by June Gadsby
‘Poor Dad,’ she said, glancing at her sister, who looked as stricken as her mother. ‘I thought he was a bit quieter than usual. I bet he’ll feel awful when he realizes what he’s done.’
Jenny West got up from the table and threw her hands up in the air. She paced back and forward in front of the coal fire that was still glowing in the grate.
‘I don’t know how I’m going to face people,’ she said.
‘Oh, Mam! It’s not a crime to get drunk.’ Mary felt her voice sharpen. ‘He must have been feeling pretty bad to drink as much as he did.’
‘It’s a crime for your father to drink himself stupid,’ Jenny said. ‘And Dr Craig had had a drink or two as well. I could smell the whisky on his breath. And him a doctor!’
Mary had noticed the smell of alcohol too, and wondered if both men had reason to drown their sorrows. Her dad had been turned down by the Army and perhaps laughed at because of his age and his bad chest from years of breathing in coal dust. What was Dr Craig’s reason for drinking a little more than was good for him, she wondered curiously? He didn’t give the impression of being a drinking man.
But then, whatever it was, it was none of her business. He had been kind enough to see that her father got home safely and had stayed to drink a warming cup of tea by the fire. And when she had let him out of the house later on he had gripped her hand and smiled down at her, and the smile had reached his eyes. It was such a special smile and she felt it was just for her. His hand was firm and strong, unlike Walter’s pudgy grip that lacked substance. She really must make a point of calling in to thank him. They had all been so shocked by her father’s state that she was sure they had all forgotten their manners.
‘Mary!’ She jumped as her mother’s sharp voice penetrated her thoughts. ‘Stop dreaming and go and see if your dad’s come back to the land of the living. There’s a drop of broth left in the pan. He probably needs something in his stomach to soak up the alcohol. Silly old fool!’
CHAPTER THREE
IT was a few days before things settled down in the West household. Jenny was at last speaking again to Frank, though grudgingly. Mary was glad, in a way, that she had lost her job at Harper’s, for she was able to be there for her parents when they needed her most. Although after a couple of days dealing with her mother’s obvious depression following her husband’s drinking session, Mary was more than ready to start looking for another position.
And that was exactly what she was about to do on Friday morning when there was a furious banging on the front door.
‘Oh, that’s got to be bad news!’ her mother wailed, clamping her face between her hands and looking as if she had frozen solid to the kitchen floor.
‘It’s all right, Mam,’ Mary said. ‘Calm down. I’ll go.’
She pulled open the door, stepping back sharply when Iris Morrison tumbled in, rosy cheeked and breathless.
‘Mary, grab your things and come with me,’ Iris said between gasps.
‘Iris, what on earth…?’ Mary stared at her friend. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing, as yet, but if we don’t get down to the pensions office quick you’ll lose the chance of a lifetime. Go on … coat, bag, gloves, scarf … quick!’
‘What?’
‘There’s another vacancy come up for a pensions clerk and they’re interviewing this morning. I told them about you and they said if you could get down there by nine they’d see you.’
‘Oh, Iris!’
Mary was already rushing back into the house while Iris caught her breath on the doorstep.
‘Where are you going?’ Jenny poked her head out in time to see Mary wind her scarf around her neck and pull on some woollen gloves.
‘Job interview, Mam,’ Mary told her. ‘I’m off with Iris. See you later. Wish me luck?’
‘Oh, aye, hinny. Good luck. It’s not at any factory, is it?’
‘No, Mam. It’s in an office.’
And then the two young women were outside in the crisp November morning, their feet crunching on the ground frost, their faces tingling as the icy wind slapped their cheeks.
It was a treacherous route down the slippery slope of Split Crow Road and they hung on to each other, laughing nervously, their booted feet slithering away from under them at every step.
‘Sorry I couldn’t come up last night, Mary,’ Iris said, wiping the steam from her glasses as they paused to catch their breath at the bottom of the first hill. ‘I was late home and I can’t see in the dark. And everybody’s down with the flu in our house, so I had to do the supper as well.’
‘I’m so glad you thought of me, Iris,’ Mary said and they started off again, arm in arm, running, sliding, hardly able to stop themselves until they reached Heworth and the tramcars that ran into Gateshead and Newcastle.
‘Here it comes,’ Iris said with a sigh of relief after a few minutes’ wait as they hopped from one foot to the other to keep warm.
The tramcar that rattled towards them displayed the destination of ‘Saltwell Park’ and the windows were steamed up from the body temperature of the passengers already inside.
They jumped aboard and paid the tuppence fare to the driver, but as he clanged the bell and started off there was a loud yell and the clatter of feet running down the road after them.
‘Stop the tram! Hey! Wait a minute!’
Mary peered out of the back of the tram and saw a diminutive figure running hell for leather after them, coat and skirt flying in the wind, skinny sparrow legs working in overdrive, and one hand clamped over a hat that was insisting on taking flight.
The driver must have been in a good mood, for he slowed down, but didn’t stop. The girl chasing them never flagged. She got to the boarding-platform and leapt forward and up, arms reaching out. Mary caught her and pulled her inside.
‘Bloody hell!’ The expletive from the girl under the hat, which had come down over her eyes, scorched Mary’s ears.
‘What were you trying to do?’ Mary laughed. ‘Break your neck? There’ll be another tram in a few minutes.’
‘Aye, but I’m late already and I have to get back by eleven or there’ll be hell to pay.’
Mary clamped her lips together to hide her amusement as the other girl went through the intricate business of rearranging her person, which had been more than just a little disarranged by her flight after the tram.
Giving her a friendly smile, Mary hooked her hand under the girl’s arm, because she was unsteady as the tram gathered speed. ‘Come on inside. It’ll be warmer.’
‘Aye. This effin’ weather’s playin’ havoc wi’ me chilblains.’ A pair of small eyes like dark pebbles flashed at her. ‘And ye can stop lookin’ at us like that. We can’t all talk posh like you, ye know.’
‘It was just that I thought I’d seen you before somewhere …’ Mary told her quickly, having no wish to offend the girl, who was obviously touchy on the subject of her broad Geordie accent.
‘Aye, mebbe, if you’ve had somebody in the family die recently. I work for me da. He’s an undertaker.’ She waved her hands about. ‘Oh, damn these chilblains!’
Mary sympathized, glad that she wasn’t troubled with the same affliction, but she knew plenty of people who complained bitterly about it. With a smile and a nod, she went to join Iris in the centre of the tram, pulling the back of the seat forward so she could sit facing her friend as they rocked and rattled their way to Gateshead.
‘That could have been nasty,’ Iris said jerking her head towards the girl from the funeral parlour. ‘It’s a wonder she didn’t fall and break a leg or something.’
‘I’ve never seen anybody run like that.’ Mary laughed into the folds of her scarf, wishing there was some form of heating in the tram, for it was nearly as cold as it was outside, and the driver looked a bit blue about the gills too. ‘When she jumped I held my breath, but she kind of just flew.’
‘Yes, well, those Donaldsons aren’t made to break.’
‘You know her?’
�
��Not exactly,’ Iris put her hands under her armpits for warmth and hugged herself tightly, her breath coming out in a great cloud and meeting the same from Mary’s open mouth. ‘The family’s well known around here. They’re from Elliot Street and you can’t get anything rougher, but they run a good funeral service. Four lads and one girl, though I hear tell she’s as bad as any of her brothers. Effie, she’s called, mainly on account of her swearing.’
Mary stifled a giggle, and then they were both laughing and were glad there were other passengers to hide them from the object of their humour. However, Mary did catch the girl staring at them with a malignant eye when she gave a swift glance over her shoulder.
‘She’s not the friendliest character in the world, is she? I didn’t even get a thank-you for hauling her on board.’
‘No, well, I suppose she’s more used to dealing with corpses.’
‘That’s not my idea of fun.’ Mary said with a shudder, recalling the strange almost almond smell of the embalming fluid that pervaded everything after they had had her grandfather laid out.
‘The mother died or scarpered years ago,’ Iris muttered out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Effie’s the youngest, but they say she’s held the family together one way or another. Mam says she’s a right little scrubber and no mistake, but she won’t stand for any nonsense from anybody.’
‘Well, she has to be admired.’
‘Yes, maybe, but she’s got a right reputation. You just have to look at her the wrong way and she’s on you like a ton of bricks.’ Iris grabbed Mary as she was about to give Effie another look. ‘No, don’t look round or she’ll think we’re talking about her.’
‘Oh, Iris, you are funny.’
‘I don’t mess with any of the Donaldsons,’ Iris told her. ‘Effie in particular. Come on, it’s our stop next.’
They staggered to the exit as the tram pulled in and stopped. There were a few people to get off and Iris pushed her way past them, dragging Mary with her. As fast as they could go on the frosted ground they hurried to the War Pensions Office.
It was a plain, redbrick building with nothing to recommend it as a site worthy of note. Inside it was even plainer, with its starkly blank walls painted cream over heavily embossed Lincrusta wallpaper. It might have been considered fashionable, but to Mary it looked rather as though they’d decorated the place with rice-pudding.
‘In there,’ Iris said, giving Mary a shove towards a door marked ‘Chief Clerk’. ‘Mr Hornby’s expecting you. I’ll pop back and see how you’ve got on in about half an hour.’
Iris entered another room where there was a buzz of female voices, the sound of a typewriter clacking and the buzz of a switchboard. Already, there was a short queue of customers lining up in reception, waiting for the service window to be opened to them.
Taking a deep breath, Mary knocked on Mr Hornby’s door and heard the summons to enter. The man sitting at the large desk in the centre of the room looked harassed, even though it was barely nine o’clock. He had fat, florid cheeks and peered at her through thick-lensed glasses that sat on a fleshy nose, which resembled a piece of bread-dough.
‘Mr Hornby? I’m Mary West,’ Mary introduced herself.
He glanced down at his diary, stabbed a finger on the top name of a long list of names and blinked up at her. ‘Ah, yes. Come in, Miss West. Sit down, sit down … and tell me all about yourself, eh?’
Fifteen minutes later, the interview was over and Mr Hornby was accompanying Mary to the door, congratulating her on obtaining the position of junior pensions clerk and shaking her hand vigorously. As she thanked him again and started to walk in the direction of the reception office, she almost bumped into someone hovering just outside the door.
‘That effin’ does it!’
Mary recognized the girl as none other than Effie Donaldson who had sprinted like a mad thing after the tramcar. She started to apologize for her own clumsiness, but the girl was already being addressed by Mr Hornby.
‘Was there something you wanted?’ he said, peering down his dumpling nose.
‘Aye. I’ve come about the clerical job.’
‘Oh, dear, yes, I see.’ Mr Hornby’s face twisted as he sniffed the air between them and expanded his broad chest. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re too late. It’s already been filled.’
Effie Donaldson seemed to sag inside her bones and every line on her thin face turned downwards.
‘Bloody Norah! After all the rush. And I did get here on time an’ all. Nearly killed mesel’ to get here, too.’
‘Yes, well …’ Mr Hornby twitched from head to foot, glanced uncomfortably at Mary, then started to back into his office, his hand ready to close, and possibly lock the door. ‘Perhaps another time … er … Miss … er…?’
‘It’s Donaldson,’ Effie pronounced loudly and angrily. ‘Effie Donaldson, and don’t you look down yer nose at me. I’m as good as the rest. I just wanted the chance to …’
The door clicked firmly shut and Effie was left talking to the solid wood panel. Her words tailed off and she slumped, then, remembering Mary’s presence, her shoulders rose again and she spun on her heel to face her.
‘What ye starin’ at, eh? Are you the bleedin’ new pensions clerk then? Is that what you was runnin’ for – to get ahead of me?’
Mary shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming for an interview.’
‘Aye, well I was, but then, I don’t look like you, or talk like you. I’m not posh, as you well know. I’m effin’ common as muck, me. It was daft to even think they’d give us a go at makin’ somethin’ of mesel’. They probably think I can’t read and write.’
‘I’m sure you can, as well as anybody.’ Mary hastened to pour oil over obviously troubled waters. ‘Look, I really am sorry.’
‘Like hell you are. Anyway, they don’t need good English to hand out pensions, do they? And I can do me sums. I was always pretty good at arithmetic.’
‘I don’t know what to say, except there may be another vacancy soon.’
‘Ye’ll be tellin’ us next that it was meant to be.’
Effie’s face twisted into a wry smile, though it would take a good deal more than that to make her halfway to being pretty. Hers was a roughly hewn face, void of all the usual feminine softness. The dark eyes were too close together beneath thick black eyebrows and there was the hint of a moustache shadowing her upper lip. She had small canine teeth that were white enough, but crooked.
‘Actually, I do believe that things happen for the best,’ Mary said hastily. ‘Even the bad things. Believing that helps me get through life.’
‘If ye had my life ye’d not think like that, I can tell ye.’
‘No, perhaps not, but we all have to cope with our problems in our own way.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Mary could see Iris poking her nose out of the office door across the corridor. Effie saw her too and rounded on her.
‘I suppose I have you to thank for this,’ she called out, standing squarely and placing her hands on her thin hips. ‘Well, ye can quit worryin’ about yer friend here. She got the job.’
Iris’s eyes sparkled and she pressed her hands together, ignoring Effie Donaldson and looking at Mary for confirmation.
‘I start on Monday,’ Mary told her.
‘Fantastic! Must go. Fridays are always busy.’
Iris ducked back inside the office and Mary turned to have a final word with Effie, but the girl had already left and could be seen marching resentfully down the street, shoulders slumped, head down. Mary felt sorry for her. Maybe the poor girl would have got the job, though she doubted it, judging by the look on Mr Hornby’s face.
With a sigh, Mary took a different route and walked into town rather than cross Effie’s path again. She found a small café open and bought a cup of coffee and a currant bun. Well, she told herself, she had a reason to celebrate. She had landed herself a government job, so she wouldn’t be called up alongside the men, which otherwise had seemed l
ikely, for there was certainly plenty of talk about it being in the pipeline.
‘Are you nervous?’
Iris’s guarded whisper from the next desk broke through Mary’s concentration. She had been working at the War Pensions Office for three weeks and had not, so far, felt that it was a job she would ever really enjoy. Too much bending over ledgers and filling in forms. She was even seeing columns of figures in her sleep.
‘Not right at this minute,’ she whispered back, keeping a wary eye open for Mr Hornby in case he chose that moment to stroll through the general office. ‘Why should I be?’
‘Oh, you daft Clara!’ Iris giggled. ‘I’m talking about tomorrow night. You know, the talent contest.’
She waited for Mary’s reply, ignoring a sharp look from Mrs Shelton, their supervisor, who was a stickler for silence and efficiency, even more than Harry Hornby himself, who could be charmed with a cheeky smile and a humorous remark, as long as he was in a receptive mood. Whereas Mrs Shelton was a widow, never receptive, outwardly full of gloom, but inwardly, so Iris informed Mary, on heat for Mr Hornby.
‘I’m trying not to think about it,’ Mary said. ‘Have you decided yet what you’re going to do?’
Iris had had them all in stitches over the past couple of weeks, trying out new routines, as she called them, in the hope that she would win the Christmas Talent Contest, which was to be the entertainment for the war-benefit ball on the twenty-third of December. Singing was out of the question. Iris was tone deaf. Doing a tap dance seemed a better option, but she couldn’t remember the steps she had learnt at the age of five and ended up tripping herself up. Then she thought that perhaps she could be a stand-up comedian, but she didn’t know any jokes.
‘I’d love to win, you know,’ she had said to Mary, ‘but I’m not much good at anything, really.’
‘I suppose we all want to win, Iris,’ Mary had told her kindly, ‘but it’s not that important. At least we’ll be doing our bit for Britain.’
