The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  ‘I’ve already explained, Mrs Sloan, that a charity case is the last thing Miss Layton is,’ said Miss Hesketh.

  ‘She is, in fact, our first scholarship candidate.’ Miss Patience smiled at Belinda. ‘You may not be aware, Mrs Sloan and Mrs Sloan, that our brother, Mr Lawrence Hesketh, is the brains behind our business school. He is concerned for the welfare of the surplus girls in society. Now he has had the idea of offering support to scholarship candidates.’

  ‘Charity cases,’ muttered Auntie Enid. ‘It doesn’t matter how you dress it up. It’s charity.’

  Miss Patience smiled bravely. ‘Our brother wishes to assist girls who, at elementary school, never had the opportunity to sit the scholarship, though they would undoubtedly have passed the examination, had they done so. I believe I’m describing you, aren’t I, Miss Layton? Didn’t Miss Kirby say you’d have passed?’

  ‘We’ll ask her to write a letter to that effect,’ said Miss Hesketh. ‘Now that we teach on Fridays, she comes to our house on Saturday evenings, so we’ll ask her today. Then you’ll be our first scholarship candidate and your fees will be reduced accordingly – not out of charity, but because girls such as yourself are more likely to be in lower-paid employment when they come to us.’

  Auntie Enid breathed out through her nose. She didn’t utter the word ‘Charity!’, but it rattled round the room anyway.

  Miss Patience addressed her. ‘Mrs Sloan, we understand your reservations. That’s why we’ve come in person to reassure you. We know you wouldn’t dream of accepting charity, but Miss Layton shows promise and we’re certain you must be as keen as we are that she has this opportunity to improve her prospects.’

  ‘It’d be a feather in us caps if Belinda was the first scholarship whatsit,’ said Grandma Beattie.

  ‘She wouldn’t have to pay so much in fees,’ said Miss Hesketh, ‘and consequently her wages would stretch further.’

  If Auntie Enid sucked her cheeks in any further, her face would turn inside out. ‘We can pay us way.’

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ said Miss Hesketh, ‘but if Miss Layton receives this position as scholarship candidate, which is entirely dependent upon Miss Kirby’s writing a letter in support, then any wages she saves as a result will be spoken for, to start with, at any rate.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Belinda.

  ‘Your attire, my dear,’ said Miss Patience.

  ‘Her what?’ said Grandma Beattie.

  ‘Her office clothes,’ said Miss Hesketh.

  ‘We sorted them out,’ said Auntie Enid. ‘White collar and cuffs is as far as I’m prepared to go.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Miss Hesketh, looking her in the eye, ‘it isn’t far enough. Black with white collar and cuffs is what shop girls wear in the better class of establishment. It is not what office girls wear. We require Miss Layton to wear a white or cream blouse. She’s already at a disadvantage through coming from the working class – I mean no offence; I am merely stating a fact—’

  ‘She must look the part,’ cut in Miss Patience with her kindest smile. ‘We realise, of course, that you suffered a terrible loss, all of you, and your bereavement continues to be as painful as ever, but the war has been over for four years and – forgive me – but dressed as she is, Miss Layton would look rather an oddity in the office; and I can tell that you want her to have the best possible chance.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Grandma Beattie. ‘We do.’

  They all looked at Auntie Enid. She said nothing, but she almost nodded and relief swarmed through Belinda’s veins.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Sloan,’ breathed Miss Patience.

  ‘Miss Layton’s office apparel must be sorted out by this time next week,’ said Miss Hesketh. ‘We’re in the process of finding office work in private businesses for our pupils to undertake on Saturdays; just three or four hours, so they can use their new skills in a working environment. This work will be unpaid, but it means the pupils will have experience to offer a prospective employer when the time comes.’

  ‘Are you saying our Belinda will have to fettle on Saturday afternoons as well as all the rest of the week?’ demanded Grandma Beattie.

  Miss Patience spread her gloved hands helplessly. ‘It will pay off in the end.’

  ‘You hope,’ said Auntie Enid. Belinda wanted to throttle her. Didn’t she realise she was putting her in a bad light with her tutors?

  But Miss Patience took no offence, or not outwardly, anyroad. ‘We do hope,’ she agreed in her soft voice.

  ‘We’ve already found a placement for Miss Layton on Saturday afternoons,’ said Miss Hesketh.

  Office experience? She wasn’t ready. Her heart beat faster. But it wasn’t just alarm. There was also a touch of excitement.

  ‘Where?’ asked Auntie Enid.

  ‘At the bookshop on Beech Road in Chorlton,’ said Miss Hesketh.

  ‘It’s not far from Wilton Close, where my sister and I live,’ said Miss Patience.

  ‘You said office work,’ said Auntie Enid.

  ‘Mr Tyrell sells second-hand and antiquarian books,’ said Miss Hesketh.

  ‘Anti-what?’ asked Grandma Beattie.

  ‘Books that are old and special,’ said Miss Patience. ‘They have to be treated with respect and I believe Miss Layton would do that.’

  ‘Well, she does love her library books,’ agreed Grandma Beattie.

  ‘Do you think a position in a bookshop would suit her?’ asked Miss Patience as if Grandma Beattie had the casting vote.

  ‘I don’t see how it’s meant to give her office experience,’ Auntie Enid persisted.

  Miss Patience smiled at her. ‘It will provide Miss Layton with precisely the experience she requires. It’s a quiet environment, which is perfect for her first foray into the world of office-related work. Mr Tyrell had a part-time assistant for a time last year, a gentlemanly man by the name of Weston. When he left, Mr Tyrell didn’t replace him, which is one reason we thought he might appreciate another pair of hands. Miss Layton will not, I hasten to add, be required to work as an assistant in the shop. Mostly, Mr Tyrell will want her to type.’

  ‘My typing isn’t up to it,’ Belinda exclaimed.

  ‘That’s the point.’ Miss Hesketh sounded brisker than usual after her sister’s conciliatory manner. ‘Typing is precisely what you need.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Miss Patience. ‘Mr Tyrell won’t expect your fingers to fly, though I’m sure they will do after a few more hours of practice. Between ourselves, he’ll be grateful not to have to do the typing himself.’

  ‘You’ll type lists of books and short catalogues,’ said Miss Hesketh. ‘Mr Tyrell sells some of his books by post and his customers need to know what he has in stock.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of it,’ said Auntie Enid. ‘A young girl working for a man.’

  ‘I hope you aren’t suggesting we would condone an arrangement where a young lady might feel uncomfortable,’ said Miss Hesketh.

  ‘Mr Tyrell is as old as the hills,’ trilled Miss Patience, obviously used to keeping the peace.

  ‘We’ve arranged for Mr Tyrell to interview Miss Layton this afternoon,’ said Miss Hesketh. ‘Please be ready to go in ten minutes, Miss Layton.’

  ‘I’ll take her,’ said Auntie Enid. ‘If there’s any interviewing to be done by a man, I’ll take her.’

  ‘That would not be appropriate, Mrs Sloan,’ said Miss Hesketh. ‘As her tutor, I will accompany her.’

  Belinda had had her fill of being talked about as if she wasn’t present.

  ‘Thank you both for offering, but I’d prefer to go on my own.’

  Chapter Eleven

  IT IS FEBRUARY the fourteenth – Valentine’s Day. See, I know that without being told. I know about cards and presents and red roses, but I don’t know if I ever had a valentine of my own. In my past, was there a girl, a sweetheart? Did I give her roses on Valentine’s Day? I don’t even know if I’m the sort of chap who does such things. I’d like to think
I am. Even if I never did it in the past (was I really so hard-hearted?), I know I will do it in the future… supposing the opportunity arises.

  How can I contemplate getting to know someone else when I don’t know myself?

  My thoughts never stop. They chase themselves round and round, asking questions, wondering and speculating, finding something new to worry away at – and what’s the point? Thoughts of a possible future relationship are worthless, but because it is Valentine’s Day and I know its significance, I can’t prevent the thoughts from appearing.

  It is a crisp morning. Frost on the grass crunches underfoot as I take my morning tramp through the grounds. Snowdrops grow in clumps beneath the trees. This is a fine place. Parkland surrounds what used to be a manor-house, its windows crisscrossed with lead to form little diamonds, a handsome building, known to the locals, so I’ve been told, as Maniac Manor.

  It is official. I am a maniac.

  No, not really.

  We’re here – me and the other maniacs – because the doctors believe we can be treated. For those poor souls who can’t be treated, there is an asylum a couple of miles away. The thought of it fills me with sadness for those poor beggars who have been put there. Maybe they’ll stay there for ever.

  Since I have no memory, my fellow patients delight in testing my Englishness by offering me Marmite, black pudding, trifle, Colman’s Mustard, tripe. Do I enjoy them? For the record, yes, yes, yes, yes and I have no idea, as I can’t imagine putting it in my mouth and swallowing.

  I have more freedom than the others. For them, there is a strict daily regime. They are unlucky blighters who are still suffering from profound mental and emotional trauma caused by the war.

  I say as much to Dr Jennings that afternoon. His office occupies a corner of the ground floor, and has windows looking in two directions. Perhaps it was a morning room before the war, or a sitting room.

  Jennings looks at me. He is middle-aged, with a gaunt face and hooded eyes. ‘Doesn’t it occur to you that you too are suffering from the after-effects of trauma?’

  ‘I don’t think of myself like that, even though I know it to be the case. Is it possible to know it and ignore it at the same time?’

  ‘You tell me. You say it’s what you do. The brain is a complex creature.’

  ‘Mine doesn’t feel very complex. Mostly, it feels empty.’ I say it in a jokey way.

  ‘You’ve had a couple of days to settle in here. Has returning to England brought back anything?’

  I shrug. ‘Nothing.’ My shoulders feel like caving in, but I don’t let them. ‘You know who I am.’ I don’t make it a question: they must know. ‘Why haven’t you told me?’

  ‘I hoped you might remember for yourself. Leaving France, coming here, was a big step. It might have started to open doors in your mind.’

  ‘But it didn’t.’ I look at him expectantly.

  A pipe-rack stands on his desk. He makes a move as if to choose a pipe, then withdraws his hand. A change of mind or a way of playing for time?

  ‘It would be better if you remembered naturally. I could tell you a lot about yourself, but if I do, it is just a list of facts.’

  ‘A list of facts sounds useful.’

  ‘Yes, but only inside your head. What you need is to have those facts in your heart.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘You don’t sound like an army doctor. Not that I have the slightest idea whether I’ve ever met one before.’

  ‘Knowledge isn’t just facts in your head. Knowledge is a feeling. We don’t have a word for that feeling in the English language, but the absence of the feeling is—’

  ‘Emptiness,’ I say.

  ‘…doubt.’

  Doubt? Is that what I feel? When I chase my thoughts down long corridors of speculation, is it doubt that propels me?

  ‘It isn’t simply a matter of knowing in here.’ Jennings taps his temple. ‘That would give you some peace of mind, of course, but after you’d learned the facts about yourself, would you be truly satisfied? Wouldn’t you move on from “I know nothing of myself” to “I know various things, but I remember none of them; I feel none of them.”’ He raps his knuckles against his chest. ‘Knowledge is a feeling.’

  ‘So your plan is not to tell me anything.’ I imagine myself spending years here, not remembering.

  He smiles. He has a sad smile, though maybe it is his professional expression. ‘It would be better for you if we didn’t have to, but clearly, if coming here hasn’t jolted your memory, then we’ll have to give you some information.’

  ‘Is it possible my memory will never return?’

  ‘It’s unusual for amnesia to last this long.’ It’s the only answer he will give me.

  So I’m in the same position I’ve been in since I woke up in the bedroom with the sloping ceiling. I thought that coming back to England would open the floodgates. It hasn’t.

  Either I will remember or I won’t. And I have to face the possibility that I won’t.

  (I am tired of putting on a brave face.)

  They give me a list of names. ‘See if one jumps out at you,’ Jennings says in a casual way, as if it is of no consequence. I scan the list, suddenly anxious, heart pumping. Is this the moment when—?

  Apparently not. I go back to the top and read the names again, one by one. There’s still a chance. If I concentrate, if I take my time, there’s still a chance. Anticipation makes my palms break out in a sweat. I find myself considering the first names in preference to the surnames. There is a John, a Mark, a Henry. Good, solid names.

  In the end, they tell me.

  ‘Linkworth. You are Gabriel Linkworth.’

  Not John, then, or Mark. Not a good, solid name. Gabriel: did I get ragged about it at school? I find the name on the list and stare at it, willing it to mean something. Do I feel like a Gabriel Linkworth? Do I look like a Gabriel Linkworth?

  ‘It sounds like a poet,’ I say and they laugh as if I’ve made a great joke. ‘What do you know about me?’ I ask.

  ‘All in good time,’ says Jennings.

  Gabriel Linkworth.

  I go outside and tramp across the lawns. The frost has vanished. The grass is wet. The clumps of snowdrops shine bravely as the day draws in.

  Gabriel Linkworth.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE LITTLE BRASS bell overhead jingled as Belinda threw open the door and almost fell into the shop. What a start to her first afternoon working here. Mr Tyrell appeared, stepping out from between two sets of bookcases. His height had taken her by surprise when she came for her interview last week. Being told he was as old as the hills had made her picture a small, stooped gentleman, but he was a real lanky longlegs.

  ‘I’m so sorry to be late, Mr Tyrell.’

  It was a sparkling February day of clear skies and pockets of surprisingly warm sunshine, but the inside of the shop was gloomy in spite of the large window. Her boots clattered on the floorboards, the sound lifting into the sombre air before being absorbed into the bookcases that filled the space. The shop smelled of wood, studiousness and well-thumbed pages.

  Mr Tyrell frowned at her, shaggy eyebrows creeping together. Had he forgotten? Having run all the way from Stretford, she was sweltering hot and longed to undo her coat buttons, but she didn’t dare until she knew he was expecting her. Trying not to be obvious about it, she waggled her right arm, which was aching darkly after holding onto her hat all the way here.

  ‘You assured me you could get here for two o’clock. I assume you have a good reason for your tardiness.’

  Oh, she had that all right. Mr Butterfield, the so-and-so. He had been today’s tattler and, wanting everything to run smoothly come Saturday, she had asked him earlier in the week if he would check her work first and pay her right away instead of her waiting with all the others.

  ‘Hm, I don’t know.’ He had hesitated, as if considering. ‘If I say yes to you, Miss Layton, what if the others come begging the same favour? I can’t oblige everyone.’


  ‘You aren’t being asked to, Mr Butterfield. Just me.’

  ‘You want me to oblige you?’

  ‘Yes please, sir.’

  How stupid could you get? This morning, as midday rolled into view and the cleaning was all but finished, he had come up behind her when she was bent over the bucket, cleaning her brush. Fortunately, she had glanced round and that had given her a split second to slip aside, but she was penned in a corner.

  ‘You did say you wanted me to oblige you, Miss Layton.’

  Dread consumed her. Had her luck run out? Then some of the others came to clean their brushes and Butterfingers melted away. Phew. But she hadn’t a hope of receiving her wages at midday.

  She hadn’t bothered bringing her snap with her and the only money she had was her fare home, but Maggie, Annie and the rest had each given her a bite of their pies and pasties, though she had taken care to have only a nibble of each one. For the poorest women with the biggest families, this was likely their one and only hot meal of the week.

  Having queued for her wages – and frankly, she was in such a state by then that Butterfingers could have picked up her hand and licked it and she wouldn’t have cared – she had dashed for the tram, agonising over whether to go straight to Chorlton; but she had to go home and get changed into her new – well, new to her – cream blouse that Grandma Beattie had picked up off Urmston market in the week.

  Arriving at End Cottage to cries of ‘Where have you been?’, she had flown upstairs to get changed, dimly aware of indignant comments following her about her lateness having ruined the dinner.

  ‘You can’t go without summat warm inside you,’ said Auntie Enid, as she ran downstairs and headed straight for the coat-pegs.

  ‘I’ve had some,’ she called over her shoulder as she hurried out of the door and took off up Grave Pit Lane at a run.

  Now, here she was, dishevelled, sweaty and late. Talk about first impressions.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I was given to understand I could leave work at twelve, but I had to stay until one.’