The Telephone Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘No, I couldn’t …’

  ‘Don’t be daft, of course you could. I have a pale green dress in a nice soft material that should fit you. It’s cut on the bias to show off your figure – not too daring, but not drab either.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain. What size shoes do you take?’

  ‘Size five.’

  ‘Perfect – you can have the shoes to match. Come home with me after we’ve finished at work and get changed at my house. What with the dress and the shoes, plus a touch of rouge and lipstick, we’ll make a new woman of you.’ Cinderella, you shall go to the ball! Millicent’s envy deepened. Oh, to be young, pretty and innocent, with doors opening ahead of you instead of slamming shut behind you. She thought of the prison she’d made for herself in her liaison with Harold – the secrets and lies, the heady delusions.

  ‘Millicent?’

  Cynthia’s voice sounded far off and Millicent had to force herself back into the present, delving into her purse as the waitress waited impatiently for payment. ‘Rightio, roll up your sleeves, ready for more routes and rates,’ she said briskly as they paid up and left the café. ‘Blimey, it’s hot out here! Come along, Cynthia, chop-chop. We need to get out of this sun double quick.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Do you see what I see?’ With a sharp dig in Cynthia’s ribs, Millicent pointed to a man and a woman coming out of Sylvia’s Salon.

  At five o’clock on the Saturday afternoon, after a busy shift at the switchboards, the two telephone girls emerged from the exchange to find that the street was still blisteringly hot and there was not a cloud in the sky. Long, deep shadows had begun to creep across the road, but the new hairdresser’s shop still caught the full glare of the sun.

  Shading her eyes with one hand, Cynthia made out a small woman in a tailored, pearl-grey two-piece and matching toque hat, finished off with white gloves and shoes. She was arm in arm with a younger man, equally smart in a broad-shouldered, navy blue blazer with wide lapels, his face hidden by the rim of his rakishly tilted straw hat. ‘What are we meant to be looking at?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s him!’ Millicent hissed as she rushed Cynthia on down George Street.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Clare Bell’s mystery man – this time with a mystery woman.’

  Crossing the street to negotiate City Square, Cynthia had to concentrate on not getting run over by taxis, cars and buses whose drivers seemed to have grown careless and bad tempered in the sultry heat. ‘Are you sure it was him?’ she gasped, once they’d battled the traffic and started the long walk out of the town centre towards Ada Street.

  ‘Certain.’ There had been no mistaking the up-to-the-minute outfit and shoulders-back swagger.

  ‘Was Clare with them?’

  Millicent shook her head and frowned.

  ‘Couldn’t that have been his mother?’ The glimpse Cynthia had caught showed a big enough age difference, though the woman’s slim figure, dyed blonde hair and upright carriage disguised it well.

  ‘Lord, no!’ Instinct told Millicent otherwise. ‘If that was mystery man’s mama, I’ll eat my hat. They were too cosy for that. No – that was more likely to be the owner of the hairdresser’s, if you ask me.’

  They hurried on in silence, letting their thoughts run off in different directions.

  Cynthia’s heart was beating fast. In two hours’ time she would meet up with Wilf beside Hadley cricket pitch – a scarcely credible notion for this novice in the romance stakes. What should she say? What should she do? Wouldn’t it be better just to turn tail and run?

  Millicent, meanwhile, continued to feel a festering resentment at always coming a poor second to Harold’s wife and children. It’s not fair, she told herself as she and Cynthia approached Heaton Yard. If his lordship thinks he can hide me away in a corner for ever and for me not to mind, then he has another think coming.

  Distracted by her thoughts, she led the way across the yard, hardly bothering to reply to Walter’s friendly greeting, then went inside without inviting Cynthia to follow her.

  Cynthia hovered on the doorstep and did her best to rise to the challenge of the old man’s banter.

  ‘What’s that lad of yours called again?’ he yelled across the yard.

  ‘Which lad?’

  ‘The one your uncle has set on to us for the rent money – built like a bull terrier, with manners to match.’

  ‘That’s my cousin, Bert.’ Cynthia heard Millicent go upstairs. Within seconds she was back down with the promised pale green dress and shoes.

  ‘Pop upstairs and put them on while I make us a cuppa,’ Millicent ordered briskly as she drew Cynthia into the house. ‘There’s a handy zip down the side. Let me know if you need any help.’

  So Cynthia did as she was told. Once dressed, her reflection in Millicent’s bedroom mirror came as a pleasant surprise – the fit of both shoes and dress was perfect, showing off her slim ankles and giving a glimpse of her knees when the skirt swung out as she turned to study herself from various angles. The wrap-over style made the best of her figure, though she felt self-conscious about some visible cleavage and the fact that the material was carefully shaped with darts and tucks to make the most of her bust.

  ‘Perfect,’ was Millicent’s verdict when Cynthia appeared downstairs. ‘Pretty as a picture – that’s what you are.’

  ‘I’m not overdoing it, am I?’

  ‘Take it from me, you’re not. One look at you and Wilf will fall head over heels.’

  Is that what I really want? Cynthia wondered as she accepted a cup of tea from Millicent and took special care not to spill the contents. It was her first visit to Millicent’s house and she took in the modern touches that her new friend had tried to impose on the ageing building. The silver clock on the mantelpiece was in the sleek, streamlined style named art deco and the wireless on the alcove shelf was similarly up-to-date. But there was no disguising the cracks in the ceiling or the creak of the sagging floorboards hidden beneath the bright green and orange rug.

  ‘I’m green with envy.’ Millicent’s sigh lay heavy in the room. ‘I’m telling you, if I had my time over again, I’d do things differently.’

  ‘Why – how old are you?’ Until now, Cynthia hadn’t thought to ask.

  ‘Twenty-five going on forty. That’s what it feels like, anyhow.’

  ‘Twenty-five isn’t exactly over the hill.’ Somehow Cynthia had imagined the age gap between them to be wider.

  ‘Ta very much.’ The remark drew a hollow laugh from Millicent. ‘Seriously though, Cynthia, I’d advise you to go carefully with Wilf Evans.’

  ‘Oh yes, don’t worry, I will.’

  ‘No – don’t brush me off like that. I mean it. The truth is, Wilf had a bit of a bad name with women both before and after he got engaged to Adelaide. And you know what they say – a leopard can’t change his spots.’

  Cynthia swallowed hard. If she’d been nervous before, Millicent’s warning made it ten times worse. ‘What sort of a bad name?’

  ‘Nothing to be too worried about. Let’s just say he fancied himself as the local lothario.’

  ‘Right you are.’ Without really knowing what the word meant, Cynthia put down her cup with a trembling hand. ‘Perhaps I ought to give backword. Do you think I should?’

  ‘By no means,’ Millicent declared as she bundled Cynthia out of the door in her borrowed dress and shoes. ‘You walk out with Wilf as planned and knock him down dead, as the Americans say. Just don’t stand any nonsense from him, that’s all.’

  After Cynthia rushed away from Heaton Yard in a flurry of mounting nerves, the minutes on Millicent’s mantel clock ticked by at a snail’s pace. She stared at the square black face marked only with lines on the quarter hours and watched the silver hand jerk forward. Tick – tick – tick. Where would Harold be now, right this minute? At the King’s Head, playing in his precious darts match – that’s where. He’d be wearing his weekend outfit of open-necked sports shirt a
nd yellow cravat, together with his checked sports jacket and flannel trousers, his brown brogues brushed and polished.

  She pictured him leaning forward and taking aim, releasing the dart and hearing it slam into the board, going back to his table and taking a drink from his pint glass, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth.

  ‘That’s it!’ she said out loud. ‘I’m going to have it out with him once and for all.’

  So she put on her blue summer coat and hat and marched from the house, across the yard and down the hill on to Ghyll Road where she caught a bus into town. She didn’t notice the queue that snaked along the pavement outside the Victory or the police cars parked close to the station, but stared straight ahead as she embarked on her single-minded mission.

  ‘Where to?’ The stout conductor had to stoop over her and ask for her fare.

  ‘George Street,’ she told him and received her ticket without offering a thank-you.

  The bus approached City Square then drew up outside Marks & Spencer.

  ‘George Street!’ the conductor reminded her sharply.

  Millicent got off, making her way past the Spiritualist church before cutting off down a side street and finding a back way to the King’s Head. It was only when she got there that she paused to work out exactly what she should do next.

  Both she and Harold would lose face if she walked in and demanded a conversation, she realized, and it would give his fellow darts players open season for ribald remarks. Worse still, the interruption would be sure to get back to Doris.

  Millicent sighed impatiently and retreated to the steps of the Spiritualist church from where she could keep careful watch on the entrance to the pub. Sooner or later the darts match would finish and the players would emerge.

  Determined to stay where she was, she watched a trickle of men come out in various states – one staggering aimlessly on to the pavement and stumbling into the gutter, followed by two pals who picked him up and walked him to the nearest bus stop before two more came whistling jauntily in her direction.

  The taller one – a tidily dressed man in his fifties, with a trim moustache and an upright military air – noticed her on the church steps. ‘I wouldn’t hang around here if I was you, love,’ he advised. ‘People might get the wrong idea.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Millicent replied stiffly. ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

  The men walked on and she retreated further into the shadows until at last she saw Harold emerge, head bowed and hands cupped to his mouth as he lit a cigarette.

  With her heart in her mouth, she ran down the steps and called his name.

  ‘Millicent!’ Fixed to the spot, he flicked the spent match on to the pavement and waited for her to draw near.

  The look in his eyes reminded her of a cornered animal – cowering yet ready to launch an attack. She saw him afresh. Yes, he was familiar in his sports jacket and slacks, but his face was leaner than she’d realized and his hunched shoulders suggested deep suspicion.

  ‘We have to talk,’ she insisted.

  ‘Not here.’ A glance over his shoulder confirmed that no other members of the darts team had followed him out, so he took her by the shoulder and quickly marched her down the alley, out of the glare of the street lamps. He stopped outside the delivery entrance to Marks & Spencer and pushed her roughly against the padlocked door. ‘What the devil?’ he demanded, one hand gripping her shoulder.

  She let out a short gasp and tried to push him away. ‘Harold, there’s no need—’

  ‘There’s every bloody need. What are you up to, Millicent? Do you want to ruin everything? Because if you do, this is the way to go about it.’

  ‘Let go – you’re hurting me!’ She could smell the brilliantine on his hair and the smoke on his breath, see the spittle on his thin top lip as he recovered from the shock of seeing her. This was not the man she’d fallen for. At the start of their affair, Harold had stood out because of his ready wit and a penchant for natty sports jackets and brown brogues – shallow enough reasons to be drawn in, she now realized to her cost.

  Still glaring, he eventually stepped back. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘But what was I supposed to do – let everyone see us?’

  She straightened the collar of her coat. ‘Yes!’ she declared. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know why not.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette.

  ‘That’s just it – that’s exactly why I’m here.’ Gathering herself, she made him walk on down the alley until they emerged on to a wider, better lit street. ‘I’m fed up of being stuck away in a corner, Harold. That’s the long and the short of it.’

  ‘You want to break off?’ A deep frown stayed etched on his face and he avoided looking at her as he spoke.

  ‘No, that’s not what I want. I just want some … acknowledgement.’

  ‘How?’ he shot back.

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t want to carry on as we are, that’s all.’

  They came to another corner and stopped at the kerb. Harold finished his cigarette, threw it down then ground it with the ball of his foot. ‘What do you want me to do? Come out into the open and let everyone know we’re carrying on behind Doris’s back? Is that it?’

  ‘No.’ The reality of the situation, the baldness with which he confronted her, made her shake her head and start to walk away. Then she stopped, went back and tried again to put her point of view. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, being hidden away out of sight, having to keep our secret. Sometimes I feel as if I’ll burst.’

  The suspicious look returned. ‘You haven’t told anyone about us, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘All right then – only Norma at work. She’s my best friend. And Cynthia too. Don’t worry – they won’t spread it around.’

  Harold clicked his tongue against his teeth in disbelief. Why couldn’t women keep quiet the way men could? Why did secrets always have to worm their way out? He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘We should break off,’ he said quietly. ‘It would be for the best.’

  ‘Best for who, Harold? For you and your precious family, that’s who.’ He always, always put himself first, never her. And yet he still claimed he loved her, bringing back to mind those first wonderful days they’d spent together. Her anger turned quickly to bitter resignation. ‘Very well, then. If that’s what you want.’

  A single-decker bus turned the corner and came to a halt. Passengers alighted and dispersed. The bus drew away. Keeping their distance, Millicent and Harold walked on along the street between pools of yellow light.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ he argued, head bowed and still not meeting her gaze. ‘But you’re not leaving me any choice.’ On they walked, out on to Canal Road, scarcely noticing where they were going.

  ‘It’s not as if I’ve rushed you,’ Millicent pointed out. ‘It’s been five long years, Harold, and I’ve got to the point where enough is enough.’

  ‘So what?’ he demanded. ‘I’ll ask you again. What do you want me to do – leave Doris and the kids and set up home with you?’

  ‘Why not? You’ve said you would often enough.’ The first time had been on Boxing Day three years back. Then after that it had been during a weekend away in Blackpool, and again in January this year – each time he’d raised her hopes and then dashed them. Tears of exasperation rose as she remembered the broken promises.

  ‘If it was just Doris, it would be easy,’ he confessed, though he knew in his heart that it wasn’t that straightforward. There would still be the scandal of leaving his wife to contend with – the disapproval of his straight-laced boss, Joseph Oldroyd, then the possible loss of his job and house. ‘But it isn’t just her – it’s Freddie and Derek.’ True, true! His heart was squeezed at the thought of losing them and he realized with a sharp pang that his tie to his children was stronger than anything else.

  ‘Yes.’ Here we are, back at the same old sticking point. Freddie and Derek.

  ‘If
it wasn’t for them …’

  ‘Yes.’

  They stumbled into a silence that lasted until they reached the corner of Brewery Road and stopped at the entrance to the vast wool-carding shed of Oldroyd’s mill where sacks of shorn raw fleece arrived daily and were put on to conveyor belts ready for combing.

  ‘You do know how I feel about you.’ Speaking in an altered, softened tone, Harold took Millicent’s hand and raised it. There was no one like her for looks and spirit – that mane of black hair, the shining hazel colour of her eyes.

  She shuddered as she felt the brush of his lips on the back of her hand.

  ‘Can’t we go on as we are?’ he begged. ‘It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Oh, these familiar phrases, these sad, pleading looks – they tear my heart in two. But perhaps he was right – what they had was better than nothing. In the other direction, loneliness beckoned – a sickening void of absence and loss.

  ‘I’ll be free next Friday,’ he promised in a low whisper, resting her hand against his cheek. ‘We can go anywhere you like – you decide.’

  In spite of all her so-called spirit, Millicent was easily beaten. It proved too hard to break the habit of their secret meetings and lovemaking, to turn her back on the tenderness she’d once felt. ‘Very well,’ she murmured. ‘Let’s take a bus out of town – to Beckwith.’

  Harold led her under the shadowy arched entrance of the carding shed and drew her to him. He kissed her on the lips for a long time. ‘I do love you,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘You know I do.’

  ‘You want to go where?’ Cynthia’s Uncle William stood between her and the front door.

  ‘To the dance at the Institute,’ she repeated in a quavering voice. She’d decided to call in at Moor View to drop off her work things but now she regretted it. At this rate she wouldn’t be in time to meet Wilf.

  ‘And why are you all done up, pray?’

  ‘I’m not,’ she replied, the treacherous colour mounting to her cheeks.

  ‘Yes you are – done up like a dog’s dinner.’