by Pam Weaver
Having made sure no one was looking, Frankie locked herself in one of the temporary toilets. It was only a wooden bench over a large hole and even at this early stage of the meeting it didn’t smell very pleasant. She put her suitcase over the gap and opened it up. It didn’t take long to change. She put her all-in-ones on over her overalls and tucked all of her blond hair into the leather cap. Pulling her scarf over her nose, she fastened the flaps firmly under her chin. Her new regulation pudding bowl helmet fitted over the top. She heard a slight sound on the other side of the door and Barbara whispered her name. Frankie opened the door and Barbara held up her registration papers and her number.
With her entry papers in her top pocket, Frankie pulled on her eye goggles. Not even her own aunt would recognise her now. She darted round the back of the toilets to where she’d parked her bike under a piece of canvas tarpaulin. Putting one foot on the suitcase, she kick-started the engine. Now she had reached the most dangerous part. Whatever she did, she had to keep the engine going. If she stalled she’d be out of the race and if anyone realised she was a woman, she’d be banned under the stupid ‘no girls allowed’ rule. As she passed the place where the officials sat at their tables, she saw her friend making eyes at Alan. Good old Barbara. She was doing a grand job.
Seven
Frankie took it steady getting to the start line. She knew if she went too fast she might draw attention to herself and if she went too slowly, she could wobble and fall sideways. There were about twenty or so riders in this race, the high-pitched whine of the engines now and then changing into a spluttering roar as men revved the throttles of their bikes. Frankie kept her head bent towards her chest. Her heart was in her mouth. It was imperative to keep her engine running. There was no way she could kick-start again without her foot on the suitcase and the minute Alan saw what she was doing, he would know it was her. After what seemed like an age, the green flag went down and they were off.
Lower down the field, Barbara was enjoying herself now. Having given Frankie her papers and race number, she had embarked on the next stage of the plan which was far more enjoyable: distracting Alan while Frankie made her way to the starting line. She found him with a small group of bikers admiring someone’s machine. When she said his name, he raised an eyebrow.
‘Barbara, what are you doing here?’
Barbara lowered her eyes in the same coquettish way she had seen the beautiful Jean Harlow do in her last film, Saratoga.
‘I came to see the races.’
‘No,’ said Alan, ‘I meant what are you doing here? This part is reserved for competitors and their machines.’
Barbara pretended to be horrified. ‘Oh my! I am so sorry.’ She looked about her. ‘I’m so confused,’ she said helplessly. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Frankie in the line of riders making their way up the hill from the starting line. ‘Oh dear, dear. There’s white tape everywhere,’ Barbara wailed. ‘Which way do I go?’
Alan wiped his hands with a greasy-looking cloth and threw it onto the saddle. ‘Why don’t I show you?’ Behind them both, his mates sniggered.
‘Oh, would you?’ Barbara purred happily. ‘That would be wonderful.’
*
Frankie’s inexperience of racing became apparent almost straight away. As the faster riders took off, she was left floundering in a shower of mud, exhaust fumes and small stones. Her goggles protected her eyes but she was looking at the track through a brown smear. For a few frantic seconds she wobbled furiously but as luck would have it, she corrected the bike and held it steady while she hastily wiped her lenses with the palm of her gloved hand.
The first part of the track was up a steep incline. Frankie found herself leaning slightly forward in the saddle as she followed the pack. She knew the course like the back of her hand and negotiated the dry patch on the other side of the hill carefully.
With deep muddy furrows in front of her, Frankie put her legs out to balance herself but she didn’t actually touch down. Under the rules of the Association, a foot on the ground meant a penalty point.
Having caught up with the rest of the pack, she was beginning to enjoy herself. What with the whine of the engines, the smell of petrol, the taste of dirt in her mouth and – most of all – the speed, it was all so exhilarating. As she burst out of a small wooded area, she could see the start/finish line again. Hurrah! She’d done one lap; only nine more to go.
Down by the gate, Bet had almost sold out. People streamed by even though the race meeting had already started. She craned her neck as they came out of the woods but she didn’t recognise any of the riders. She did, however, spot Frankie’s friend Barbara with her son Alan. Alan had his arm draped around the girl’s shoulders. Barbara was gazing up at him. Bet frowned. What on earth was the boy thinking about? Barbara might be nearly a year older than Frankie but she was still scarcely more than a child. She’d have to have a word with Alan. Thank goodness Frankie was more sensible. She sighed. The school leaving age was fourteen and although Frankie wouldn’t be returning when term time started, she still didn’t have a job. It couldn’t be allowed to continue. The girl had to pay her own way in life. The time for messing around was over. There was nothing for it; Bet would have to take matters into her own hands.
As it turned out, barely half the field had managed to stay the course. Frankie waited by the side of the track for the results but she didn’t take her leather cap or the scarf off. The adjudicators totted up the points and everyone held their breath. First place Dick Manning, second place Keith Purcell, third place John Wilson, fourth place M. Clark. Frankie grinned. That was her. M. Clark was her mother’s maiden name; Moira Clark. She saw her cousin turn his head sharply but it was when she took off her goggles and her leather skull cap that the trouble began.
There was an audible gasp from the crowd when Frankie tossed her head and rubbed her fingers vigorously through her hair.
‘But he’s a woman!’
‘Who said a woman could ride in this competition? This is a man’s sport.’
Alan was the first by her side. ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ he hissed.
‘Well, I didn’t quite manage first,’ Frankie quipped, ‘but fourth place isn’t too bad for a beginner, is it?’
‘You may have been fourth in positioning, young lady,’ one of the adjudicators called out, ‘but on points you were second.’
‘You can’t do that. She cheated.’
‘I did not cheat!’ Frankie said indignantly.
‘Yes, you did. You’re a girl.’
‘Frankie, for goodness’ sake go home,’ Alan snapped.
‘Why?’ Frankie, hand on her hip, demanded to know.
‘You should be disqualified,’ someone else shouted. ‘It’s not fair, changing the rules like that. This is no place for women.’
‘But she’s not even a woman,’ someone else observed. ‘She’s only a silly school kid.’
The shouting grew louder and tensions were running high. The general consensus among the organisers was that if they allowed the result to stand, they would have a riot on their hands. At the end of a heated argument, Frankie found herself disqualified on the basis that she was not quite fifteen and of the female sex.
‘You’d better go back to the house,’ Alan said, steering her away.
Snatching her arm back and fuming inside, Frankie knew it was hopeless. She walked away with as much dignity as she could muster.
Ten minutes later, she and Barbara were back in the bike shed near the house. Frankie stamped her foot. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said crossly. ‘How could they do this to me?’
‘It does seem a little unfair,’ Barbara agreed.
‘A bit unfair,’ Frankie raged on. ‘It’s more than that. I came second in that race fair and square.’
They heard the chickens scatter as Aunt Bet came across the yard. As soon as she saw her face, Frankie knew she was in for a ticking off. Aunt Bet came into the shed all guns blazing. Barba
ra bid a hasty retreat.
‘How could you?’ Aunt Bet spat. ‘Embarrassing Uncle Lorry like that … and don’t interrupt me … against the rules … I haven’t finished yet … can’t always have what you want, my girl …’
Frankie gave up trying to explain and sat on a straw bale, staring at the ground in front of her while her aunt vented her spleen. Ten minutes later, her aunt left and the light level fell as someone else stood in the doorway. It was Uncle Lorry. Frankie’s heart sank. Was he going to be cross with her too?
‘Well, that was a turn-up for the books, wasn’t it?’ he said.
Frankie rose to her feet. Whilst she didn’t regret what she’d done, she felt uncomfortable because the last thing she’d wanted was to upset her uncle. ‘Look, Uncle Lorry, I’m really sorry if I embarrassed you …’
She didn’t get to finish the sentence because he hurried towards her and gave her a rough hug. ‘I never thought a little pipsqueak like you had it in her. Well done, my lass.’
As he released her, Frankie blinked. ‘You’re not angry?’
‘Angry? Why should I be?’
Frankie lowered her gaze. ‘Aunt Bet said I’d embarrassed you.’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I’m far too proud of you for that. You leave your Aunt Bet to me.’
Eight
First thing on Tuesday morning, Aunt Bet took Frankie into Worthing. She told her she’d been talking to an egg customer who had mentioned a Saturday job with a view to a permanent position going in a florist along Montague Street. In Aunt Bet’s opinion it would be an ideal situation and for once Frankie agreed with her. Of all the suggestions she’d been presented with, this was the best so far. Frankie hadn’t got a clue what type of job she wanted but the usual girly jobs such as working in a shop or becoming a hairdresser didn’t appeal to her. Aunt Bet had come up with a few suggestions. She might like to be a waitress or become a shop assistant. Not really. Frankie preferred to be outdoors. She had been tempted for about five minutes by the thought of getting a job with Worthing Borough Council Parks and Gardens but that turned out to be mostly seasonal work and once again, no girls were allowed. As a florist she would be stuck indoors but at least she would be working with something organic.
The florist was half way along the street. Frankie was shown to the back of the shop where two girls were making up bouquets. They looked so amazing that Frankie immediately felt out of her depth. How would she manage to arrange flowers like that when there wasn’t an artistic bone in her body?
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Waite, the owner, ‘we shall have to train you to do the arrangements, but we’ll take it one step at a time. You will begin with simple tasks.’
At the end of the interview, Aunt Bet and Mrs Waite shook hands and it was agreed that Frankie would start next week. It was only as they walked away that Frankie realised that her new job would seriously curtail her dream of ever becoming a dirt bike rider if she ever did find a race meeting open to girls. Because of the strict Sunday Trading Laws, all the meetings were held on Saturday and she’d just agreed to a six-day week with a half day off on Monday.
*
Frankie couldn’t wait to tell Barbara about her new job but soon after they arrived at the cinema, her cousin Alan joined them. There was little conversation as they waited in the queue. Alan and Barbara only seemed to have eyes for each other and Frankie felt miffed. Even more annoyingly, Alan bought Barbara’s ticket but left Frankie to get her own. When they reached the stalls, Alan sat between them so there was no chance to talk at all before the film started. It was a good film, but Frankie was the only one watching it. At the end, after they’d all stood for the National Anthem, Frankie glared at Alan and Barbara. ‘You needn’t think I’m going to play gooseberry again.’
Barbara looked contrite but her cousin just grinned.
*
Frankie’s first day in the job at the florist’s was exhausting. As the junior, Frankie was given the most menial of tasks. She wasn’t allowed to do any arrangements, of course, but she had to keep the workshop clean and tidy. That meant frequently sweeping the floor and putting bits of stalk and fallen petals into a special bin. This was collected at the end of the day by the owner’s father for his compost heap. She made cups of tea for the girls doing the flowers and she was expected to run errands.
Frankie was amazed at the skill of the florists. In less than an hour, they could transform a humble gathering of flowers into a beautiful bouquet fit for a queen. Before the end of her first week, Frankie became aware of the pressures under which they worked. One consignment of flowers arrived in the shop but because the driver had lost his way, they had been in a hot van for far too long and were already wilting. As the blooms were needed for a wedding, everybody was in a flat spin. Another time, a customer complained about her bouquet. That called for diplomacy. There was nothing wrong with the blooms but Mrs Waite had to placate the customer in case she told her friends not to come to the shop.
On her third day Frankie was taken away from her usual jobs. Another girl who usually worked as a junior was ill. Her job was to make deliveries on a large bike with a basket on the front. It not only helped her get from place to place but it was a great way of advertising the skill of Mrs Waite’s florists. Frankie was asked to take her place until she got back. Making deliveries turned out to be the best part of the job. Mrs Waite would give Frankie a green slip with the customer’s address on it. Of course, she had to be careful that she didn’t disturb the arrangement in the basket but it gave her an opportunity to bike around the town and sometimes up the driveways of some really impressive houses. Frankie learned to be polite to the customers, even those who were being awkward or picky.
The arrangements she carried were so imaginative: a dish garden with desert cacti or a shopping basket with a beautiful display of summer roses held in jam jars inside the basket. Mrs Waite stressed that she should remind the customer to keep filling the jam jars with water, particularly before putting it in the centre of the table. The most attractive of all was Mrs Waite’s speciality called ‘Flowers of the Sea’. She had spent hours creating artificial blooms from sea shells for the central part of an arrangement.
By the end of her first week, Frankie had acquitted herself well and Mrs Waite told her she had a job for life. Frankie was pleased but in her heart of hearts that was the last thing she wanted. She was looking for something else; she didn’t know what, but something a bit more challenging. She was paid twenty-five shillings which was considered a good wage. Out of that she was expected to give Aunt Bet a pound for her keep. That left her with five bob for herself, so when Barbara, who had just started work in Woolworth’s, suggested going to a dance in the Assembly Rooms, Frankie was quite keen. ‘But what about Alan?’
‘He’s off to a race meeting somewhere in Surrey,’ said Barbara, and Frankie remembered the conversation at the tea table a couple of days ago when Alan told his parents he was going to take part in the Bagshot Heath scramble.
Entry to the dance hall cost one and six and they planned to buy a drink in the interval, so Frankie could just about afford it.
As it turned out, they didn’t have to buy their own drinks. Barbara met a young lad called Norman on the dance floor so he and his mate bought the girls a round. Barbara and her new friend seemed to be getting on like a house on fire but Frankie felt self-conscious being with Norman’s friend. It was obvious that he had little interest in Frankie and she was too embarrassed to ask him any questions, so it was an awkward evening.
*
Monday found her back at the shop sweeping the floors as the other junior was back from sick leave. Frankie could hardly believe her eyes when she walked in.
‘Doreen!’
It was Doreen Toms. The last time Frankie had seen her old friend was when she was ten years old. She had become a rather plain-looking girl. Her hair was straight and pulled back from her face with a Kirby grip, and she wore rathe
r dowdy clothes. She smiled shyly when she saw Frankie but said nothing.
‘How lovely to see you,’ Frankie burbled. ‘When they told me you were called Doreen, I never dreamed it was you. How long have you worked here?’
‘Not long.’
‘I only started last week,’ Frankie went on. ‘This is my first job.’
‘There are two deliveries this morning,’ Mrs Waite interrupted as she handed Doreen two green slips.
‘My mother says,’ Doreen said, her voice still thick with cold, ‘can I stay indoors this week?’ She coughed noisily.
Mrs Waite looked annoyed. ‘If you can’t do the work …’ she began.
‘I don’t mind going out, Mrs Waite,’ Frankie interrupted.
Her employer glared at her.
‘Just until Doreen is better,’ Frankie added quickly.
Mrs Waite pursed her lips and sniffed loudly. ‘Oh very well. Just for this week but I really can’t have my employees telling me what they will or will not do.’
As she handed Frankie the green slips, Doreen mouthed a ‘thank you’ behind the older woman’s back.
Nine
Their days at the florist shop were so busy that it was hard to find a time to talk. For a while, Frankie and Doreen seemed like passing ships in the night. There wasn’t even time for a chat after work. Doreen’s mother came to meet her and always seemed anxious for her daughter to get home. Frankie was left watching them head for the bus stop. Poor Doreen. She’d always seemed timid and shy, sort of on the outside looking in, even when the girls in the florist made a cup of tea or there was a lull in the work. It was little wonder with such a harridan for a mother. Mrs Toms hadn’t exactly been very nice at the picnic as Frankie recalled, although her own mother had made no comment at the time. In fact Frankie had never heard her mother say anything bad about anyone.
