by Lynda Page
Mortified, Jan accepted her hand and said weakly, ‘Pleased to meet you. Janet Clayton. Jan.’
‘Was I right?’ Hilda asked her then.
Jan looked puzzled. ‘About what?’
‘Size for your overall?’
Jan smiled in embarrassment. ‘Yes. Fourteen it is.’
Kitted out and ready for the off, Hilda took her into the main kitchen area while explaining that there were two other women working alongside them, both part-time from nine until one. In the kitchen, Jan took a good look around. The equipment was old but spotlessly clean. A large gas stove dominated the back wall. Sitting on top of it was the largest frying pan she had ever seen. To each side of the cooker were metal tables; on the shelf underneath one was stacked an assortment of saucepans all larger than the biggest pan in a normal household. Under the other table was an assortment of mixing and preparation bowls. There was a huge metal table in front of the cooker on which all the food preparation was carried out. A door at the far side of the room led into a walk-in larder and cold store. Over the other side of the room, filling its width, was a large counter with various warming trays set inside to keep the food hot during service. At one end of the counter was a shelved glass cabinet holding filled cobs, crisps, chocolate bars and biscuits. At the other end stood a large brass till. To the far side of the counter was a large area filled with Formica-topped tables and wooden chairs, where the workers sat to eat their food.
While Jan had been taking a look around, Hilda had gone off into the cold room and arrived back with an armful of sausages and a stack of rashers of bacon. She gave a jolly chuckle, making her fat jowls wobble, seeing the look on her new recruit’s face.
‘Yes, it really does look like we cater for the forty thousand in here. You’ll soon get used to it. Now let’s set to and get these sausages on the go as the daily bread delivery will be here in a minute and I’ll show you how we check that off. And best you know . . . Bert Braddock – or Bert Bread as we call him – thinks he can charm his way into any woman’s underwear with the promise of half a dozen fancy cakes. He probably has . . . he’s not a bad looker is Bert . . . but I’ll warn yer, not that I think you’re the type that would fall easily for a flirty wink from a good-looking man, Bert’s got a wife who’d not think twice about knocking you into next week if she got just an inkling you had designs on him. Thought I’d better mention that.’
She reached over and picked up two knives from a tray at the back of the counter, giving one to Jan. ‘Right, first we need to separate the sausages. Like this,’ she said, slicing the twisted gut between six of them in a flash quicker than lightning. A thought then seemed to strike her and she stopped what she was doing and looked at Jan questioningly. ‘Er . . . just what did you mean by “what you and the other staff have got going on between you here is nothing to do with me”?’
Jan gawped at her for a long moment before she blustered, ‘Oh, er . . . did I say that? I don’t remember.’
Hilda shot her a look that said: I know you did. ‘Well, let me tell you, nothing untoward goes on in my canteen. My books will stand up to any scrutiny. I can account for the last pea. Any wastage, of which there’s very little, is marked down too. If any of the staff were caught with light fingers, they’d be reported to the management and got rid of. I’m glad to say in all the years I’ve been running the canteen, I’ve never had cause to report anyone. I hope my record won’t be broken,’ she said to Jan meaningfully.
She responded with conviction, ‘Not on my account.’ Inwardly she hoped that she didn’t end up getting the sack for snooping around before either Glen or she had found out what they were after.
Back in the reception area Glen was becoming concerned. It was approaching eight and Mr Swinton had not yet turned up to meet him. Glen wondered if he’d forgotten, but he hadn’t seemed like a man who would forget an arrangement he’d made. Maybe something urgent had come up that was keeping him. Just then he heard the door the other side of the stairs open and someone come in. When they came into view at the bottom of the stairs he saw it was the young receptionist who had dealt with him and Jan yesterday when they had first arrived to apply for the jobs. But instead of the cheery smile her pretty face had sported yesterday, today she seemed very subdued, upset even. Glen wondered if she’d had an argument with her boyfriend the night before.
As she approached her desk she looked surprised to see someone sitting there before she said, ‘Oh, yes, of course, you’re our new maintenance man. I’d best telephone up to Miss Trucker and ask her what we’re to do with you in the light of what’s happened. Just give me a moment while I take the switchboard off night service and open the main door.’
Glen felt he had been right after all, judging by what the young woman had just said, and that something had happened that was commanding Mr Swinton’s full attention. He watched her as she took a set of keys from a drawer in her desk then hurried over to the reception door, unlocking it. She returned to her desk, sat down in the chair, replaced the keys in the drawer, then swivelled around to face the switchboard. She flicked off the night-service switch, then put on her headset, pushed a plug into a hole and dialled a number. After a few moments she spoke in hushed tones into the mouthpiece then listened for a few moments. Pulling out the plug from the hole, she swivelled back round to address Glen.
‘Miss Trucker has asked me to apologise but she’s tied up at the moment and can’t take you to the maintenance room. She’s asked me to telephone Harry Owens the store man who’ll be expecting you and will give you a walk around the place so you can familiarise yourself with it. The jobs that are outstanding you’ll find written down in a book on the desk in the maintenance room. Just get on with them. Miss Trucker said she’ll try and get down later if she can, to find out how you’re settling in and answer any questions you might have.’ She then proceeded to instruct Glen on how to get to the maintenance room, which of course he already knew, but regardless listened intently.
As he made to depart he thanked her before adding, ‘Would you please tell Miss Trucker that it’s apparent to me something major has happened that needs all Mr Swinton’s attention and he can rely on me to sort myself out.’
To Glen’s shock he saw the young woman’s eyes fill with tears, her bottom lip tremble. She then uttered, ‘Oh, of course, how stupid of me! You wouldn’t know, would you? I’m still so upset myself that the fact never even crossed my mind. You see, Mr Swinton . . .’ She paused for a moment to pull a handkerchief out of her cardigan sleeve and blow her nose before she continued. ‘Such a lovely man he was, everyone liked him. He won’t half be missed. ’Course, it’s selfish of us all, we know, but we’re all worried about just who will take his place . . . well, we could get a right tyrant and . . .
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m going off at a tangent, but Mr Swinton had a heart attack yesterday morning. Just after ten-thirty it was. He was found by one of the workers collapsed at the bottom of the back stairs, obviously on his way back to the office after his walk around to see that everything was as it should be in the factory. He died before we could get the ambulance to take him to hospital. We’re waiting for Mrs Thomas, she’s the owner of the factory, to come and deal with things.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was the muted shrilling of the telephone down in the hall that jolted Cait out of sleep at just after eight that morning. She had slept badly again and now she had overslept. She was too late to get herself ready and off to work and be there for eight-thirty. This on top of the day she’d taken off without permission would surely result in her dismissal. At this moment, though, she felt so low, she didn’t actually care whether she lost her job or not, regardless of the consequences. She could no longer hear the telephone ringing so she turned over and closed her eyes.
An urgent rapping on her bedroom door had her sitting bolt upright and staring over in fright. She was alone in the house so who could possibly be knocking on it? Her answer came in the form of Agnes Dalby, who c
ame bustling in to stand at the bottom of her bed. She had a look of concern on her wrinkled face.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Thomas, but I was worried about you not coming downstairs this morning at your usual time, being’s it’s a work day. I was worried you might be ill.’ She scrutinised Cait’s face. ‘You don’t look good, Miss Thomas, not good at all. Shall I call for . . .’
Cait exclaimed, ‘You frightened the life out of me! You’re not supposed to be here. What are you doing?’
Agnes wanted to tell this angry young woman that she herself couldn’t get off to sleep last night for worrying how she was coping, rattling around in this big house on her own, with no one to help her through the disappointment she had recently suffered or check whether she was feeding herself properly, but she didn’t know how Cait would respond to this so she lied. ‘I realised when I got home last night that I had left my umbrella here. I’ll more than likely have need of it before your parents return so I came to fetch it. When I came in, there was no sign that you had been up and about getting ready for work or had any breakfast, just last night’s dishes still on the table, so I was worried about you.’
The mention of the dirty dishes brought home to Cait that now she no longer had Agnes to see to all the mundane household tasks, it was up to her to tackle them in the future. The thought of how to go about cooking and laundering and other household chores when she had not a clue how to do them troubled her. She wished she could ask Agnes to show her the basics but daren’t risk her mother finding out she had been familiar with the hired help. ‘I’ll tidy the kitchen later,’ she told Agnes.
‘I’ll see to it while I’m here, Miss Thomas, and I might as well see to cooking you your meals and anything else that needs doing. I’ve nothing else to do with my time at the moment so it’ll be a favour to me to let me be here, instead of twiddling me thumbs at home.’ This was another lie Agnes was telling as her daughter in Nottingham had pleaded with her to come and stay for a week or so and spend time with her grandchildren – that was after she had voiced her feelings over her mother’s employer laying her off unpaid and without warning. But as much as Agnes loved her daughter and grandchildren there was a great need in her to make sure that this vulnerable young woman was coping on her own before she felt she could go off and enjoy her short period of freedom. Looking at Cait again in concern she said, ‘As I said when I came in, you don’t look good at all. Shall I telephone for the doctor to come and have a look at you?’
‘I doubt he has a magic cure for what I’m suffering from, so don’t waste his time,’ Cait snapped back, just wanting Agnes to leave her alone so she could snuggle back under the covers and be left with her misery.
The older woman did not look convinced but said regardless, ‘If you say so, Miss Thomas. There was another reason I came up to see you. That woman has been on the telephone again. The one who called several times yesterday. She said their situation is getting critical now.’
Cait heaved a frustrated sigh and said irritably, ‘And just what is their situation?’
‘Oh, Miss Thomas, I didn’t feel it my place to ask. I did get her name and number this time, though. She’s a Miss Trucker and she’s calling from Rose’s Quality Shoes and Leather Goods. They’re on Bowman’s Lane, off Frog Island. It’ll be one of those factories backing on to the canal. Miss Trucker ended the call under the impression she would hear shortly when Mrs Thomas’s representative will be paying a visit.’
Rose’s Shoes? The name sounded familiar to Cait. She had seen it somewhere recently. Then she remembered. Printed inside her father’s shoes when she had been rummaging around his wardrobe, looking for family documents. So this critical problem was nothing more than a mix-up over an order for shoes for him? From the number of them in his wardrobe he was obviously a good customer of theirs whom they didn’t want to lose. Though why he needed so many pairs when he rarely left the house was beyond her. A thought struck her then. If she resolved this issue on her mother’s behalf, maybe, just maybe, it might help to rebuild the bond they had shared when she was born. It was worth a try. Besides, the Trucker woman obviously wasn’t going to give up badgering them until someone representing her mother had paid a visit.
First, though, Cait had to build the momentum to get herself out of bed, which was the last thing she felt like doing at the moment.
She instructed Agnes, ‘If the woman telephones again, tell her I’ll call in to see her later. Oh, and while you’re at it, telephone my boss at work and tell her . . . anything you can think of that will be accepted as an excuse for my absence today.’
With that she turned over in bed and pulled the covers over her head, signalling to Agnes that this conversation was at an end.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Glen was trying his best to listen to Harry Owens as the man gave him a brief overview on what to himself were the important matters of tea- and meal-break times, and where the canteen and toilets were. Glen’s insides were turning somersaults. Thomas had been Nerys’s maiden name; she had obviously reverted to it after she had obtained a divorce from him. That was why Charles Gray couldn’t find any trace of her after she had sold their house and moved to another. At any time they were expecting his nemesis to arrive. If they crossed paths and she recognised him, that put paid to any plan of finding out where she lived so that he could visit the house and be reunited with his daughter. All he could hope was that, should they come face to face, either Nerys wouldn’t take much notice of a mere factory worker or else he’d changed so much since she’d last seen him that she wouldn’t recognise him.
He realised that Harry had stopped talking and was looking at him curiously. Glen said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.’
‘No, miles away, you were, mate. You look a bit green around the gills to me. Are you all right? Only one death in this place is enough for one week.’
Glen managed to say jocularly, ‘Oh, I’m fine, just got a lot to take in as you can appreciate, starting a new job, getting used to new ways and people. It all seems a bit overwhelming right now.’
‘No different to what I felt when I first started here, and everyone else who starts a new job. It will soon slot into place and you’ll feel like part of the furniture. I can only tell you it’s a good place to work . . . well, it was under Reg Swinton, but of course it depends now on who’s brought in to replace him. I expect the owner will have to run it meantime. Such a shock, Mr Swinton going so swift like that. I’d only seen him a couple of hours before it happened. He was doing his inspection round to make sure all the workers were okay and everything was running smoothly before he went up to his office for a client meeting. At the time I did notice he looked tired and had a bit of a sweat on him, but I put that down to the pressure of getting our orders out in time for Christmas.’
Glen tentatively asked, ‘What . . . er . . . is the owner like?’
Harry pulled a face and shrugged. ‘Dunno. Never seen her in all the seven years I’ve worked here. As far as I know she comes here once a month to go over matters with Reg Swinton, but she’s never graced us lot on the shop floor with her presence. Those that have had the privilege of crossing her path said she looks a stuck-up cow and acts like she’s royalty. In all the years Nell Green took a tray of tea through to the office with a plate of best butter shortbread, she never once heard a thank-you from her. There wasn’t ever any acknowledgement when she retired after forty-odd years of service.
‘Anyway, I think I’ve shown you as much as I can and the rest you’ll have to find out for yourself. I must get on, the shoes won’t box themselves, and it don’t look like I’m gonna get much help again today, same as every day, from that lazy sod of an assistant I’ve got. If he don’t buck his ideas up soon I’m off up to see the hierarchy about getting him replaced by someone who isn’t work-shy. So excuse me, mate, won’t yer?’
Glen thanked him for his time then made his way into the maintenance room which was hardly bigger than a small cupboard,
lined with old wooden shelving that groaned under the weight of the assorted tools and paraphernalia needed to carry out his work. A well-worn desk was rammed in one corner with a rickety-looking chair at the side, allowing just enough room for Glen to sit on while he answered any summons on the scuffed black Bakelite telephone. The room didn’t even have a door on it. He knew from what Harry had told him that any supplies he needed were ordered through the stores department, but all orders then had to be sanctioned by the works manager before they were placed with their suppliers. Until Reg Swinton’s replacement was on board, he’d have to make do with what supplies he had. Glen was just mortally relieved to learn that he wouldn’t personally have to approach the owner for their approval and wouldn’t come into contact with Nerys that way while she was running the place until a replacement for Mr Swinton was found.
On examining the jobs book, it seemed to Glen that the last maintenance man had been very diligent. Apart from a couple of light bulbs that needed replacing in the gents toilets, situated in the clocking-in area, and a twice-daily replenishing with coal of the huge cast-iron boiler in the basement, it seemed at the moment that he wouldn’t be anywhere near the offices or in danger of bumping into Nerys. He was going to be eased into his job gently. But that was to change.
The telephone started shrilling. It was the factory foreman. A belt needed replacing on one of the stitching machines. Would Glen come straight away to avoid losing more production time? Grabbing the tool box and taking several belts of different sizes out of the stock on the shelves, to make sure he was carrying the right size replacement, he set off, praying that repairing machines was just like riding a bike. Once mastered, never forgotten.
