The Telephone Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  Cynthia and Norma saw Ruth advancing up the aisle towards them, and they knew they had to find a way to distract her.

  ‘… no witnesses as to what actually happened … murder weapon … no fingerprints.’ The line broke up again and Millicent struggled to make sense of what she’d heard.

  The supe’s advance continued and Cynthia coughed loudly. ‘Excuse me, Miss Ridley, please could you help me with a new route?’

  Millicent caught on at last. With a split second to spare, she slid back her headset then hid the note under a clean sheet of paper.

  To further divert Ruth’s attention, Norma shot up her hand to request an urgent.

  ‘Twice in one day, Norma?’ Ruth glanced at the clock over the doorway. ‘Your shift ends in five minutes. Can’t you wait?’

  ‘Please, I’m bursting,’ Norma begged.

  Ruth sensed something odd and frowned. ‘Permission refused,’ she said snippily. She stared long and hard at Cynthia then at Norma and Millicent, who was at that moment tucking her hankie back into her sleeve.

  Norma and Millicent looked back at her blankly. Cynthia blushed. Millicent’s supervision lamp flashed to signal the end of the conversation between Phyllis Parr and Vincent Poole.

  The three friends couldn’t wait for their shift to end. When it did, they rushed to be at the head of the queue for hats and coats then dashed across the foyer, through the revolving doors on to the steps outside.

  ‘Vincent Poole!’ Millicent held her piece of paper aloft. ‘That’s who Mrs Parr was talking to. The mysterious Vincent!’

  ‘The one who picked Clare up and took her to Hall’s soirées.’ Excited by the development, Norma grabbed the paper and read the number – 612. ‘Now all we have to do is find out exactly where he lives.’

  ‘The general office will have his address,’ Cynthia reminded them. ‘They have a list of all subscribers.’

  ‘Clever girl, you’re right!’ Millicent thought ahead. ‘Do you think you can make up an excuse to go up to the office first thing tomorrow? Say you need to check some routes and rates that you’re not certain of, or something like that?’

  ‘Yes – we need to find out how we can get hold of this Vincent Poole.’ Norma’s eyes darted here and there, as if expecting to pick out the mystery man from amongst the office workers and shop assistants crowding the pavement on their way home.

  ‘I suppose I could do that.’ Cynthia’s reluctance struck a false note and made Millicent and Norma turn to her with enquiring glances. ‘But it might seem a bit suspicious,’ she said. ‘What if someone catches me looking up the wrong thing?’

  ‘Then all you have to do is play the innocent,’ Millicent suggested crossly. ‘Say you picked up the subscribers’ list by mistake.’

  ‘It must be worth the risk.’ Norma was eager to be off. ‘Millicent will rehearse your excuses on the way home, won’t you, Millicent?’

  ‘Not now – I promised to drop in at Jubilee for a zip I ordered. Muriel Beanland is staying open especially. We’ll talk about it later, Cynthia.’

  ‘And Wilf and I are going to the pictures, anyway.’

  While Millicent hurried off in one direction and Cynthia set off to meet Wilf, Norma crossed the road and quietly took up position by the cenotaph. From there she had a clear view of the entrance to Sylvia’s Salon.

  Through the sea of heads she noticed a figure emerging at speed from Sam Bower’s barber’s shop next door and recognized Cynthia’s cousin Bert. Closer to where she stood, there was a row of six black taxis lined up at the rank and she saw Millicent stop for a hasty conversation with Alf Middlemiss. The amiable driver leaned against his idling taxi, which stood at the head of the queue. However, neither of these observations held Norma’s attention, determined as she was to follow her new plan and watch for any comings and goings at Sylvia’s. For Norma, in amateur sleuth mode, was convinced that here lay a possible solution to the mystery surrounding Sidney Hall’s murder.

  ‘I still owe you my fare home from last week,’ Millicent told Alf. She dipped into her bag and drew out her purse but was flustered to find that she didn’t have any change.

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ Alf assured her.

  ‘Oh but there is. I hate to owe people money.’

  ‘Well, let’s say that one’s on me.’ From what he’d read in the papers about the events of that night, Millicent had been through a lot. The least Alf could do was to offer her a free ride home.

  ‘No, Alf – honestly.’

  ‘Really it is,’ he insisted. He spotted his next fare approaching – an elderly lady in a grey coat and hat, carrying a heavy suitcase. ‘Put your purse back in your bag, there’s a good girl. Here you are, madam.’ Alf opened the passenger door and swiftly took the case then winked at Millicent as he closed the door on his passenger.

  ‘Ta,’ she told him. At this rate, Muriel would have given up on her, and Millicent’s evening plan of sewing a new zip into her navy blue skirt would be thwarted. ‘I’ll buy you a drink some time.’

  ‘I’ll keep you to that.’ With a nod and a grin Alf got behind the wheel and drove off. The taxis behind him crawled forward and another joined the tail of the queue.

  Millicent hurried on, not noticing Margaret and Barbara, the two hairdressers from Sylvia’s, step out of the last taxi and cross the road without paying the driver.

  Bert dashed out of Sam Bower’s and cannoned straight into Cynthia.

  ‘You did that on purpose!’ she protested. If it hadn’t been for catching hold of the nearby lamp-post she would have been pushed off the pavement in front of a motorbike and side-car.

  ‘Stop moaning and listen,’ Bert said. ‘You’re going to want to hear this.’

  Cynthia sighed and sulked as she set her hat straight. ‘If it’s about Len Andrews stealing Uncle William’s money, I already know all about it.’

  With the wind well and truly taken out of his sails, Bert thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and sulked back. ‘How?’

  ‘Leonard told me. He said you had a hand in bringing Len to justice – which means that Len has probably got two black eyes to show for it.’

  Bert grunted and insisted on walking beside Cynthia as they progressed along George Street. ‘What if he has? The little squirt deserved everything he got.’

  ‘Perhaps he did. Did Uncle William report him to the police?’

  Bert shrugged. ‘How should I know? I didn’t hang around long enough to find out.’

  Cynthia’s eyes widened and she came to a halt.

  ‘Ah, that got you, didn’t it?’ The cocky look returned to Bert’s blunt, freckled features.

  ‘Stop acting the fool. What are you going on about?’

  Bert grinned and took his time to explain. ‘I couldn’t stand another hour of the old miser ranting and raving. I’d got his money back for him, hadn’t I? But did I get a word of thanks? Not on your nelly!’

  Cynthia went on staring in astonishment, trying to picture the scene – her uncle in a rage in that musty, gloomy house, waving his walking stick in the air, striking out at whoever was nearest. ‘Don’t tell me you expected a reward?’

  ‘The more fool me,’ Bert grunted. ‘But I soon saw how things stood. And I thought to myself, Right – I’ve had enough.’

  ‘You packed up and left Moor View?’

  ‘Yes – he didn’t see me for dust,’ Bert confirmed. ‘No more running around after the old skinflint for me, ta very much. I’ll stick to lathering chins from now on.’

  Cynthia walked slowly on. ‘I can’t say I blame you. But who knows about this – does Mum?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. All I’m saying is: good riddance.’

  ‘She’ll find out sooner or later.’ Cynthia grew thoughtful. ‘I hope she’s not expecting me to go back and do my old job again. I wouldn’t put it past her.’

  ‘Well, don’t do it.’ Bert had had his say and was ready to depart. ‘You hear me – you’d be a fool to put your neck in tha
t old noose.’

  ‘I know it.’ The past oozed around her ankles like cold mud, dragging her back to the days when she’d skivvied and slaved and had nothing to look forward to. No, if her mother asked her to return to Moor View, she would refuse point-blank.

  Watching Bert dive down the alleyway to retrieve his bike, Cynthia spoke out loud to no one in particular. ‘I’ve made a new life for myself. I’d lose everything by going back there.’

  Over by the cenotaph, Norma saw Margaret and Barbara alight from the taxi – one tall and dark with something of the look of Millicent about her, though less bold, while the other was smaller, more smartly dressed and fair haired.

  They seemed to be in a hurry as they made their way through the crowd but had to pause in the salon entrance while Barbara found her key. She looked in her bag then felt in her pockets, giving Norma time to cross the road and approach them. However, cars and cyclists got in her way and the women were already inside the building by the time she arrived.

  She could see them through the glass panel in the door and watched them take off their coats without talking, their faces strained, their movements hurried. Barbara’s coat caught on a magazine at the edge of the reception counter and the magazine fluttered to the floor. She stooped to pick it up while Margaret made her way across the room then up the stairs.

  Norma rapped her knuckles against the glass.

  Looking up and clutching the magazine to her chest, Barbara shook her head. ‘Sorry – we’re closed.’

  Norma lip-read the words and knocked again.

  Barbara frowned and once more shook her head.

  Undeterred, Norma tried the door handle. The door opened but before she could step inside, Barbara ran and put all her weight against it to stop Norma from entering.

  ‘You can’t come in,’ she declared. ‘You’ll have to make an appointment but we’re not open again until next week.’

  ‘I’m not here to have my hair done,’ Norma said steadily. She assumed that once she’d explained her mission, Barbara would have to let her in. ‘I want to find out if either of you has visited Clare in Armley. And if you have, what you’ve learned from her about the night of the murder.’

  Barbara gasped. Keeping her weight against the door, she called for Margaret, who reappeared at the bottom of the stairs. ‘We don’t have anything to say to you,’ she told Norma fiercely. ‘Leave us alone.’

  Norma pushed hard and created a gap just big enough to slide through. Barbara was caught off balance and it was Margaret who rushed to slam the door after her.

  Inside the salon, the three women breathed hard and sought for something to say.

  ‘Look, I didn’t mean to barge in.’ Norma spoke first, intending to appeal to their better natures. ‘I can understand that you’re as shocked as anyone by what happened to Sidney Hall and I know you weren’t even here at the time. That’s not what I want to talk to you about. It’s Clare, as I said.’

  ‘What about her?’ Barbara gave Margaret a look that said, Leave this to me. Though small and slight in stature, she seemed the more in control.

  ‘You live in the same house with her so you know her better than the rest of us. You must surely have visited her.’

  ‘Why must we?’

  ‘I just thought—’

  ‘Don’t just think anything,’ Barbara snapped. ‘As a matter of fact, we haven’t been near that woman since she went to prison. No one we know has.’

  Norma spread her hands palms upwards in a gesture of disbelief. ‘You surely don’t think …?’

  ‘That she did it, that she killed Sidney?’ Barbara circled Norma warily then put the magazine back on the counter, smoothing the glossy cover with slim, tapered fingers. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her, would you, Margaret? As a matter of fact, we warned them.’

  ‘Who? What about?’ As the situation slid rapidly from her control, Norma’s questions grew shorter.

  ‘We said from the start Clare wasn’t suited. You could see it a mile off. But they wouldn’t listen.’

  Was Barbara talking about hairdressing? Norma wondered. Or was she referring to a darker trade? There was no telling and Norma lacked the bare-faced cheek that Millicent might have had to pose the question directly. ‘I – we want to help Clare,’ she confessed. ‘I thought you would too.’

  ‘You thought wrong.’ Barbara went to the door and held it open, giving a clear message that it was high time for Norma to leave. ‘And just so that there’s no misunderstanding, neither Margaret nor I has ever been friendly with Clare Bell. We had every reason to steer clear of her before this happened and even more so now.’

  With each passing second, Norma grew less confident that she could change their minds, but still she tried. ‘Now just a minute—’

  ‘You have to leave.’ With mounting impatience, Barbara refused to meet her astonished gaze.

  ‘But Clare was the one who rang for the ambulance.’ Norma’s appeal was to Margaret, who stood by one of the swivel chairs, her hand gripping the armrest. It fell on deaf ears but she pressed on. ‘We’re certain that someone else was here with her and that person tore the telephone out of its socket.’

  ‘That’s a load of old rubbish!’ Barbara spat out the words. The expression in her eyes remained steely. ‘Go on – get out of here!’

  Meanwhile, as if her legs had given way, Margaret sank into the chair and closed her eyes.

  ‘Leave, before I call for the police!’

  ‘Don’t worry – I’m going.’ Norma took a last, long look around the salon. No trace remained of the violent scene that Millicent had stumbled upon and with Margaret collapsed in the chair and Barbara standing implacably by the door, she recognized that her naive plan had misfired. There was nothing more to be said.

  She trembled as she stepped out on to the pavement and heard the door close firmly behind her. Three buses crammed with passengers crawled by, one after another. A newspaper seller called from his stand close to the taxi rank, confirming the outbreak of a civil war in Spain. Criss-crossing the small green square that surrounded the cenotaph, barrow boys wheeled fruit and vegetables from the open-air market behind the town hall, jaded clerks cycled home from bank and office and worn-out nippies from the Lyons’ stepped on to trundling trams.

  No one gave a sideways glance at Norma standing in the hairdresser’s doorway and staring at the tide of humanity that quickly ebbed from the soon-to-be-empty town centre.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Millicent was in time to pick up the new zip from Jubilee after all, so she went ahead with her plan to fill her evening with some light sewing work. Having changed out of her linen two-piece into comfortable blouse and slacks, she sat in the kitchen alcove and concentrated on tacking the zip into place, only stopping when there was a knock at the door.

  She first thought Cynthia had forgotten her key, but when she opened it she found an unexpected visitor.

  ‘Douglas.’ Norma’s fiancé was in uniform. He was wearing bicycle clips and had his helmet tucked under his arm. ‘Come in. What brings you here?’

  ‘I’ve just been talking to Norma,’ he said without preliminaries. His face was serious and he took two steps into the kitchen, choosing to remain standing even though Millicent offered him a chair. ‘I expect you know that she took it into her head to call in on the two hairdressers at Sylvia’s Salon after work today.’

  Millicent controlled her surprise and tried to play down the significance of the event. ‘No – that’s news to me.’

  ‘So you didn’t put her up to it?’

  Millicent stiffened. ‘Norma has a mind of her own, you know. Anyway, why the long face? I expect she was only trying to find out more about what went on there – and good for her, I say.’

  ‘Yes, you would.’ Exasperation burst through Douglas’s impassive, on-duty demeanour. ‘I explained the situation to Norma and now I’m telling you straight, Millicent – these things have to be left alone.’

  ‘Who says?’
r />   ‘I do. Don’t you see? What Norma did today could have turned nasty.’

  ‘How so?’ Millicent didn’t agree – where was the harm in Norma talking to Margaret and Barbara? In fact, she wished she’d thought of it herself.

  ‘The danger is that word will get around that Norma’s been poking her nose in where it’s not wanted. And when certain people hear about it, who knows what might happen?’

  ‘Why? We’re all on the same side, aren’t we?’ Surely all of them – the police, the two hairdressers, along with herself, Norma and Cynthia – were after the truth.

  ‘Oh, come on, Millicent – don’t be such a simpleton.’ Douglas’s talk with Norma during his tea break had left him angry and frustrated. He’d told her in no uncertain terms that she mustn’t interfere any more, however sorry she felt for Clare. Norma had left the station close to tears and he’d deflected his anger on to Millicent, whom he took to be the ringleader in this unofficial campaign to prove Clare’s innocence. Hers were the wings he must clip, he decided, and that was the reason he was here now, giving her the low-down.

  ‘Things go on in this town that ordinary members of the public never get to hear about.’

  ‘Oh, don’t we? Give us some credit, Douglas.’

  ‘No, I mean it. Lads go around in gangs, carrying knives and Lord knows what else – meat hooks, sawn-off shotguns, you name it. They get into fights down dark alleyways,’ he went on grimly. ‘It doesn’t hit the headlines because no one cares about the victim who is usually a work-shy, homeless ne’er-do-well. And the one wielding the knife is a faceless nobody too – not a woman with film-star looks like Clare Bell. There’s a nasty, seamy side to life that you and Norma know nothing about – that’s what I’m trying to say.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s the world Clare got herself involved in, thanks to Phyllis Parr and Sidney Hall.’ Douglas’s intention was obviously to look out for Norma, but Millicent resented him coming here and having a go at her. ‘She was an innocent abroad. The poor girl thought Hall was in love with her until it was too late and she was forced into selling her body for his benefit. Imagine what that must have been like. Don’t look shocked, Douglas – we know that’s what happened.’