The Telephone Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘Is it safe? Will anybody see us?’

  He sighed and shook his head. ‘Come in and close the door.’

  Doing as he said, Millicent noted several cigarette stubs and a half-smoked cigar in the ashtray on the desk next to a pile of closed ledger books. The air smelled of tobacco. But it was Harold’s face that demanded her attention – pale and shadowed by a day’s stubble, with a look of defeat in his eyes. She pointed to the cigar. ‘Mr Oldroyd has been here?’

  ‘He left half an hour ago.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s closed us down. No ifs and buts this time.’

  ‘For good?’ Shock ran through her and her voice was hardly a whisper.

  ‘That’s right. He made me gather everyone into the canteen then he got up on his hind legs and made a speech – how nobody wants fine worsted cloth any more and he couldn’t bear the cost of bringing in new machinery to make the cheaper stuff that people do want these days. He’d done what he could and he was very sorry.’

  ‘And that was it?’

  ‘That was the gist of it.’ Harold let his head sink on to his chest.

  ‘How did people take it? Did they offer to take a cut in wages if it meant the mill could keep going?’ She pictured the empty look on Harold’s face multiplied many times over on the faces of combers and doffers, burlers and menders – men and women whose lives had collapsed in an instant.

  ‘They didn’t get the chance. They were told to pack up and leave then and there – no argument.’

  ‘It’s not right,’ Millicent protested. ‘How are they meant to manage? They all have mouths to feed and rent to pay.’

  Harold looked up and fixed his dead eyes on hers. ‘No need to waste your breath spouting what I already know.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It makes me angry, that’s all.’

  He stood up and unhooked his jacket from the chair. ‘This has been coming for a long time – there wasn’t a man or a woman here who didn’t expect it.’

  ‘But still …’

  ‘Now there’ll be a queue half a mile long outside the Public Assistance office, me included.’

  ‘Oh, Harold.’ She couldn’t bear his despair, like a visible weight on his shoulders, but she knew better than to offer meaningless words of comfort.

  He put on his jacket and spoke in a flat, weary voice. ‘Why did you come, Millicent? Was it to tell me we couldn’t go on meeting any more?’

  She looked away, at the black typewriter on the shelf, the grey metal filing cupboards – anywhere except Harold’s face.

  ‘It was, wasn’t it? Well, what’s stopping you? After all, there’s nothing like kicking a man when he’s down.’

  ‘What will you do?’ she murmured.

  ‘Go out and celebrate my freedom with a couple of pints, I expect.’ He spoke mockingly as he came out from behind the desk and reached for his hat from the stand near the door. ‘No more working at the mill with slaves, as John Milton said, eh? Oh yes, I know my schoolboy poetry.’

  ‘Harold, don’t …’

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Don’t give in. You’ll find another job if you look hard enough.’

  ‘And a house to go with it? And enough money to keep my family in the style to which they’ve become accustomed?’

  His bitterness made her step quickly out of his way. ‘I’m very sorry. Truly.’

  ‘That makes two of us, Millicent.’ He gave her a look that squeezed her heart and made her take another step back. When he reached the door he turned to her one last time. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I have to go home and tell my wife.’

  ‘I know, I know – I was called out to Moor View yesterday morning.’ Douglas spoke soothingly to Norma as they sat at the kitchen table in Albion Lane, attempting a jigsaw left out by Ethel for them to complete. For once they had the house to themselves because Ethel, Ivy and Hetty were all out at a beetle drive being held in the meeting room next to the Methodist chapel on Chapel Street. It had given Norma a chance to tell Douglas all about Cynthia’s predicament at home.

  ‘The old man is accusing her, of all people!’ Norma was incensed on Cynthia’s behalf. ‘Imagine that! Cynthia Ambler is the last person in the world to steal a penny from anyone, let alone her own uncle. And you should have seen her, Douglas. We were in the cloakroom collecting our coats and she broke down in tears. I eventually winkled it out of her – William Brooks has mislaid his money box and he’s turned around and laid the blame on her.’

  ‘I know,’ Douglas repeated. To see Norma so upset knocked him off balance too. ‘He telephoned the station and the sarge sent me up to the house to take down the details and have a poke around.’

  ‘He actually telephoned the police!’ Norma stood up and paced the room. ‘If you ask me, the silly old so-and-so has forgotten where he’s put it, that’s all. I bet there was no sign of a break-in, was there?’

  Douglas shook his head. ‘That’s why he says it must have been Cynthia – an inside job.’

  ‘And what did you think?’

  ‘I think if it was her – calm down and listen – she knew where the key to the money box was kept and she’d have used it to open the box. But the box was gone and the key was still in its secret drawer.’

  ‘You see!’ Vindicated, Norma sat back down. ‘Did you put that in your report?’

  ‘I wrote everything down, including the fact that the nephew, Bert Brooks, was in on where the old man keeps his money.’ Douglas moved his chair nearer to Norma to slot a piece of the jigsaw puzzle into place. ‘Between you and me, I don’t think Cynthia has any need to worry. There’s no evidence to incriminate her and once old man Brooks has had time to calm down, the whole thing will get forgotten.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Norma was still uneasy. ‘He sounds like a vindictive type. He works her like a slave and never lets her forget that he’s the one who keeps a roof over her head. Poor girl – she has to ask his permission every time she steps out of the door.’

  ‘You’re too soft hearted.’ Douglas reached across to fit in pieces of a hay wagon in the rural Constable scene they were working on. ‘Cynthia has to learn to stand up for herself – you can’t do it for her.’

  ‘But I want to help my friends – it’s only natural. Millicent’s the same way. Which reminds me, we’re wondering about the background of the woman who’s just opened that new hairdresser’s on George Street – Mrs Parr is her name – Phyllis Parr.’

  ‘What about her?’ Douglas’s tone became more guarded, as it did whenever Norma pressed him too hard to talk about his work.

  ‘You tell me,’ Norma countered. ‘Could she be linked with Sidney Hall, for instance?’

  ‘Steady on, Sherlock.’

  ‘I’m serious, Douglas. Making a joke of it won’t throw me off the scent.’

  ‘No, I can see that.’ It was his turn to stand up and take a turn around the cramped kitchen. He’d come here tonight with high hopes of them spending a quiet time together, talking over their future, and yet here they were, touching on some none-too-savoury aspects of his job. ‘You’re like a dog with a bone.’

  ‘Ta very much.’ She wrinkled her nose as she followed his progress around the room. ‘So, what is it about Phyllis Parr that’s set you on edge?’

  ‘Norma, I wish you’d mind your own business.’

  ‘Come on – you can tell me one little thing about her, at least.’ She got up and joined him by the window where she put her arms around his waist and looked up winningly.

  ‘She came here last year from Lancashire – there, that’s it.’ Unable to resist her wheedling, Douglas kissed her upturned cheek.

  ‘And I’m right, aren’t I? She’s in cahoots with Sidney Hall. There’s something shady about the two of them, isn’t there? They make introductions and they get paid for their services.’

  ‘Nothing that we can put our finger on – like I said.’ They were talking about procurement – an offence under an 1885 amendment to an even older Vagrancy A
ct, but it was notoriously hard to prove.

  Douglas didn’t deny it outright and Norma felt that she’d got the confirmation she needed. ‘And there are the two of them, Phyllis Parr and Sidney Hall, putting on airs, acting as if they’re the bee’s knees.’

  ‘Can’t we talk about something else?’ he pleaded, holding her close and planting more light kisses. ‘Can’t we talk about us?’

  She smiled up at him a touch too brightly. ‘We’re all right, aren’t we?’

  ‘We are,’ he murmured. ‘But I’m still waiting for my answer.’

  A cloud passed over her face and she rested her head on his chest. A short yes was all he needed from her. Yes, I will marry you. It would make everything right for him in an instant.

  ‘Well?’ he urged.

  Norma took a deep breath and eased herself out of his arms. ‘I’m sorry, Douglas – I still can’t give you one – not yet. Give me a bit more time to think.’

  ‘How long then?’

  ‘Another month, until my birthday,’ she begged. ‘I’ll be twenty-two on the seventeenth of July. I know it’s hard but can you please wait until then?’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Clare’s hands shook as she took a dress from the rail. She slid it from its hanger and held it against her, viewing the effect in the mirror.

  The long gown was emerald green and cut on the bias – especially made for her by Muriel Beanland at Jubilee Dressmakers so that the fit was perfect and the finish immaculate – a garment that any young woman would be thrilled to own. But Clare saw that her face was pale, her eyes lifeless, so she laid the dress on the bed and sat at the washstand that served as her dressing table to apply rouge and lipstick and to define her long lashes and dark eyebrows with a slick of Vaseline. Finally she dabbed her nose and chin with her scented powder puff.

  Still shaking, she got to her feet and began to dress, slipping the silky gown over her white, lace-edged petticoat and feeling it slide with a soft swish over her slim hips. She brushed her hair and added the final touches – a scarlet silk gardenia worn as a corsage and a matching ribbon around her wrist, its ends fluttering as she reached up to pat her flyaway hair into place.

  There was a tap at the door. ‘Clare, are you ready?’ Barbara asked. ‘Vincent is here.’

  Clare jumped at the sound of her voice. ‘Nearly,’ she replied shakily as she studied her reflection once more. It was strange how much her appearance still mattered, she thought, even after Millicent’s warnings about Sidney and her own silently held suspicions had turned out to be true. She’d found it out the hard way, the Saturday before. Vincent had collected her from the salon and driven her through town to a large house on Westgate Road, set back behind laurel hedges and flanked by a coach house to one side and a formal garden to the other. Sidney had been there to greet her, smiling and murmuring compliments to her, which she had tried to believe were sincere. The entrance was grand, with a pillared portico and elaborate stained glass. There had been a doorman to let them in and inside a waiter flitting from room to room with a salver laden with cut crystal glasses and a decanter. Sidney had stroked her arm, then led her into a large reception room where the atmosphere was smoky, the smell pungent from cigars clenched between the teeth of half a dozen other guests – all men.

  That was the first thing Clare had registered once she grew used to the luxurious surroundings – the absence of women. Straight away she had felt a stab of panic in her chest. She’d caught the waiter’s half-closed eye and spotted contempt there before he’d looked quickly away. She’d held on tight to Sidney’s arm.

  He’d made introductions but she’d failed to take in the names of any of the men – the first with pock-marked skin and a bushy grey moustache, the next clean shaven. Two were tall and upright and might have been brothers, another old and stooped. Another was fat and lumbering. All assessed her openly from head to toe.

  Sidney had unfurled her fingers from his arm and gone to fetch a glass of what he said was whisky. To quell her panic she’d taken a sip. It had burned her throat but the fear hadn’t diminished. She’d taken another sip and then another.

  After that, the memories were hazy. At some point, Sidney must have left her side. The old, stooping man had taken her hand, patted it and spoken kindly, she remembered. Perhaps she was safe after all. But soon he’d led her out of the room and up some wide stairs with portraits hanging on the wall to their right and a carved banister to the left, overlooking the stairwell. The sight of the black-and-white mosaic tiles on the ground floor below had made her feel more dizzy still as they went along a landing with doors leading off.

  ‘No.’ She’d protested feebly as the old man opened a door into a bedroom with an old-fashioned four-poster bed. She’d pulled away. Her head had been spinning. Nothing was clear. But Clare was certain she’d struggled. She must have done, because she did remember Sidney running upstairs to calm her and offer her another drink, smiling as he did so. A treacherous smile, a whisper, a firm grip around her upper arm that had bruised her flesh, she discovered later. An open door, crimson velvet curtains, a bed with a quilted counterpane, the old man taking off his jacket, the sound of the door closing behind her.

  So now, almost a week later, she knew.

  She stared at her reflection and saw the green satin shimmer in the glare of the electric light, heard Barbara calling for her to get a move on because Vincent was waiting for them and it was time. There was dread in her heart, a dead look in her eyes.

  ‘Hurry up,’ Barbara urged from outside the door.

  It mattered to Clare that she still looked her best in spite of what she knew would happen. It made no sense to care that her hair was in place and her cheeks rouged, that her dress was uncreased and that the black velvet wrap was the right thing to wear with it. After all, no one would really care.

  She turned and opened the door. Barbara too was in evening dress, with a white feather boa slung across her bare shoulders and her fair hair crimped and hanging seductively over one eye.

  ‘You took your time,’ she complained, turning and hurrying along the landing. ‘It doesn’t do to keep people waiting, you know.’

  As if we’re embarking on an ordinary evening out. Clare breathed in deeply and followed Barbara down the stairs. As if this is what every girl does, every day of the week, year in, year out.

  I could say no. The thought was fleeting and had gone by the time they crossed the salon floor and stepped out on to the street. The taxi was there, its back door hanging open. A man in a grey tweed cap sat in the driving seat, looking straight ahead.

  ‘Get in then,’ Barbara urged as Clare hesitated on the pavement.

  She bundled her in and closed the door. Vincent glanced in his rear-view mirror. As soon as Clare and Barbara were settled, he pulled away from the kerb.

  ‘Thank heavens it’s not raining,’ Barbara said. ‘I hate to look as if I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, don’t you, Clare?’ Though there was no answer, she glanced idly to right and left at the pedestrians they passed and prattled on. ‘If there’s one thing worse than getting there late, it’s arriving looking like a scarecrow, don’t you think?’

  ‘Now then – what’s up?’ Leonard Andrews found Cynthia standing on the doorstep at Moor View. He’d come to collect his money for the gardening work that he and his son had carried out earlier that week and he could tell by her face that all was not well.

  Though worried, Cynthia did her best to respond. ‘Nothing’s up,’ she replied as she made a weak attempt to return his smile. It was a downright lie. Her uncle’s fury over the missing money hadn’t abated and he’d refused permission for her to go out and meet Wilf, as planned.

  ‘You stay right where you are, Missy,’ he’d ordered as she’d cooked his tea of scrambled eggs on toast. ‘I’ve asked your mother to get the bus out here and I want you to be here when she arrives.’

  ‘Then I’d hate to see your face when something really is the matter.’ Giving her
a curious look, Leonard went on to explain his mission. ‘It’s a shilling this week as usual, but I can come back tomorrow if you like.’

  ‘Yes, that’d be better.’ Cynthia had already seen the 65 bus turn the corner into the village and expected to see her mother walk up the garden path at any moment. ‘I’ll be sure to let Uncle William know what he owes you.’

  With a cheerful goodbye, Leonard went away, crossing paths with Beryl who arrived at the house with an expression that matched Cynthia’s own.

  ‘What’s this about?’ she demanded as Cynthia let her in, forgetting to close the door behind her. ‘Why have I been dragged all the way out here on a Friday night?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Cynthia took her mother’s coat and hat then led her into the living room where William was ensconced in his chesterfield by the window. He gestured for them both to sit on the hard chairs set out facing him.

  ‘You took your time,’ he grumbled to Beryl.

  ‘I came on the first bus I could manage. Ellis is poorly again. I had to cook his tea and make sure he ate it before I left the house.’

  William made a ‘pah’ sound and tapped the floor with his walking stick. ‘He’d blow over in a puff of wind, would that one. Anyway, now that you’re here, I have something to say that you’re not going to like.’

  This is about the money, Cynthia thought with growing dread. She shifted uneasily on her chair.

  ‘I’ve been robbed,’ William announced with a thump of his stick that startled Beryl. ‘Two days ago.’

  ‘Goodness gracious!’ Beryl came out with the strongest expression she could muster. Her lips formed an ‘O’ as she sucked in air and glanced nervously at Cynthia.

  ‘Thirteen pounds, seven shillings and sixpence,’ he enunciated. ‘All safely locked away, waiting for me to take it to the bank.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ Beryl tutted and commiserated, while Cynthia waited for the next blow to fall. ‘Did you tell the police?’

  ‘Yes, but a fat lot of good that did.’ William was enjoying Cynthia’s obvious misery. He drew out the story, throwing in as much detail as possible before he reached the climax. ‘They sent a young constable out here – still wet behind the ears, if you ask me. Went through everything and made notes in his notebook, had the cheek to ask me if I was sure I hadn’t mislaid the money myself. I gave him a rocket for that, I can tell you.’