by Lynda Page
‘We’ll wait,’ Jan told her.
They took chairs in the waiting area, Jan wishing she had brought a book with her to while away the time, Glen thinking that these chairs were the same ones that were here when he was in charge of the place. If Nerys did still own the firm she certainly hadn’t authorised any expenditure towards the upkeep of the premises, it seemed. He also wished right now that he smoked, as he could do with something to calm his nerves.
Their thoughts were suddenly distracted when the door opened and a middle-aged woman came in. She wore a shabby black coat, the Crimplene dress she had on underneath hanging down several inches below its hem. Her thick stockings had many snags in them and her shoes were scruffy and down-at-heel. She wore a turban-style scarf on her head, several pink rollers showing in the middle of her forehead.
The receptionist greeted her with the same courtesy she had shown to Glen and Jan.
Jan frowned when she heard the woman tell the receptionist that she wanted to apply for the job of canteen assistant. To Jan she didn’t appear to have made any effort to impress a prospective employer with the way she dressed. She was, though, mortally glad that as she had arrived first, she’d get first shot at landing the job. It was up to her to make sure she did.
Having called the boss’s secretary, the new arrival was told by the receptionist that if she was prepared to wait, then the manager would interview her for the position after he’d seen the couple already waiting.
The woman shambled over and sat herself down beside Jan, saying to her, ‘You haven’t come about the job in the canteen, have yer?’
Jan looked at her, wondering what it had got to do with her. ‘As a matter of fact, I have.’
The woman folded her arms under her ample bosom and, with a smug look on her face, said, ‘Then yer wasting yer time, me duck. The job is mine. Me friend works in the canteen, she’s in charge actually, and she’s recommended me for the job, so there’s no chance of you gettin’ it.’
Jan eyed her sharply. ‘We’ll see about that.’
There was a look of challenge in the other woman’s eyes when she retaliated, ‘Yeah, we bloody well will!’
It was Glen who was called for first by the manager’s secretary, a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman dressed in a tweed suit and stout shoes. She came downstairs to fetch him. As he got up he flashed a look at Jan as if to say, Wish me luck, before following the grey-haired woman back up the stairs, along a corridor and into the office with a plaque on the door announcing ‘Manager’.
Glen knew this office like the back of his hand. It had been his father’s first, then his. It hadn’t changed one bit. The walls were still lined with oak panelling; it had the same large mahogany desk and cracked red leather wing-back chair behind it. A very comfortable chair, Glen remembered. The same large worn Chinese rug covered most of the dark-stained floorboards. The only change that Glen could see was that the old portrait of King George had been taken down from the wall and replaced by one of the young Queen Elizabeth II, showing her on her Coronation Day two years ago in 1953, having succeeded to the throne on the death of her father. In the leather chair where by rights Glen should have been sitting was a besuited man of about sixty. He had a strained expression and a tired look in his eyes, but regardless he smiled a welcome at Glen and stood up to shake his hand. ‘Reginald Swinton, Manager,’ he introduced himself.
Glen said a silent prayer before he responded, hoping his name meant nothing to Reg Swinton. ‘Trainer. Glen Trainer. I’m pleased to meet you, sir.’
Reg looked taken aback for a moment. ‘Trainer? Same name as the man who owned the company before my boss bought it. He turned out to be a rum character indeed. Seems he wasn’t happy with the profits the firm was making him and was caught using the place to store goods he’d stolen from a hijacked lorry, critically injuring the driver in the process. He served quite a lengthy sentence for what he did. Could still be inside, for all I know. Looking at you, though, I can see you’re no more capable of doing something like that than I am, and it’s just a coincidence you share the same name. Right, let’s get down to business. Please take a seat.’ He waited while Glen settled himself before continuing. ‘So, Mr Trainer, I understand from my secretary you’ve come about the maintenance position?’
Glen was very relieved that he’d got over the name hurdle and hadn’t had to lie his way out of it. He nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, that’s right, sir.’
The other man grinned. ‘I’m not titled gentry, Mr Trainer. Please just address me as Mr Swinton.’ Reg Swinton then ran his fingers inside the collar of his shirt. ‘It’s hot in here, isn’t it? Do you mind if I open a window?’
Glen didn’t think it was hot at all, but Mr Swinton did appear flushed. He told him he had no objection and tried not to shiver as an icy draught blew through the open window, seeming to make straight for him.
Back in his chair Reg Swinton said, ‘Right, what I’m looking for is someone who’s capable of fixing the machines in the factory when they break down and seeing to all the other maintenance work in the place, down to changing light bulbs. Question is, are you the man I’m looking for?’
Glen responded without hesitation, ‘I’d say so, Mr Swinton. There’s nothing I can’t tackle, from unblocking toilets to sweeping up if the cleaner is off for any reason. And there’s nothing about the machines in the factory that I don’t know about and can put right.’ He could have kicked himself for adding that.
Reg looked at him sharply. ‘I haven’t shown them to you yet so how do you know that? Have you worked here before? If you have, it was before my time as I pride myself on knowing all my employees.’
Glen blustered, ‘No . . . no, I haven’t. I was just assuming the machines were the same as I looked after in my old job for a shoe firm. Made by the British United Shoe Machinery Company on Belgrave Road. But, of course, one machine is not unlike another when it comes to repairs.’
‘Well, I can’t repair machines so I wouldn’t know and will have to take your word on that,’ Reg told him. ‘You say you worked for a company similar to this?’
How Glen hated lying but it was so important to his cause that he landed this job. ‘Yes, in Northampton. Ten years I worked for them. They made bespoke shoes but didn’t import from other countries like Rose’s does.’
Reg looked impressed by this. ‘You have done your homework, knowing we import shoes as well as make them. So why did you leave your last post?’
Glen couldn’t help but notice that his prospective employer was sweating profusely now, had taken a large handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and was wiping beads of moisture from his face with it. He wanted to enquire of him if he was all right as in truth it was really quite cold in here now and he should by rights be shivering, as Glen was trying hard not to do. But that could be seen as impertinence and he didn’t want to risk losing the job because of that.
‘Had no choice, Mr Swinton,’ he said. ‘The old man who owned the firm died, and with no one to take over the reins it just folded. That’s why I can’t give you any references, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, I’m not sure references are worth the paper they’re written on myself. Any boss can write down that the employee he’s referencing is the best he’s ever had, trustworthy and reliable, when in fact they are nothing of the sort. It’s just that they’re wanted rid of, and sometimes the best way to do that is to try and help an unwanted worker get taken on somewhere else.’
Glen sighed inwardly with relief that he seemed to have passed that hurdle, then held his breath and crossed the fingers of both hands in the hope that the question he feared he would be asked next didn’t come: whether he’d ever been in trouble with the law.
Reg Swinton obviously thought he looked honest enough not to insult Glen by asking him such a thing. Instead he asked, ‘If you’re from Northampton, what brings you to Leicester?’
Glen hadn’t anticipated that question and his mind went blank for a moment before he blurted, ‘
Oh, er . . . just a change of scene.’
Reg seemed to think that reason enough. ‘Well, I need to fill this vacancy as soon as I can as my last man left yesterday without warning. Got an engineering job elsewhere with an immediate start. He was a good man and I didn’t like losing him.
He studied Glen for a moment. ‘I like the look of you, Mr Trainer. You don’t seem to me like a man who says he can do something when he can’t. I really should show you around the place before I ask you to make a decision, check that you’re happy with what you see, but I haven’t got the time right now. Other people to interview for the jobs we have going, and I’ve a customer coming in at eleven, too. Would you consider taking the job, though, with a view to starting tomorrow if you can?’
Glen fought with himself not to jump up and give the man a hug of gratitude. Regardless of his main reason for wanting a job with this particular company, he still needed one in order to survive and he liked this man, felt he’d be a good boss to work for. They went over a few formalities, then shook hands on the deal.
Glen made his way back down the stairs. When he saw Jan, she was looking up at him with an enquiring look. He flashed her a brief smile, hoping that would tell her that he’d been successful. Reg Swinton’s secretary was now hurrying past him, on her way to bring Jan up to the office. As she passed Glen at the bottom of the stairs, he whispered to Jan, ‘I’ll wait for you down the road. Best of luck.’
While she made her way up the stairs behind the secretary, Jan was aware that the other woman who’d come after the canteen job was looking daggers at her.
Fifteen minutes later she came hurrying down the street to join Glen, who was waiting for her perched on a low wall. She had a worried expression on her face and he automatically took that to mean she had not been successful. As she reached him Jan gave a violent shiver and said, ‘Brrr! It was as cold in that office as it is out here. Did Mr Swinton seem all right to you?’
Glen frowned. ‘He had a good sweat on and I’d say he looked tired, but apart from that he seemed all right.’
‘Mmm, I think he’s sickening for something myself,’ Jan mused.
‘Well, your concern for the man is commendable, but I take it from the look on your face that you weren’t offered the job?’
She smiled triumphantly. ‘I certainly was. Start tomorrow. I’m looking worried as I’m concerned about our new boss. He seemed like a really nice man to me. I don’t think the woman who came in after me is very happy, though. She was of the opinion that the job was hers as her friend already works in the canteen and has recommended her. Well, she shouldn’t have taken it for granted, should she?’ Jan rubbed her hands together and said gleefully, ‘Anyway, Mr Trainer, seems like the first part of our plan has worked.’
Glen was just happy at this moment to have been given gainful employment and could keep up the new life he was living. The thought of returning to his previous existence did not appeal one little bit. ‘I didn’t like deceiving Mr Swinton as to the reason why we wanted jobs with this particular firm.’
Jan slapped him on his arm. ‘Sometimes we have no choice but to do things we aren’t happy with. That’s life. Come on, let’s get out of this cold and go and celebrate with a cup of tea and a slice of cake in a café. I think we should splash out now we’re both earning and have pork chops for our dinner tonight.’
Glen wasn’t sure whether the money she’d taken had been meant to be spent on such luxuries. Nevertheless, his mouth watered at the thought of a pork chop – something he hadn’t had for years.
He hurried after her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next day at work seemed to drag on for ever to Cait, each minute seeming like a hundred. Her sour-faced boss had still not forgiven her for taking a day off without just cause, as well as for the fact that she hadn’t as yet caught up with her work. Last night yet again her sleep had been anything but restful, and so her day had been one long struggle. She was mortally relieved when home-time came as she was desperate to leave, make herself a cup of tea and drink it while she scanned the Accommodation pages in the Mercury, hoping to find something that was suitable for her. Then she’d have a long soak in the bath and go to bed.
As she let herself in at the front door she heard movement coming from the kitchen and froze rigid. Her parents were away, the daily laid off until they came back, so the house should be empty. There was no other explanation for a presence in the house other than burglars. She felt a rising sense of panic and decided she needed to alert the police. Cait made to depart for the telephone box at the end of the avenue, but the clanging of a cup on a saucer and the tinkling of a teaspoon made her stop in her tracks. Was the burglar making themself a cup of tea? Then the appetising aroma of beef stew reached her and she realised that the ‘intruder’ in the kitchen had to be Agnes Dalby. Had she forgotten she was not supposed to be here?
Hearing the front door, Agnes came scurrying out of the kitchen to find Cait taking off her coat and shoes. She had a worried expression on her face as she said, ‘Oh, Miss Thomas, you’re home at last.’
‘This is my usual time for getting home,’ Cait reminded her as she put on her slippers. ‘More to the point, what are you doing here?’
Agnes had fully expected this question and was prepared for it. ‘When I got home yesterday I remembered a few chores I hadn’t done that couldn’t be left until your parents came back, so I came in to see to them. I thought while I was here I might as well see to any laundry you had and cook you a meal, Miss Thomas.’
The thought of food had made Cait feel sick recently, but she was surprised to find that this time the appetising smell of the stew was making her mouth water and stirring pangs of hunger in her stomach.
Before she could make any response, Agnes was saying to her, ‘I must tell you, Miss Thomas, that there’s been an extremely urgent telephone call for Mrs Thomas, and as she’s not here, I need to tell you about it.’
Cait asked her, ‘Who was it from?’
‘A woman. She said she was calling from the company.’
Cait stared at her, non-plussed. ‘What company?’
Agnes shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The woman just said she was calling from Mr Swinton’s office at the company. She said something terrible had happened that only Mrs Thomas could deal with and she needed to come in as soon as possible. I told the woman that Mrs Thomas was away abroad and I wasn’t sure when she’d be back. She said the situation was urgent and would we send Mrs Thomas’s representative. As Mrs Thomas’s daughter that would be you, wouldn’t it?’
Cait was bemused by it all. ‘What company could possibly have such a dreadful problem that only my mother could resolve it? This has to be a mistake, she told Agnes. ‘Either you got the wrong end of the stick or the person on the other end has mixed my mother up with another Mrs Thomas.’
Agnes tried to hide how insulted she felt to be told she wasn’t capable of taking a simple message. ‘I can assure you the message I’ve given you, Miss Thomas, is exactly as it was given to me. I did actually ask if a mistake might have been made and it was another Mrs Thomas she was after. The woman told me she found Mrs Thomas’s contact details in Mr Swinton’s private files, so she did have the right person. She has called three times since to check when Mrs Thomas’s representative will be arriving to deal with matters. She sounds more frantic each time. I kept telling her I’d get you to telephone her as soon as you came home. I’ve been in such a quandary as to whether or not to telephone you at work, Miss Thomas, but I knew you wouldn’t be allowed private telephone calls there and could get into trouble, so I had no choice but to wait until you got home this evening.’
Cait didn’t feel in the mood to deal with anything other than running herself a bath at the moment, but supposed she really ought to get to the bottom of this situation. She stepped over to the table with the large black Bakelite telephone on it, a pad and pencil by the side. Seeing nothing was written on the pad, she turned back to face Agnes. ‘W
here is the woman’s telephone number?’
‘She didn’t give me one’
Cait snapped at her, ‘Then how am I supposed to telephone her back?’
‘Oh, I assumed Mrs Thomas would have it in her telephone book.’
Something that Nerys never let out of her sight, though Cait had always suspected that all it held were the numbers for her hair stylist and beauty parlour as those were the only people she had ever overheard her mother calling. ‘Which she will have taken with her,’ Cait retorted now. ‘Well, no matter how critical this woman’s situation is, I can’t do anything about it. Should she telephone back tomorrow, please ensure you get a number from her this time.’
Agnes hoped the sarcasm didn’t show in her tone of voice when she responded, ‘I’ll make sure I do. I’ll go and put your dinner out then I’ll be off home.’
Her mother would never consider it proper to thank an employee for doing anything for her as they were paid to do so. But what Agnes had done today for Cait she wasn’t being paid for, and Cait felt the least she could do was show the older woman she appreciated her thoughtfulness.
She called after her, ‘Thank you for cooking for me amid all your other chores.’
A shocked Agnes froze in her tracks for a moment, thinking she was hearing things, before she turned and smiled at Cait and said, ‘My pleasure.’ In her surprise at actually being thanked for something she had done after all the years she had worked here unacknowledged, she nearly forget herself and added ‘love’, but remembered her place just in time and instead said ‘Miss Thomas’.
A while later, feeling lonely in the eerily silent house and wishing Agnes were still here to afford her some company, Cait sat at one end of the large scrubbed pine table in the kitchen, forking small pieces of stew and potatoes into her mouth, surprised to find she was actually enjoying the meal. A copy of the local evening newspaper was open before her. Had her parents been here she would never have dared eat at the kitchen table, let alone read at the same time, but it was far warmer in here than in the large imposing dining room in which she felt overwhelmed. It also felt good to be doing something she wanted to do instead of having to abide by the house rules set by her mother. Her mind, though, was not on the print she was scanning but on the conversation she’d just had with Agnes. Cait couldn’t work out why her mother’s presence was needed so urgently to resolve a problem at a company. She wasn’t aware, had no inkling whatsoever, that her mother was involved in any way in business. But according to Agnes there had been no mistake. Her mother’s details had been found in the private files. It was all very confusing but equally intriguing.
