‘You and Judy said it looked good yesterday.’
‘We were wrong. Looking at you now, I think the beret would be better. I won’t be a minute.’
As Lily ran upstairs, Norah reached for the clothes brush and gave Katie’s costume an unnecessary going over. She was proud of Lily’s dress sense. Her foster daughter seemed to know instinctively what was right, what wasn’t and how to cut cost without marring the overall effect. But she was prouder still when other girls asked for – and took – Lily’s advice.
‘Ready?’
‘Apart from the butterflies doing the rumba in my stomach,’ Katie replied.
‘Here,’ Lily returned, stood behind Katie and unpinned her hat. ‘I know a bank isn’t quite like a solicitor’s but I’ve seen the girls go into the Mansel Street offices in the morning. They’re well-dressed, but in a businesslike, not a “going out” way.’ She handed Katie the beret. ‘This is plain and a bit young, but that’s exactly the look you should be aiming for when applying for your first real job.’
‘There you are, love,’ Norah said briskly. She didn’t know the difference between working in a bank or a solicitor’s but Lily had been in an office for six months and, as far as she was concerned, that made Lily an authority on what shorthand typists should wear.
‘Your hair needs redoing.’ Lily opened her bag and pulled out her comb.
‘There’s no time.’
‘Your interview isn’t for another half-hour. It’s a five-minute walk from here to Thomas and Butler’s. Sit!’ Pulling a chair in front of the mirror, Lily pushed Katie into it, unclipped her ponytail, combed out her hair and twisted it into a French pleat at the back of her head, which she secured with a couple of pins she took from her own hair.
‘There, just like the picture of Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday,’ she declared as she pulled the beret on to Katie’s head and adjusted it.
Katie bit her lip as she studied her reflection in the mirror. Lily was right; the black beret did look better.
‘Put the gloves on – perfect,’ Lily declared. ‘Don’t worry, Auntie Norah, I’ll get her there in one piece.’
‘I know you will, love.’
‘See you later.’ Lily kissed Norah’s cheek.
‘Try not to bite your lips before the interview, Katie,’ Norah warned, ‘or you’ll ruin your lipstick. And good luck, not that you need it,’ she called after them as Lily opened the door.
‘Thanks for coming home to help me dress.’ Unaccustomed to her peep-toe, high-heeled shoes – a birthday present from her brothers – Katie clung to Lily’s arm as they rounded the corner and headed down the hill into Verandah Street.
‘I had an hour coming to me. Mr Collins made me work through yesterday’s lunch hour.’ Lily made a face. ‘He knocked a pile of papers from one of the desks, spent ten minutes ranting about the amount of filing cluttering up the office, then ordered me to clear all the surfaces.’
‘Lily ...’
‘You’re worried how it will go. Well, don’t.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. You’ve a good job.’
‘There are days when I wonder. “Lily, get the tea, Lily, clear the cups, Lily, take the post round the desks, Lily, this needs delivering to the other side of town, Lily, get us a bun while you’re out.” And once in a blue moon, “Lily, this is only for the files so you can type it.” After six months of being at everyone’s beck and call I’m still not allowed to type anything destined for clients and they won’t let me take dictation. Another couple of months and I’ll forget most of the typing and all of the shorthand I ever learned.’
‘But you’ve never worked anywhere except an office.’
‘I worked in the Milkmaid.’
‘When you were in tech, and only on Saturdays and holidays, that’s not like washing dishes in a café all the time.’
‘Katie, stop worrying. You came top of your evening class.’
‘That’s the point. It was evening class, not a proper tech or school of commerce.’
‘All the more reason for Thomas and Butler to take you on. You’ve proved you’ve got what it takes to stick at something.’
‘But a solicitor’s office ...’ Katie’s voice trailed as she looked across the road at the massive Victorian building that dominated the corner of Mansel and Christina Streets. ‘I can’t imagine working there. Not after the cafe.’
‘Now look at me,’ Lily ordered. ‘Just as I thought, hair, lipstick, beret, gloves, shoes, costume all perfect. And ...’ She bent her head close to Katie’s. ‘Is that Norah’s perfume I smell? The special one she keeps for Christmas and birthdays?’
‘She said I should wear it for luck.’
‘It never fails. Now walk in there and stun them into giving you the job. You deserve it after getting the certificate. And think how good it will feel to give your mother the news on Wednesday.’
Katie tensed herself as she crossed the road. She glanced back. Lily was standing on the pavement, watching her. She waved, then squaring her shoulders and holding her head high, just as Miss Crabbe, her shorthand tutor, had advised when applying for a job, she headed for the gate that separated Thomas and Butler’s frontage from the pavement.
The little confidence Lily had imparted deserted Katie the minute she opened the door and stepped into an oak-panelled reception area that could have swallowed her mother’s kitchen ten times over. A glamorous woman sitting behind a desk gave her a vacuous professional smile. ‘Can I help you, madam?’
Katie broke into a cold sweat. ‘I’m here for the interview,’ she blurted nervously, instantly thinking of a hundred better ways she could have introduced herself.
‘And you are?’
‘Clay. Katie Clay.’
‘We’ve been expecting you, Miss Clay.’
Katie’s pulse raced. Was it her imagination or was there a hint of reprimand? She looked for a clock to check if she was late. If only Lily hadn’t insisted on redoing her hair. Perhaps it would have been better if she had worn the hat not the beret. It would have been dressier ...
‘Miss Clay?’
‘Sorry,’ Katie apologised, conscious she hadn’t been listening.
‘Mr Thomas and Mr Butler will see you shortly. Would you like to take a seat while you wait?’
‘Thank you.’ Feeling clumsy and awkward, Katie walked over to a semicircle of chairs grouped around a low table set with a neatly arranged fan of magazines. She would have liked to have picked one up, but lacking the courage to disturb the display, she studied the room instead. The light-oak wall panelling looked and smelled as though it received a daily polishing of beeswax and the floor, an elegant shade darker than the walls, was so highly buffed that Katie was terrified she’d turn her ankle when she left her seat. Every single piece of furniture matched the panelling. Behind the receptionist’s pale-oak desk stood a row of pale-oak filing cabinets. A porcelain vase fashioned to resemble twin sticks of bamboo held an arrangement of cream carnations. Sepia pen-and-ink sketches of Swansea landmarks hung at regular intervals around the walls. Katie recognised Swansea Castle or rather its few remaining walls, the Museum, the Glynn Vivian Art Gallery, the old Guildhall – everything looked so clean, so ... so ‘de luxe’, as Mrs Petronelli would have said, that she couldn’t imagine touching anything, let alone working in the place.
What on earth had made her think that she could land a job in a solicitor’s office as grand as this? As her last traces of hope evaporated, she began to tremble. She also realised her feet hurt. Her shoes had fitted her when she’d bought them so why were they tight now? Her heels and toes were stinging with a pain she knew from experience would result in blisters. She told herself she could bear it. She’d have to bear it – just as long as she didn’t limp when they called her in. That would be the final humiliation. They might think she had borrowed someone else’s shoes for the interview because she couldn’t afford her own.
Lifting the flap of Lily’s clutch bag, she surreptitiously pul
led out her mirror to check that the discreet sprinkling of powder she’d dusted on to her face hadn’t disappeared, or the lipstick she had applied so carefully a quarter of an hour before had wandered on to her teeth. She wished she had the courage to ask the receptionist if she could go to the Ladies. If there was a larger mirror she’d be able to check that the beret and her hair were still all right and the seams on her nylons straight.
‘Miss Clay?’
Katie had thought the receptionist’s black skirt, blue blouse with black velvet ribbon tie and short curly hairstyle the height of sophistication but she paled into insignificance against this new apparition. Dressed in a navy tailored suit with mid-calf, pencil-slim skirt and light-grey blouse, the young woman exuded self-confidence. Her blonde hair was swept neatly behind her ears, her make-up glossy, her perfume subtle, yet effective enough for Katie to pick up from six feet away.
No matter how much she earned, Katie knew she’d never achieve that degree of sophistication or the deftness of touch that had led to the choice of exactly the right accessories: gold button earrings, discreet and tasteful, complemented by a gold lapel pin and a half-hoop of diamonds on the third finger of her left hand. Katie wasn’t surprised she was engaged. She could imagine men vying to be seen with her, and not the sort of men who lived in Carlton Terrace either. Rich men with well-paid jobs who drove new cars and owned houses. No rented rooms with outside toilets or shared bathrooms for them – or her.
‘I’m Isabel Evans.’ The secretary held out her hand.
Katie stumbled to her feet, one shoe getting in the way of the other. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ She fumbled awkwardly with her cotton gloves, dropping one as she realised her hands were damp. Isabel picked up the glove for her before shaking her hand.
‘Mr Thomas and Mr Butler will see you now. If you’d follow me.’
‘Thank you.’ Clutching her bag and the envelope containing her certificates and testimonial from Miss Crabbe, Katie slipped, spraining her ankle and tearing the thin strap that held her left shoe together above the peep toe.
‘Are you all right, Miss Clay?’ Isabel was at her side. The receptionist left her desk and between them they helped her to her feet. Katie fought back tears of pain and mortification.
‘Oh, dear, your shoe ...’
‘It’s all right, I’ll get a cobbler to stitch it.’
‘It looks new,’ Isabel observed. ‘If I were you I’d take it back to the shop. If you’d like to postpone the interview, I’m sure Mr Thomas would understand.’
‘I’m fine,’ Katie lied.
‘If you’re sure.’ Isabel supported Katie’s arm as she opened the door that led from the reception area to the offices. ‘Mr Thomas looks stern,’ Isabel whispered, ‘but he’s fair and Mr Butler is charming.’
Instead of calming Katie, the confidence set her nerves jangling even more.
‘Would you like to wait a moment before going in?’
Not trusting herself to speak, Katie shook her head. Isabel opened another door and guided her down a second corridor. Tensing herself yet again, Katie breathed in Isabel’s clean, cool scent and tried to forget her bungling start to the interview. If she walked carefully, Mr Thomas and Mr Butler might not notice her broken shoe and if they were as nice as Isabel suggested, perhaps she would even forget this interview was such a milestone. There was no way she could tell her mother and Norah she’d failed after the cost of the evening classes and the work they’d put into her costume.
‘Is this your first interview?’
‘For an office job. Does it show?’
‘No,’ Isabel prevaricated. ‘I remember being incredibly nervous when I went for my first position.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Your references are very good.’
‘You’ve seen them?’
Isabel nodded as she tapped on a door, opening it at a brisk ‘Enter’.
‘Good luck.’ She left Katie to walk into the room alone.
Two men sat behind the largest desk Katie had ever seen. One was middle-aged, well-built, imposing with thinning grey hair and a pepper-and-salt moustache; the other young and slightly built with red hair.
The older man peered short-sightedly at her over a pair of half-moon reading spectacles. ‘Miss?’ He checked the paper on his desk.
‘Clay,’ the younger man supplied, smiling at Katie.
‘Yes, sir,’ Katie stammered nervously.
‘You don’t have to call either of us “sir”; you’re not in the classroom now, Miss Clay. Mr Thomas will do. And this is Mr Butler.’
‘Yes, Mr Thomas, Mr Butler, thank you.’ Katie gripped Lily’s handbag tighter. She had no idea why she was thanking them.
‘Sit down, girl, sit down,’ Mr Thomas muttered impatiently shuffling his papers. ‘You’ve applied for the position of office junior?’
‘Yes, Mr Thomas.’
‘It appears from your certificates and college references that your typing and shorthand speeds are excellent and, most important, also your spelling. You went to night school?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
The question took Katie by surprise. ‘Because I had to leave school at fourteen,’ she blurted uneasily, ‘and I wanted qualifications that would get me a better job.’
‘Your teachers didn’t think you were up to passing the matriculation?’
‘No, Mr Thomas, they were pleased with my work but my father – my family – needed the money so I had to leave.’
‘And you work in a café at present.’
Katie stared at the application form in his hand. It was hers, she recognised her handwriting and as she’d detailed her entire history on it she couldn’t understand why he was asking her questions she’d already answered.
‘Yes, sir,’ she muttered, forgetting to call him Mr Thomas.
‘And what exactly is it you do in this café? It is the one opposite the Grand Theatre?’
‘Yes, Mr Thomas. I clear tables, wash dishes, serve behind the counter and wait tables when we’re short-staffed.’
‘Take the money,’ he barked.
‘No, Mr Thomas, one of the family works the cash register.’
Mr Thomas frowned and Katie had the feeling he’d decided her present employers didn’t regard her as trustworthy enough to handle their money.
‘Are you happy there?’
‘Yes, Mr Thomas.’
‘Then why do you want to leave?’
Well drilled by Miss Crabbe, Katie refrained from listing her real reasons. That she wanted to work in a clean office instead of the hothouse, chip-fryer atmosphere of the cafe. That she longed to do more challenging work than skivvying. That she wanted more to look forward to than promotion to waitress when she’d only have to remember which people had ordered what food and writing out bills. And most important of all, she wanted to earn more money than she could in a café. Money enough to take her out of her family’s basement and enable her to buy nice clothes, perm her hair and give her the same air of sophistication as Isabel Evans. Money that would secure her independence so she need never be reliant on a man to keep her.
‘I would like to work in an interesting position where I could use the skills I’ve been taught in evening class and hopefully acquire new ones,’ she chanted parrot-fashion.
‘You do know what this job is?’
‘Yes, Mr Thomas.’ Disconcerted by his piercing stare, she concentrated on a point somewhere between his and Mr Butler’s heads. ‘It’s office junior.’
‘I don’t know what your idea of an office junior’s duties are, Miss Clay, but in Thomas and Butler they make the tea, run errands and copies off the duplicating machine and do the filing. You do know what filing is?’
‘Yes, Mr Thomas. Storing documents in alphabetical order.’
‘You’ve done it?’
‘Miss Crabbe explained it, Mr Thomas, in evening class.’
‘So you’ve no actual experience.�
�
‘Miss Crabbe kept our typing and shorthand exercises in a drawer in files in alphabetical order. When we finished one we were allowed to replace it and remove the next.’
‘A drawer, not a filing cabinet.’
‘Yes, Mr Thomas.’ Katie recalled the bank of pale oak filing cabinets behind the receptionist’s desk and wished she’d never mentioned Miss Crabbe’s single drawer.
‘You don’t help out in the office of the café by any chance, do you?’
Katie sensed that Mr Butler had meant to be kind, but lost for words she stared down at her hands. The nearest thing to an office they had in the café was the shelf under the till where they stored receipts, invoices from suppliers and the cigar butts Mr Petronelli could never bring himself to throw out. ‘No, sir,’ she stammered after an embarrassing pause.
‘That’s unfortunate.’ Mr Thomas pulled his chair forward. Lifting the file in front of him, he rapped it down on the desk. ‘So you’ve no experience and you’ve just passed your examinations.’
‘With distinctions in shorthand, typing, English and spelling,’ Katie interrupted eagerly to show what she could do, after all the talk of what she couldn’t.
‘I can read, Miss Clay,’ Mr Thomas snapped, making her feel more inadequate than ever. ‘But you’ve no experience of office work.’
‘I learn quickly.’ Katie dared a second interruption because she sensed the job she’d pinned all her hopes on slipping from her grasp.
‘I don’t doubt you do.’
‘And my shorthand and typing speeds will improve with practice.’
‘Our juniors do very little typing and no shorthand. We have secretaries for the skilled work.’
‘I would be happy to work my way up, Mr Thomas. All I need is a chance to prove myself.’
‘It’s an office junior we want, Miss Clay, not an ambitious “would-be” secretary. Frankly, if we have a vacancy at senior level we advertise the position as suitable for the holder of an accredited school of commerce diploma. You’ve met our Miss Evans.’
‘Yes, Mr Thomas.’ Katie looked down at her hands again. She didn’t need Mr Thomas to remind her there was no way she could compete with the likes of Isabel Evans.
Swansea Girls Page 15
