The Surplus Girls' Orphans

by Polly Heron

  ‘If I am,’ said Jacob, ‘why bother with me?’ Did he really imagine Shirl would say, ‘Good point,’ and send him on his way?

  ‘That’s what I like about you, pipsqueak. You’ve got a sense of humour.’

  ‘Actually, I’m glad to see you, Shirl. I – I reckon I’ve paid you back for losing the parcel that time.’

  ‘Losing it? Having it nicked off you, you mean.’

  ‘I don’t want to do it no more. You can clobber me if you want, but I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Ooh, who’d have thought it? Jemima’s got teeth.’

  Suddenly the arm wasn’t round his shoulder any more. It was round his neck. Jacob’s eyes popped.

  ‘Just one problem, Jemima. You’ve accepted payment. That’s makes you one of us.’

  Chapter Nine

  STRANGE TO THINK it was for the final time. Strange and exciting, and there was a little voice inside her head asking why she had taken so long to make this change. At six o’clock, Mr Upton locked and bolted the shop door, drawing the blind down over the glass pane, and Molly fetched the broom to sweep the floor for the final time. Then she laid the fly-nets over the farthing and ha’penny trays and took the trays of milk and plain chocolates into the back, where she placed them on the cool marble slab in the larder.

  After that it was time to polish the counters before removing the glass jars of boiled sweets from the bottom shelf. Every day for years she had cleaned one shelf during her half hour’s tidying before she went home. Yesterday she had cleaned the top shelf, so today she was starting again at the bottom – except she wasn’t starting again. She was finishing for ever.

  She wet-dusted the shelf, dry-dusting each jar before she returned it, making sure every label was front and centre. In the time that remained – and there had to be time remaining or Mr Upton would want to know the reason why – she constructed white paper bags. Fold, fold, twist, flatten.

  ‘All done.’ Having counted the day’s takings and carried them through to wherever he hid them, Mr Upton reappeared, smiling. ‘Leave that, Miss Watson. Mrs Upton and I would like to invite you to raise a glass with us.’

  Molly took off her apron and he waved her through. Mrs Upton was seated in her armchair. On the table beside her was a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream and four dainty glasses – four?

  ‘Excuse me a minute.’ Mr Upton disappeared back into the shop, returning a few moments later with Norris. ‘Look who I found passing by.’

  Molly smoothed what threatened to be a grimace. Norris had no business being here and the Uptons had no business inviting him. She pinned on a smile as she took a seat close to Mrs Upton and accepted a glass of sherry.

  ‘Mrs Upton and I always knew this day would come, but we weren’t expecting it for another two years. Miss Watson, you’ve taken us all by surprise, but we wish you well in your new endeavour. New endeavours!’

  He raised his glass. Norris and Mrs Upton followed suit, echoing the toast. Norris smiled bravely.

  ‘Make sure you come back and tell us how you’re getting on,’ said Mrs Upton.

  ‘I will,’ Molly promised. Dear Mrs Upton was going to miss her. Mr Upton was going to take on a fifteen-year-old, which was all well and good in the shop, but what about all the little ways in which Molly helped Mrs Upton? You wouldn’t want a youngster helping you straighten your stockings. It wouldn’t be dignified. Because the Board of Health wanted her to start work on a Monday, Molly had given a week and a half’s notice, so it wasn’t as though Mr Upton hadn’t had time to look about.

  Afterwards, Norris escorted her home. She didn’t want him to, but could hardly refuse. He didn’t offer his arm, just maintained a flow of unchallenging conversation and hung back when they reached her gate.

  ‘I’ll leave you here if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I wish you all the best.’

  ‘Thank you, Norris.’ She couldn’t help softening.

  ‘All I’ve ever wanted is your happiness. I realise I’ve fallen out of favour for now, but you’ll always be my girl.’

  ‘Norris—’ She was rapidly hardening again.

  ‘I know, I know. I don’t want to put my foot in it, but I must tell you I haven’t given up. I’ll do my utmost to win you back. I’d be a pretty poor sort of fellow, wouldn’t I, if I didn’t try?’

  Eagerness bubbled inside Molly as she crossed Albert Square, heading for the Town Hall. As of today, she worked here. Around her, men in pinstripes and bowler hats, and women in neat coats and hats and tappy heels, headed in the same direction. Did she look like them? Did the world realise at a glance that Molly Watson was now a bona fide Corporation employee? Was she overdressed in her maroon dress with the cream collar and cuffs? Mrs Atwood had looked smart in that olive-green on the day of the interviews. Molly wanted to be smart as well – but was she too smart?

  ‘You can’t wear that.’ Mum had twisted her mouth dubiously. ‘It’s your Sunday dress.’

  Well, she couldn’t wear her blue because it had daisies on it, while her green had pink pinstripes. That had left the maroon. Smart. Sober. Professional.

  ‘You could wear your shop clothes,’ Mum had suggested. ‘Black skirt, white blouse, very appropriate. You can’t go wrong with a black skirt and a white blouse.’

  Molly had stuck to her decision. Now, inside the building, spotting several women in dark skirts with white or cream blouses, she felt an uncomfortable flutter. Don’t be daft. It didn’t matter what she looked like – well, it did, of course, but it didn’t matter as much as how well she did her job.

  As she entered the office, Mrs Atwood rose from her desk. Her dove-grey dress was straight up-and-down, its elbow-length sleeves ending in flicked-back ivory cuffs with pearly buttons. A smart dress. Phew! Molly exhaled softly. What a twit she was, getting hot and bothered about clothes.

  ‘There’s a coat-stand behind the door,’ said Mrs Atwood, ‘and this is your desk.’

  Molly couldn’t help glancing at the ‘teacher’s’ desk at the front.

  ‘I know.’ Mrs Atwood pulled a face. ‘There used to be just these four desks in here. We came in one morning to find that Mrs Wardle had moved herself in, though of course the porters had done the donkey work, and this is where she’s been ever since, facing the rest of us as if she’s in charge.’

  ‘And isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes and no. Mrs Wardle failed repeatedly to wangle her way onto the Deserving Poor Committee before the war. There were lots of upper-class charitable committees in those days. Some of them are still around, but they don’t have the clout they used to. They were run by the local upper crust: hence Mrs Wardle’s ambition.’

  ‘But she was never accepted.’

  ‘No, but she’s making up for it now. This business with the Boards of Guardians giving way to the Boards of Health is perfect for her. She’s been connected to a couple of Boards of Guardians for years, so that’s given her a foothold in the new system. She’s sticking her fingers in as many pies as she can and dear Mr Taylor is far too fuzzy to do a thing about it. Let me show you the office diary. You’ll be working with me until you find your feet.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Atwood.’ Mrs Wardle bustled in, making straight for her desk in its position of importance. ‘Miss Watson, welcome. I have my doubts about your suitability, so I’ll be observing you closely. I deem it best if you work alongside Mrs Atwood while you learn the ropes.’

  ‘I’ve already explained that,’ said Mrs Atwood.

  ‘Good morning, ladies.’ Mr Taylor appeared. He looked like he was going to walk right in, but then he saw Mrs Wardle and came to a halt. ‘Good morning, Miss Watson. Settling in, I see. Good, good. I’ve asked Mrs Atwood if—’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Taylor,’ said Mrs Wardle. ‘I’ve already given Mrs Atwood and Miss Watson their instructions.’ The silk rosebuds on her hat swayed and bobbed as she made a show of leaning over to examine papers on her desk.

  ‘Um, yes, quite so.’ Mr Taylor retreated.

 
Mrs Wardle looked up. Before she could speak, Mrs Atwood turned to Molly.

  ‘I’ll start by showing you the offices whose whereabouts you’ll need to know, and where the ladies’ WC is. This way.’

  As they walked along the corridor, a bespectacled young girl came towards them pushing a trolley with two large wire trays, the top one filled with bundles of letters, the bottom one holding just a few. She steered the trolley to the side for them to get past.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Platt.’ Mrs Atwood stopped. ‘Miss Watson, this is Miss Platt, the junior from the post-room. Miss Platt, this is my new colleague, Miss Watson. Miss Platt delivers and collects our post six times a day.’

  Molly nodded at Miss Platt, who was all of fifteen years old. Her mousy hair was tied back and she wore a black skirt with a white blouse.

  ‘Are you going to the Board of Health office?’ Mrs Atwood asked. ‘Might I see the post, please?’

  Miss Platt rifled through a section of bundles in the top tray and handed one to Mrs Atwood, who flipped the band off it and flicked through the envelopes, removing two or three and fastening the remainder together before handing them back. Then she set off again with Molly in tow.

  ‘Poor kid,’ Mrs Atwood murmured. ‘She came in last week wearing a summer dress. Nothing fancy, just a simple cream thing with a modest neckline and long sleeves, but she was sent home to change back into her black and white.’

  ‘Is my dress suitable?’ Molly whispered.

  ‘Oh yes. It’s the done thing for the female office workers to wear black or navy with white, but it’s different for the likes of you and me. We get out and about and we have to look the part. It sounds frightfully snobby to say it, but we need to look smart and prosperous so that the people we deal with will look up to us.’

  Molly frowned. It did sound snobbish. On the other hand, if it meant people in need accepted their assistance…

  ‘Why did you take some of the letters?’

  ‘So that our esteemed Mrs Wardle doesn’t see them, of course. I know it seems an iffy way to behave, but needs must, especially with Mr Taylor not being up to it.’ Mrs Atwood gave her a cheeky smile. ‘You’ll get the hang of it.’

  ‘We’re going to see a Mrs Fletcher,’ said Mrs Atwood as they passed a row of tired-looking houses. ‘She was once a lady’s maid, as she’ll undoubtedly tell you, but she didn’t choose wisely when she married. She told me she was too much in love to listen when her family warned her against Albert Fletcher. I thought she meant her relatives, but she meant the family she worked for. Here we are. I warn you, it’s pretty grim.’

  The house was a tall, thin terrace, considerably more than a two-up two-down, so surely the Fletcher family couldn’t be that badly off. Instead of knocking, Mrs Atwood turned the handle; the door was unlocked. A sour smell hit Molly in the face: mould, cabbage and cat pee. Her stomach rolled. What sort of job was this? Imagine going home with her maroon dress, her Sunday dress, smelling of this. Mum would throw a fit.

  Mrs Atwood was halfway up the stairs. Molly hurried after her.

  ‘Take your time,’ advised Mrs Atwood. ‘Watch the treads. Some are wonky.’

  Mrs Atwood stopped on the landing. Catching up, Molly felt bile burn its way up her throat as she beheld the black pools of mould that coated the walls – the ceiling too. If some mould dropped off and fell on her – don’t be daft. Mould clung; it didn’t fall off. Even so, the thought of invisible wisps of the stuff floating in the air made her hold her breath. That was daft too. She couldn’t avoid breathing for the entire visit.

  ‘I know it’s shocking, but please try not to let it show,’ Mrs Atwood advised before she knocked on a door, waiting a moment before opening it.

  At first glance, it was a decent-sized room until Molly looked more closely and realised it provided one family’s entire living quarters. There was a big bed, a table with mismatched chairs, a gas-ring smelling too strongly of gas, and a shabby cupboard on which stood a bowl and a couple of saucepans stacked inside one another. Judging by the width of the chimney breast, the fireplace must be pretty big, though it was impossible to tell as it was hidden behind washing draped over two wobbly clothes horses, with more washing dripping from the pulley-airer near the ceiling. Bluebottles buzzed round the cupboard and yellowed newspaper did duty as a tablecloth. Why was there a banana crate in the corner? Good lord, it served as a cot for not one but two babies.

  Black mould bubbled where the walls met the ceiling. Below the picture rail, pale oblongs in the greying whitewash showed where pictures had once hung. There were no ornaments, no trinkets, nothing pretty. The sole decoration was provided by a framed photograph of a stern-faced woman in a crinoline, with a lace widow’s cap over her hair and an oval cameo brooch pinned to her upright collar.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Atwood.’ Mrs Fletcher was a thin creature with a lined face. Blue eyes regarded Molly with open suspicion. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My colleague, Miss Watson.’

  ‘She’s not from the Panel, then?’

  Mrs Atwood turned to Molly. ‘Mrs Fletcher has an appointment coming up to see the Panel.’ She made it sound almost like a social occasion, something Mrs Fletcher had a choice about. ‘So you can understand she’s feeling nervous.’

  ‘It’s all very well, you saying the Boards of Guardians are being done away with,’ said Mrs Fletcher, ‘but their Panels are still up and running, aren’t they? And they still have power.’

  ‘Yes, but the Boards of Health are involved too,’ Mrs Atwood reassured her.

  ‘For all the good that’ll do,’ muttered Mrs Fletcher. ‘You know what the Panel’s like. If you’ve so much as a glass bead to your name, they make you sell it to prove you’ve done all you can to support yourself and you aren’t scrounging.’

  ‘Personally, I’d like to see the Panels disbanded,’ said Mrs Atwood. ‘They have such a fearsome reputation. But,’ she added to Mrs Fletcher, ‘they do have a duty to ensure that public funds aren’t wasted.’

  ‘I’m not seeking charity.’ Mrs Fletcher jutted out her chin. ‘Things are hard, but my family isn’t a charity case. God forbid we should sink that low. If I have to sell anything, I will – I already have.’ Her glance fell on the empty spaces on the walls. ‘But it would break my heart if I had to part with my brooch.’

  ‘Your brooch?’ asked Molly.

  Mrs Fletcher hesitated, then delved into the back of the cupboard and brought out an old Green’s Custard tin. Prising off the lid, she produced a hanky, which she unwrapped to reveal a cameo brooch. ‘I’ve never pawned it, not once, no matter how much Albert went on at me.’

  ‘Let me help you write a letter to the Panel,’ said Mrs Atwood. ‘That’s allowed these days. Of course, whether they pay any attention to the letter is another matter. It will depend on the balance of the Panel – how many Guardians, how many Board of Health.’

  ‘Surely it should be the same number from either side,’ said Molly, ‘with an extra person from the Board of Health to have the casting vote.’ How else was the system ever to change?

  ‘Ideally,’ agreed Mrs Atwood, ‘but there are still many more Guardians than Board of Health people. Still, we can but try.’

  Molly looked at the photograph. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘The mother of the lady I worked for. Madam gave it to me as a present when I left service.’

  ‘I’ve spoken on Mrs Fletcher’s behalf to the Panel,’ said Mrs Atwood, ‘and she’s been granted permission to keep the photograph, as it’s of no interest to anyone else, though she’ll probably have to sell the frame.’ She sighed. ‘Being allowed to keep the photograph reduces the chances of keeping the brooch, I’m afraid.’

  Molly looked at the brooch. ‘Isn’t it the cameo from the photograph?’

  ‘Yes. Madam gave it to me.’

  ‘When you left her service,’ Molly finished for her. She turned to Mrs Atwood, unable to suppress a smile. ‘That’s what you should say in your letter: that the brooch
was a gift from Mrs Fletcher’s former employer – and you can prove it, if necessary, by referring to the photograph. If the Guardians on the Panel are as old fashioned and set in their ways as you’ve implied, then a gift from an employer, and a lady of means at that, is something they should regard with sympathy.’

  ‘You may well be right,’ said Mrs Atwood. ‘That’s a good idea.’

  Mrs Fletcher’s tired face brightened. ‘Thank you, miss,’ she said and Molly felt she had been accepted.

  Later, as they left, Mrs Atwood said, ‘Well done for spotting the brooch in the photograph. We must get back to the office now. This afternoon we need to call on a family that has suffered a bereavement. They lost their young son.’

  ‘How sad. What was wrong with him?’

  ‘He wasn’t ill. It was an accident. He was hit by a tram, poor child. You live in Chorlton, don’t you? Do you know Limits Lane? It’s on the border of Chorlton and Stretford.’

  ‘I’m from the other end of Chorlton, near the railway station,’ said Molly. ‘What assistance are we going to offer?’

  ‘None, unfortunately. This is a family that, however hard up, has never sought help. I only know of this tragedy because it was reported in the Manchester Evening News.’

  ‘So we’re simply going there to offer our condolences?’

  ‘It’s better than nothing.’

  They returned to the Town Hall, where Mrs Atwood took Molly to the canteen. Afterwards Molly popped out to find a grocer’s and purchased a quarter of tea. Back in the office, she sat at her desk with her handbag on her lap, rearranging its contents to make room for the tea, which was sitting on her blotter.

  Mrs Wardle came in, rosebuds bobbing on her hat. ‘Really, Miss Watson, is this why you wished to work in town? To make it easier to do your shopping? Groceries scattered all over the desk – I don’t know.’

  ‘I…’ Molly began.

  Mrs Wardle took something from one of her drawers and bustled to the door.