The Telephone Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘And you listened in?’ This in itself was shock enough for Cynthia, who quaked inwardly at the risk Norma had taken.

  Norma nodded. ‘I’m afraid it’s what you thought, Millicent – the soirée, the reason for Clare being made to attend.’

  ‘Oh, didn’t we just know it?’ Lost for words, Millicent walked a little way down the street then back again. ‘Was it the first time? What exactly did they say?’

  Norma remembered the conversation almost word for word. ‘Sidney said that it took a little persuasion but that Clare made a big impact. He said it was a new arrangement – so, yes, we can suppose it had never happened before.’

  ‘If only she’d listened to me.’ Millicent hated to think what lurked behind that innocent word, ‘persuasion’. She tried not to picture it too closely – Clare in her pink satin and chiffon gown being bullied by the salon owner then driven off by the man called Vincent, Sidney greeting her and introducing her to the eager, assembled company, Clare’s horror as she saw where events were leading. Had she tried to flee at the last minute and had he prevented her by force or with yet more lies? An arm around her waist, a whisper in her ear – ‘You know that I love you, my dear, and that I wouldn’t put you in any danger. Just do this one small thing for me. What harm can it do?’

  Millicent shivered while Cynthia backed off from hearing more. She thought she understood what was being said but couldn’t be sure because there was little that she’d seen or read in her sheltered life that gave her a clear picture of the seedy world being conjured up by Millicent and Norma.

  ‘To think – Clare is probably there in the salon right this minute, still reeling with shock.’ Norma restrained an urge to rush next-door-but-one and rescue Sidney Hall’s latest victim.

  ‘Or else she’s come to her senses, packed her bags and left.’ Millicent didn’t hold out much hope of this, however. ‘Mrs Parr – of all people!’

  ‘She’s definitely part of it.’ Norma was in no doubt. ‘I had the feeling that she’s the organizer and that Clare isn’t the only one.’

  ‘Maybe Barbara and Margaret are involved as well.’ It seemed likely that the two attractive, well-groomed hairdressers who lodged in the other rooms above the salon were part of the same set up – more experienced than Clare, obviously, and firmly tied into their seemingly respectable employer’s secret business dealings.

  ‘I’ve never felt so helpless.’ Norma’s declaration echoed Millicent and Cynthia’s feelings. ‘We ought to be able to do something to stop this.’

  ‘Report Sidney Hall to the police?’ Cynthia wondered.

  Norma shook her head. ‘Douglas says they wouldn’t be able to arrest him.’

  ‘No – where’s the evidence, for a start?’ Millicent agreed. ‘And besides – what he’s doing may not be against the law.’

  ‘Whereas, I think what Clare has done could get her sent to prison, or at least fined.’ Norma resolved to check her facts with Douglas.

  ‘And what you’ve done could get you the sack,’ Millicent reminded her. ‘How many times have Ruth and Agnes caught you eavesdropping so far this year?’

  ‘Twice,’ Norma admitted. All the girls did it in idle moments – it was nothing out of the ordinary. Millicent herself was on her final spoken warning before it went to the written stage.

  ‘What about Mrs Parr?’ In Cynthia’s mind it was clear that she was as bad as Sidney Hall. ‘Can’t we tell the police about her?’

  ‘Hmm, that’s true.’ Millicent gave a quick nod. ‘If we’re right about the part she plays, they could charge her with keeping a brothel – I’m sorry, Cynthia, it has to be out in the open.’

  ‘As we said before – we need some evidence.’ Norma racked her brains for a way forward. She remembered that Douglas had already warned her against playing detective. He would probably hear her out a second time then say, ‘Leave it to us,’ and then the whole thing would get lost in a pile of paperwork. Clare would still be trapped. ‘There’s nothing for it,’ she decided. ‘We’ll have to keep our eyes and ears open. In future, whenever we take calls from the salon to Sidney Hall, we’ll write down what we hear. Sooner or later, we’ll pick up something that will convince the police to make an arrest.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cynthia sat on a wrought-iron bench next to the cenotaph waiting for Wilf to show up. She was sure he’d said he’d meet her here straight after work but so far there was no sign of him and the weather was turning nasty. Dark clouds loomed over the town hall on the far side of City Square and she felt the first drops of cold rain on her hands and face.

  She stood up and walked fretfully around the cenotaph, trying to pick Wilf out of the crowd. At last she spotted him, still in his uniform, leaning into a taxi that was parked close to the kerb and talking to the driver. After a short while he gave a thumbs-up to the taxi driver and hurried towards her.

  ‘Come on, we can get a lift home if we’re quick,’ he told her.

  ‘In a taxi?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t worry – we won’t have to pay. Alf Middlemiss is a pal of mine. Come on!’

  Letting Wilf grab her hand, she felt herself being led towards the waiting car.

  ‘It’s about to chuck it down – quick, get in,’ he urged before making hasty introductions and holding open the door.

  The driver gave a pleasant nod then edged away from the kerb.

  ‘Ta, Alf – this saves us from getting soaked.’ Wilf settled beside Cynthia on the back seat.

  ‘Yes, your luck was in – I was on my way out to Hadley to pick up a fare.’

  ‘Anyone we know?’ Wilf kept the conversation going while making it plain to Cynthia that he had eyes only for her. He took her hand and clasped it between his, staring at her and drinking in her rapidly changing expressions.

  ‘The Oldroyd girl. I have to pick her up at six.’ Alf concentrated on the road, noting to himself that Wilf hadn’t taken too long to recover after Adelaide Williams had broken off their engagement. In fact, things were looking pretty cosy, there on the back seat.

  ‘How did you get on in your test?’ Wilf asked Cynthia, freeing her hand then sliding his arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Not too bad, I hope.’

  ‘That means you’ve passed with flying colours, if I know you.’

  ‘Fingers crossed.’

  ‘When will they let you know?’

  ‘Miss Ridley will mark my work tonight. I should find out first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Champion. Then on Friday we can go out and paint the town red.’

  ‘Steady on, Wilf,’ Alf chipped in as he manoeuvred his way along Canal Road, jammed with rush-hour traffic. ‘Cynthia can’t go counting her chickens before they’re hatched.’

  Although she could only see Alf’s back view, Cynthia liked the look and sound of Wilf’s taxi-driver pal. He was about forty, stockily built, with broad shoulders and red patches of skin on his neck and forearm where the sun had caught him unawares. He seemed to be the sort who never got flustered.

  ‘Well then, if you don’t pass, we’ll go out and drown our sorrows. How about that?’

  Cynthia laughed. ‘I hope it won’t come to that.’

  ‘Hey-up, Alf – the sun’s come back out!’ Wilf leaned in even closer. ‘Oh no, it’s just Cynthia’s smile. It’s bright enough to light up any rainy day.’

  ‘Blimey, Wilf – where did you dig up that old chestnut?’ Alf demanded as he took a short cut and steered the taxi up a steep back road. ‘You’re not going to let him get away with that, are you, love?’

  ‘No. Wilf – behave.’ Cynthia felt the day’s worries dissolve into more smiles and laughter. ‘I’m not sure yet if I can come out on Friday evening. I’ll have to ask.’

  ‘That’s right – keep him hanging on,’ was the driver’s contribution.

  ‘Ta very much, Alf.’ Wilf pretended to take offence. ‘If she wants your advice, she’ll ask for it. Anyway, I don’t mind how long I have to wait – it’ll be worth it.�
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  ‘I mean it, Wilf – behave!’ Sliding free of his embrace, Cynthia sat up straight with her hands on her lap. It was a new experience for her to be flattered and flirted with and it took some getting used to. She wondered how Millicent and Norma would deal with Wilf’s flowery compliments and was relieved that Alf was there to keep things under control.

  Wilf held up his hands in surrender. ‘See! I’m a good boy.’

  ‘Aye, for five minutes,’ Alf growled as they reached the moor-top road and splashed along through a heavy downpour. Wind drove the rain hard against the windscreen and the wipers whined as they swished back and forth. ‘I hope this lot doesn’t last long,’ he complained. ‘I have to get Miriam Oldroyd to the railway station in time to catch the seven o’clock train to Whitehaven. I’ve heard she’s being sent to stay at her aunty’s house in the Lake District until all the fuss dies down.’

  ‘What fuss?’ Wilf asked, dropping the play-acting and tuning into Alf’s more serious tone.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Mr Oldroyd has to make a final decision by the end of the week – everyone’s on tenterhooks, waiting to hear whether or not he’ll be forced to close the mill.’

  ‘The whole bang lot? Blimey.’

  ‘Spinning and weaving – all of it. It looks like they’ve reached the point of no return. That means there’s seventy-five more jobs on the line.’

  The news silenced Wilf. It wouldn’t stop with Oldroyd’s, he realized. The closure of one mill would be like a pebble thrown into water – there would be ripples up and down the canal side, a disastrous knock-on effect.

  So they came to Hadley in a more subdued mood, the rain thankfully easing as Alf dropped Wilf and Cynthia at the fork in the road before carrying on and making a right turn at the far end of the village, past the lodge into the North Park estate.

  ‘I’ll walk you home,’ Wilf offered.

  ‘There’s no need, honestly.’ Cynthia knew that if her uncle saw them together, she’d be in for another dose of his sarcasm, or worse.

  ‘I will, though,’ he insisted. He was on best behaviour as they drew near to Moor View, advising her not to lose any sleep over her test results. They stopped under a horse chestnut tree, laden with white blossom, out of sight of the house. ‘And I hope I haven’t upset you,’ he checked.

  ‘Upset me – how?’

  ‘By acting the clown in front of Alf – I do that sometimes. But it doesn’t mean I’m not serious about you. I hope you know that.’

  She hesitated before she replied then she gave way to an impulse to put her arms around his neck. ‘I didn’t mind,’ she said.

  He leaned in and his lips brushed hers. ‘Good,’ he murmured, his hands on her hips, leaning back to take in her glowing cheeks and the damp strands of hair stuck to them. He pushed them back with his fingertips.

  They kissed again, to the sound of raindrops pattering through the broad green leaves overhead. Their wet lips touched softly and they were reluctant to part.

  ‘I will see you on Friday, won’t I?’ Wilf’s breath was warm against her ear.

  Cynthia nodded then broke free. ‘You will,’ she promised before she hurried home.

  ‘Where is it?’ William raged as Cynthia walked into the house. He was in the front room, his face apoplectic, yanking open drawers and thrusting books and framed photographs from tables and shelves. ‘I can hear you creeping around out there in the corridor. I’m asking you, Missy – where’s my cash box?’

  She drew a deep breath at the sound of books thudding to the floor then walked fearfully into the room. ‘I haven’t seen it, Uncle.’

  ‘My cash box!’ he roared. ‘I keep it here in the bureau. It’s vanished.’

  ‘Wait – let me look.’ She went straight to the drawer where the box was kept and saw that it was indeed gone. ‘Are you sure it was here? You didn’t leave it somewhere else?’

  ‘Where else would I put it? This is where it belongs – here, in this drawer.’ Shoving Cynthia to one side, he made another frenzied search. ‘The key is still here – look, in the secret compartment.’ Using too much strength for the concealed miniature drawer, he pulled it right out and flung it to one side. ‘See – here’s the key, but no cash box!’ he spluttered.

  Cynthia’s heart was in her mouth as she guessed what was coming. Still, she made an attempt to reason with him. ‘When did you last see it?’

  ‘Friday – that’s when. Rent day.’ He turned on her and thrust his face into hers. She saw the raised veins in his temple and the sweat trickling down. ‘You stood there and watched me put the money in.’

  She nodded. She’d been in a hurry to hand over the satchel and go out again to meet Wilf, but William had made her wait while he’d counted the coins.

  ‘I locked it up and put it back where it belongs – you saw me with your own eyes. I haven’t clapped eyes on it since.’

  ‘Nor me,’ she insisted. ‘Do you know how much is in it?’

  ‘Thirteen pounds, seven shillings and sixpence. I counted every last penny and wrote it down here, ready to take to the bank.’ Sliding a red notebook from the bureau, he opened it and stabbed his finger at a list of figures and a total written in pencil. ‘And where’s it gone, I’d like to know.’

  Cynthia’s hands shook as she bent down to pick up a broken photo frame and a few scattered books. ‘I have no idea. Let me tidy up here then we’ll search again. I’ll start in the kitchen.’

  ‘Where’s the use? Thirteen pounds, seven shillings and sixpence – gone. Stolen. And we both know who took it.’

  She shook her head and held her breath, longing for the storm to pass.

  He pointed his finger at her. She looked up at him in fear and trembling.

  ‘Who else but you knows where I keep it? You’ll say Bert – he’s seen me take it out of the drawer and put the rent money in. But the lad is in bed poorly. That leaves you, Missy. You and nobody else.’

  ‘I’d have thought she’d be more pleased,’ Norma said to Millicent, glancing towards Cynthia who was operating the switchboard nearest to the door. ‘In fact, I expected her to be thrilled to bits.’

  To no one’s surprise, Cynthia had learned first thing on Thursday morning that she’d passed her efficiency test with flying colours and Ruth had set her straight to work. She’d accepted her result with a relieved smile and made light of the congratulations of the other girls.

  ‘I put it down to beginner’s nerves,’ Millicent commented. ‘Give her a few days to settle in and get used to the hurly-burly.’

  ‘Still, she doesn’t seem herself. It makes me wonder how your young bus-conductor pal is treating her – is it on or off?’

  ‘On, as far as I know.’ As they worked on towards clocking-off time, Millicent connected cords robotically and let her mind drift. On or off? On or off? But the question that went round inside her head was not about Cynthia and Wilf but about herself and Harold. ‘Hello, Birmingham, I have a new ticket.’ Where do I stand with him? What should I do? ‘Go ahead, caller.’ I know what is the best way forward, but do I have the strength? ‘Hello, Mrs Lawson. Hold the line, please.’

  ‘Millicent?’ Seizing a spare moment, Norma leaned sideways and poked her arm. She got no response so poked again and waited for Millicent to slide back her headset. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I asked you if you were planning to meet up with you-know-who in the near future.’

  ‘Yes,’ she decided all at once, the answer coming to her like a flash of lightning in a stormy sky. This has to stop once and for all. ‘My plan is to see Harold today – straight after work.’

  It was the detail that Clare had let slip about Harold getting her the sack from Oldroyd’s mill all those years earlier that preyed most on Millicent’s mind. True, it must have happened well before she and Harold had got together, but it stuck with her and showed him in a new, bad light. He’s been doing this for years, she realized, making a beeline for the best-looking girls and carrying on behind Doris’s back.

  S
o after work she said her hurried goodbyes to Norma and Cynthia then set out on foot towards Brewery Road. How old would Freddie have been back then? she wondered. Probably two or three at the most, with Derek already on the way. But it hadn’t stopped Harold from flirting and carrying on and, worse, shoving Clare out on to the scrap heap when he didn’t get what he wanted.

  As Millicent walked, her anger built. She grew hot and took off her linen jacket, striding out in short-sleeved blouse and navy blue skirt, heels clicking on the pavement and dark hair lifted by the breeze.

  This is definitely the last straw, she decided. I’m wasting my time with Harold Buckley and the sooner I end it the better.

  She arrived outside Thornley’s Brewery and paused. Oldroyd’s was the towering, three-storeyed building next door and she saw that the last few mill workers were drifting out from under the entrance arch on to the street, dispersing silently in different directions, their heads down and shoulders sagging. The sight alarmed her and she took time to collect her thoughts. Then she looked up at the tall mill chimney and saw no smoke. There was no sound from the steam-powered engines in the yard set back from the street. So she walked on with mounting apprehension, peering in through the door of the huge carding shed at the sea of raw fleeces ready for combing into slivers on the circular machines. The long, floor-to-ceiling windows cast bright rays across dark wooden floors and dust motes played in the early-evening light.

  On she went with faltering steps, past the deserted spinning shed and through the arch to the main office where she found Harold sitting alone at his desk.

  He glanced up but stayed where he was, sagging forward as if the stuffing had gone out of him, his eyes hollow. His jacket was hanging from the back of his chair, his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his waistcoat hung open. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead.

  ‘Is it all right for me to come in?’ she asked.

  Still he didn’t move. ‘What do you want, Millicent?’