The Telephone Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Ridley,’ Cynthia breathed, blushing to the roots of her fair hair. It was hard not to feel like a squashed cabbage leaf cast aside on the floor of Clifton Market and she saw that Millicent had been right to warn her that the supervisor was a dragon in disguise.

  ‘Don’t be sorry – be correct. Accuracy, efficiency and courtesy – those are our three watchwords. Remember this and strive to improve on a daily basis. In that way we’ll learn to get along.’ Ending her lecture, Ruth turned to scan the rows of switchboards to either side of the room and saw that for the moment Norma was free. She beckoned her across.

  One look at a wilting Cynthia told Norma that rescue was needed so she rushed to join them. ‘Yes, Miss Ridley?’

  ‘Norma, I’d like you to show our new junior here how to perform the duties of a name and address clerk. Demonstrate how you can use the telephone number to gather the necessary information. But this doesn’t mean you should neglect your columns. Remember – only break off to show Cynthia the ropes when you have no light to take.’

  ‘Of course. Follow me, Cynthia.’ Turning on her heel, Norma led the way. (‘She was white as a ghost and shaking like a leaf,’ she reported to Millicent later. ‘Cross my heart, I expected her to fall down in a dead faint.’)

  With the supervisor’s words still ringing in her ears, Cynthia sat in the chair that Norma drew up for her. Accuracy. Efficiency. Courtesy. All around her lights winked and flashed, fingers flew over keyboards, cords were pushed into jacks, connections were made. The minute hand on the giant clock above the door jerked forward at a snail’s pace.

  ‘Hello, Hull – I have a new ticket.’

  ‘Calling London 5492. Hello, Mr Turner – I have Mr Simpson on the line.’

  On and on Cynthia heard the cacophony of female voices accepting and directing calls and above them all was the sound of their supervisor chiding and chivvying, correcting and criticizing.

  This is too much for me to learn, she thought, fighting back the tears. I’ll never do it, not with Miss Ridley breathing down my neck.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘The main thing is to take no notice of Ruth Ridley,’ Millicent insisted. She and Norma had scooped Cynthia up the second they got the go-ahead for their dinner break and marched her out of the exchange, along the street and straight into Marks & Spencer where acres of gleaming counters, stained wooden floors and shining glass pendant lights beckoned. ‘By which I mean, take on board the things you need to know about keys, lamps and cords and such like, but don’t let her upset you in other ways.’

  Norma picked through the packets of nylons on display at the hosiery counter. ‘Millicent is right. I had to learn to do that when I first started. Now I’ve got the hide of a rhinoceros, thank you very much.’

  ‘Ruth is like this with everyone,’ Millicent explained.

  ‘Why?’ Cynthia’s first morning had left her feeling as if she’d been put through the mangle and it was all she could do to frame the one-word question.

  ‘She’ll make a mug out of you just to test you out and see how you react.’

  Norma agreed and laughed mischievously as she pointed out to the shop assistant the nylons she wanted. ‘Anyway, that’s the big, unanswered question! Why is Ruth Ridley the way she is? Could it have something to do with a dark past, I wonder?’

  Millicent brushed aside Norma’s suggestion and whisked Cynthia back out on to the pavement where they stood in the late-spring sunshine waiting for their workmate to pay for her purchase and join them. ‘Seriously, Cynthia, you have to stand up to all the supes, but Ruth Ridley in particular. You’ll never get into her good books unless you do.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Cynthia resolved out loud, though privately she wasn’t able to shake off the paralysing fear of her strict new boss who had spent the morning patrolling the aisle, reminding the girls to keep their elbows tucked in and giving grudging permission for ‘urgents’, which allowed an operator to leave her chair for five minutes to go to the toilet.

  The worst moment had come when Miss Ridley had caught Molly Scaife listening in to a conversation on a party line. With a face like thunder she’d leaned over Molly’s shoulder to flick off the front key then marched her into her small office at the far end of the room. Two minutes later Molly had emerged, red-faced and dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, to take up position at her switchboard.

  ‘I’m on my last warning,’ she’d confessed to Brenda. ‘One more slip-up and I’ll be out on my ear.’

  It had created a bad atmosphere in the workplace and all the girls remained edgy and resentful for a while.

  ‘Where’s the new girl got to?’ Ruth had snapped at Norma ten minutes later as she swept past her station and saw the vacant chair.

  ‘Cynthia took the updated name and address list upstairs to the general office,’ Norma had replied evenly.

  ‘As soon as she comes back, give her this RRQ booklet to study. Tell her there’ll be a test on pages one to ten first thing tomorrow.’

  Norma had taken the closely printed leaflet without comment and passed it on to Cynthia when she came back. ‘Here – you’ve to set to and learn all the routes and rates up to page ten.’

  Cynthia had settled down to studying the names and numbers – a task she felt she could accomplish, even if it meant burning the midnight oil. After all, her memory was good and columns of figures didn’t throw her. It was when it came to opening her mouth and running the risk of mispronouncing her words that her courage failed. Now, though, standing with Millicent next to the department store, she was boosted a little by her and Norma’s friendliness.

  ‘We’ve got time for a quick cup of tea and a ham sandwich in Lyons’ café if Norma gets a move on.’ As Millicent checked her wristwatch, a burly lad on a bike mounted the pavement and screeched to a halt. He propped the bike hurriedly against a lamp-post, stuffed his cap into his jacket pocket and jostled against her as he rushed by. ‘Hey, watch where you’re going!’ she yelled after him.

  He took no notice but Cynthia gave a sharp intake of breath as she recognized her cousin, Bert Brooks, who since leaving school had worked part time as a lather boy in Sam Bower’s.

  Put out by Bert’s rudeness, Millicent stormed after him into the barber’s shop which adjoined a plush, newly opened ladies’ hairdresser’s called Sylvia’s Salon. Sam Bower’s establishment, by way of contrast, was devoted to the old-fashioned business of male shaving and hair clipping, which involved a row of men of all ages sitting reading newspapers while Sam and his boy worked with shaving cream, brushes, razors and scissors. An adjustable swivel chair took up half the space in the dark, cramped room with its brown, cracked lino on the floor and a mottled mirror above a chipped sink.

  ‘Your lad there nearly did me an injury,’ Millicent told the barber in an accusatory tone. ‘There I was, minding my own business, when he barged by and practically up-skittled me.’

  Sam wrinkled his nose and twitched his heavy grey moustache without looking up. ‘Did he, by Jove?’

  Already busily applying shaving foam to the next customer’s chin, the ill-mannered Bert was unabashed. ‘I never,’ he claimed.

  ‘Yes, you did!’ Millicent in full flow in the crowded male domain was a sight to behold. Sparks flew from her hazel eyes and she swished her beautiful black hair in a shining wave from right to left as she addressed the barber and his boy. ‘And look at that bike – the way it’s flung against that lamp-post, ready to tip over and trip someone up.’

  Sam’s scissors went on snipping. The row of men smiled broadly over their copies of the Mirror and the Express, clearly enjoying the sideshow.

  ‘Right,’ Millicent decided. ‘If you’re not going to make the little so-and-so say sorry, I’ll go outside and take that bike, wheel it down to the canal then chuck it straight in. That’ll show him.’

  ‘Hey-up, Sam – she means it,’ one of the men observed with a chuckle.

  ‘Best move the bike, Bert,’ the stooping, elde
rly barber said in an undertone, again without looking up.

  Cynthia’s cousin glowered at Millicent but did as he was told. He barged out of the shop, past Cynthia who had been joined by Norma, swearing under his breath as he took the bike and wheeled it down an alleyway next to the ladies’ hairdresser’s.

  ‘Charming!’ Norma noted before Millicent emerged grinning and brushing the palms of her hands together.

  ‘Now for that cup of tea,’ Millicent reminded them. She led the way past Sylvia’s Salon, pausing only to arch one eyebrow and nudge Norma with her elbow to point out that it was none other than Clare Bell, immaculately dressed and coiffed, who sat behind the reception desk of the posh establishment. ‘“You too can look as beautiful as me if you come in here for a haircut!”’ she cooed teasingly as she gave Clare a small wave then sailed on.

  ‘Except we can’t because we don’t have her natural advantages, do we, Cynthia?’ Norma said with a sigh.

  ‘You speak for yourselves,’ Millicent declared. ‘I’m happy with the way I look, ta very much!’

  That afternoon, Ruth loaded Cynthia down with more printed material – this time a heavy tome describing the history of the telephone since 1876 and a lighter one containing phonetic examples of the correct pronunciation of commonly used words.

  ‘Good luck, old thing. If you can get to grips with carbon transmitters and induction coils in under a week, you’re a whole lot brainier than I am,’ Norma joked as Cynthia began to leaf through the well-thumbed pages. ‘As for electromagnetic receivers – well, they still have me beat.’

  Daunted by the complex science, Cynthia felt her vision blur and her head begin to spin. She turned to the book of pronunciations but struggled again with some unfamiliar symbols.

  ‘Remember – “bath” and “path” rhyme with “hearth”, which has to have an “h” at the start of it, by the way, and don’t forget the “g” at the end of “something”, which is never under any circumstances to be pronounced “summat”.’ Cheerfully Norma ran through some ground rules in between taking lights.

  ‘“I am not, you are not, he is not,”’ Millicent enunciated. ‘“We are not, you are not, they are not.” Get it? As for the history part, remember Alexander Graham Bell brought out the first patent in 1876 and his model 102 telephone has been in use for over thirty years now. That’s the sort of thing you’ll need to know for your Full Efficiency Test.’

  So Cynthia turned back earnestly to the weightier of the two books and read up about Giles Gilbert Scott’s design of the first bright-red public kiosk and the launch of the coin box in 1925, together with the other recent invention of the Strowger system. This had introduced automatic exchange calls in the larger centres, leaving smaller ones still to be operated manually by the insertion of cords into jacks. Growing fascinated by the details, Cynthia kept her head down and read on, surprised when Norma tapped her on the shoulder to tell her it was time to clock off.

  ‘That’s it – your first day done and dusted,’ she informed her as they exchanged places with the gang of girls who had come in to take the evening shift. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Worn out.’ Cynthia admitted that the frenetic pace of placing calls in response to constantly flashing lights had wearied her, even though she wasn’t yet actively involved.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it.’ In a hurry to get away and meet up with Douglas, Norma fetched her coat and hat, leaving Millicent to linger with Cynthia on the steps of the building.

  ‘You’ve not been too put off, I hope?’ Millicent checked with her.

  Cynthia looked out on to the bustling square and smiled weakly. ‘No. Thanks to you and Norma, I haven’t.’

  ‘We’re not a bad bunch, once you get to know us. And, you have to admit, operating a switchboard beats loom-cleaning into a cocked hat.’

  The picture of more than a dozen smartly dressed girls sitting at their stations and speaking into mouthpieces as lamps lit up and switches were flicked was still fresh in Cynthia’s mind. Smart and confident, fashionable and up to the minute – that was how she wanted to be. Not like the girls trailing into the mills each morning, shawls around their heads, feet shod in wooden clogs as they had been for a hundred years or more. She wanted to turn out like Brenda with the flame-coloured hair and wear a bright, multicoloured, narrow-waisted dress. She would save up and buy high-heeled, sling-back shoes like Molly’s and show off her seamed stockings. ‘It certainly does,’ she answered with her chin up and her shoulders back, stepping out on to the pavement with fresh determination in her gait.

  Millicent kept up with her, one hand holding on to the crown of her saucer-shaped straw hat in case the strong wind caught it and blew it away.

  ‘I’ve just thought of a sure-fire way for you to get into Ruth Ridley’s good books.’

  Cynthia spotted a number 65 pull up at the bus stop and joined the end of the short queue. ‘Don’t tell me – I have to learn the routes and rates off by heart.’

  ‘Besides that.’ As Cynthia stepped on to the back platform of the bus and it drew away from the kerb, Millicent started to trot alongside it. ‘This is it, Cynthia – I think you should join our League of Health and Beauty class on a Friday evening. Pay your sixpence to stretch and bend and twirl a few ribbons under Ruth Ridley’s command – that’s certain to put a smile on the crabby old thing’s face.’

  Douglas Greenwood was still in police uniform when he met up with Norma straight out of work. He wheeled his bicycle up George Street and his heart skipped a beat when he saw his sweetheart hurrying towards him, hat in hand and coat flapping open, a broad smile lighting up her face.

  ‘Am I glad to see you,’ he told her, planting a firm kiss on her cheek as she leaned in towards him. The day’s tawdry routine of attending scenes of petty crime and arresting burglars slipped away as he breathed in her eau de cologne and felt her smooth skin against his lips.

  ‘Likewise,’ she replied, her heart lifting with pride and not caring that people were staring at a police officer openly canoodling with his girl. They were a handsome couple and worth looking at.

  Take Douglas, for a start. He was above average height and every inch of him was trim and upright. He glowed with health and confidence and his clean-shaven face, strong, even features and neatly parted brown hair gave him the air of someone in whom you would place absolute trust.

  She smiled on as they crossed the square and headed for his lodgings on Canal Road. ‘What do you fancy doing? Shall it be a game of dominoes in the King’s Head or a bike ride out into the country?’

  ‘Whatever you like,’ Douglas said, quickly putting aside the thought of the physical things he would most like to do with Norma. Nice girls like her didn’t agree to do anything like that until after they were married, which was one of the reasons he planned to propose to her before the summer was out. The other was that he was simply head over heels in love with a girl too good to be true. Bright and breezy, lush as a spring meadow – that was his dimpled, dark-haired Norma.

  ‘A bike ride, then.’

  ‘A bike ride it is.’ Arriving at his lodgings, he wheeled his bike down a side ginnel and Norma followed. ‘Come in and wait while I get changed. Will we need to call in at your place on our way?’

  ‘No – I’ve already told Mum I’d be meeting you after work.’ She followed him from the small yard at the back of the house, up some steps and along a narrow corridor into Douglas’s ground-floor room, which overlooked the busy main street. It was big and light, with a wide bay window, faded flowered wallpaper and fancy plaster cornices that suggested a grander past. There was a single bed down one side, a small brown sofa in the bay and a mahogany chest of drawers against the wall opposite. The only table was a baize-topped card table rescued from Napier’s rag and bone yard and the only chair a tubular steel and canvas one – the sort you saw in doctors’ and dentists’ waiting rooms.

  As Douglas got changed, he chatted on about this and that. ‘Face away from me �
�� don’t turn around until I tell you. Did you see this morning’s headline about the Queen Mary? They’re all set to launch her later this month, all 81,000 tons of her. That’ll be a sight to see.’

  Tempted as she was to sneak a look, Norma stood at the window and stared out on to the street at buses and trams and the steady flow of workers making their way home. She heard Douglas unbutton his dark blue tunic and hang it on the door hook, feeling herself blush as he shrugged his braces from his shoulders then stepped out of his trousers into his flannel slacks. ‘Imagine sailing all the way across the Atlantic on her,’ she said wistfully.

  ‘Yes, the closest we’ll get to water this year is a swim in Beckwith Lido, and that’s if we’re lucky.’

  ‘I’d like to go there as soon as the weather gets warmer.’

  ‘All right – you can look now,’ he told her.

  Norma turned around to find him in Fair Isle sweater and slacks, bicycle clips and flat cap already in place. She glanced down at her lightweight cotton coat and full-skirted dress. ‘I’m not really dressed for this, am I?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter – I’ll do most of the work,’ he promised, taking her hand and leading her back into the yard where they took their tandem from the shed and prepared to set off. ‘Where to?’ he asked after he’d wheeled it out on to the street.

  ‘Let’s follow the towpath out towards Beckwith.’ Mention of the lido had put the idea into her head. Sticking by the canal meant there would be no steep hills to cycle up and they would soon find themselves out beyond the scruffy town section that was littered with old car tyres, beer barrels and broken mangles, and instead amongst fresh green fields and hawthorn trees laden with white blossom.

  ‘We’ll go down the steps by the side of the Victory,’ he decided.

  No sooner said than they were down on the towpath and sitting astride the bike – Douglas in front and Norma behind, both pedalling steadily. He started to whistle the tune to ‘Daisy, Daisy’ and she joined in with the words,