Always I'Ll Remember

by Bradshaw, Rita

  ‘She’s leaving, incidentally, because she’s getting married and the fellow in question has been offered a very lucrative job down south.’

  After a moment’s hesitation she said, ‘Yes, I see, sir.’

  ‘Bernice, my secretary, was impressed with your shorthand speed. I am not the most patient of men and I dictate as I speak and don’t like to repeat myself. Neither do I respond well when files go missing or papers can’t be found. In effect I run a tight ship, Miss Vickers. Excuses aren’t tolerated.’

  It was almost as if he was accusing her of something and now Abby sat up straighter, her cheeks burning.

  ‘Are you a clock watcher?’

  She almost said, ‘What?’ but just in time changed it to, ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Are you the type who makes sure they’re out of the door at five o’clock come hell or high water?’

  What a horrible man. It wasn’t so much what he said as the tone of his voice, and she’d bet his face would crack if he ever smiled. ‘As you have already pointed out I haven’t worked in an office before, sir,’ she said crisply, ‘so my reply to that question would be rhetorical at best.’ She hoped she’d used the right word there. ‘But I have never thought of myself as a type, and certainly if there was work which needed to be seen to on any particular day, it would be dealt with.’

  ‘Would it now.’ He settled further back in his big leather chair. ‘Why did you apply for this particular post?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Why not something more suited to your limited knowledge of office work? You must realise that however successful you were at the college it is not like being in a real work environment. Most girls in your position go into a typing pool or something of that nature, I believe.’

  And she could understand why now. Aware she was glaring, she tried to smooth her face clear of expression and moderate her voice as she threw caution to the wind and, with some bravado, said, ‘I am not most girls.’

  ‘So why did you apply? Was it the money?’

  Wonderful! Not only had he got her down as inadequate to the task and flighty, but now she was grasping too. She drew in a long breath before she said truthfully, ‘No, it was not the money.’ But she could hardly tell him the real reason. ‘I felt I wanted something more interesting and demanding than a typing pool, and whatever I might lack in experience I’m determined I can make up for with hard work.’

  ‘You’ve worked in a factory for three and a half years since leaving school.’ He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘It took you a while to decide what you really wanted to do, didn’t it?’

  Again his tone caught her on the raw. She stared at him, lost for words. But only for a second or two; then she said, rising to her feet, ‘You don’t know me, Mr Wynford, and I resent that remark. From the day I started work I put money aside for the time when I would be able to pay for a shorthand and typing course. It took me a while but I did it. We’re not all born with silver spoons in our mouths—’ She stopped abruptly. She shouldn’t have said that last bit, she’d gone too far. She would have known it even if the look on his face hadn’t told her so.

  Expecting a sharp reprimand she stood staring at him, wanting to turn tail and leave the room with every fibre of her being but feeling that would be to admit total defeat. Some ten seconds ticked by, and then he said flatly, ‘Sit down, lass.’

  It was the ‘lass’ that seated her. It was so unexpected after everything that had gone before. She sank down more out of surprise than anything else.

  ‘You’re eighteen in,’ he consulted the papers in front of him, ‘six months’ time. Is that right?’

  She nodded. ‘In January, yes.’

  ‘You appear older, in your manner, that is.’

  He didn’t seem so nasty now but she wasn’t sure how to take him so she said nothing.

  He pulled his chin into his neck, looking at her over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. ‘This is the second batch of applicants I’ve seen today and there were some yesterday too. It was difficult enough finding Bernice eighteen months ago. Why the damn fool woman has to marry a man who’s determined to take himself off down south I don’t know.’ He stretched slightly, taking off the glasses, and again the sharp blue eyes bored into her. ‘Are you looking to up and skedaddle in the near future with some young man or other? Not that you’d tell me if you were, I suppose.’

  Abby felt herself redden as she said, ‘I’m not and I would not have applied for the post if I were.’

  It wasn’t very grammatical but he didn’t comment on this, continuing to stare at her for a moment or two before he said, ‘Hmph!’ which could have meant anything. ‘So . . .’ He stood up and turned to look out of the window towards the river. With his back towards her he said, ‘Would you want the job if it was offered to you?’

  From being absolutely sure minutes before that she didn’t want it, she now found herself saying, ‘Yes, I would, sir.’ Which probably made Winnie right when she’d called her daft, Abby thought wryly.

  He swung round to face her. ‘Got something to prove to them all, have you?’

  His perception took her aback. She could have said, ‘Not all of them, no, just one person actually,’ but what she did say was, ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.’

  The ‘Hmph!’ came again but he did not pursue the matter, contenting himself with, ‘Well, there’s worse motives for taking a job than being determined to succeed come what may, certainly from where I’m standing as the one likely to benefit. Now Bernice is not getting wed for another two months and she’s staying on to instruct her replacement on how I like things done and so on. That means you’d have a few weeks before you’re thrown in the deep end.’

  Her eyes opened wider. Was he saying she had the job? Was he actually prepared to take her on?

  ‘Well?’ The irritation was back. ‘What do you say? You didn’t seem to have too much trouble speaking your mind a minute or two ago.’

  ‘Are you offering me the post of secretary, sir?’

  ‘Well, I’m not about to give you my job, am I?’ He smiled at her and she smiled politely back at his little joke, noticing the difference the smile made to his face. Her heart raced with excitement.

  ‘Thank you, thank you very much,’ she managed a trifle breathlessly. ‘When would you like me to start?’

  ‘Soon as possible, I suppose, but sort that out with Bernice.’ His tone made it plain he hadn’t the time or the inclination for such minor details, and this was further emphasised when he pressed a buzzer on his desk, saying, ‘I take it your next question is how much you can expect to be paid, eh?’ in the irritable voice.

  She’d been so surprised and thrilled to be offered the position she’d forgotten to ask about her wage! Too late, Abby realised all Mrs Travis’s instructions on interview technique had flown out of the window.

  Mr Wynford obviously didn’t expect a reply. Before the door opened to reveal his secretary, he said, ‘As you would expect, remuneration is in line with experience, age, qualifications and so on, added to which you’ll be working with Bernice for some weeks to see if you like the job and are suited. A trial run, so to speak. All right?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You starting wage will be reviewed in two months’ time if and when you take on full responsibility, but if we say twenty-one shillings per week for the present, does that seem fair to you?’

  Abby stared at him. Her last rise at the pickle factory had taken her up to twelve shillings - although lads of her age doing the same job earned more, which had always been a bone of contention with her - and here he was saying she would start at twenty-one shillings with a review once Bernice was gone and she was the secretary properly. If she was suited, that was. But she would be. She’d work twenty-four hours a day if necessary to make sure of it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  Whether it was the tone of her voice or the look on her face Abby didn’t know, but Mr Wynford smiled again, a real sm
ile this time, which crinkled the skin around his eyes.

  ‘You’ll do, lass,’ he said, and she realised he was not as grim as he made out. ‘Now you wait in the main office while I have a word with Bernice and then she’ll see you out, all right?’

  Back in the main office Abby stood just outside the secretary’s door, trying to calm her racing heart. She glanced round the large room. There were not as many people in it as she had first thought. Apart from two fairly young girls who had their heads down typing away in the far corners of the office, the rest of the personnel comprised one elderly man with white hair, two middle-aged men and three youngish men, one of whom was looking straight at her. She didn’t know whether to glance away or say hello - the former seemed rude and the latter forward - so in the end she just smiled and then looked down at the new white gloves she had bought specially for the interview.

  A moment or two later she was aware of him standing at her elbow. His smile was wide as he said, ‘That’s a good sign, you being asked to wait like this. All the others have just been shown straight out.’

  He was very good-looking. She stared into deep blue eyes set under a shock of light brown hair and found herself tongue-tied.

  ‘My name’s James Benson by the way.’ He held out his hand and she was aware that her smaller one was lost in his. ‘I’m Mr Wynford’s junior accountant, but don’t let the grand title fool you - general dogsbody, more like,’ he added with another smile.

  ‘Abby Vickers,’ she said a little breathlessly as her hand became her own again. ‘I’m . . .’ She hesitated, not knowing how to put it. ‘Mr Wynford has just offered me the job as secretary, on a temporary basis to see if I suit,’ she added quickly.

  ‘Has he? Good for him.’

  The tone was frankly appreciative and Abby knew she had gone as red as a beetroot. When Bernice appeared in the next instant the older woman took in the situation at a glance. Her voice was indulgent but carried a slight warning as she said, ‘Hasn’t taken you long to make Miss Vickers’s acquaintance then, Mr Benson? I suggest you return to your work before Mr Hardcastle accuses you of slacking.’

  ‘I was just going.’ His grin took in the secretary but lingered a mite longer on Abby’s pink face. ‘See you again soon, Miss Vickers.’

  As he turned away, Bernice said quietly, ‘I won’t introduce you to everyone now because you won’t remember their names anyway, but Mr Hardcastle,’ she inclined her head towards the elderly man who had the biggest desk in the room and a leather chair like Mr Wynford’s, ‘is Mr Wynford’s chief clerk and in charge of the office any time Mr Wynford isn’t here. If you get on the right side of him from the word go it’ll pay dividends, believe me. And Miss Cook and Miss Turner,’ she nodded to the two far corners of the room, ‘are your juniors, don’t forget that. It doesn’t do to get familiar with them, not when you have to give them orders and keep them up to scratch when necessary, all right?’

  Abby nodded, totally out of her depth.

  ‘Come on.’ Bernice took her arm and ushered her out of the office. ‘You’ll get used to everything much quicker than you think,’ she said softly, ‘but right from the first day you need to remember what I’ve just told you. Start as you mean to carry on.’

  Bernice took her on a short tour of the factory and sheds and the rest of the plant, all of which were situated at the rear of the office building. Abby was overwhelmed by the sheer size of Price and Osborne, not to mention the noise and general clamour once they had left the offices.

  But it was exciting. And she was going to be someone’s secretary! Not a general typist in a pool, not even a shorthand typist attached to a secretary, but a secretary in her own right. What was her mam going to say to that?

  This thought stayed at the forefront of her mind on the short walk home, so it was something of an anti-climax to find her mother out. After taking off her hat and coat Abby climbed the stairs to the bedroom she shared with Clara - Wilbert had been sleeping on a desk bed in the kitchen for the last few years. Abby pulled off her gloves and changed out of her Sunday dress and into one of her two weekday frocks before walking across to the narrow sash window and staring into the street below.

  She had the rest of the afternoon free; she had told the forewoman at the factory she wouldn’t be back that day. Clara and Jed wouldn’t be home from school for a while, so she decided to pop round and tell Aunty Audrey her news. No doubt her mam would play up if she found out she’d been next door before telling her, but it wasn’t her fault her mam wasn’t in. And she had to tell someone. She was bursting. Her Uncle Ivor would likely be in too; he had hurt his back at the shipyard the day before and the doctor had told him to take the week off unless he wanted to end up unable to move.

  Decision made, Abby ran lightly down the stairs and through the house into the backyard, taking just a moment to breathe in the warm sunshine in the lane beyond before she made her way into the yard next door. It was a beautiful day, a beautiful, beautiful day! Twenty-one shillings! Twenty-one shillings.

  As she entered her aunt’s scullery, Abby called her normal greeting, ‘Anyone at home?’ before pushing open the kitchen door which, unusually for her aunt, had been shut. And then she paused on the threshold to the room, staring in surprise at her mother who had just got to her feet from where she’d been sitting or kneeling by the side of Ivor’s armchair to the left of the range.

  Her mother stared at her with what Abby could only describe to herself as a strange look on her face, but it was her uncle who spoke, drawing her gaze. ‘Hello, lass,’ he said, his voice natural but his face strained. ‘You’re back early the day.’

  ‘I’ve been for an interview.’ Her uncle’s back must be giving him gyp, he looked awful.

  ‘Oh aye? Where was that then?’

  ‘Price and Osborne. The Accounts Manager wanted a secretary and I thought I’d try for it.’

  The lilt in her voice was a giveaway, and her uncle smiled as he said, ‘Don’t tell me you got it?’

  ‘Aye, I did.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed. You’re a canny lass an’ no mistake.’

  It was noticeable her mother hadn’t said a word, and now Abby’s eyes turned to her. ‘I’ll be giving in my notice at the factory tomorrow, Mam,’ she said. ‘All right?’

  ‘Why ask me if it’s all right? You’ll do exactly as you please as usual.’ Then her mother turned and seated herself at the kitchen table.

  As Abby looked at her, such a bewildering mix of feelings washed over her she couldn’t have told anyone how she felt. Her voice flat, she turned to her uncle and said, ‘Is Aunty Audrey in?’

  ‘She’s gone to the shops, lass. Your mam just missed her by a minute or two.’

  Abby watched her uncle as he carefully adjusted his position in the battered old chair, wincing as he did so, and his voice was irritable when he continued, ‘Damn nuisance being stuck here like a sitting duck,’ and his eyes moved to her mother.

  A sitting duck? That was a funny thing to say, wasn’t it? And she had never seen her uncle in such a bad mood. She didn’t know what to say for a moment and then she proffered, ‘I’m sorry about your back, Uncle Ivor.’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks, lass. To tell you the truth I’m counting my blessings the day. A twenty-foot plank fell from the deck above and caught me a glancing blow on the back but it could’ve easily sent me off the platform I was working on. There was a thirty-foot drop beneath and I’ve seen a bloke killed like that in the past. It’s not pretty.’

  If he had a face like that when he was counting his blessings she didn’t know what he’d be like when he was annoyed about something. But everyone knew how dangerous the shipyards were and she’d worried about Wilbert when he first started working with his uncle and cousins. He hadn’t been able to sleep the first week for the awful ringing in his ears due to the noise from the squads of riveters, caulkers and drillers, and the second week he had come home and vomited after seeing a ship-wright crushed by a falling rudder. Th
ere wasn’t a week went by when Wilbert didn’t relate some horror story, and he was always covered in cuts and bruises and had already lost the tip of one finger when he had caught his hand between two metal plates.

  ‘Sit yourself down, lass,’ her uncle said now. ‘There’s a fresh brew and a piece of your aunty’s sly cake if you’ve a mind for a bite. She’ll be back soon.’

  Abby looked at her mother but she didn’t raise her head from her cup or offer to pour the tea. Still, at least her mam had come round to see her aunty, which was a good thing, Abby told herself. Likely it had been to enquire how Uncle Ivor was, but that didn’t matter. She just wished her mam would come down off her high horse and be nice to her aunty now and then.

  ‘Has Granda had a cup?’ Abby asked her uncle, and when he shook his head, she said, ‘I’ll take him one through then. No doubt he’ll be gasping.’ Her uncle smiled at this but her mother’s face remained straight, and after a mental shrug Abby poured the tea and left the room.