The Telephone Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘All the more reason for you and Norma to stay out of it. And Cynthia, too.’

  ‘But who will stand up for Clare if we don’t? It won’t be you, will it? What have you and your sergeant and your precious detective inspector done except arrest the poor girl and put her in prison?’

  As the temperature of the argument rose, Douglas stood his ground. Deep down he’d never really approved of Norma’s friendship with Millicent – she was too strident and unconventional for his taste and likely to carry on leading Norma astray. ‘I can’t discuss police work with you – you know that. But I’m telling you what I told Norma: leave us to do our job.’

  ‘Or else?’

  ‘Or else suffer the consequences.’

  ‘Is this official or unofficial advice?’ Millicent countered.

  ‘Both. And it’s not advice – it’s an order.’

  She nodded and gave him a tight-lipped stare.

  ‘Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, I hear you.’ But it didn’t mean she agreed with him. She opened the door for him without dropping her gaze. ‘Thank you for coming, PC Greenwood. And now, goodnight.’

  The next morning Norma waited anxiously for Millicent and Cynthia on the steps of the exchange. ‘Well?’ She spotted them as they alighted from the number 65 and hurried to meet them.

  Millicent was on her guard. ‘Well what?’

  ‘Did Douglas come to see you last night?’

  ‘He certainly did.’ Though she wouldn’t admit it, the visit had given her a sleepless night that had ended with her being more determined than ever to follow up any information they could find, warning or no warning.

  Norma’s expression was pained. ‘I begged him not to but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘It’s all right, Norma – it wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘So we’re not going to fall out over it?’ Norma too had tossed and turned all night. She was angry that Douglas had chosen to go over her head and visit Millicent but had to admit to being touched that he was so keen to keep her out of trouble. Moreover, the argument in the police station had made her see for the first time that the demands of his job might sometimes spill over into their private lives.

  ‘Of course we’re not going to fall out.’ Realizing that Cynthia was still in the dark about recent events, as she’d been too on edge to broach the subject first thing, Millicent quickly ran through last night’s visit.

  Cynthia looked startled. ‘You mean to say the police came to Heaton Yard?’

  ‘Not the police – just Douglas.’ For the second time in twenty-four hours Millicent wished that she didn’t have to smooth Cynthia’s too-easily ruffled feathers. ‘Don’t worry, we’re not in trouble.’

  ‘What, then? Why did he come?’

  ‘Douglas wanted to make sure that we keep our noses clean, that’s all. Come on, we’ll be late if we don’t watch out.’ The revolving doors swallowed her, leaving Cynthia and Norma trailing behind. She was first into the cloakroom then first to her switchboard, smiling a touch too brightly at Ruth and finding time for a quick chat with Molly before one of her lamps lit up and she took her first call of the morning.

  ‘Good morning, Norma. Good morning, Cynthia.’ Ruth’s greeting was accompanied by a glance at the clock. ‘Come along, girls, take your lights!’

  Their shift was soon underway and fingers darted across switchboards without respite until ten o’clock, when Millicent seized her moment to nudge Cynthia with her elbow. ‘Your board is quiet – now’s your chance to pop upstairs to the office,’ she reminded her.

  Cynthia looked round nervously. ‘Where’s Miss Ridley?’

  ‘In her office. I’ll cover for you – if necessary, say you needed to look up an obscure routes and rates to the Shetland Islands.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes – go!’

  So, with sweating palms and a rapidly beating heart, Cynthia pushed her chair away from her switchboard and hurried off along the aisle, out into the foyer then up the wide stairs to the general office where a dozen typewriters clickety-clacked, carriages whirred and tiny bells went ting-ting.

  The room was lower-ceilinged, less well lit and less plush than the ultra-modern one below, the desks were close together, with heavily laden bookshelves lining each wall. The girls, too, were less showily dressed in home-knitted jumpers and plain cotton blouses and they glanced up from their typewriters with bored, slightly hostile expressions.

  ‘I’ve come to look up some routes and rates,’ Cynthia explained to Kathryn Verney, the office manageress, who sat closest to the door. Straight away she kicked herself for not being more vague, thus giving herself the time and opportunity to look up what she really wanted.

  Kathryn pointed with her pencil to the appropriate shelf then watched Cynthia closely. ‘To your left,’ she called when she saw her make a detour towards the shelf that housed the folders containing the alphabetical lists of subscribers. ‘That’s right, keep going. There – routes and rates are straight ahead.’

  For a full sixty seconds Cynthia pretended to study one of the booklets. She could see the subscribers’ lists, tantalizingly close on a shelf to her right. A glance over her shoulder told her that Kathryn was now busy feeding a fresh sheet of paper into her typewriter. Surely no one would notice if she shuffled along to what she really wanted to look at.

  She was on the point of doing it – of edging sideways then reaching out and taking down the fat, buff-coloured folder containing all the names from P to R – when Ruth Ridley’s imperious voice rang out.

  ‘Cynthia Ambler, since when did a telephonist leave her switchboard without permission?’

  Cynthia froze as her heart leaped into her mouth. She felt the colour drain from her cheeks. All heads were turned towards her.

  ‘I asked you a question and I’m waiting for an answer,’ Ruth insisted. She saw Cynthia’s shoulders droop and resisted any urge to go easy on her. After all, a basic rule had been blatantly broken. ‘Come over here, please.’

  Slowly Cynthia threaded her way between the desks towards the door. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Ridley. I needed to look up the rates for Lerwick.’

  The supervisor frowned and shook her head. ‘Follow me.’ She marched Cynthia out of the office, down the stairs into the restroom, where she adopted a more sympathetic tone. ‘Now listen – I understand your difficulty. Routes and rates can be tricky – especially the less used ones. But you’re a clever girl – you know very well that you can’t take matters into your own hands.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry, Miss Ridley. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘I glanced up from my office work to see an empty chair. What was I supposed to conclude – that you were suddenly taken ill or that you’d had a piece of bad news?’

  ‘No. Yes – I see.’

  ‘I thought the worst until I got the truth out of Millicent that there was no emergency after all.’

  Cynthia felt truly dreadful and she couldn’t bear to look anywhere except at her feet. ‘I’ve let you down. I see that now.’

  ‘You understand that it would be within the rules for me to suspend you for something like this?’

  A dart of apprehension shot through Cynthia and she raised her head in alarm.

  ‘Quite within the rules,’ Ruth repeated thoughtfully. ‘Think about it, Cynthia – what if everyone felt free to up and leave their switchboards at any time? The whole exchange would grind to a halt.’

  The fear of suspension brought home to Cynthia just how vital her job was to her. It was what she’d striven for – an achievement that meant everything. ‘Please—’ she mumbled, her face deathly pale.

  Ruth cut her short. ‘I could suspend you. But I won’t.’

  ‘Oh, thank you—’

  ‘Not this time, at any rate.’

  ‘Thank you!’ Relief washed through her, leaving her lost for words.

  Ruth raised a warning finger. ‘I’m putting it down to inexperience. And this is most out of character, I
have to say. I don’t expect it to happen again.’

  ‘It won’t, Miss Ridley.’

  ‘Good. No more blotting of your copy book, you hear?’

  Cynthia nodded and looked on uncomprehendingly as Ruth held open the restroom door.

  ‘Come along – back to work!’

  Yes, back to her switchboard, shaking from head to foot. Cynthia darted out into the foyer ahead of her supe. Before she knew it, she was taking lights, making connections and moving on.

  Millicent poured tea into her cup then topped it up with milk. She’d come alone to the Lyons’ café during her dinner break to give herself time to think, hoping that a busy place would allow her to fade into the background and not be bothered by anyone from work. Sure enough, no one noticed her as she chose a seat in a dark corner and placed her order.

  Things were not going their way, she realized. They’d come up against an unexpected obstacle in the shape of Douglas and she wasn’t sure for how long the three of them – herself, Norma and Cynthia – would carry on presenting a united front.

  Funny – I never thought we’d fall out over it. She stirred sugar into her tea, oblivious to her surroundings. But here we are. Cynthia is scared to death of putting another foot wrong. She can hardly be relied on to make herself a cup of tea, let alone find out Vincent Poole’s address for us. And Norma seems to have run out of steam as well. I can tell she’s more interested in making up with Douglas than helping Clare. Which leaves it up to me, I suppose.

  Her table was tucked away close to the ladies’ cloakroom, where there was a lot of coming and going. Millicent kept her elbows in and her gaze cast firmly down.

  Not that we’ve fallen out, exactly. She sincerely hoped that this wouldn’t happen. She liked and trusted Norma more than anyone and over the years she’d felt free to share her feelings about Harold and the mess she’d been in. Cynthia was different – younger, of course, and less robust – but Millicent was fond of her as an older sister might be. She sipped her tea but didn’t touch the sandwich that she’d ordered. A woman in a dark green coat and straw cloche hat came out of the cloakroom and waited by her table as two other customers squeezed by. Millicent glanced up. ‘Margaret?’

  The hairdresser saw Millicent and hastily tried to push her way out of the corner, only to find a stout woman with a walking stick blocking her way.

  ‘Margaret, it’s me – Millicent Jones.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you. Leave me alone.’ Margaret’s face was pained and she spoke between gritted teeth. Her dark hair beneath the hat was dishevelled and she wore no make-up.

  Millicent stood up. ‘Look, I don’t mean to upset you. I’m just saying hello, that’s all.’

  ‘Hello.’ Still trapped, Margaret mumbled the greeting, looking around the busy café as though to check that she wasn’t being observed.

  ‘You seem out of sorts. Would you like to sit down for a minute?’ Millicent pulled back a chair. ‘Don’t worry – I won’t bite.’

  Against her better judgement but unable to conjure up an excuse, Margaret agreed to join Millicent at her table. ‘I don’t have very long.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

  The buzz of conversation and tinkle of spoons, cups and saucers obliged Millicent to speak up. ‘I’m glad I ran into you, though.’

  Margaret flashed her a wary glance. ‘Why? You won’t winkle anything out of me. Your friend Norma already had a go.’

  ‘Nobody’s winkling,’ Millicent assured her. A closer study of Margaret revealed a woman under strain. It wasn’t only the lack of powder and rouge – it was the cowed slope of her shoulders and a deep suspicion lurking behind her eyes. ‘I’m the one in the know about Sidney Hall. After all, I was there.’

  Margaret cocked her head to one side and looked at Millicent through half-closed eyes. ‘Unluckily for you – yes.’

  ‘You and Barbara, you’re well out of it.’ Careful to say nothing that might cause upset, Millicent steered the conversation onwards.

  Margaret gave a slight nod. ‘Luckily Mrs Parr said we could stay at her house until the police had finished. We’re back now, though.’

  ‘It must feel strange.’

  ‘It does. But life goes on.’

  ‘For most of us.’ Millicent pushed gently for any scrap of useful information. She noted the physical resemblance between them and felt a small shiver as she recognized how easily their roles might have been reversed. She wasn’t quite sure what she meant by this, other than there must have been a fork in the road where they’d been faced with a similar choice. Margaret had taken the rocky path leading her into the clutches of Phyllis Parr and Sidney Hall whereas she’d chosen the less risky route into Harold’s arms. They’d both led secret lives – that was it.

  Margaret used the pause in their conversation to scan the room once more. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’ She stood up suddenly – a move that attracted the attention of a man dressed in a blue pinstriped suit and grey cloth cap who had just come into the café. He made his way straight towards their table.

  ‘Now then, Margaret. I’m sorry I’m late – I got held up.’ The man smiled and laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. He turned his attention to Millicent. ‘Who have we here? Is this your sister, by any chance?’

  Millicent offered her hand. ‘No. My name’s Millicent – Millicent Jones.’

  ‘Blimey – two peas in a pod.’ The smile flickered but was quickly restored as he shook her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Millicent.’

  She waited for him to round off the introductions with his own name. There was something about the voice that she thought she recognized. It was deep and rough and sat oddly with the man’s sinewy, dapper appearance, though a closer look showed work-worn hands and dirty nails. His face, too, suggested a hard life – deep wrinkles marked his forehead and the bridge of his nose was flattened and bent out of shape.

  He grasped Margaret’s hand. ‘Come along, love – I haven’t got all day.’

  Flustered, the hairdresser walked away without her shiny brown handbag and Millicent had to chase after her on to the street.

  She tapped Margaret on the shoulder, aware that a waitress was close behind. ‘You forgot this.’

  Margaret snatched the bag without thanks.

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ The nippy waved a piece of paper at them. ‘Who’s paying this bill? Is it you, Vincent?’

  Vincent! Millicent’s eyes widened. Of course – the voice on the telephone, speaking to Phyllis Parr. Vincent Poole on 612.

  ‘Not me, Berta,’ he shot back. ‘You’re not landing this one on me.’

  ‘It’s me. I’m paying.’ Millicent felt her heart race as she dipped into her purse. She fumbled for the coins, one eye still on Margaret and Vincent who were now disappearing into Marks & Spencer. ‘Keep the change.’

  She followed them as fast as she could but they’d already vanished amongst the shoppers thronging the shiny aisles and she knew it would take a while to find them again. In any case, she had the distinct feeling that the last thing Vincent Poole wanted to do was to talk to her. Instead, in the few remaining minutes of her dinner break, she chose to double back to the Lyons’ and accost Berta, the waitress.

  ‘That man – Vincent …’ she began.

  ‘What about him?’ Berta was too busy to talk. She had three tables to clear, with a dozen customers waiting to be served.

  Millicent watched her stack plates, cups and saucers on to a tray. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Not really.’ The tray was heavy and Berta was getting on in years, with grey hair scraped back beneath her starched white cap. ‘Mind out – you’re in my way.’

  Undeterred, Millicent followed her towards the dumbwaiter next to the cloakrooms. ‘Do you happen to know where he lives?’

  ‘I haven’t got the faintest idea.’

  ‘Where does he work, then?’

  ‘Look,’ Berta said as she offloaded the tray then pressed a b
utton to make the crockery disappear down a dark shaft, ‘I don’t have time for this.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. Just tell me where he works – please!’

  Berta’s sharp elbow dug into Millicent’s ribs as she barged past, order pad and pencil at the ready. ‘Vincent Poole doesn’t work in one place.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What can I get you?’ Berta attended to her new pair of customers – two sprightly old ladies laden down with carrier bags. She wrote down an order for a pot of tea and two poached eggs on toast.

  ‘Does he have more than one job?’ Millicent demanded as Berta placed the order. ‘I’ll stop pestering you if you just tell me.’

  The waitress batted her away, then, seeing that this wasn’t the quickest way to get rid of her, changed her mind. ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘Yes.’ Millicent showed how desperate she was for the information by nodding her head until she feared it would fall off.

  ‘Because,’ Berta announced with an air of finality, ‘Vincent Poole drives a taxi, that’s why.’

  ‘At last we’re getting somewhere.’ After work, Norma had come home with Millicent and Cynthia to Heaton Yard to share in Millicent’s excitement and settle her fears that she would have to continue the fight to save Clare all on her own.

  ‘Yes, it explains why Poole was always on hand, night or day, to drive Mrs Parr’s girls to these men’s homes,’ Millicent said. She was buoyed up by her discovery and the next step was already germinating in her mind.

  ‘What kind of man is he?’ Cynthia wanted to know. Though she was still shaken by the morning’s close shave in the general office, she tried her hardest not to show it by bustling around the kitchen, washing pots and wiping down the draining board.

  Millicent tried to sum up her first impressions. ‘Not as big and brawny as his voice made me think. Margaret was an inch or two taller than him when they stood side by side. He might have been a boxer at some time – a featherweight or a middleweight. He had that look about him, broken nose and all.’

  ‘And how did he behave?’ Norma was curious. ‘Did he seem, well, sinister?’