to hold down his job as a letterpress printer due to poor timekeeping and absentmindedness. He’d tried his hand as a joiner but his unreliability had put paid to that too. A short spell as a loom cleaner at Kingsley’s had ended the same way. Drifting, saying nothing, retreating from the world save for a weekly outing to the Wesleyan Chapel on Albion Lane, he’d grown thinner, greyer and evermore ghostly.
For her part, prim, trim Beryl had soldiered on. She kept everything to herself – the fact that Ellis was ‘under the doctor’ for his nerves, that she too suffered from bouts of gloom which even her faith in the teachings of John Wesley couldn’t shift. Poverty ground her down in private, but in public she managed to put on a good face along with the cloche hat and coat with its fox-fur collar that she’d worn since 1925. She was very well, thank you, and yes, Ellis was very well too. Cynthia was still living out in Hadley, a lucky girl to have the protection and guidance of her uncle, William Brooks – such a grand house he had, with a proper garden and a view of the moors. Cynthia was doing well – very well. And she was a kind, clever girl to boot, thank goodness. Beryl didn’t know what they would do without her.
It had all felt like a trap that Cynthia couldn’t break out of. She loved her mother and father but not her uncle – she would never call the feelings that she had for him affection, let alone love. It wasn’t the opposite, though – not hatred. The emotion was too dull and dreary for that, like the drip-drip-drip of petrifying water on the hats and gloves left in Old Mother Shipton’s Wishing Well in Knaresborough that slowly turned objects to stone.
Uncle William had that effect without knowing it. Demands dripped from his mouth and they had to be met. He must have porridge for breakfast every morning at seven o’clock on the dot, except on Sunday when he would have bacon and eggs. Cynthia must go down to the newsagent in person to collect his newspaper because the delivery boy insisted on wrinkling and tearing it as he forced it through the narrow letterbox. And she must religiously keep accounts of every penny spent at Clifton Street Market on meat and vegetables.
Proving to be good with figures and trustworthy from the start, she was soon put in charge of collecting the rents from Heaton Yard – all without a word of praise or thanks.
‘Walter Blackburn will be out on his ear if he’s not careful,’ he would grumble if the old man’s rent didn’t come in on time. Or, ‘That Miller fellow at number eight is pushing his luck, expecting me to fettle the upstairs window frame for him. Isn’t he a joiner when he’s at home?’
Thickset and badly overweight, William’s jowly face and plodding, gouty gait set Cynthia’s nerves on edge on a daily basis. She escaped from the house whenever she could – to evening classes in bookkeeping for a start.
‘What are you wasting your time on that for?’ Uncle William had complained. ‘A girl like you doesn’t need to bother her head with the ins and outs of things.’
‘It’ll help me keep track of the rents,’ she’d replied defensively. ‘Who owes what and how far behind they are, and so on.’
Grudgingly he’d let her attend the Wednesday-evening class. He’d noticed a difference in his niece, a growing confidence, and he’d done his best to snuff it out. ‘Don’t forget – the stair rods still need polishing when you get back,’ he’d call as she donned mac and beret in time to catch the half-past-six bus into town.
‘I won’t forget,’ she’d reply on her way out. Fresh air filled her lungs, the seeds of secret ideas germinated in her brain.
The bookkeeping classes were held in town, in the Workers’ Education building close to the telephone exchange on George Street. One night she spotted in its modern, brightly lit entrance a billboard advertising for telephonists. In the gloom of a late-March evening she’d crossed the road to read the details – no prior experience necessary, full training would be offered to successful applicants.
A telephone girl! Someone whose job it was to take incoming calls and flick mysterious switches, to plug jacks into sockets and connect two trunk lines. And woe betide you if you pressed the wrong talk key or lit up a lamp connecting the caller to the wrong end of the country. After all, these days telephone lines ran the length of the land from John O’Groats to Land’s End, even under the Atlantic to America, for goodness’ sake! A smartly dressed girl who was trained to talk clearly and politely, sitting in front of the switchboard with headset and speaking-horn. ‘Hello, London. Hello, Manchester. Hello, Southampton.’ A world away from floor polish and dustpans, from Hadley and Uncle William’s drip-drip-drip.
Can I really do it? she asked herself on this Friday evening as she waited for her uncle to arrive home. She had gone into the dining room, opened her satchel and spread out the week’s rent money across the crimson chenille tablecloth when she heard the click of the front door and William’s shuffling footsteps in the hallway.
He came into the room without saying a word, pushed her to one side and began to separate shillings from sixpences then three-penny bits from coppers, making small piles then clearing his throat before counting aloud and reaching a total. ‘Seventeen shillings and sixpence.’ He looked up enquiringly at Cynthia. ‘Where’s the rest?’
She felt her stomach lurch. ‘Mr Blackburn said to tell you he wouldn’t pay any more rent until you mended his downpipe.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Her uncle gave a scornful laugh then gathered the money together in a heap. ‘You’ll have to go back tomorrow and get him to stump up. Tell him there’s a queue of people as long as my arm waiting to take his place in number four if he doesn’t.’
Cynthia nodded but said nothing.
‘You hear me?’
‘Yes, Uncle.’ A jolt of dislike passed through her, giving her the courage she needed to go on. ‘By the way, there’s something I’ve been meaning to mention.’
‘Come on, then – spit it out.’ He swept the rent money into a black metal cash box then turned the key in the lock.
Cynthia breathed in deeply and looked him in the eye. ‘I’ve filled in an application form for a job.’
A look of alarm flickered across the old man’s fleshy features, soon turning to distrust then irritation. ‘What kind of a job?’
‘As a trainee telephone girl.’ She had to swallow hard but she held her own. ‘In the George Street exchange. They accepted me. I start on Monday.’
He knitted his brows and stared angrily at her, the veins in his forehead bulging. ‘Who put you up to that? Was it Beryl?’
‘No. Mum doesn’t know. You’re the first person I’ve told.’ Actually, the third if you counted Millicent Jones and old Walter Blackburn. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll still find time to cook and keep house for you. And you’ll have Bert to collect the rent in future.’
‘A telephone girl?’ The words tumbled around his mouth and emerged in a rising tone of mockery. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘It’s someone who connects—’
‘No, don’t bother – I couldn’t give a monkey’s. They’ve seen you, have they – the people who’ll pay your wages?’
‘Yes, Uncle. I went for an interview.’
‘And they liked you?’ Mockery turned to disbelief and a shake of the head as he took in his niece’s defiant stare.
Cynthia felt herself shrink. She was ten years old again, a fair-haired child with wide grey eyes who looked as if she would be blown over by a breath of wind, walking all the way from Raglan Road out to Hadley with a message from her mother. Could William please give Cynthia the money to pay for a pair of school shoes? Beryl didn’t like to ask but the old ones were worn out beyond repair. It was a one-off. It wouldn’t happen again. Until the next time, Cynthia had thought even back then.
Ten years old and painfully ashamed, wearing white socks that rode down out of sight and exposed her bony ankles, her pale face fl
ushed with embarrassment as her uncle took out the black money box from his bureau and turned the key. For as long as she could remember she’d been beholden to a man she didn’t like and for whom she had no respect.
‘The worm has turned, eh?’ Back in the here and now, he blinked then looked away to conceal his surprise before changing his tone back to his usual, low-level mockery. ‘Well, Missy – let’s hope the lad has his head screwed on when he takes over from you next week,’ he muttered. ‘But then, let’s face it – it won’t take a genius to fill your shoes.’
‘Hold your horses!’ It was Monday morning and Millicent shouted after Norma as they both crossed a crowded City Square, heading for work.
Norma dodged a bus that set off jerkily from its stop, hopping on to the kerb to wait for Millicent. A light drizzle felt cold on her face and she was glad that she’d decided to wear a coat over her flimsy Tricolene dress – a man-made material that tended to cling and turn see-through in the rain. ‘Lovely weather for ducks,’ she commented as Millicent joined her.
‘Don’t I know it?’ Millicent wailed. ‘Just look at my hair.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your hair.’ Norma was openly envious of her friend’s raven mane. ‘If you carry on moaning, I’ll drag you into Sam Bower’s at dinner time and make you have it all chopped off.’
As they passed the barber’s shop with its red and white striped pole, Norma gave Millicent a dig with her elbow. She kept things light-hearted, avoiding the subject of Harold Buckley and indeed of men in general. After all, they’d had time during work on Saturday morning to gossip about Millicent and Harold’s low-key night at the King’s Head and Norma’s boring evening in. Harold had gone on and on about problems at work, Millicent had reported. Then he’d moved on to the fact that both of his kids had bad cases of chickenpox and were off school, which put a strain on things at home that he could well do without. On top of which his football team had lost two–nil to Sheffield Wednesday the previous week and were now in danger of being relegated.
‘I don’t know what you see in him,’ Norma had commented, in between connecting a local caller to a number in the capital – ‘Hello, London – I have a new ticket, wanted as soon as possible’ – and having to explain to another that their party line was busy.
‘Hmm.’ Millicent had apparently given the comment serious thought. ‘What I see in Harold is something others can’t see – not with his clothes on, at any rate.’
‘Millicent!’ A scandalized Norma’s high-pitched squeak had attracted the attention of the weekend supervisor, Agnes Mercer – a small, brisk and darting woman who had gained the nickname ‘Miss Mouse’ because of her dull hair, brown eyes and dowdy clothes.
‘Come on, girls!’ Agnes’s sharp glance as she swept down the central aisle had dampened their mirth. ‘There are lights to take – chop-chop!’
So the weekend had come and gone without further events and now Millicent was grabbing Norma’s arm and pulling her into the barber shop’s doorway out of the rain.
‘What are you doing? Who are we waiting for?’ Norma demanded.
‘For our new girl.’ Millicent pointed to the figure of Cynthia Ambler alighting from a number 65 bus outside Marks & Spencer. ‘I had a word with her on Friday and she told me that she was starting work at our place today. I just caught a glimpse of her face through the bus window. She looked scared to death, poor thing.’
Norma saw that it was true – the girl approaching the exchange seemed to be gathering her courage by taking deep breaths and looking fixedly at the revolving doors into the building. She was smaller than either Millicent or Norma and looked a good deal younger, easy to mistake for a shy schoolgirl in beret and mac, though her features were pretty enough and her head and neck had a graceful turn.
‘I said we’d keep an eye on her.’ Explaining how she came to know Cynthia, Millicent stepped out of the doorway and accosted her with a broad, welcoming smile. ‘Hello there. Into the lions’ den, eh?’
The newcomer smiled nervously and nodded, allowing Millicent to slip an arm through hers and lead her up the wide steps.
‘This is Norma Haig. I mentioned her to you.’
Norma came up on Cynthia’s other side and all three shuffled through the revolving door together. ‘Hello, Cynthia. Don’t worry – you’ll soon get the hang of things. Here’s the cloakroom where we all put our coats. You can hang your hat here as well, but don’t risk leaving anything valuable in your pockets. There’s a ladies’ toilet through here and a washbasin and mirror if ever you want to run a comb through your hair or touch up your face.’
Behind Cynthia’s back Millicent gave Norma a poke in the ribs. Clearly Cynthia wasn’t one for rouge and lipstick. Cynthia caught the sly move in the mirror, realized its meaning and blushed. This was certainly a new and alien world she was entering into.
‘Well, well – who have we here?’ Bright as a button, fellow telephonist Molly Scaife breezed into work. Eyeing Cynthia as she took off her coat then went briskly to her switchboard, she summed up the newcomer to Brenda Locke as someone who wouldn’t say boo to a goose.
‘Who wouldn’t say boo?’ Brenda took off her headset so that she could tune in to the latest gossip.
‘The new girl. Hush – here she comes now.’
All eyes turned as Cynthia entered the room, flanked by Millicent and Norma. Millicent directed her towards Ruth Ridley who was sitting at her desk in the small office at the far end of the long central aisle.
Cynthia felt her heart jump within her chest. It was the moment she’d been building up to ever since the offer of a job had landed on the doormat. Recovering from the shock in the privacy of her own room, she’d begun to plan for her first day at work. She would wear her favourite dress – the blue one with a white daisy pattern – and she would style her hair to make herself look more grown up. This had entailed fifteen minutes experimenting in front of the mirror, teasing the front locks back from her forehead, twisting them and pinning them in place to give a fashionable upswept effect. A natural wave meant that she could leave the rest of her shoulder-length hair untouched. She would team the daisy dress with a thin white belt but would have to make do with a pair of sensible, flat brown shoes that didn’t go with the rest of her outfit.
Anyway, for all her planning and imagining, she hadn’t been prepared for the scrutiny that Brenda, Molly and a dozen others inflicted on her as she walked unsteadily down the aisle.
‘You were right.’ Brenda leaned towards Molly and whispered in her ear. ‘I never saw such a little mouse.’ Brenda herself rested secure in the knowledge that her tailored linen jacket, pinched in at the waist, and her straight, calf-length skirt with a back vent that allowed everyone a good view of her seamed nylon stockings gave her the air of a mannequin stepping out of the pages of Woman’s Weekly magazine.
‘Poor little thing,’ Molly intoned. ‘Ruth will make mincemeat of her.’
Breaking away from Cynthia to take their seats at their stations, Millicent and Norma glared in their direction.
‘Don’t you dare!’ Millicent hissed at Brenda as she sat in the swivel chair next to her.
‘Dare do what?’ Brenda lived up to the redheads’ reputation for being quick-tempered and it was often only Millicent who was brave enough to challenge her.
‘Say a word!’ Millicent warned. ‘Let poor Cynthia settle in before you have a go at her.’
‘Oh, so you’ve taken her under your wing already, have you?’ Settling her headset into a position that didn’t flatten her hair against the top of her head, Brenda noticed that a light had begun to flash on her back panel and swiftly pressed the corresponding front key on her desk. This allowed her to talk to the person on the other end. ‘Hello, caller. Go ahead, please.’
A voice crackled down the line. ‘This is Mrs Padmore on 970.’
‘Ah yes. Good morning, Mrs Padmore. How can I help?’
‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Gardiner on 548. Is the line free?’
‘Let me check for you. Hold the line, please.’
Millicent pursed her lips and took up her pencil, which she tapped impatiently against the desk. She stole a glance at Cynthia who had by this time made her way to the door of the office where Ruth Ridley stood waiting.
Cynthia would never know, when she reflected on it later, what had kept her upright instead of letting her sink to the floor. Her heart had continued to jump and skip every step of the way. Her knees felt weak and her mouth was dry as the supervisor scanned the newcomer’s appearance from head to toe and plainly found it wanting.
‘I take it you’re Cynthia Ambler?’ were her first words, delivered quietly but forcefully.
‘That’s me, Miss,’ Cynthia mumbled.
‘Speak up. Good Lord above – they’re sending them to me straight from school now, are they?’
‘I aren’t straight from—’ Cynthia began, all grammar lessons clean forgotten.
‘I’m not,’ Ruth corrected. ‘Say, “I’m not straight from school.” In that case, how old are you?’
‘Nineteen, Miss.’
‘“Nineteen, Miss Ridley.”’ The supervisor’s expression intimated that the new recruit was a lost cause even before she’d begun. ‘And tell me, Cynthia – have you ever used a telephone before?’
‘Only from a public kiosk,’ Cynthia admitted. ‘Where you put coins into a slot then press button A.’ Her stuttering reply made her cringe – even to her own ears she sounded hopelessly naive.
The grilling continued. ‘And what do you know about party lines and such like? Do you realize, for instance, that in our area up to four parties may share a single line?’
‘No, Miss Ridley.’ To Cynthia, the business of laying electric cables and connecting them to telephones inside people’s homes was a mystery.
‘Very well, we’ll overlook the technical aspects for now and start from scratch, which in your case will take us back to the basic principles of elocution. You must learn to speak properly and not miss the beginnings and ends off words, which is a very sloppy way to go on.’