‘Don’t let boys touch you, they won’t respect you; a lifetime of misery for a few moments of pleasure.’ Her mother’s words on her fourteenth birthday interrupted the moment; Jenny hadn’t understood them then, but she did now. She was enjoying what Phil was doing. It took all her resolve to push him away.
‘Don’t stop me now Jenny,’ he panted, forcing himself between her thighs.
‘No, no, I’m sorry, I can’t risk it.’
‘Yes, you can, I’ll be careful; just keep it between your legs then.’ He started to thrust against her, pressing her harder against the railings.
‘No, no, I’m sorry, stop.’ She pushed him back, thinking how easy it would be to let him continue. She had only met him this afternoon and she wanted him – here – against the railings. She adjusted her underwear and straightened her dress.
He sighed. ‘You’re a cock-teaser you know, it’s difficult for men to stop when we’ve gone so far. Didn’t your boyfriend tell you that?’ He tugged at his zip. Taking a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, he said, ‘I need this. Do you want one?’
‘No, it’s O.K. I don’t smoke.’
‘That’s not all you don’t do is it?’
He drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘I suppose we’d better get back. They’ll be wondering where you are.’
They walked back in an uneasy silence. He didn’t hold her hand. Phil’s words smarted. Jenny couldn’t believe how easily one thing had led to another. Aunt Doris had said you had to be careful. This must be what she meant. She couldn’t wait to tell Gail about it first thing on Monday. Then she wondered why she was so keen to tell Gail about tonight, but hadn’t wanted to tell her anything about Martin. She remembered their last date, nothing like this had happened.
They squeezed through the crowded bar, and back up the stairs. Charlie was still at the bar, only now he had both arms outstretched. He’s probably face to face with a man-eating tiger now, thought Jenny. Doris was still dancing, and her mother didn’t look up as she cradled her glass of stout.
10
Autumn 1962
Exams were over, and after the painful post-mortems, immediately forgotten. Gail had missed the art O level, preferring instead to meet a boy who she claimed was ‘a dead ringer for Adam Faith’. There was the option of transferring to the sixth form at the grammar school, but no girl took up the offer. Gail wanted to train as a teacher, saying how much she enjoyed bossing her young cousins about, but to earn money, had accepted a job as junior secretary for a local solicitor. ‘This is just for now, so I’ve got something behind me,’ she told Jenny. ‘What about you?’
‘I know what I don’t want to do. It’s just that I don’t know what I do want.’ So Jenny continued with her Saturday job on the nuts and bolts counter at Woolworths, where she thought that the entire male population of Brighton must be do-it-yourself fanatics.
‘I’ll have six of the half inch screws, ten of the inch ones and sixteen nuts to fit.’ She would pick them out of their square wooden boxes, pour them into small paper bags and attempt to come up with the correct price.
*
‘Have you heard about that job with the electricity board yet?’ Alice asked as she carried a pile of folded washing into the bedroom.
‘I didn’t apply, it didn’t sound very interesting.’ Jenny carried on reading… Bangkok lies on the Chao Phraya River twelve miles from the Gulf of Thailand. It is a city of seven million people founded by Rama 1 in 1782 and within the Grand Palace lies The Emerald Buddha…
‘What on earth has interesting got to do with it? It sounded like a good job to me. You can’t hang around here any longer with your head stuck in a book. I’m going to arrange an appointment for both of us, at the youth employment office.’
*
‘I see you took five O levels Jenny,’ said the woman in a tweed suit looking down at the slip of paper between her fingers.
‘Yes, but I failed art by one grade.’
‘But the others are good passes in academic subjects. I think I know of a vacancy for you.’ The woman lifted the receiver of the black Bakelite phone and dialled. ‘Can I speak to Mr Winstanley please?’
Jenny watched as the woman drummed her fingers on the desk.
‘Hello, Miss Gardner here. Yes, I’m well thank you. I have a school-leaver with me who can start straight away if you’re interested.’
The woman continued to drum as she held the receiver to her ear. ‘Yes, I realise that. I’ll tell her, thank you very much.’ She replaced the receiver and looked at Jenny.
‘There’s a vacancy for a clerical assistant at The Ministry of Pensions and National Insurance, in Church Road. If you had five passes you could have started as a clerical officer, but that doesn’t matter. You can always take the civil service internal exams; or an extra O level. You’ll find there are good opportunities for promotion there if you’re interested. So, you’re to report to Mr Winstanley’s secretary; nine o’clock sharp, on Monday. I’ll write the address down for you.’ The woman scribbled on a notepad, and passed the sheet to Alice. ‘Do you have any questions?’
‘No, that will be fine, won’t it Jenny?’ said Alice.
Jenny ignored her, thinking that the office sounded the most boring place on earth.
‘Thank you very much.’ Alice turned and smiled at the woman as they left her office. ‘Jenny?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Jenny said, thinking that the only plus side was that she should be able to save enough money to visit some capital cities. She would start with Paris.
*
The Ministry of Pensions and National Insurance stood solidly on a corner opposite the floral clock that was bright with burnished autumn blooms. The outside walls were beige, flanked by dark brown marble columns that gave the building an air of authority. The high windows were opaque, conveying to the public the confidential nature of the work undertaken inside.
Jenny followed the arrow on the “staff only” sign and, walking under an iron fire escape, rang the bell on the back door. She rang again. The door opened and a short middle-aged woman faced her.
‘You must be Miss Porter? We’re expecting you. I’m Mr Winstanley’s secretary. If you hang your coat on the stand over there, I’ll show you around.’
Jenny stared at a narrow mahogany telephone exchange which sat just inside the door.
‘Yes, this is our exchange. It’s not quite up to Post Office standards I’m afraid, but it does the job. Follow me.’ She walked along a gloomy corridor and pushed a door open. The morning sun brightened their faces as they walked through. ‘This is the main enquiry room.’ Jenny looked around. Two hard chairs stood in front of a counter that stretched the length of the room. Perched on the end were two racks of official leaflets. Two more chairs stood on either side of the main entrance.
The door closed behind them, shrouding them in darkness once more. The woman started to climb a narrow stairway. ‘You’ll find Miss Porter that the civil service is strictly hierarchical. Each section has its own grades. Clerical assistants and secretarial staff do the routine work; then there are two higher grades, and at managerial level, executive officers and managers.’ On the first floor, they entered a large office containing about twelve people. Jenny looked down as two men turned and stared at her. ‘This is the busiest section – contributions.’ A slim blonde girl entered the room behind them, and the woman looked at her watch. ‘Diana, I’ve got to go now, would you continue showing this young lady around for me? There’s some paperwork that needs completing Miss Porter, so would you bring your passport or birth certificate in sometime this week?’
Jenny stared at the girl.
‘I hope you’re not going to work in here,’ the girl said. ‘No one I know likes it; or the pensions department – much too boring. Most people want to work in death grants, maternity or family allowances; that’s because bereaved people are too upset, and new parents too busy, to pester us. But I don’t think there’s a vacancy, they’re usually fi
lled internally. I’m secretary to the tax inspectors, on the top floor. We’re there because we’re superior.’ She grinned and bent her head towards Jenny. ‘They’re rumoured not to exist because they’re glimpsed so rarely.’
After showing Jenny the rest of the building she left her outside Mr Winstanley’s office.
‘Good luck – I’ll see you around.’
Jenny realised that she hadn’t said a word since entering the building.
*
‘I’ve had to sign the Official Secrets Act,’ Jenny said in a conspiratorial tone to Gail as they dipped their straws into bottles of Tizer at the youth club.
‘I thought only spies did that,’ said Gail, her eyes bulging. ‘How exciting – you’re not a spy are you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous Gail, of course I’m not a spy. Anyway, I wouldn’t tell you if I was, would I?’
*
Jenny discovered that she enjoyed the camaraderie and gossip of office life. But there was one exception – the telephone. The shrill ring jumped at her from the desk, and she ignored it for as long as possible, hoping that someone else would answer it. When she could no longer avoid picking up the receiver, she would turn bright red with embarrassment at having to speak within earshot of everyone, to an apparently invisible person. One of her duties included manning the telephone exchange. She would sit in front of the dark wood and the numerous plugs. The metal earphones fitted tightly over her head, obscuring any other sounds. She dreaded having to put calls on hold, especially if they were for Mr Golightly – one of the tax inspectors.
‘What do you think you’re doing girl, where’s my caller?’ he would shout down the line to her, if she had cut the caller off.
A few members of the public would call in person at the counter on the ground floor. Disputes were few. People accepted what they were told by the staff, and were grateful for whatever they were entitled to. Jenny was told that as far as anybody could recall, only one threat had ever been made against the counter staff.
A burly builder had been told the unwelcome news that his contribution card was deficient in stamps. He had stormed out of the building, cursing and swearing, returning one minute later carrying an enormous plank of wood which he threatened to bring down over the head of mild-mannered Mr Faithfull. Five minutes later he was hustled out of the building struggling between two policemen.
During her first two months, Jenny enjoyed a peripatetic existence; working in whichever section she was needed. Three long weeks were spent in contributions – the boredom broken by a week in late October when everybody started snapping at each other and walking about with long faces. The only topic of conversation was Cuba. Jenny worried that there was no nuclear bunker under their flat – only deaf Mrs Walters. What would they do, and where would they go when missiles were launched at England?
*
In early December, a vacancy arose in family allowances.
‘You’re Jenny aren’t you? I remember I showed you round. I’m Diana but you can call me Dido, not to be confused with Dodo, I’m not dead yet, nor do I intend to be, at least not ‘til I’ve had more fun. Welcome to the bird’s nest.’ She walked over to the window. ‘If you stand here, you can just see the sea.’ Her grey eyes twinkled as she pointed, and Jenny knew that she would like her.
Jenny had glimpsed Diana around the office occasionally, but hadn’t dared speak to her. As the tax inspectors’ secretary, she was endowed with a certain mystery. To Jenny she was the epitome of sophistication. She spoke in husky tones, and her natural blonde hair was back-combed into a beehive that added at least four inches to her height. A fringe swept to one side of her forehead, accentuated her flawless complexion. She was eighteen, but looked and acted with the assurance of a girl who already knew all there was to know about life.
‘I’m so excited you’re coming up here. It will be fabulous to have someone my own age – well nearly – to talk to.’
Jenny hoped that she could live up to Dido’s expectations. But she needn’t have worried, as Dido didn’t need anyone to talk to her. She wanted a willing and captive listener to tell her adventures to, and guessed rightly that Jenny would fit the role perfectly.
Her adventures consisted of being driven around Brighton in a red MG sports car owned by her Iranian boyfriend. Ten minutes before the end of the working day, she would disappear behind the wooden door of the women’s toilet, and would emerge with her make-up reapplied to perfection, and her bouffant hair solid with hairspray. The smell would still be lingering at eight-thirty the following morning when the tax inspectors would wrinkle their noses and remark on its pungency. At five o’clock, a car horn would sound. Jenny would look out of the window to see Dido elegantly positioning herself in the passenger’s seat, and wrapping a scarf around her hair. With a wave of her hand she would disappear into the early evening and a good time.
*
‘Guess where we went last night?’ Dido said.
‘The Two I’s?’ said Jenny.
‘No.’
‘Starlight Rooms?’
‘No.’
Dido only allowed Jenny two attempts at the correct answer. Jenny would rack her brains for the names of Brighton’s more notorious coffee bars, which her mother called “dens of iniquity”, and had told Jenny that on no account was she to go anywhere near them. But Jenny was determined to visit one, once she found someone to go with. In the meantime she lived vicariously through Dido.
‘We went to the Metropole for dinner, and then on to that jazz club by the aquarium; had an absolutely fantastic time. I can’t wait to go there again.’ She gave a large sigh and reluctantly removed the cover from her typewriter.
*
‘Why don’t you come with me to the Gondola after work?’ Dido said one wet Wednesday lunchtime as they ate their sandwiches at their desks.
‘Mmm, yes, OK. I’d like to,’ Jenny said, the quickening in her chest belying her outward nonchalance. The coffee bar lay halfway along Church Road, a short walk from the office. It was a popular haunt for the many foreign students studying in the area. Dido had told her that they were mostly Iranian. She also told her that they were all from wealthy families, which explained the sports car and seemingly unending spending money. On her way home from work Jenny would peer down into its smoky interior from the top deck of the bus, and think how stylish and different the students looked, in comparison with the teenagers at the youth club.
Jenny looked up at the clock for the tenth time later that afternoon. Her mother would be cooking dinner now, and there was no way of contacting her. But that thought was quickly dismissed: instead, she marvelled at her foresight in having her hair re-styled the previous Saturday, into a fashionable smooth bob.
They chatted and giggled in the evening drizzle as they wandered towards the neon gondola that hung incongruously above the pavement. The large window was opaque with steam. As they pushed the door open a coffee machine gurgled a welcome. Posters of the Colosseum in Rome, and canals in Venice, adorned the walls. Dido was immediately waved over by a group of students sitting at a table in the corner.
‘This is Jenny, she sits opposite me at the ministry,’ said Dido.
How does she do it? She even makes work sound glamorous and mysterious. It must be her voice, thought Jenny. She marvelled at her friend’s ability to talk effortlessly with everyone in the group – male and female. Compared to the boys at the youth club, these were young men.
‘This is Peter.’ Jenny recognised him as the one who would pick Dido up after work.
That’s not really his name, it’s Perv… something or other, but I call him Peter.’
‘Any friend of Dido’s is a friend of mine.’ He lifted Jenny’s hand to his lips, and held her gaze.
‘Hey, that’s enough, are you trying to make me jealous? Go and put some records on the jukebox.’
‘Cigarette?’ a packet was offered from across the table.
Jenny took one and placed it between her lips as the ma
n flicked his lighter. ‘Thank you.’ She then removed it and put it between her fingers. Occasionally she would raise it to her lips and give a gentle puff, terrified to inhale in case she started coughing. This was another world, she thought; one she desperately wanted to be part of. One cigarette and several coffees later, Jenny remembered her waiting meal.
‘I’m sorry, but I must go. My friend’s coming round.’
‘You must join us again soon.’ Peter smiled, his hand brushing her arm.
sUnwanted Truthst Page 8