by Anna King
Fur Coat, No Knickers
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Copyright
Fur Coat, No Knickers
Anna King
Epigraph
In memory of Sir Anthony Dawson KCVO MD FRCP
A remarkable man and dearly loved friend, whose medical expertise coupled with his kind and sympathetic manner is best put into words by the following quotation:
‘For some patients, though conscious that their condition is perilous, recover their health simply through their contentment with the goodness of the physician’
Hippocrates
Goodbye Tony, God Bless
Chapter One
‘This the lot to go, Miss Donnelly?’
Jimmy Potter, the sixteen-year-old office boy at Laughton & Son in the City of London, nodded down at the bulky wad of letters held firmly between his short, stubby fingers, his eyes quickly flicking back up for another look at the attractive, dark-haired girl, seated behind the tidy walnut desk.
Up until six weeks ago, that space had been occupied by Maude Fisher, a competent woman who had been with the firm since leaving school many, many years ago, and had run the adjoining typing pool, carrying out her duties as personal secretary to Mr Harry Laughton with alarming efficiency.
And when, with much reluctance, she had finally retired, due to ill-health, she had appointed Grace Donnelly, one of the typists from the pool, as her successor. It was an appointment that pleased most of the staff, as Grace Donnelly was a popular young woman. And as Mr Laughton had so far shown no sign of dissatisfaction with his new secretary, it looked as though Grace’s new-found position was secure.
Silently watchful, Jimmy gazed in wonder as the long, tapered fingers flew expertly over the raised flat buttons of a Remington typewriter, while thinking that Grace was a lot easier to look at than that old trout Miss Fisher had been.
Without stopping at her task, Grace Donnelly said cheerfully, ‘Just this one, Jimmy. Won’t be a minute – there! All done.’ A large sheet of white, headed paper was pulled triumphantly from the black roller. ‘Hang on a minute, will you, Jimmy? I’ll just get Mr Laughton to sign this, then I’ll be right with you.’
Left alone in the small office, Jimmy leant his backside on the corner of the desk, a soft whistle playing on his lips. Turning his head slightly, he glanced through the glass partition that separated this office from the boss’s, and visibly jumped as his eyes met the gimlet gaze of Mr Harry Laughton. As if stung, Jimmy moved away from the desk and began studiously sorting through the pile of letters he had dropped on the desk, eager to appear busy and diligent. True to her word, Grace was back within minutes.
‘Here you are, Jimmy, last one. Hope I didn’t hold you up.’ Grace handed over a long white envelope, a grateful smile on her lips.
Jimmy looked at the pretty face only inches from his own and swallowed nervously. He would have to run like the clappers to get this lot in the last post, but he didn’t care, not where Grace was concerned. Gathering up the letters and parcels ready for the post, Jimmy tugged his flat, checked cap further down over his unruly mop of sandy hair, his lanky body teeming with pubescent emotions at being so near to the love of his young life.
Covering up her typewriter, Grace took down a dove-grey swagger coat from a hook behind the door, shrugged her arms into the sleeves, then, carelessly setting a pert, black hat over her dark, wavy hair and picking up her black clutch bag and gas-mask case, said cheerfully, ‘I’ll walk down with you, Jimmy. If that’s all right with you?’ Nudging the grinning youth’s arm she added playfully, ‘Unless of course, you’ve got a girlfriend waiting for you outside.’
Jimmy’s grin faltered, while, much to his chagrin, a hot flush rose over his neck and freckled face as he protested fervently, ‘Oh, no Miss Donnelly. No! I ain’t got no girlfriend, honest!’
Grace smiled warmly. She liked young Jimmy; he was a nice lad. She was also aware the office junior had a crush on her. And a crush at Jimmy’s age could be a very painful affair. Mentally chastising herself for teasing the still-blushing boy, she deftly tucked her arm through his and, to the flustered youth’s delight, marched him through the adjoining office and the amused eyes of the girls in the typing pool.
Grace still couldn’t believe her good fortune at being elevated to such a coveted position, and was anxious not to appear too superior to the girls she had worked with only a short time ago.
‘Night all. Have a nice weekend,’ Grace called out as she passed the small row of desks and the five women who were in the process of packing up for the day.
‘And you, Grace.’
‘Yeah, see you on Monday, Gracie.’
‘Ta-ra, Grace.’
One of the younger typists, who had only recently joined the firm, looked pointedly at the lanky youth by Grace’s side and giggled, ‘Better not let your fiancé see you with Jimmy, Grace. He might get jealous, eh, June.’ She winked at her companion while at the same time delivering her a sly dig in the ribs.
Grace immediately felt the youth at her side squirm and try to move away, and tightened her grip on his arm. And when she fixed a steely glance on the two giggling females, the women began to shift uncomfortably on their chairs.
Lifting her chin high, Grace said tersely, ‘You may be right, Gert. After all, Jimmy’s a nice-looking young man. As a matter of fact, I’ve noticed you ogling him on more than one occasion, when you should have been getting on with your work.’
As the indignant typist spluttered to find a suitable rejoinder Grace added icily, ‘And it’s Miss Donnelly to you, Gert – understand?’
The pert little miss called Gert crumbled under the gaze of the boss’s secretary, while her friend June suddenly became very busy with the contents of her open handbag.
Beside Grace, Jimmy felt his slight frame swell with pride at being so soundly defended, and with a new-found confidence he escorted Grace from the typing pool, through the maze of corridors that led to other offices in the large building, then down the stairs that led out to the main door.
As she skilfully negotiated the sandbagged entrance of the dirty-grey office building, Grace gently disengaged herself from the still-grinning youth, saying brightly, ‘Well, I’m off home, Jimmy. Have a nice weekend, and I’ll see you on Monday. Bye.’ And giving a cheery wave, Grace set off in the direction of St Paul’s, leaving a forlorn Jimmy standing alone on the busy pavement.
Jimmy had hoped Grace might wait for him while he dropped the mail in the post, and then walk with him to the bus stop. Giving vent to a great sigh of disappointment, the gangly youth cast one last, longing look at the retreating figure. He knew Grace was engaged and therefore out of his reach, but it didn’t stop him hoping. Maybe if he go
t a move on, he might be able to get to the postbox and catch up with Grace at the bus stop. But once again his dreams were shattered as he watched the object of his desire run into the arms of a tall, stockily built man waiting at the end of the street.
His face a picture of dejection, Jimmy Potter indulged in yet another body-shaking sigh. Then, with the resilience of the young, his thoughts turned to the new girl on the sweet counter at Woolworth’s. He had planned to stop off there to buy some chocolates for his mum’s birthday. Maybe…!
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the postman closing the door of the red pillar box on the corner of Leadenhall Street, the elderly man’s hands already drawing in the string of the large, bulky grey canvas sack. With a yelp of anxiety, Jimmy bounded forward, all thoughts of women forgotten, as he raced frantically towards the startled postman, the day’s mail clutched in his sweaty hands.
After five minutes of listening to a lecture on the importance of getting the mail to the postbox on time, a relieved Jimmy watched his burden being thrust reluctantly into the canvas sack, before setting off in the direction of Cheapside to buy his mother a birthday present, and maybe, if he was lucky, get himself fixed up with a date for the weekend.
* * *
‘Stanley! Oh, what a lovely surprise. I didn’t expect you to meet me.’ Grinning with delight, Grace stood on tiptoe to kiss the long, smooth cheek of her fiancé, before standing back to admire his smart navy pin-stripe suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. ‘My, don’t you look smart. You didn’t dress up in your good suit just to meet me, did you, Stan?’
Stanley Slater’s sombre brown eyes gazed down at the lovely face, a tender smile on his full lips.
‘I had a job interview, didn’t I?’ he said wryly, running his fingers through his thick, dark blond hair. ‘Me an’ a dozen other blokes, and I was the only one who’d bothered to smarten meself up. I suppose it was a bit daft, seeing as I was going after a labouring job. Not that it made any difference. I never even got to see the gaffer, ’cos they took someone on about five minutes after I got there. Still, never mind, eh?’ As they walked on, Stanley gave a short, depreciating laugh, while at the same time loosening the knot of the blue tie and unbuttoning his starched shirt. ‘Phew, that’s better. I can’t stand being suited an’ booted, which is just as well seeing as how I’ve only got the one. Gawd knows how the blokes up here stand it.’ He nodded at the City gents passing by, in their three-piece suits and bowler hats and briefcases swinging at their sides.
‘Anyways, like I was saying,’ he tugged again at the knotted tie. ‘About the interview. You should’ve seen the lot of us, Grace. All pretending we weren’t that bothered. Well, the younger ones, I mean. The older blokes, the ones with families to support, they…’ Stanley’s head shook with something akin to despair. ‘Gawd! It was awful, Grace. The poor bastards looked so… so desperate, it… Oh hell!’
The pain in Stanley’s voice cut through Grace’s body like a knife, but she knew better than to offer trite condolences. Instead she took hold of his hand and nestled her face against his shoulder.
Embarrassed at having let his feelings get the better of him, Stanley stopped in his stride, shook off his despondent mood and cried loudly, ‘Here, ’ere. No displays of affection in public, if you don’t mind, you loose piece. People will start to get the wrong idea.’ Adopting a leering tone, he lowered his voice and said, ‘What’ll two bob get me, darlin’?’
Laughing aloud, Grace shoved the broad chest hard, crying, ‘A black eye, that’s what it’ll get you. Mind you, not travelling in that particular circle, I don’t know what the going-rate is.’ Grabbing his arm once more she added in mock sternness, ‘And you’d better not know either, if you know what’s good for you.’
They were nearing the bus stop when suddenly her feet seemed to leave the pavement as Stanley, his strong hand clutching her arm, shouted, ‘Come on, Grace. There’s the bus. Look lively, girl.’
Before Grace had time to catch her breath she found herself being pulled forcefully along the pavement, her high-heeled shoes hardly touching the ground as the man by her side propelled her along at breakneck speed.
‘Stan – Stanley. Hang on… Oh blast!’ Her long legs flying, Grace grimly held on to her hat, her face breaking out into a sweat, while her gas-mask case thumped painfully against her side. She’d leave it at home in future, blooming thing. After all, it wasn’t as if they were at war, was it! She only carried it because her mother insisted.
Bloody hell! Oh, she’d give Stan what-for later. Making her run like this, especially when she was all dressed up in her good working clothes, and the nearly new shoes she had only just broken in.
By her side Stanley was yelling, ‘Hang on, mate. Wait for us!’ to a grinning bus conductor who seemed to be relishing the sight of the panting couple chasing his bus. He appeared to think about it for a few long seconds, then, still grinning, he reached up and rang the bell, bringing the red bus to a grinding halt.
‘Cheers, mate.’ Stanley bounded on to the platform with ease, then turned to where Grace was struggling along behind him. ‘Come on, love, get a move on.’
Glaring at him, Grace clambered on to the bus, her face red with exertion, her hat askew, her trembling hands clutching at her bag as if for support. Temporarily winded and unable to answer, she made her way down the bus before collapsing on to a seat by the window.
Dropping down beside her, Stanley held out a sixpenny piece to the conductor. ‘Two to the Wick, please, mate.’
Punching out two tickets, the conductor leant across to Grace, asking with mock concern, ‘You all right, miss? Bet you never knew you could run that fast, did you?’ before letting out a deep, rumbling chuckle.
Despite herself, Grace started to laugh. ‘No, you’re right there, I didn’t.’
Her breath slowly returning to normal, Grace was about to say something to Stanley when he leant forward on the seat, saying quickly, ‘There’s Bert… Oy, Bert. How are you, me old son?’
A young man of Stanley’s age looked round from the front of the bus, his tired face lighting up as he espied his friend.
‘Wotch’yer, Stan. How’s things?’ he said eagerly as he made his way down the rocking bus to where his friend sat. With no spare seats to be had, the man leant his lean frame against the rail, planting his feet astride to steady himself.
As Stanley began to tell his friend about the disastrous job interview, Grace took the opportunity to rest her eyes. Making herself as comfortable as possible, she rested her head against the window, feeling the curled edges of the sticky paper that criss-crossed the pane of glass, placed there to stop the glass scattering in the event of a bombing raid. This exercise, like the issuing of gas masks, was looked upon as a waste of time by many people, while those more aware of world affairs were becoming increasingly concerned by the audacity of the German High Command. But in a world still recovering from the horrors of the Great War, its leaders remained impassive as the former housepainter, the comical-looking man named Adolf Hitler, broke promise after promise and continued to increase Germany’s territory. At first it was just a piece of land here and there, as if Hitler was testing the water. Then, emboldened by the passivity of the outside world, his armies had overrun Austria, and still Britain and the rest of Europe did nothing, despite the continuous warnings of the former Chancellor of the Exchequer, Winston Churchill, that Hitler would continue to plunder the weaker nations if left unchecked. The general feeling was that if the great statesman was still in office things would be very different indeed. Instead Britain had Neville Chamberlain to speak for them, and the Prime Minister not only believed Hitler’s constant reassurances, but also gave in to him.
Only last week, Mr Chamberlain had returned from a meeting that handed over a democratic Czechoslovakia to Germany, declaring triumphantly that he had won ‘Peace with Honour’. And while there were many who despised the Prime Minister’s blatant appeasement of the German tyrant, there was also a great dea
l of relief that Britain wouldn’t, after all, be dragged into another war.
Casting a quick glance at Stanley to make sure he was occupied, Grace gratefully closed her eyes again as the bus left behind the dome of St Paul’s and entered Cheapside, heading towards Liverpool Street, and from there its final destination – the East End.
She felt so tired suddenly. It had been a long, demanding week, but she couldn’t say as much to Stanley. For to mention she was tired after a week’s work would be to invite the caustic comment that she was lucky to be in such a fortunate position. And as he said the words, Stanley’s face would take on that injured, hard-done-by look she had come to know, and dread, so well over the past year.
As the thought crossed her mind, Grace immediately felt ashamed. Knowing Stan as she did, she knew how deeply he felt the pain and humiliation of being out of work. And knowing he was just one of the million and a half men that were currently unemployed didn’t help his wounded pride one bit.
As the rocking motion of the bus lulled Grace into a restful doze, her mind wandered languidly over the past twelve months, back to the day Stanley had asked her to marry him.
He had been employed at that time at Stonbridge & Sons, a small, family building firm, a job he had held since leaving school eight years previously. At twenty-two, Stanley had imagined he had a job for life. Then came the slump, and suddenly orders were being cancelled, and those in the process of completion had gone bust. Arthur Stonbridge, the last surviving son of the company had held on grimly to his business, but finally, and not without a good fight, he had been forced to close down the once-thriving company his grandfather had so proudly started many years before and, in the process, his hard-working workforce had been thrown on to the scrapheap.
Stanley had been optimistic at first. He was a first-rate builder and confident he would easily get taken on in another building firm. But the recession had cut deep and, instead of taking up his trade again, Stanley had been forced to forage for an odd day’s work here and there. But for the last couple of months, even that meagre work had dried up. Not that he should have been working anyway – not as he was claiming dole money. Oh, she knew they all did it, but if caught, the law would come down hard on the offenders.