Swansea Girls (16 page)

‘Together?’

‘Anywhere you want. Rub my mother’s nose in it.’ She sensed him wavering. ‘Look, you can see my bedroom window from here. It’s on the second floor, the one on the left. We could have a signal. If it’s safe for you to come to the basement I could put something on the sill.’ She thought rapidly. ‘A candle.’

‘You expect me to hang around the back lane every night in the hope that you might be able to put a candle in your window? I may not have a girlfriend at the moment but I do have a life. Skiffle group practice, overtime ...’

‘It’s not going to work, is it?’ She shivered, sensing her only chance of living any kind of a life until she left home slipping away from her.

‘How about pinning a number to the back of your curtain? Eight o’clock means you can meet me down here at eight, nine at nine ...’

‘And once I’m here, I can lock the basement door from the inside so no one can get down from the house.’

‘I’d prefer a girlfriend I could take out and show off.’

‘And I’d prefer to be taken out and shown off, but I’m in disgrace.’

‘Not with me.’ Leading her back into the shadows he kissed her again, only this time she was prepared. As his mouth closed on hers, she met his lips. His hands were warm on the small of her back, as he pulled her even closer. Her limbs grew weak as his hands slid downwards over her hips.

‘Jack! Jack! Where the hell are you?’

He drew away from her. ‘Marty and I are moving into the basement next door and it looks like he can’t do without me for five minutes.’

‘So it appears.’ Her voice grated, oddly hoarse.

‘I have skiffle group practice tomorrow. I won’t be in until ten. That’s too dark to see anything.’

‘If the house is empty I’ll come down to the garden and wait for you.’

‘Ten o’clock, you’ll hear my bike engine.’

‘I’ll be here if I can.’

He kissed her again.

‘Jack!’ Martin’s voice sharpened in exasperation.

‘Your gate to the back lane locked?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll climb the wall.’

‘What will you tell Martin?’

‘The truth. That a mate needed help. Until tomorrow.’ Hauling himself up on his hands, he swung himself over the wall that backed on to the lane. A few minutes later she heard the garden gate open next door.

‘I could hear you in Mansel Street, Marty, What’s the problem?’

‘Where the hell have you been? This fire could have got out of control.’

‘But it didn’t. I built it too well for that.’

‘You still left it. Where have you been?’

‘Helping a mate.’

‘With everything that needs doing here!’

‘He only needed a hand for ten minutes ...’

‘You’ve been gone more like half an hour. You’re holding us up. A shed-load of rubbish needs shifting from the passage.’

‘I’m there.’

As Jack’s voice grew faint, Helen hugged herself. She had a boyfriend. A secret boyfriend. First thing tomorrow she’d start on the basement. Shift the furniture round in the room with the biggest window, make it cosy and comfortable, clean it until it shone spotless. Take down her record player; make some pictures for the walls. She would explain that if she was going to be locked up for six months she’d need her own sitting room. Her mother wouldn’t care unless she thought she was enjoying herself. She would have to learn to keep the miserable expression on her face and that wouldn’t be too hard in front of her parents. From now on all her smiles would be Jack’s. She really, truly wasn’t alone any more. And it felt wonderful.

‘Helen.’ Joe was in the hall as she reached the top of the stairs. ‘What’s this?’ He held up the note she’d written earlier.

‘I was going to run away.’ She hid the knife behind her back.

‘It reads more like you were thinking of killing yourself.’

‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘And now?’

‘I decided I had nowhere to run to.’ She darted into the kitchen.

‘You won’t do anything stupid?’ he asked earnestly.

‘Not any more,’ she answered blithely, sliding the knife back into the drawer.

Chapter Nine

Norah checked the hem of Katie’s skirt, pulling it first one way, then another. ‘Turn round, Katie, slowly mind.’

Katie rotated in front of the full-length mirror in Norah’s workroom.

‘You look every inch the successful secretary.’

‘You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?’ Katie studied her image in the glass. The costume Norah had made her had wiped out her entire savings plus all the birthday money her mother had scrimped together and she needed reassurance that it was worth it.

‘No, I’m not just saying it, you look wonderful, so grown-up.’ Norah brushed away a tear as she stroked the fine charcoal-grey wool of Katie’s jacket. ‘It’s a pity your mother isn’t here to see it on you.’

‘I’ll wear it when I visit her on Wednesday, but if I don’t get this job it will be a complete waste.’

‘As your mother said when she chose the material, you had to have a birthday present. And even if I do say it myself, that jacket fits as well as any I’ve seen coming out of a bespoke tailor’s. Lily’s hat, gloves and bag complement it perfectly.’

Katie continued to eye herself critically and decided Mrs Evans was right. The mid-calf-length full skirt and tight-waisted jacket skimmed her thin figure, emphasising her tiny waist yet adding inches where she needed them most on her bust and hips, and the sheen on the wool was one that came with quality. Her white cotton blouse was bleached clean, freshly starched and ironed, the plain black clutch bag, bracelet-length cotton gloves and black pillbox hat businesslike. The only problem was she didn’t feel in the least bit like herself.

‘You’ll get the job,’ Lily said from the doorway.

‘You came.’ Katie beamed.

‘Told you I could take an hour off.’ Lily looked Katie up and down. ‘You’re perfect, apart from the hat.’

‘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 pulled 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.’