by Jenny Holmes
Norma hung her head. ‘I’m so sorry. We all thought we were acting for the best – not just Millicent, so don’t go blaming her.’
Her plaintive voice softened his anger and he wrapped his arms around her and held her close, his chin resting on the top of her head. ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’
She relaxed as she felt the warmth of his body through his cotton shirt. ‘My job means a lot to me. And so does my friendship with Cynthia. We’d all been getting on so well – the three of us. Cynthia’s such a clever girl, just beginning to make her way in the world.’
‘You can’t blame her for what she did,’ Douglas pointed out. ‘She was in a tricky position.’
‘Yes, her back was against the wall.’ Norma felt a twinge of guilt as she pictured the moment when Cynthia had broken down. ‘Come to think of it, I do remember the stricken look on her face when Millicent and I were given our marching orders. Now I expect she’s dreading going back to Heaton Yard to face Millicent.’
‘Rather her than me.’
Norma breathed deeply. ‘I was scared you’d blow your top when you found out.’
‘There’d be no point, would there?’
‘Even so. If I do get the sack, we’ll be short of money. We’ll have to save up for a lot longer before we can afford to get married. We have to find a deposit for our rent, and there’ll be furniture to buy, not to mention my wedding dress and the bridesmaids’ dresses.’
‘Hush.’ Douglas put a finger to her lips to stop her from running on. ‘None of it matters. In fact, in a way I’m glad this has happened. At least now you’ll have to give up your wild-goose chase.’
‘Oh.’ Funnily enough, it hadn’t occurred to Norma until now that this would be the end of their listening in and picking up clues. ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right.’
‘There’s no perhaps about it.’ He was already late for work so he reached for his dark blue tunic, put it on and quickly fastened the row of silver buttons. ‘From now on, you, Millicent and Cynthia will have to leave the Sidney Hall murder inquiry to us.’
There were two empty chairs at the row of switchboards and a frosty atmosphere amongst the girls on duty as Ruth patrolled the aisle with redoubled vigilance.
‘I hope that sandwich blinking well chokes her,’ Molly whispered to Brenda during their dinner break, observing the supe from the far corner of the restroom and speaking under cover of an Irving Berlin song playing on the gramophone.
‘Never mind her – Cynthia is the one I could cheerfully strangle.’ Brenda sounded as if she meant it. ‘She was as much at fault as Norma and Millicent, if not more.’
‘How do you work that out?’
‘She was the one who set Ruth’s alarm bells ringing yesterday when she abandoned her post and trotted off upstairs,’ Brenda explained.
Molly sat with her shoes off and her feet on the coffee table, applying a coat of vermilion varnish to her fingernails. ‘Yes, but we all know that Ruth has got a soft spot for Miss Goody Two Shoes so she was never going to suspend her along with the other two. What’s more, she’s had it in for Millicent for a long time.’
Aware that she was being talked about, Ruth packed up the remains of her sandwich then went to the sink to wash her teacup and saucer.
‘Good riddance,’ Brenda grumbled as Ruth retreated to the cloakroom to comb her hair. ‘Are we agreed that we’re giving them the cold shoulder from now on?’
Molly blew on her nails to dry the varnish. ‘Who – Ruth and Cynthia?’
Brenda sipped noisily from her cup. ‘Yes, the pair of them. What do you say?’
‘Consider it done.’ Molly hated Ruth anyway, ever since her own suspension, and there was no doubt about it – a traitor like Cynthia deserved to be sent to Coventry. ‘I’ll enjoy making their lives a misery from now on.’
How Cynthia survived the rest of the day she would never know. No one spoke to her or smiled or paid her the least bit of attention. She simply sat and did her job as the minutes ticked by. ‘Calling Manchester – I have a new ticket … Hello, Mrs Knight. Go ahead, please … I’m sorry, caller, the line is busy.’ Lights lit up, cords were connected, supervision lamps winked.
She recalled time and again the expressions on Millicent’s and Norma’s faces when they’d left the building – refusing point-blank to acknowledge her, looking through her as if she were invisible.
Her shift crawled by. Towards the end of the day her hands began to tremble as she faced the fact that it would soon be time to go back to Heaton Yard.
Ruth paused at her switchboard. ‘What’s the matter, Cynthia – are you ill?’
Cynthia pressed her lips together and nodded. She felt everyone staring at her.
A glance at the clock told Ruth that the shift was due to end in fifteen minutes. ‘Then finish early, go home and look after yourself,’ she advised. ‘And don’t come to work tomorrow unless you’re feeling better.’
‘Thank you, Miss Ridley.’ Still trembling and feeling light-headed, Cynthia left the room without looking to left or right but with a gloom-laden certainty that tongues would continue to wag. Feeling that she wasn’t up to facing Millicent, she fetched her coat then walked out on to George Street, hardly aware of her surroundings as she took the bus out of town. She passed her Ada Street stop without getting off, waiting until they reached the one closest to Raglan Road.
‘Take it easy, love.’ The conductor saw her sway as she stood up and lent her a helping hand. ‘Are you sure you can manage?’
Cynthia nodded and thanked him as she stepped down on to the pavement. Here she knew every crack and worn kerb, every tarnished door knocker and broken window pane. She reached the house where she’d spent her childhood, mounted the three worn steps and opened the door.
‘Cynthia?’ Her mother looked up from polishing the brass fender and gave a sharp cry. ‘For heaven’s sake – you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Can I come in?’
Beryl put aside her cleaning rag. ‘What’s wrong? Why are you here?’
Ellis didn’t stir from his fireside chair but stared fixedly at Cynthia.
‘I’ve made a mistake.’ Cynthia launched into the explanation she’d rehearsed to herself on the bus journey but she’d hardly begun before her mother broke in.
‘Stop. No need to go on.’ Beryl recovered from her surprise and spoke as one who had learned long ago to live with life’s disappointments, large or small. She wore a faded flowered overall over a brown dress and her hair was hidden beneath a fawn headscarf. ‘Let me guess – they’ve given you the sack.’
‘No, Mum. But they’ve suspended Millicent and Norma, thanks to me. That’s why I couldn’t go back to Heaton Yard.’ Humiliation swamped her and made her sink on to the nearest chair. She saw her father frown and shift position, leaning forward as if to take his pipe from its rest in the hearth then changing his mind.
Beryl soon pieced together the picture that Cynthia presented. ‘So you came here to ask for your old room back. What about your suitcase?’
‘Still at Millicent’s. I’ll have to go back for it. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.’
Beryl sighed and shook her head. ‘I knew it. I said time and again to your father, you should never have left Hadley – no good would come of it. And I was right.’
Her mother’s platitudes weighed heavily on top of what Cynthia had already gone through that day and she couldn’t summon the energy to defend herself. Instead, she let Beryl talk herself out.
‘You should have stuck with William and never taken that job in the first place. I felt it in my bones. And Bert was standing by, all too willing to step into your shoes. We were fools not to see that coming.’
‘Be quiet, Beryl.’ Ellis leaned forward again and rattled his empty pipe against the brass fender.
Cynthia shot him an astonished look.
‘After all we’d done for William.’ Beryl flinched then went on as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘Of course, it
was obvious from the start that Bert would never stick at it, not even for five minutes.’
‘Beryl, I said – be quiet.’ It was as if Ellis was speaking from a great distance, rousing himself after years of apathy. ‘Can’t you see – the poor lass is shaking from head to foot.’
This time his wife couldn’t ignore him. ‘Be quiet yourself,’ she retorted. ‘I’m talking to Cynthia.’
‘Please don’t argue.’ Cynthia stood between them.
‘I mean it, Beryl.’ Ellis wouldn’t be silenced. ‘Cynthia needs us.’
‘Dad – it’s all right.’ She blamed herself for thinking that coming here had been a good idea. ‘I don’t want you two to fall out. I’ll go.’
‘Stay,’ her father said, his voice growing louder as it shed the rust and dust of two decades of near-silence. ‘I can fetch your things from Heaton Yard, all in good time.’
‘Stay?’ Beryl echoed in a mocking voice. ‘Here with us? How can she?’
‘I don’t want to cause any trouble.’ Cynthia found she could hardly breathe because of the mounting tension in the room.
‘Your father doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’ Beryl turned her back on them both, taking up the cleaning cloth and going down on her hands and knees to rub vigorously at the fender. ‘You can’t stay here, Cynthia, and for a very good reason.’
Though she tried to prepare herself, the explanation when it came forced Cynthia to sit back down on the chair.
‘We won’t be here for much longer.’ Her mother’s tone had become matter-of-fact and she grew intent on polishing the metal until she could see her face in it. ‘And that’s because your Uncle William has asked us to go and live with him at Moor View.’
‘You can’t mean it,’ Cynthia said faintly. What lay behind this decision? she wondered. Then it dawned on her – it was her mother’s sure-fire way of getting where she’d always wanted to be: in her well-off brother’s good books once and for all.
‘I can and I do,’ Beryl insisted. ‘He backed down and said sorry over the stolen money so I’ve agreed to be his live-in housekeeper. Now, Cynthia, if you don’t mind – I have to get this place spick and span ready for us to move out on Saturday.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Millicent was on a mission. There were a number of things that she intended to do with the rest of her day. At the top of her list was a phone call to her union representative which she made from the telephone kiosk at the bottom of Ada Street. The man’s name was Herbert Spence and he wrote down the circumstances surrounding her suspension with infuriating slowness – the date, the time, the name of the supervisor, how long Millicent had been employed by the GPO, whether or not there were any previous blemishes on her record.
‘And why were you suspended?’ he asked at the end of the laborious form-filling.
‘For doing the job the police are meant to do in the Sidney Hall murder inquiry.’ She landed the unadorned truth in his lap and waited for further questions.
There was a pause then a pedantic objection. ‘I can’t put that down as a reason.’
She pictured him at his desk – a typical pen-pusher in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, with heavy, horn-rimmed glasses and Brylcreemed hair. ‘Why not? It’s what happened.’
‘But how did that get you suspended?’
‘I was listening in to a conversation between two people who the police need to interview. That’s my opinion, anyway.’
‘Listening in on duty.’ The union man wrote down the misdemeanour without comment.
‘The point is – I was suspended without any previous written warnings, along with Norma Haig, who was covering up for me. That’s not correct procedure.’ Seeing that her money was about to run out, Millicent inserted another coin.
The union man was on surer ground here. ‘No – under normal circumstances, you’re right – suspension without an official written warning breaks the agreement between employer and employee.’
‘What do you mean – under normal circumstances? We did what anyone would have done. Besides, the woman the police have gone and arrested is a friend of ours.’
‘This Norma Haig – I take it she’s a union member? I’ll need her details. Name, age, years of employment, et cetera.’
Herbert Spence’s plodding manner raised Millicent’s hackles and she gave him the information with bad grace, feeding more coins into the slot until there were none left in her purse. Unions were meant to help workers solve this type of dispute, weren’t they? But in the event it seemed that red tape tied them up in knots. ‘Are you going to help us keep our jobs, or not?’ she demanded at last.
‘It’s not as straightforward as that,’ was the cautious reply. ‘It involves a serious police matter. That has to be taken into account.’
‘So you’re not going to help us?’ Inside the airless telephone box Millicent’s patience and money finally ran out. ‘Ta very much. At least now we know where we stand.’ She slammed down the receiver, pushed open the heavy door then filled her lungs with fresh air. So much for that.
She walked back up to Heaton Yard in a black mood and spent the afternoon ruling columns in her notebook, writing down lists of figures and calculating how long her savings would last without a wage coming in. At first she took Cynthia’s rent contribution into account then changed her mind. After what had happened today there was no knowing if Cynthia would stay on in Heaton Yard.
She’ll be in a state, Millicent predicted. Such a shame. If only she had kept her mouth shut … She did her sums again. Savings of five pounds and ten shillings. Weekly outgoings of fifteen shillings, including rent, food, electricity and gas. That worked out at just over seven weeks between her and the workhouse. It won’t come to that – I won’t let it, she told herself, thrusting the notebook to the back of a drawer.
Teatime came and went without Cynthia putting in an appearance. Millicent was still thinking about her as she got changed into an outfit that had been one of Harold’s favourites – the purple, halter-necked satin dress. I do wish I’d stopped to consider Cynthia’s feelings a bit more, she said to herself. Norma would say that’s me all over – rushing headlong into things. She teamed the satin dress with a white jacket, jet necklace and sling-back shoes. The effect was eye-catching and boosted Millicent’s confidence for the risk she was about to take.
But this time I do know what I’m getting myself into, she convinced herself with one last glance in the mirror on her way out. I’ve thought it through and this is the best way forward. Yes, I might come up against some unsavoury types, but I’m ready to hold my own.
Giving herself this pep talk, she left the yard at seven o’clock and caught a bus into town, getting off at the stop next to the Spiritualist church. From there to the King’s Head was a two-minute walk.
The pub was quiet, as she’d expected. A smell of stale smoke and beer filled her nostrils. She noticed three men at the bar and a middle-aged man and a younger woman wearing wide black slacks and a revealing, low-cut top at a table close to the door. The huddle of men turned to look at Millicent – initial glances lingered and became admiring stares. One nudged his pal, as if daring him to go over and speak to her. Meanwhile, the man at the table offered his companion a cigarette from a silver case and she took it languidly, along with the proffered light.
‘What can I get you?’ the landlord asked as Millicent approached the bar.
‘I’ll have a Dubonnet, please.’
The confident request brought about a nod of recognition. ‘Ah, yes – I remember you.’ Stanley Cooper poured the drink. ‘With lemonade?’
She nodded back then perched on a stool and leaned one elbow on the mahogany bar, catching her reflection in the mirror. The image was reflected several times over in other, angled mirrors around the room. I know what I’m doing, she told herself again to settle her nerves.
‘I’m afraid you’re out of luck,’ Stanley remarked through a cloud of smoke. He tipped ash from the end of his cigarette into a glass ash
tray – a man-of-the-world gesture accompanied by a knowing smile.
Millicent tilted her head to one side. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Come off it – we both know what you’re after. Or should I say who?’ The landlord rolled his eyes upwards as if indicating the private rooms on the second floor.
‘You’re wrong there.’ Her heart skipped a beat at the unspoken reference to Harold but she kept up the devil-may-care pretence. ‘That’s not why I came.’
‘Pull the other one!’
‘It’s true.’ In fact, she was relieved to learn that Harold wasn’t here. ‘Anyway, just because I’ve given up on a certain person, there’s no rule that says I have to spend my evenings staying in and knitting socks, is there?’
‘You’ve given up on him, have you?’ Stanley leaned both elbows on the bar and spoke confidentially. ‘I can’t say I blame you.’
‘And I’ll thank you to mind your own business,’ Millicent said briskly.
He disappeared behind another cloud of blue smoke then went off to serve a new customer – a woman done up to the nines in high heels, figure-hugging crimson dress and platinum-blonde hair – only coming back once she’d joined the man and woman near the door. ‘Don’t you even want to know where he is?’
‘No. He can be in Timbuktu for all I care.’
‘How about somewhere closer to home? Saltburn, for instance.’
Millicent winced but didn’t reply.
‘I’m serious – that’s where Sunny Jim has gone for the day.’
She took a sip from her glass. ‘Honestly, I couldn’t care less.’ She could, though – despite her recent resolve. The news that Harold had chased after Doris meant that before long Millicent’s picture of them as a cosily reunited couple would come true. The realization hit her hard and she downed the rest of her drink.
‘Never mind, love. There are plenty more fish in the sea.’ Stanley spotted a crack in her defences and winked at the customer closest to them. ‘A good-looking girl like her won’t have any trouble in hooking another one, will she?’