The Telephone Girls

by Jenny Holmes

‘Not really. She hurt my feelings, but that’s different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It’s doesn’t run so deep. Looking back, it was mainly my pride that was hurt. Adelaide knew my heart wasn’t really in it. I suppose that’s why she broke off our engagement.’

  ‘I see. Really – I do.’

  ‘Cynthia, I want to be honest with you.’ Wilf took her hand. Her face in the flickering gaslight was wonderful – smooth and pale, with soft lips and clear, kind eyes that seemed to delve deep below the surface. ‘I want to do the right thing so as not to make you bolt.’

  She smiled and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘I’m not a horse, you know.’

  ‘No, but you might run away if I put a foot wrong. I feel that and it makes me nervous.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ she whispered. The soft light was reflected in the copper tabletop – dozens of circular metal dimples glowed yellow. There was a hum of noise in the background.

  ‘I don’t have a way with words,’ he confessed, ‘but I feel this is something special.’

  ‘Good – because I feel the same way.’

  ‘You’re special.’ He spoke what he felt without looking forward or back. This was love, pure and simple.

  Her smile wound its way around his heart and he let it. He would be good to Cynthia and not hurt her – it was a vow he made to himself in the warm silence between them. She could trust him and he would not let her down.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was coming up to Friday the seventeenth of July – Norma’s birthday. Douglas needed an answer. Yes or no. Yes or no. To Norma, life sometimes seemed as random as the child’s game of pulling petals from a daisy, though she altered the words in her own mind to – ‘I love him, I love him not.’ Of course I love Douglas, she told herself. I just don’t want to set a date.

  ‘Tell him yes and put him out of his misery,’ was Millicent’s oft-repeated advice. Just recently she seemed to be surrounded by canoodling couples – first Douglas and Norma with eyes only for each other, and now Wilf and Cynthia, who had done nothing to hide their rapture when he’d come calling the previous afternoon. After half an hour of watching them bill and coo, Millicent had taken herself off for a brisk walk, but her mood had worsened as she got ready to take the night shift and she’d left for work soon after tea with a half-serious warning for Cynthia not to do anything that she wouldn’t do.

  ‘That gives us plenty of leeway,’ Wilf had said with a wink, holding the door open for Millicent as she’d swept out.

  A night at her switchboard hadn’t lifted her spirits and her face was glum when she came out of the building at eight o’clock on Monday morning and crossed paths with Norma. Standing with her in City Square and listening to her doubts, Millicent repeated her mantra. ‘Tell him yes, for pity’s sake. But make it clear that you’re not ready to start a family. Marriage – yes. Kiddies – no. These days there are ways and means to make sure of that.’

  Norma pursed her lips. On her walk into work she’d run through her choices for the hundredth time and came to the conclusion that yes, she would marry Douglas but she would ask for a long engagement – a year or two, at least. She explained as much to Millicent as they stood by the cenotaph amidst the din of the morning rush hour.

  ‘I can imagine how that’ll go down.’ Not very well, Millicent thought. It struck her that one of the reasons Norma might be holding back was the common fear, even in this day and age, of what took place in the marriage bed. Or un-marriage bed in her own case. There was still a lot of ignorance about it amongst the women she knew and she felt sure that the topic wasn’t much discussed in the Haig household. Now wasn’t the time to talk about it, however.

  ‘I’m sorry, you must be worn out,’ Norma realized. ‘And here’s me wittering on.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Millicent assured her. The night shift had been quiet – just her, Brenda and Molly at the switchboards, with Ruth stalking the central aisle. Responding to disembodied voices on the line had left her feeling jaded and strangely out on a limb, eager to be back in the real world.

  ‘How’s Cynthia settling in?’ Norma wanted to know.

  ‘Champion, as far as I can tell. Talk of the devil, here she is.’

  A smiling Cynthia did a detour to join them at the foot of the tall marble monolith. ‘I left you a fresh teacake on the larder shelf,’ she told Millicent after a quick round of greetings. ‘I nipped out to the bread shop first thing.’

  ‘Ta very much but I’m not hungry.’ Millicent gave a weary smile. ‘That’s the trouble with the night shift – it takes away your appetite.’ She left Norma and Cynthia to cross the road and walk into the exchange before carrying on along George Street towards the empty taxi rank. A whole week of nights lay ahead of her and she went head down, hardly noticing her surroundings and almost stepping into the road in front of a black cab that was pulling into the kerb.

  The driver blasted his horn and squealed to a halt. Millicent saw him mouth insults from behind his windscreen then the back door of the taxi opened and Clare stepped out.

  One jolt replaced another, for Clare’s appearance shocked Millicent. Dressed in a dark velvet wrap over a long, green satin gown, the top half of her face was hidden by a thin veil, draped forward over the shallow brim of a dainty, saucer-shaped hat. She wore black gloves and clutched the wrap around her throat, but she couldn’t hide the paleness of her complexion, exaggerated by a bright red lipstick and dark shadows under her eyes.

  It took a second or two for Millicent to work out why Clare was dressed in evening wear at eight o’clock on a Monday morning. When she did, her stomach lurched then she felt deep embarrassment on Clare’s behalf. Let’s hope no one else notices, she thought, resisting the urge to rush up and exchange greetings.

  Without stopping to pay the taxi driver or to wait for a gap in the traffic, Clare crossed the road. She looked neither right nor left as she threaded her way between cars and buses, walking as if in a daze.

  Embarrassment doesn’t do it justice, Millicent realized as she watched Clare reach the pavement then drift towards the entrance of Sylvia’s Salon. What she’s feeling is thick, black shame. The poor girl is in a pit of despair.

  Inside the otherwise empty salon, a recently arrived Phyllis Parr sat on a high stool behind the mahogany appointments desk, one hand resting lightly on the glossy cover of a copy of Vogue. Her nails were newly manicured and she wore a yellow silk scarf teamed with a neatly tailored royal blue dress. Her eyes flashed with anger as the shop bell rang and Clare walked in. ‘The wanderer returns,’ she remarked with a tap of her nails on the magazine.

  Clare didn’t react.

  ‘I said – the wanderer returns.’ Sliding from the stool, Phyllis intercepted Clare on her slow progress across the shiny salon floor. ‘I take it from the way you’re dressed that you didn’t just pop out to buy a newspaper?’

  Clare closed her eyes then opened them, clutching her wrap and staring straight through Phyllis towards the door leading to the stairs.

  ‘No, I didn’t think so. Therefore we can safely say that you spent the night elsewhere.’

  The cool harshness of her boss’s voice seemed to draw Clare out of her trance. She blinked again then shaped her red lips into an ‘O’, as if preparing to speak.

  ‘That wasn’t the bargain that was struck beforehand,’ Phyllis reminded her sharply.

  Clare’s lips quivered and her throat made a faint rasping sound.

  ‘It was perfectly plain that payment was made for the evening only. Everyone concerned was clear about that.’

  There was a sigh from Clare and her gloved hand dropped to her side, allowing the velvet wrap to fall open. There were three livid marks on the side of her white throat, left by the pressure of a man’s fingers.

  Phyllis’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see.’

  Clare attempted to walk on but Phyllis still stood in her way.

  ‘Does Sidney know about this?’

  Clare gave a fain
t nod.

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  She slid the wrap from her shoulders to reveal a tear in the green satin bodice and more bruises to her shoulder and wrist.

  ‘Is this what happened when you tried to leave at the time we arranged?’

  ‘Yes.’ The answer was hardly audible.

  ‘And you say Sidney was there?’

  ‘Yes.’ He watched it happen. He saw everything.

  ‘Then he and I will have to have words,’ Phyllis promised in a voice of steel.

  ‘He … I couldn’t …’ He laughed when I struggled. I couldn’t breathe.

  Clare relived the moment. She stood at midnight in a gentleman’s billiard room in a large country house. She took hardly any interest in her luxurious surroundings, feeling sick, trying to recover from what had gone before – there on the smooth green baize of the billiard table.

  She was in the dimly lit room with Sidney and the small man whose grey brocade waistcoat hung open. He was collarless and wore dark trousers – the man who paid the piper.

  ‘This won’t be cheap,’ Sidney had said. ‘Vincent will have to go away and come back again in the morning – that’s double the trouble, twice the expense.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m willing to pay.’

  Amounts were haggled over. Clare was ignored. She felt dirty, paid for, used then thrown away. Sick at heart, she made her way towards the door. The two men followed her, stopped her from leaving. Hands pulled her back as she struggled, her dress tore, fingers pressed against her throat. She fainted.

  There was darkness then dawn. Light crept into the sky beyond the heavily draped windows. There was no one else in the room.

  Outside in the grey first light she found Vincent waiting for her. He drove her through countryside back into town.

  ‘Sidney and I will have words,’ Phyllis repeated, her lips scarcely moving. ‘This won’t do. It won’t do at all.’

  ‘Remind me not to volunteer for another week of night shifts ever again.’ Two days later, Molly sat at the switchboard next to Millicent. She leaned back in her chair, yawned and stretched. ‘It’s only Wednesday and I’m already jiggered.’

  Millicent agreed. ‘It’s not worth it for the little bit extra they pay us. And it’s no fun trying to sleep during the day with this heatwave going on.’ She glanced at the clock and saw that it was only twelve, with eight long hours still ahead of them. On her other side, Brenda took advantage of a lull between calls to give her nails a fresh coat of ruby-red varnish.

  ‘Calling New York 8347, I have Mr Jones on the line.’ Molly spoke briskly into her horn and waited for the foreign operator’s reply.

  Millicent drifted off into a sequence of lazy, disconnected thoughts. Yesterday had seen peak temperatures across the Atlantic as well as here at home – thermometers had shot up to well over a hundred degrees in some places. She still had to put the finishing touches to the blouse she’d begun at the weekend and must remember to call in at Jubilee to buy buttons on her way home. Brenda had better hope that Ruth didn’t come out of her office and see her painting her nails. Then a jack lamp for the party line shared by Sylvia’s Salon and two other subscribers lit up on her board and she quickly pressed a front key to take the call. ‘Go ahead, please.’

  ‘Help me,’ a shaky female voice pleaded. ‘Please, I need help.’

  Millicent leaned forward in her chair. ‘Clare?’ She wasn’t sure because the voice sounded distorted.

  ‘Yes. I need an ambulance.’

  ‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’

  ‘It’s not for me.’ Clare’s pleas for help grew desperate. ‘What’s the number for the hospital?’

  Something told Millicent that it was vital to keep Clare on the line so she scribbled three words on her notepad and shoved it under Brenda’s nose: Fetch ambulance – Sylvia’s.

  Brenda read the note then quickly called the hospital.

  ‘Clare, listen. It’s me – Millicent. We’re doing that for you right now. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Send help,’ she pleaded. ‘He’s lying here. I can’t wake him.’

  ‘Who is?’ Millicent managed to keep her voice calm.

  ‘Sidney.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He’s bleeding. Send for the police.’

  ‘All right.’ She wrote a second note for Brenda: Call Canal Road police station. ‘Clare, don’t try to move him. That’s very important. Wait for the ambulance. It’s on its way.’

  ‘This is the George Street Exchange. Is that King Edward’s General?’ Brenda asked, scanning Millicent’s second note as she talked. ‘Please send an ambulance to Sylvia’s Salon, number fifty-two George Street, straight away.’

  Molly finished with her international call and pushed back her headset, her attention fixed on Millicent and Brenda. Looking up and sensing an emergency, Ruth came out of her office.

  ‘Hello, this is George Street, calling Canal Road.’ Flicking more switches, Brenda spoke to the sergeant on night duty. ‘We’ve had a request for help from number fifty-two – Sylvia’s Salon. A man is injured and we’ve called for an ambulance.’

  The sergeant responded immediately. ‘We’re on our way,’ he promised.

  ‘Clare, is anyone else with you?’ Millicent asked.

  ‘No. I can’t stop the blood from pouring out.’

  ‘Is he breathing?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Please help.’ There was a long, despairing sigh followed by a low moan.

  ‘Clare, listen to me. Help is on its way. Clare – are you still on the line?’

  There was no answer, only a click then silence as a light flashed to signal the abrupt end of the call.

  Ruth reached Millicent’s station and made a rapid assessment of the situation – almost tangible tension in the air, scribbled notes, three shocked faces and Brenda still on the line, giving directions to the police. ‘Clare Bell is in trouble,’ Millicent explained. With trembling hands she took off her headset and stood up.

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘Something very bad. I don’t know the details – I asked Clare to explain but she was in too much of a state and then she put the phone down on me.’

  ‘The ambulance and police are on their way,’ Brenda reported.

  ‘I could hardly make out what she was saying. It’s something to do with Sidney Hall.’ Millicent felt sure that every passing second was vital. ‘I should go and find out what’s going on. But be careful!’

  ‘Yes, go.’ With a mounting sense of alarm, Ruth agreed. ‘You have my permission. But be careful!’

  Millicent nodded and squared her shoulders. Run, she told herself. Otherwise it’ll be too late.

  ‘Run,’ Molly urged.

  ‘Rather her than me,’ Brenda muttered as they watched Millicent rush away. ‘It’ll be a good five minutes before the ambulance gets here.’

  ‘If anyone can cope, Millicent can,’ Ruth said.

  New jack lamps winked, there were calls to be taken. Fighting off a sense of dread, Brenda, Molly and Ruth kept their heads, sat down at the switchboards and took the lights.

  The salon door stood open and the lights were on but there was no one inside. Millicent saw that the telephone had been wrenched from its socket and was lying broken on the floor. There were magazines scattered everywhere, their pages streaked with blood.

  She called Clare’s name and ran to the door leading to the stairs. There was more blood. It was smeared on the walls of the narrow staircase and splashed across the bare wooden treads. Reaching the landing, she saw that the only door that was open was the one at the far end leading into Clare’s room. She called again then followed the trail of blood along the length of the landing.

  Clare cowered on her haunches next to the washstand, as far from Sidney as she could get, pressing her bloody palms against the wall. He lay on his back, arms flung wide, eyes open, blood staining his white shirt.

  ‘Clare!’
Millicent’s gaze was riveted on the blood still gushing from a wound in the man’s chest, but before long she sprang into action. ‘I need a towel – to stop the bleeding. Clare, we have to do something.’

  Clare shook her head and trembled violently. She didn’t shift from her crouched position so Millicent grabbed the pillow from the bed, knelt down in a pool of dark blood and pressed it hard against Sidney’s chest. He stared up at her but couldn’t speak.

  ‘The ambulance is coming,’ Millicent assured him.

  His eyelids flickered shut.

  ‘They’re on their way. We’ll get you to hospital. You’ll be all right.’

  He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Clare.

  Blood soaked through the pillow. Millicent pressed harder still.

  Unable to meet Sidney’s faltering gaze, Clare covered her face with her trembling hand and let out a despairing moan. Her pink satin dress was stained red. She had blood in her hair, on her face – everywhere.

  Leaning over Sidney and continuing to press with all her might, Millicent felt his whole body twitch then shudder. His fingers curled and became claw-like. His face was deathly pale. He’s dying, Millicent thought, still pressing as hard as she could. I can’t save him.

  Then, during what seemed like endless seconds of suspended animation within the room, blue lights flashed along George Street and there was the sound of sirens in the street below. Car doors opened then slammed shut, followed by rapid footsteps across the pavement into the salon, clattering upstairs.

  Douglas entered first, followed by his sergeant. They both quickly assessed the scene and assumed rightly that Millicent had only lately arrived. ‘Step aside,’ Sergeant Stanhope told Millicent.

  She stood up and retreated to the corner of the room next to Clare.

  Two ambulance men arrived moments later, armed with canvas bags containing blankets and medical equipment. One tried to stem the flow of blood while the other felt for a pulse at Sidney’s wrist and neck then shook his head.

  Clare whimpered and turned her face to bury it in Millicent’s chest. Millicent put her arms around her and held her tight.