Mother Knew Best

by Dorothy Scannell

  I tried to say I had just had a lift home with the office boy, but I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I looked as though I’d been dragged home through the jungle. In tears, rage, and pain I ran out of the room and up to bed. I knew I should have thought before riding on a motor-bike. No one did that, only ‘fast’ girls. Mother knew I was not fast, so why did she always worry so about me?

  Chapter 18

  Odd Jobs

  All I ever wanted was a peaceful existence, and no one seemed to want to leave me alone. Arthur’s wife had heard of a vacancy for a shorthand typist with a firm of rating surveyors and valuers in Bridewell Street. The wages were 35s. per week which was more than many men were getting then. Now my chickens were coming home to roost for I had boasted of my shorthand speeds. All lies. I couldn’t tell Mother I was a liar, that would be the last straw. I couldn’t refuse the interview, the family would not have allowed it. Perhaps, I hoped, I wouldn’t get the job. But I did.

  I was in an office with three of the most expert stenographers I ever met in the whole of my City life. They were elderly but rapid workers. I had one week’s reprieve from execution for the boss was away rating public houses in Hampshire, and I did some copy-typing and got to know ‘les girls.’ They were very motherly to me and very kind. I should have told them my dread secret, but I hoped something would happen to me before it was discovered. I hadn’t had appendicitis, I prayed for that. My prayers remained unanswered, and a week after I started at Bridewell Street I was summoned to the boss’s office. I had been warned he was the fastest dictator in the city. They said he started dictating as he heard the office door open.

  This doom-laden morning he had filled the other girls’ note-books full and the number five sign in the glass box on the wall, waggled. Up I got, new notebook, sharpened pencil. They were right. As I opened the door I heard a voice talking at great speed about hereditaments in Dorset. I wrote down ‘h’ perhaps I’d remember some of it. My pencil broke and as I reached the typist’s chair my tears fell fast and sudden. Gone was the great dictator. As I poured out my sobbing story he began to laugh. He passed me a clean white handkerchief and said he would pay for me to attend the city of London College in Ropemaker Street until I was proficient in shorthand. In the meantime I could take slow dictation from the many young men articled to his firm. He said I was a young lady of promise. I didn’t know what he meant, but he said the young men would be pleased to help me. And they were. All sorts of sizes of young men came to that office, all very upper class, and all charming, and each one helped me with dictation. It was, I thought, quite pleasurable. But in the outer office was a very ancient lady filing-clerk. Her minion was a tiny cockney office-boy, delicate, anaemic, with enormous bags under his eyes. I often used to think these bags were the largest thing about him.

  I was coming through the outer office one day, the first one back from lunch, the office deserted and quiet, when this young boy flung himself at me and smothered me with kisses. He was like a limpet, I just couldn’t tear him off. I was furious. If someone came into the office what would they think of me ? I was the older one, I would have led him astray. No one, I guaranteed, would have believed that a boy of this office-boy’s age would have such feeling. I thought there must be something radically wrong with him, he certainly wasn’t a boy. I dragged myself away, I daren’t tell anyone, who would believe me, and I didn’t want him to get the sack because he needed the money. I warned him what I would do if he ever did such a wicked thing again, and he just grinned and smacked his lips. So every lunch-time I either had to be late back from lunch, or wait until the elderly lady returned to the outer office from wherever she was wont to disappear. I could have coped with any of the charming young men, but this brazen boy, delighted with his prowess, was like a mosquito on the back of a rhinoceros.

  I knew I could never take to my home any of the young men articled there, but the matrimonial committee of elderly ladies didn’t, and neither did the young men. I went to the theatre with one young man and to Scottish dancing with another who had delightful brothers and a charming father, but his mother, straight-faced and unbending insisted on addressing me as Miss Chegwidden, plied me with questions as to what my father did, why I lived in Poplar, and what my brothers and sisters were. When she knew I had nine, she nearly collapsed. I wanted to tell her not to be frightened for her son, but who could blame her ?

  Each year the senior partner took us all to lunch in a Surrey hotel, then home to his large house at Esher where we played games, won prizes, and had tea. He had a beautiful garden with a small river running through it. He was a charming man but he never took off his bowler-hat and when he passed me a large gun for target shooting—everybody had to try everything—I got nervous and fired it before I should have done and one of the pellets hit his hat. He wasn’t cross, in fact he showed no emotion whatsoever, he just took the gun away and passed it to the next guest. But the next year he must have remembered for when it was shooting time he waggled his finger after me and pointed to the clock golf course. His son looked after me and said I was like a cornflower in a field of thistles. I suppose I was the only young female there, and I had no competition. I could never relax as the others did. When the lady of the house asked how my garden at home was looking, balancing my delicate china cup, saucer and plate on one knee took all my attention, I didn’t exactly tell a lie when I said, ‘The grass needs cutting,’ for we did have a couple of blades. The daughter of the house usually draped herself on the lawn. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, she was like a picture from the Queen. She went to the Slade school of art and I felt like a clumsy red beetroot beside her.

  Although the family agreed with Mother that I was no constant nymph, I was becoming irresponsible, flitting from job to job, the sure way to unemployment and ruin, Mother said. They all grudgingly agreed that at each fresh situation I was bettering myself, but although they were pleased I was still permanently employed, they felt I was tempting providence. When I began to work for the London Transport at Chiswick, they thought at last I was employed for life, a national company, no hanky-panky in the offices there, a safe and secure future, with a pension.

  I would impress the family with the schedules I typed ‘two yards wide,’ with only just enough space for the headings. And I had a train pass, I was an executive. The family were grudgingly proud of me. The typing-pool was small, the ‘head girl,’ a lovely middle-aged spinster who looked like a typical mum, human and jolly, living only for her cat and her dog. She had lost all her life’s savings when a private bank crashed, but she never became embittered about it, and she had such a sense of humour. We all loved her. I worked for a Mr Cook, a dear old man. He was very worried I would be unable to transcribe my shorthand (how did he guess?) and he dictated so slowly and loudly and distinctly that I used to take it all down in longhand. The embarrassing part of his dictation was the way he would spell words out, for engines have names of the most intimate parts of the male and female of the species and Mr Cook dictated to me on a dais in front of his male staff, sixty young jolly men. Their glances as I went through their office and approached the dais were the forerunner of the wolf whistle, and then when Mr Cook spelt nipple or cock, etc., I was scared to look up. He was a pure-minded man and the young men were not.

  The superintendent was a fine tall man with the physique and face of the most handsome of film stars. One day I was called upon to take notes on the hearing of a serious fire and when I entered the room it was full of garage men, engineers and fire experts. I was told all their names, but when the case began, all became oblivion for I couldn’t think which one was which according to the code names I had written in my book. After the case was over when Mr Williams said he would like ten copies, I did my weeping act again. He was so sympathetic and upset for me he sent for the chief engineer, who stayed with me all day and helped me sort the case out. Who got blamed for the fire I never knew!

  I had Mother persuade Marjorie to accompany me to the offi
ce dance, as we could take a friend and I was rigged out in an old dress Winnie had left behind. It was white, but my underclothes were coloured. Mother said it would not be noticed in the dim lights such affairs were wont to have. The Superintendent always opened the dancing with an important member of the female staff, and to the pride and joy of Marjorie, the amazement of the whole of the London Transport staff, to my utter horror because of my coloured petticoat and because the first dance was always the superintendent solo, he came the whole length of the hall to bow like a courtier in front of me. Marjorie impressed Mother with my popularity at the London Transport and Mother said, ‘Fancy,’ in such puzzled tones, but I understood, I was just as puzzled by it all as she was.

  Chapter 19

  No Constant Nymph

  When I was twenty-one, Mother was either worried that I would become an old maid, or my constant consuming of green apples had driven her out of her mind, for she began to coax me to lead a more active social life. How to begin? I’d never had a boy-friend, never been kissed, except by the baggy-eyed young man, and that wasn’t kissing. Marjorie began my coming-out by taking me to a party. Here I sat in the corner, not even being called upon with a letter in Postman’s Knock; one of the girls received a parcel. In the opposite corner was a young man who was the nearest thing to a frog I had ever seen, it would have needed more than a princess’s kiss to change him, I thought. In a game of forfeits he came to me and paid his forfeit with a kiss. I had come out. He saw me home and, it was obvious to me I would do no better at my great age. I arranged to meet him the following week-end. Mother was pleased, for the young man had been to grammar school and his parents owned a flourishing business. When my brothers said the whole family were frogs, Mother chided them and said that a person’s character was the important thing not his looks. I agreed with her, but when my father burst out laughing, having heard of my conquest, I knew I’d rather be an old maid, and I cancelled my date with the prince in disguise.

  Marjorie taught me to dance. She was so expert, and we went to the Town Hall dances, Mother saying we would not meet Mr Right there. The dancing was superb. These white, poker-faced young men with their creased suits which smelt of moth-balls and tom-cats, would nod their heads. ‘Coming rahnd?’ and off we’d go, always being left in the middle of the floor when the dance was finished. But they could dance and so I became an expert and my quick-step was the quick-step of champions. I even used to ‘feather.’

  I did meet one young man different from the rest, at the Town Hall. All the girls were crazy about him and it seemed strange to me that I should be his chosen champion, for it was obvious he was serious. I knew Mother would be pleased, for he worked as a draughtsman for a national company, and there was no doubt he was on the way up. He’d even been to the Nautical and Engineering College. Coupled with all this prospective affluence he looked like Cary Grant. He even dressed like him. His suit hadn’t been taken out of pawn for the Saturday night hops, it was obvious. His family must be posh, I thought, and one Saturday afternoon I was invited to tea. Well I thought that was what it was, when he arranged to meet me. His name was George. We spoke about food on the way to his house. I was a little perturbed when he said his favourite dinner was ‘ash,’ but hoped I’d misheard.

  We arrived at a street of dingy terraced houses. It was a hot day, the front doors were open and overalled women, with rags curling their hair, were sitting on wooden chairs outside their houses. Men with silk white knitted scarves and caps were leaning in groups against the walls. No one ever sat outside in the Grove. We walked through this arch of honour of staring eyes and comments ‘That’s Georgy…’s young lady,’ to the open door of his house. Along the length of the tom varnished walls of the passage hung a string of washing, men’s pants, shirts, enormous women’s bloomers. The house had a smell of piddled prams, and steaming copper water. We went into a little kitchen, where, by the side of a kitchen range sat a red-faced sweaty-looking woman with straw-coloured hair. Her shoes were cut so that her bunions could poke out. She neither looked at me nor spoke. Through the window I saw a gingery fat man in a collarless shirt, with dangling braces talking to some pigeons. George went out, looked at the ginger man, but neither spoke. The table was littered with dirty cups and plates and a fly was walking round the top of the milk jug. There was no little muslin cover with blue beads on such as graced our milk jug. George said, ‘We are going to the pictures.’ Pictures on a Sunday! My mother would faint right away if she knew, but I was relieved to get out of the house. Would that woman come to life when I was gone? I wondered.

  We went to the Grand and as we sat down George passed me a damp, stiff paper bag and said, ‘These are for you,’ and I felt sorry at my dreadful thoughts about his mum. Then he passed me a pin asking me not to drop it for it was his sister’s best one. It was a long pin with a glass knob. I couldn’t think what I wanted a pin for, and I put my hand into the bag. Boiled sweets I thought. I hated boiled sweets and I began to feel bad tempered. Whatever was in the bag gave off a horrible smell, a horrible feeling. It was dark in the pictures. What were these damp warm things? Then when I felt the little indented circles, I knew. Winkles! Ugh! and George had given them to me as though they were the greatest treat a man can give to his heart’s desire. How could anyone eat winkles in the pictures? The empties would get muddled up with the full ones. What about getting the eyes off, and suppose one were bad? The whole family complained if I ever ate winkles at tea-time. I sniffed each one so many times, I was never sure when a winkle was really good and pure; they said I put them off their tea. I passed the fishy present back to George, with his sister’s pin. Sadly I knew he was not Mr Right.

  I flung myself into a social round to forget, and worried the life out of Mother with a different boy-friend every month or so, but it was difficult to find one who didn’t have defects at least as major as mine.

  Marjorie worked in the City for a firm of wholesale drapers who employed young men trainees. These young men lived in a big house at Southwark and the firm had a beautiful sports club at Eltham, where we went every Saturday for the dances, and had a fine time. Still no Mr Right, until one evening I wore the first dress I ever made. The material was of figured georgette, very startling, but I had trouble with the neck. Mother thought it a bit too daring, especially when I bought emerald green shoes to go with the frock, which was flame colour. Mother said no nice young man would dance with a girl in a frock with a neck like that. But I left the house with a scarf round my neck. This pleased Mother for she never thought I would be so daring as to take the scarf off.

  I did remove it and Mother was right, all the young men stayed away from me!

  It was almost time to start for home when he arrived. My John. He was much older than the others at the firm. He was in a position of trust and lived in a flat at the top of the building overlooking St Paul’s cathedral. Perhaps I was as much in love with the City as with John, or more so; and I was quite green in the ways of the world. I would go to his flat at weekends. I could choose what I liked to eat from the resident chef, John read to me, played lovely records, we saw plays, we lay on the settee, looked out at St Paul’s and I thought, this is it at last, everything has come right in the end. I took him home to meet my parents, he called my father Sir, everyone liked him, I had done well; here was a man of the world, intelligent and intellectual. But Mother looked strange whenever his name was mentioned, and she began to offer to tell my fortune with the cards. I always wanted her to do this, and she usually did it grudgingly. She had never actually offered to do so before. She told my fortune many times in the ensuing months, and each time she pointed to the King of Clubs and said, ‘I can’t put my finger on it, but there is a man in your cards, not quite nice.’ Then she would look at the card again and say, ‘I feel he is a married man and is enticing a single girl,’ but I thought it was a warning of what lay in the future.

  One Saturday night I told John what my mother saw in the cards, thinking he would say, �
��When we are married, I must take care and not let any nasty men come near you,’ but he said, ‘Your mother is right, I am married.’ Then I thought, there will be no Mr Right in my life ever, and I felt very cold. He was separated from his wife, he said. I thought well, I could get over that and when he was divorced I could still marry him, no one need know but he had two sweet little girls and I couldn’t take him from them. He said he had been a cad, but he couldn’t help himself, that I would never know what it had cost him in terms of self-control. He could be nothing but honourable to someone like me. I thought he was being a bit novelettish and that talk of self-control was stupid. He tried to match me up with his young brother, a very clever young man, who made me laugh a lot, but he wasn’t even a shadow of John. Some years later I heard that John had died of tuberculosis and I cried for the little girls.

  Suddenly Marjorie and I were at a loose end at week-ends, Saturdays we went dancing, still just for dancing’s sake, and on Sundays now we would go to church. After church we would walk from Blackwall Tunnel to Upper North Street, backwards and forwards until it was time to go home. All the young people did it. During my walks I had noticed a slim elegant young man, always talking seriously to his companion, who seemed to be a silent listener. I began to watch for this young man and learnt that he went to the Wesleyan Chapel, which was termed Lax’s place, for the pastor was the Lloyd George of the religious world, quite famous.

  I would feel my heart thump when this young man approached lecturing his friend, but I knew he had no idea I was watching out for him every Sunday. I knew when he was approaching for he was slightly bandy, attractively so I thought, and if he walked on the pavement side and I did likewise, through the crowds of promenaders I could see his slightly bent leg sticking out. It was no good, he never did notice me, this elegant young man who wore such beautiful suits. He was always miles away and in any case he didn’t look the sort of young man who would speak to a girl he didn’t know, and I gave up the chase.