The Surplus Girls

by Polly Heron

  He looked through his spectacles down his long, straight nose. The shaggy eyebrows disentangled themselves from one another and climbed up his forehead. Then he uttered a ‘huh’ sound and plunged back among the bookcases.

  Creeping forward, not wanting her boots to clatter on the floorboards, she peered round the end of the bookcase. Mr Tyrell gazed at an upper shelf, which she couldn’t have looked at without a box to stand on, but which was at eye-level to a beanpole like him. He had pushed his glasses into the top pocket of his jacket and his fingertips pattered along the spines of the books while he murmured under his breath. Then with another ‘huh’ – a pleased-sounding one this time – he pulled out a volume, tucked it under his tweed-clad arm and, using the edge of the shelf as a sliver of desk, made a note in pencil on a piece of paper. Then he turned round to examine the contents of a shelf behind him, this time having to bend down. His knees creaked.

  What was she meant to do? Well, she had two choices. Interrupt him, probably earning another ‘huh,’ or, as Grandma Beattie would have said, ‘Use some of what God gave you.’

  At the back of the shop she found a windowless office. It was dusty and tired-looking and in urgent need of a thorough spring-clean, but at least it was tidy – and on the table stood the typewriter, a pile of books beside it.

  She took off her coat. There were no pegs, so she folded it and placed it on top of a cupboard, with her gloves and Mrs Harrison’s hat on top. She found paper in one drawer and carbon paper in another. The carbon paper looked like it had been used a hundred times. She settled down to work, winding two sheets, with carbon paper in between, around the drum. At the top she typed Tyrell’s Books, Beech Road, Chorltoncum-Hardy, then she put the books into alphabetical order by author and started to type, tapping hard on the keys to give the carbon paper as much help as she could.

  A frisson of pleasure ran through her. Here she was, dressed in her smart office blouse, sitting up straight as Miss Hesketh had taught her, doing a proper job. Her pleasure didn’t last long. The office was chilly and her blouse was no protection. Draping her coat about her shoulders, she carried on. Every time she paused to look at the next book, she flexed her fingers and rubbed her hands.

  She was turning the knob on the side of the machine to bring the paper out when Mr Tyrell came into the office.

  ‘I’ve listed these in alphabetical order,’ she said. ‘I’ve done two copies.’

  Putting down half a dozen handsomely bound volumes, he held out a large hand. She removed the carbon paper and gave him her work.

  ‘The bottom one is barely legible.’

  ‘You need new carbon paper.’

  ‘Huh.’ From between a couple of the books he had put on the table, he produced a piece of paper. ‘For a customer. Type an invoice and parcel up the books. Brown paper and string over there.’ He started to turn away.

  ‘Mr Tyrell, it’s rather cold in here.’

  ‘There’s a gas-ring and a kettle upstairs.’ A vague wave of his hand indicated a door.

  Did he live over the shop? Through the door was a staircase, with a door at the top that didn’t shut properly. Far from being a home, it was a storeroom for boxes and shelves of books. There wasn’t even a chair to sit on. There was a ewer of water beside a battered old kettle. She wrinkled her nose. How fresh was the water likely to be? But all she wanted was a mug of boiling water to wrap her hands around. Next week she would wear two chemises and both her cardigans. Would Grandma Beattie have time to knit her a pair of fingerless gloves?

  Carrying the hot mug downstairs, she put on her coat for good measure and set about her next task. The piece of paper Mr Tyrell had provided was a letter from a Mr Wilstone, containing an order for books. Beside each title, Mr Tyrell had pencilled the price. She typed the invoice and added up the prices three times to make sure she had got the correct total. Mr Tyrell hadn’t said anything about an accompanying letter, but it seemed the polite thing to do.

  Dear Mr Wilstone, and that meant it would be Yours sincerely at the end, because she had used his name. Please find enclosed (Miss Hesketh had taught her that) the titles – that sounded posher than books – you recently ordered, which we have pleasure in supplying. Businesses liked referring to themselves as we, according to Miss Hesketh. New line: We look forward to being of service to you again. Then, with a triumphant Yours sincerely, she took it to Mr Tyrell for his signature. Removing his pen from his distinctly inky-looking top pocket, he signed his name.

  Belinda set about parcelling up the books. Mr Tyrell appeared with another couple of books and a customer’s letter. She smiled to herself. She could come to like this.

  The next hour passed with more customer orders. Once or twice she heard the bell jingle in the shop, though this didn’t seem to be followed by anything much in the way of conversation. Were Mr Tyrell’s customers as reserved as he was? She imagined them waggling their eyebrows at one another and grinned. Forget Mr Butterfield; forget being late. This had turned out to be a good day. Perhaps, when she had been here a while, it might be appropriate for her to sign the letters that went in the parcels. Imagine finishing a letter with For and on behalf of Tyrell’s Books.

  The mug had gone cold, so she nipped upstairs to boil more water. As she returned to the office, the shop bell pinged. A customer arriving or someone leaving? A voice – a woman.

  ‘Are you Mr Tyrell, sir?’

  Oh, heck. Auntie Enid.

  ‘I’m Mrs Sloan and this is my mother-in-law, Mrs Sloan senior. You’ve got our Belinda working here – that’s Miss Layton to you – and we’ve come to make sure everything is as it should be. You can’t be too careful, not with her working for a man.’

  Tuesday. Vera’s Voice day. Would this be the day? Fay Randall – Mrs Brewer – had explained that, because the article that would include their business school was part of a series she was engaged in writing, it could be as much as a month before it was published, though that hadn’t stopped Patience eagerly turning the pages every Tuesday since.

  She adjusted her hat in the mirror before setting off for the newsagent’s. The end of February was in sight now: this day week would be St David’s Day. Snowdrops formed bright clumps in the flowerbed and it wouldn’t be long before the daffodils bloomed. The hopeful scent of spring was discernible beneath the chill.

  She had already been out once with her shopping basket, but she didn’t like to put her Vera’s Voice in with the Tuesday fish, so she always came home and put away the shopping, before undertaking a spot of housework to earn her trip to the newsagent’s. She had her shopping basket with her. You sometimes saw a man striding along with a folded newspaper beneath his arm, but naturally a lady wouldn’t do that. Her magazine would be conveyed home inside her basket. It was a question of standards.

  She purchased her magazine and returned home as rapidly as befitted a lady. She removed her outdoor things and sat down with her magazine. Was today the day? She scanned the contents list and drew in a deep breath. There it was. Something for the Surplus Girl. Consider a Business School, by Fay Randall.

  Flipping through the pages, she found the article, devouring it so swiftly it barely sank in. She read it again, with proper attention. It opened with general comments about the surplus girl’s responsibility to make the best of herself and then, finally, came the details of one such business school and the benevolence of the Hesketh family – that was interesting. Lawrence wasn’t singled out for praise: had Mrs Brewer seen beneath the surface of their charade?

  That evening, Patience hummed as she prepared a cheese and bacon pasty, ready to pop in the oven when Prudence arrived home. She much preferred preparing tea for the pair of them to getting her own solitary dinner ready: it never seemed worth it just for herself. Prudence ate her dinner in the Corporation canteen, where they specialised in hearty main courses and what Patience thought of as school puddings – jam roly-poly, spotted dick, syrup pudding and the like.

  Hearing the front door, she we
nt to greet Prudence.

  ‘Take your coat off and you can read the Vera’s Voice article while I put tea on the table.’

  ‘Is it a good article?’

  ‘Oh yes, very good.’

  ‘Then I’ll save it until afterwards, like a glass of port.’ Coming from Prudence, this was a joke.

  After tea, Patience anticipated an agreeable half hour discussing Fay Randall’s article and squeezing every ounce of gratification from it before this evening’s pupils arrived, but her hopes were dashed when the doorbell sounded. Automatically she looked at the clock.

  ‘Far too early for the girls,’ she said, getting up.

  It was Lawrence and Evelyn, done up to the nines in evening dress. Evelyn’s satin-lined velvet cloak was fastened at the throat with a glittering brooch that matched her earrings and the combs in her professionally waved coiffure. Long white gloves encased her pudgy forearms.

  ‘Good evening, Patience,’ said Lawrence, ushering Evelyn inside. ‘You have no objection to our coming into our own house, have you?’

  Evelyn swished by, trailing heavy perfume. Lawrence was resplendent in a black wool evening coat with silk lapels, his black shoes buffed up to a high gleam. He removed his top hat and indicated to Patience to precede him. In the sitting room, Prudence’s deadpan expression was a reminder to her not to wear her own surprise quite so blatantly on her sleeve.

  ‘Do sit down,’ she said. Or shouldn’t she make the invitation, since it was their house?

  Lawrence stayed on his feet. Evelyn lowered herself onto the sofa, wafting her hands sideways to spread out her cloak. Beneath it shimmered midnight blue, embroidered with crystal beads. Patience had always known that she hadn’t been put on this earth to wear gorgeous gowns like this, but that didn’t stop a wave of envy pulling at her stomach. She didn’t sigh. There was no point. She was plain and that was all there was to it.

  ‘You’re looking very smart, the pair of you,’ she said.

  ‘You shouldn’t have dressed for our benefit,’ added Prudence.

  ‘Evelyn, what a beautiful gown,’ Patience said before Lawrence could rise to the bait.

  ‘Thank you. It is rather glorious, isn’t it? I had it made at Mademoiselle Antoinette’s in St Ann’s Square. That is simply the place to go. My friend Mrs Fairbrother goes there. Have you heard of the Fairbrothers? No, I suppose not. Mr Fairbrother is very high up in the legal profession.’

  ‘He must be useful for you to know.’ Prudence looked at Lawrence.

  ‘It does no harm to cultivate the right people.’ Lawrence was unabashed. ‘We’re on our way to dinner with our friends, the Palmerstons.’

  ‘How nice,’ Patience said quickly before Prudence could enquire whether the Asquiths and the Gladstones would also be present.

  ‘But we’ve taken the trouble to stop off to see you – and we haven’t done it so you can admire our evening dress.’

  ‘Would you care for a sherry?’ Prudence asked, breaking into Lawrence’s flow.

  ‘What we would care for,’ said Lawrence, unfastening his evening coat to reveal a dazzling white waistcoat and black bow-tie beneath a tailcoat, ‘is an assurance that you’ll give up this ridiculous business school venture; but we realise that there isn’t a hope in hallelujah of your seeing sense.’

  ‘It makes perfect sense to me to keep our own home,’ said Prudence.

  ‘But it isn’t yours, is it? It’s mine. I know what this is.’ He dived across the room and snatched up Patience’s Vera’s Voice. ‘It’s that rag that Lucy gets.’

  ‘Vera’s Voice,’ said Evelyn in a patronising tone that suggested she would never stoop so low as to read it herself, though Patience knew for a fact that she did, because more than once she had offered Patience a housekeeping hint that had come straight from the Household Hints for a Happier Home page.

  ‘A rag that today contains a most pleasing article about our business school,’ said Prudence.

  ‘I’m aware of that. Lucy showed me.’

  ‘She actually wondered if she ought to come here for some training, the silly girl,’ Evelyn said indulgently. ‘It’s out of the question, of course. She’s bound to marry, a pretty girl like her, and with her father rising in the world.’

  Patience felt a pang for her niece – for both her nieces. What guarantee did any girl have these days?

  ‘You’ve put me in an intolerable position,’ snapped Lawrence. ‘Those pieces in the newspapers, and now this feature.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think we’ve made you look like a splendid fellow,’ said Prudence.

  ‘I want this house. I want to be able to say I own the house I live in. Not many people can say that. It would make certain people look at me in a new way.’

  ‘If certain people’s good opinion relies on something so ridiculous,’ retorted Prudence, ‘they aren’t worth cultivating.’

  ‘We didn’t come here to fight,’ said Lawrence. ‘We’re here to make a generous offer.’

  ‘Allow me, Lawrence,’ said Evelyn. She smiled at Patience. ‘You probably think we don’t comprehend your situation, but we do. I admit that we didn’t to start with; hence the unfortunate business of coming here the day the will was read. That upset you, Patience, and on reflection, I don’t blame you.’

  ‘You have a perfectly nice house,’ said Patience.

  ‘But a rented one.’ Evelyn spoke in a jolly whisper, as if she was doing the voices in a bedtime story. ‘Some of the people we mix with, some of the people we need to have on our side if Lawrence is to fulfil his dream of becoming an alderman, own their own properties and even those that don’t, rent larger houses than ours. This is an attractive house in a good area. Residing here, in our very own property, would be just the ticket.’

  ‘We realise you can’t rent a home equivalent to this one,’ said Lawrence, ‘and so we’ve decided to make you a generous offer.’ He smiled at them. ‘Let’s put all ill-feeling behind us. We’ve found a house in Seymour Grove – nearer to town, nearer to work, for you, Prudence – and we’ll pay the rent for you.’

  ‘You’re offering us a house?’ said Prudence.

  Evelyn beamed encouragingly. ‘Well, not the whole house, no. You’ll be upstairs, so you won’t have people walking about above you, and you’ll have a bay window, Patience.’

  Patience blinked. What had she ever said to make Evelyn imagine a bay window was essential?

  ‘So you’re offering us an upstairs flat…’ said Prudence.

  ‘A smart upstairs apartment with indoor plumbing.’

  ‘And a bay window,’ Patience murmured.

  ‘And a bay window,’ Evelyn cooed.

  ‘…in return for an entire house that ought to be ours anyway.’

  Silence blanketed the room.

  ‘Now see here, Prudence—’ Lawrence began.

  ‘No, you see here, Lawrence. Pa had no business leaving the house to you. This was our mother’s house and it should have come to us.’

  ‘We’ve come here out of the goodness of our hearts—’ Evelyn began.

  ‘Save your breath, Evelyn,’ said Lawrence. ‘Prudence won’t listen to reason. I feel sorry for you, Patience. You should stand on your own two feet for a change. Prudence can’t continue with this business school nonsense if you withdraw your agreement.’

  ‘The school is as much mine as it is Prudence’s.’ Patience sat up straighter.

  ‘Perhaps you should go,’ said Prudence. ‘You mustn’t keep your important friends waiting.’

  Lawrence glared at her. ‘You haven’t heard the end of this. Come along, Evelyn.’

  Evelyn rose in a swirl of velvet, satin and perfume. Patience saw them to the door – and not a moment too soon. Walking along the road was Miss Layton. Lawrence helped Evelyn into the motor. She fussed with her cloak, making sure it wouldn’t get caught in the door. Lawrence closed the door and walked round to his side, then veered off and intercepted Miss Layton as she arrived at the gate. Anxiety stirred inside Pa
tience, but it would be rude to stare, so she closed the door.

  ‘Well!’ Prudence exclaimed as Patience joined her in the sitting room.

  ‘He’s talking to Miss Layton.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I could hardly stand there with my ears flapping.’

  ‘We’ll ask her when she comes in.’

  Patience frowned. Wouldn’t that be intrusive? But she needn’t have worried, because Miss Layton was only too happy to blurt it out without any prompting.

  ‘I’ve just seen Mr Hesketh. He recognised me and came over to say good evening. Wasn’t that kind? I thanked him for making me a scholarship candidate. I hope I didn’t embarrass him: he did look a bit surprised. I told him it’s made such a difference, me being a mill girl.’

  ‘What else did you say?’

  ‘He asked about the school and I told him what an inspiration Miss Hesketh is, her being a lady office-worker, and how we learn about filing and typing and invoices. Then the lady in the car opened the door and called to him.’ She bit her lip. ‘I hope I didn’t gabble on too much.’

  ‘I’m sure he found you charming,’ said Patience. She looked round as the doorbell rang. ‘That will be Miss Shaw. I’ll send her to you in the dining room, shall I, Prudence?’ That would give her the chance to share the Vera’s Voice article with Miss Layton.

  Might the article generate enquiries? The newspaper pieces had, and more girls had signed up. Patience clasped her hands to her chest. She was enjoying this far more than she had expected to – well, she hadn’t expected to enjoy it at all. She must make a note of all her ideas for telephone lessons and list against them which girls had handled pretend enquiries about costs, invoices, discrepancies and dates. Really, life was far more interesting than it used to be.

  Over the next couple of days, she jotted down ideas for various telephone conversations, including useful vocabulary for different situations. She wasn’t having Lawrence claiming the business school was all down to Prudence. If he suggested it again, she would produce her paperwork. This evening, after tea, she would show Prudence what she had done.