by Jenny Holmes
Out on her own and living from hand to mouth as low-paid jobs in mills and factories came and went, she had gradually established herself in cramped lodgings above a bookmaker’s shop on George Street. She’d been spotted a few weeks earlier by a woman called Mrs Parr who was busy setting up the ladies’ hairdresser’s further down the street. Phyllis Parr had liked what she’d seen and immediately offered Clare not only a bigger room above the salon but also a job as the receptionist – the first stroke of good luck that had ever come Clare’s way. It still seemed too good to be true – the job was temporary and could end any time, she reminded herself. Meanwhile, she would work slavishly and do everything possible to stay in Mrs Parr’s good books.
‘Anyway, tell us more about Ruth.’ Norma dragged Millicent back to her original topic. ‘What do you suppose happened after her husband upped and left?’
‘It seems she licked her wounds for a while then gave up on men for good and came to live over this side of the Pennines. Now it’s all work, work, work with Ruth, apart from joining the ramblers’ club and teaching keep-fit with the League, that is. She’s made her mark on the local committee and has all sorts of ideas about callisthenics and the good it does you. Exercise is her religion, you might say.’
‘Well, good luck to her.’ Norma found a flicker of new respect for their switchboard supervisor and tried to draw Cynthia and Clare into the conversation. ‘What about you two – don’t you think there’s something to be said for giving up men and devoting yourself to your career?’
‘Maybe,’ they answered hesitantly.
‘Says the girl who’s about to get engaged!’ Millicent reminded Norma, who blushed.
‘What do you mean? Douglas hasn’t even popped the question yet.’
‘Ah, but he will.’ One look at the two young lovers, hands entwined, billing and cooing as they walked along, told Millicent as much. ‘Come this time next year, you’ll have that wedding ring firmly on your finger and you’ll be well and truly up the duff.’
‘Millicent!’ Norma’s reaction drew giggles from the other women. ‘Wash your mouth out with soap and water.’
‘Who was that lady in Hamlet who protested too much?’ Dredging up a half-remembered quotation from her schooldays, Millicent continued to tease. ‘Methinks it’s true – Norma and Douglas will soon tie the knot. What about you, Clare? When will that handsome chap in the trilby hat go down on one knee?’
The cheeky question made Clare give a sudden start then let her hair swing forward to cover her burning cheeks. Hastily gathering her belongings, she almost ran from the room. ‘Can someone tell Miss Ridley I shan’t be back?’ she said.
As Millicent and Norma tried to intervene, Cynthia stepped forward. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll mention it at work tomorrow if I get the chance.’
‘Ta.’ With a quick nod and in obvious distress, Clare was gone.
Norma shook her head and tutted at Millicent. ‘Trust you,’ she muttered.
‘Why – what did I do?’
‘You’re like a bull in a china shop, mentioning the chap in the trilby to her. Didn’t you see how red she went?’
‘I was right first time – Clare has a bad case of guilty conscience.’ Millicent raised her eyebrow in a worldly way.
‘You would know all about that,’ Norma retorted, upset on Clare’s behalf as she took her comb from her bag and stood in front of a mirror. Honestly and truly, there were times when she could fall out with Millicent Jones and this was most definitely one of them.
As Millicent returned undaunted to Heaton Yard for an enforced night in and Norma rushed home to get changed for her meeting with Douglas, Cynthia boarded the bus out to Hadley. She had plenty to think about as she travelled the moor road, not least Millicent’s revelations about their sharp-tongued supe. She tried hard to imagine what it must be like to be married and then divorced – the shock of discovering that your husband had broken his wedding vows and the shame of being left in the lurch, with everyone knowing the reason behind it. And it wasn’t that Ruth Ridley wouldn’t have been considered attractive in her younger days. She was still slim and stylish, carrying herself well and making sure that she made the best of herself. Perhaps, though, she’d always had a hard edge to her voice and impatient mannerisms, which in themselves might have been off-putting to most men. Cynthia gave up the puzzle and agreed with Norma – it was impossible to fathom the ins and outs of Miss Ridley’s past.
‘A penny for them.’ A man’s voice broke into Cynthia’s thoughts as the bus sailed across the moor buffeted by the wind and cresting one hill only to plunge down into a dip then rise again like a ship on an ocean of heather. The man leaned forward and tapped her on the shoulder, making her turn. ‘Wilf Evans,’ he reminded her. ‘I saw you earlier.’
It was the cheeky conductor, without his brown uniform and peaked cap. Cynthia registered the boyish face – smooth and smiling, with light blue eyes and fair hair swept back from a high forehead – and didn’t have time to object as he quickly switched seats to sit down beside her.
‘You turned me down,’ he reminded her. ‘But no hard feelings, eh?’
‘Course not.’ Struggling to find her tongue, she suspected that she was still being teased and kept up her guard.
‘Anyway, here I am, off duty – ready and willing if you are.’
‘To do what?’
‘To take you out. What’s your name, by the way? And where have you been hiding all my life?’
The cheek of it! Cynthia clutched the handbag resting on her knees more tightly and felt her heartbeat quicken.
‘I mean it – why haven’t I run into you before now? Are you a pal of Millicent’s?’
She nodded. ‘I work with her and Norma at the telephone exchange. I started there on Monday.’
Wilf gave a low whistle. ‘Then you’re far too brainy for me. I’m only a lowly conductor on the corporation buses.’
And engaged to be married, Cynthia remembered. ‘I can’t come out with you in any case. What would your fiancée say?’
‘I don’t have one of those any more,’ he said in a more serious tone, picking a stray thread from his trouser leg. ‘That was Adelaide Williams. She gave me the old heave-ho a few months back.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not. Not now. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t really looking forward to our little trot down the aisle.’
Glancing out through the window, Cynthia saw they were approaching the village cricket ground and her fork in the road. She stood awkwardly, ducking her head to avoid the luggage rack above. ‘This is my stop.’
Wilf leaped up to let her out then followed her. He got off the bus with her. ‘You still haven’t told me your name.’
She looked at him, unable to ignore her rapid heartbeat and somehow drawn in by the teasing light in his eyes. ‘Cynthia Ambler,’ she said quietly.
Hands in pockets and leaning back, he tilted his head to one side. ‘Well, Cynthia Ambler, are you going to let me take you out or not?’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow night.’
‘Where to?’
‘Wherever you like. There’s a dance on in the Institute. I can meet you here at six and we can walk along.’
‘All right,’ she said without stopping to think, her heart fluttering madly. ‘I’m working tomorrow, though. I’ll need time to get home and changed.’
‘Let’s make it seven, then.’ His head was up and he was already walking away, looking over his shoulder as he went. ‘I’ll see you at seven o’clock on the dot. Wear your dancing shoes and get ready to foxtrot the night away.’
The new month had arrived with a rush of sunshine, blue skies and burgeoning green.
‘This is what they mean by flaming June.’ As planned the night before, Douglas rode up to Albion Lane on the tandem to collect Norma. They both had Saturday off for once and the good weather forecast had made them decide to take a jaunt out to Beckwith Lido, setting off early to beat the
crowds.
She’d been ready and waiting at the door, ignoring Ivy’s well-meaning advice to stay out of the sun and taking on the chin Ethel’s strong reminder that she’d promised to be back in time to go with their mother up to Clifton Market to scoop up the last of the day’s bargains.
‘Don’t forget!’ Ethel had called after her. ‘I’ll be busy with Ivy, manning the Scouts’ jumble sale at the chapel. You’re the only one who’s free.’
‘I won’t forget,’ Norma had promised, slamming the door after her. Here was Douglas, greeting her with a kiss and an upbeat remark about the weather. She stowed her swimming costume and towel in the pannier bag and hopped on the bike. ‘Come on – let’s make the most of it.’
They set off gaily, once more choosing the towpath to take them out of town then on along country lanes to the neighbouring spa town of Beckwith, nestled under a rocky promontory and famous for its sulphur well. Taking the water was now going out of fashion but it had been responsible for the large and splendid hotel built in the town’s Victorian heyday and for the posh shops and cafés along its main street, complete with wrought-iron canopies.
‘I don’t know about you, but I’m sweltering.’ Douglas steered the tandem towards the lido in the valley bottom. The sun beat down and there was scarcely a breeze. ‘I can’t wait to dive head first into that pool.’
‘Me neither.’ Norma smiled as they followed the signs. She saw the tall beech hedges surrounding the lido, heard the splash of the fountain beyond.
‘I’ll race you,’ she said as Douglas parked the bike and she dashed ahead, through the turnstile and into the changing rooms. Within five minutes she was out of her dress and into her costume and cap, running to meet him at the side of the pool.
‘I beat you.’ He slid his arm around her waist and she did likewise. ‘This is the life, eh?’
She took a look around. The sparkling pool was circular, with a large fountain in the centre, and surrounded by smooth lawns. A low white café building stood to one side. There were already a few families here, complete with canvas windbreaks and deckchairs, and a dozen or so children splashing in the shallow end or sitting under the fountain, shrieking with laughter.
Norma gave Douglas’s waist a squeeze. The water was clear and tempting. Sliding her arm free, she took up position, legs bent at the knee, toes feeling for the edge of the pool, ready to dive in.
He watched her, hair completely hidden beneath the white rubber cap, her lithe body crouching over the water, arms outstretched. He loved the curve of her spine, the tilt of her slim hips – everything about her.
She plunged in and he followed. Two splashes and they were under the water, swimming like fishes, emerging glistening and laughing into the sunshine.
Accuracy, efficiency, courtesy. Cynthia repeated the three key words to herself in an effort to concentrate on her work rather than on the prospect of walking out with Wilf Evans. To either side of her, jack lamps winked, cords were connected and operators spoke into their mouthpieces.
‘Good morning, Olive. How are you this morning and how can I help?’ Recognizing a local number that wasn’t shared by other parties, Millicent adopted a friendlier tone than usual. ‘Let me try to make that Manchester connection for you …’ Leaving both cords up and listening hard, she waited a while, closely observed by Cynthia who sat next to her.
Cynthia saw Millicent’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as she listened through her headset to a conversation on the requested party line.
‘I’m sorry, Olive. That line is busy.’ Millicent returned to her caller, more formally than before. ‘Please try later.’ She quickly flicked her rear key to cut off the caller then took off her headset and sat back in her chair.
‘What’s the matter?’ Cynthia tried not to laugh at the exaggerated expression of surprise on Millicent’s face.
‘Never you mind.’ Millicent glanced to the end of the aisle where today’s supe, Agnes Mercer, gave instructions to Molly who was having difficulty making an international connection via London to Berlin. Though Agnes was nowhere near as strict as Ruth, Millicent decided to save her salacious scrap of gossip until later. Cynthia, meanwhile, went back to swotting up on more routes and rates.
Having dealt with the Berlin call, Agnes walked down the aisle and stopped behind Cynthia. ‘Come with me,’ she told her quietly.
Cynthia followed obediently to the supes’ office then waited at the door.
‘Come in.’
She entered the small room lined with shelves stacked high with telephone directories, maps and large grey files. The clutter dwarfed Agnes, who was under five feet tall. Unmarried at twenty-eight, strait-laced and ambitious, she nevertheless had a kindly air.
‘Sit down,’ she told Cynthia, who had to remove two files from the chair being offered and find space for them beside the black typewriter on the desk. ‘I have a few minutes before dinner time to teach you some basic switchboard rules. Let’s start with the most important. It may seem obvious, but first and foremost in this job is to be a good listener. Listen to your caller, obtain all the facts. Second – be patient. If the caller gives you unclear information, tease it out until you understand where to direct the call. Third – be polite at all times.’
Cynthia nodded eagerly, absorbing information as if her mind were a piece of blotting paper soaking up ink.
Agnes paused to take in Cynthia’s earnest expression. The new girl was certainly pretty and presentable in her striped green dress and bolero jacket, if a little unpolished. But my goodness, she was quick to learn facts and figures, as her RRQ test earlier in the week had proved. ‘I’m teaching you how to deal with customers because I believe you’ll soon be ready to take your test and man a switchboard,’ she told her. ‘Remember – listen patiently, be polite, connect the cords. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ A tongue-tied Cynthia was thrilled to be on the brink of starting her new job in earnest.
‘Of course, you’ll still have to work your way up to the Full Efficiency Test before we can increase your wages from trainee to fully fledged operator.’
Cynthia nodded and tried to keep her excitement in check.
‘And before we let you loose on customers, you must practise your pronunciation. Do you have a gramophone at home?’ Agnes delved under the paperwork on the desk to slide out a black record in a buff-coloured paper sleeve.
Cynthia found her voice. ‘Yes, Miss Mercer. My uncle keeps a wind-up one in the corner of the sitting room.’ It stood next to the bureau, rarely played, in its shiny mahogany case, its trumpet turned towards the wall.
‘Very well then – take this. It’s a recording of the correct pronunciation of words we use a lot here in the telephone exchange – phrases such as “Hello, London”, “Go ahead, please”, and so on. You play the recording then copy what is being said – do you get the idea?’
‘Yes, Miss Mercer.’ ‘Hello’ with an ‘h’, ‘London’ said with two ‘o’s rather than the blunt, back of the throat ‘u’s she would normally employ. Cynthia’s sensitive ear picked up the differences and she rehearsed them to herself.
‘You know what they say – practice makes perfect.’ Agnes drew the teaching session to a close. ‘You must listen to this every night.’
‘I will.’ She could hardly wait for the quiet times during the week after her uncle had gone to bed when she could play the precious recording without interruption.
Dismissed by the supe, she rushed to join Millicent, on her way out of the building for her dinner break.
‘Someone looks like the cat who got the cream,’ Millicent observed as she linked arms with Cynthia and headed for the Lyons’ café where a waitress in a smart black dress and white apron and cap sat them at a window table. She then took a pencil from behind her ear and wrote down their order for egg and cress sandwiches and a pot of tea.
‘Miss Mercer says I’ll soon be ready to take the switchboard!’ Excitement bubbled up into a broad, brill
iant smile.
‘Fancy that.’ Millicent didn’t show it, but she envied Cynthia’s enthusiasm for the job. She herself had been at it for four years now and the shine had gone off it, especially when Ruth was on patrol, pacing up and down the aisle, refusing you an urgent or looking over your shoulder to pick up on tiny errors of pronunciation. ‘What else?’ she asked as the nippy brought their order.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It can’t be just that. There has to be something else behind the Cheshire cat grin.’
Cynthia realized there was no point trying to fob Millicent off. ‘If you must know, I’ve agreed to walk out with your friend Wilf. We rode home on the bus together after Health and Beauty and he asked me to go dancing with him tonight.’
‘Cheeky blighter!’ Millicent took a big gulp of tea then swallowed hard. For once, she was genuinely taken aback. ‘Let me get this straight – you’re going to get your glad rags on and meet up with Wilf Evans?’
‘Yes. Why not? Oh, if you’re thinking he still has a fiancée, you’re wrong. The engagement has been broken off. He’s a free agent.’
‘Oh, so Adelaide gave him his marching orders, did she?’ Millicent assumed that this had been the case. ‘Did Wilf give a reason?’
‘We didn’t go into it. Why – there’s nothing wrong, is there?’
Apart from the fact that he considers himself a man of the world and you, Cynthia, are still wet behind the ears – no. Keeping this thought to herself for now, Millicent veered off in a new direction. ‘I hear he’s just this week moved with his mother. She’s the new housekeeper at North Park, the Oldroyd estate. That’s out your way, isn’t it?’
‘Yes – at the far end of the village. That explains why he was taking the same bus home.’
‘So what will you wear?’
‘It’s between my blue dress with the white daisies and this striped one,’ Cynthia admitted. ‘They’re the only summer dresses I own.’
Millicent tutted and eyed her companion up and down. ‘Then there’s nothing else for it – I’ll have to lend you one of mine.’